Summary: It would only ever be you, no matter how much time had passed.
Warnings: fluff, angst, reader described to have the same eyes as Rhys.
A C O T A R M A S T E R L I S T
There had been many times over the course of being chained within the depths of this cave in which you had thought yourself to have officially gone insane but the moment you felt as though the shadows in the corners of this prison began moving was when you had accepted that insanity had taken over you but the moment you began hearing them whispering to you was truly the loss of all hope.
You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.
Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.
Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.
You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.
Was Rhysand High Lord yet?
If he was, how had your father died?
Had Rhysand found his mate?
Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?
In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.
You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.
Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.
“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.
Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”
Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.
A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.
Feyre was confused.
Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.
Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”
“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.
“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.
She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.
“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”
“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”
That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”
Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.
Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.
Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”
Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”
Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.
Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”
The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”
“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”
Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.
Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”
“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”
“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”
Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.
“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.
His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.
“What’s on your mind?” He asked.
Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”
Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”
Feyre shrugged sheepishly.
Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”
Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”
Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”
Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”
Number one girl.
Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.
Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”
Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”
Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”
She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.
Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.
She’s their number one girl.
No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.
“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.
She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.
Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”
She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”
The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”
Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.
“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.
Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”
“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”
Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”
Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.
“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”
Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous!” She argued.
Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”
It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.
Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.
It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.
It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.
It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.
Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.
The House always listened.
Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.
In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.
The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.
The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.
The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.
A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.
You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.
Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.
A male.
Sitting, observing.
“Hello,” you greeted softly.
No answer.
“What are you doing up there?” You asked.
The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.
“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.
He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.
“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.
“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”
It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.
They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.
“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.
Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”
“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”
You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”
He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.
You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”
“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.
“Why?” You asked.
“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.
You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.
“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”
The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.
Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.
“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.
He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.
“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.
“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.
“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”
He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.
“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.
He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”
“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.
His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.
“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”
“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”
You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”
Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”
“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”
You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.
Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.
“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.
“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.
Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.
“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.
“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.
“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.
You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.
“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.
His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”
You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”
Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”
“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”
Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”
You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”
You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.
At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.
Not yet though.
Only when he was ready.
“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.
You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”
You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”
You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.
You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.
You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”
Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”
Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”
Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”
A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”
“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”
“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”
“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”
“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.
“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.
“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.
“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.
“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.
“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”
Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”
“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.
“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.
“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.
Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.
He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.
Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.
You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.
Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.
Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.
“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.
“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.
The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.
“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”
Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.
“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.
The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.
Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.
He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.
But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.
You had caught him, just like you said you would.
Wake. Wake. Wake.
Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.
Another day it remained the same.
A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.
You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.
Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.
The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.
Shadows.
They were shadows.
Master. Master. Master.
She hears us. She hears us.
They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.
Was that them talking?
“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.
Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.
No.
They almost sounded like hisses.
“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.
You didn’t understand.
“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.
But who? You wondered.
It seemed they knew your thoughts too.
You. You.
Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.
You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.
Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.
How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?
He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.
Oh.
“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.
Yes. They hissed again.
“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.
“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.
You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.
They truly were yours.
Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.
“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”
Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.
Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.
But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.
Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.
He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.
He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.
He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.
It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.
Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.
When he awoke this time though, it was different.
His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.
The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?
Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.
Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.
The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.
But why?
He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.
Intruder. But where?
The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.
His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.
There it was.
A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.
He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.
Nothing.
They did not seem threatening though.
They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.
Help. His own shadows muttered.
“Help?” He questioned.
They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.
Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.
No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.
Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.
He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.
He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.
“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”
“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.
“What is it?”
Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.
Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”
Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”
“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.
“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”
“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”
“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”
Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.
“Chained,” he spoke aloud.
“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.
Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”
“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.
The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.
She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.
Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”
“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.
“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”
Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.
It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.
The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.
What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?
Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.
Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.
Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.
He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.
A woman of his kind.
The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.
He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.
Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.
Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.
Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.
One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.
He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.
It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.
He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.
Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.
Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.
“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”
He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.
She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.
Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?
It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.
His fae woman.
No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.
Yet you remained in his sight.
He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.
Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.
The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.
Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.
The dagger you had given him.
The first gift he had ever received.
He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.
Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.
He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.
And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.
Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.
He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.
Because even though Azriel had never needed the confirmation of the Cauldron to know what you were to him, why had it taken him finding you after so long to finally snap into place?
ace, for one, can immediately tell that his little brother has a crush on you.
he was delighted to see his oaf of a younger brother (affectionately speaking, of course) managed to land a crew of respectable looking people. said crew managed to keep luffy on his toes and mostly well behaved, but ace saw that respect amongst the crew was mutual, there was a love there that only an idiot like luffy would be to find. he always had this god-like luck.
in fact, ace thinks luffy is especially lucky to have found someone like you. during his many years as a pirate, he's made it a habit of trying to analyse others and when his gaze fell on you and his brother he knew there was something...different there.
from what he could tell. you were incredibly patient. patient enough to allow his brother to cling to you like a baby monkey. luffy hadn't even hugged him after they'd reunited, yet you'd think it had been ages since he last saw you, the way he clung to you like you'd disappear.
"yn's super cool, huh, ace ?" luffy cheered, chin propped onto your shoulder and arm wrapped around it as well. you patted his arms, clearly embarrassed and trying to shrug his praise off.
luffy looked at you in confusion at your sudden silence. his face clearly way too close to you but still analysing your face like there was something to miss.
"luffy..."
"what ? you are ! they're duper smart i'm tellin' ya ! knew i wanted ya in my crew the moment i saw ya !" he laughed, roughly slapping your shoulder.
by that point, ace knew something was up.
"the captain speaks too highly of me," you chuckled "i'm really not that great..!"
"but you are."
"luffy ! shut up !" you hissed.
"s'true ! you won't stop me from saying it ! ace thinks you're cool, too. right, ace ?!" luffy turned to his brother for support, but ace was sure that even his opinion wouldn't deter him. stubborn as a mule, that one.
he was sure he'd almost phased out of luffy's mind by now, his mission now solely to convince you of how cool you were while you tried to stay humble.
at some point ace even became referee in the matter of if you were as amazing as luffy said you were or not, luffy being uncharacteristically serious about it. so much so that you ended up having to grab his cheeks to shut him up. in the end, ace ended up having to mediate what ended up being a fight for your honour...between luffy and you. the person in question.
his brother was always a clingy boy, he'd climb on ace's shoulders, which usually led to wrestling. but he was more affectionate with his crew and especially to you.
he'd do everything and anything to get your attention, pulling silly stunts during dinner time that unsurprisingly ended with him getting a whack on the head from the cook for playing with his food. but he seemed unfazed when you laughed at his antics, smiling bright and wide like the spot on his head wasn't already starting to swell.
(he won't even mention the way he almost choked on his food when he saw luffy share a piece of his meal with you..)
luffy was always around to show you something cool, to tell you about something he saw or something his crewmate, ussop, told him. ussop would exclaim that luffy was a joke thief, but again, nothing mattered to his baby brother so long as you smiled at him, it seemed.
ace saw how luffy's eyes searched for you and your reactions first and foremost. he could tell he loved his crew dearly, the boy had his heart on his sleeve and couldn't lie to save his life, but ace could tell. he could always tell when it was about luffy, you were different.
and ace, for all his worries, is reassured he's found himself a group that will follow him with faith. and someone like you, who managed to captivate his brother so, and allow ace to see something interesting before he had to leave his brother again. though luckily, not on his own. at least as long as you were around.
before his departure, ace pressed a hand to your shoulder, leaning in close to whisper softly in your ear. "i leave my little brother to you. you take care of him, yeah ?"
he leaned back and chuckled at your flabbergasted expression. luffy was quick to lean in, pressing his hand to your opposite shoulder to demand to know what ace told you. "oi, ace !! what'd you do to yn ?!"
ace smirked, sticking his tongue out "not tellin' !" he jeered.
it's childish, something he'd do when both him and luffy were still kids. but which older brother doesn't enjoy messing with their younger sibling once in a while. and by the pout on luffy's face, he still had it.
"you take care of each other, kay ?" ace teased. luffy blinked, face melting into a blank expression before he raised a brow.
"huh ? course i do !" he grinned, looking at you again "right, yn ? i take good care of you, right !"
ace could only sigh affectionately while your groans and the captain's cheers faded from his ears as he made his way.
he could immediately tell that luffy had a crush on you. regrettably, even before the boy himself had. ace prays you'll remain patient and allow him to connect the dots on his own time.
but he thinks it probably won't take his dense little brother long to figure it out...hopefully.
In which sukuna gets shy and forgets how to speak when you fix his chain in front of his frat brothers
A reference to this series
It’s a friday night.
You had come over to the frat house after class, by now it was normal for you to randomly show up. It was the end of the week, with your body and mind both sore and tired from all the work you’ve done all week , eyes heavy, you went straight to sukuna’s room, plopped on his bed, and drifted to sleep.
How many hours had passed since you fell asleep , Three? Four? You don’t even know , you sit up , rubbing the sleep out of your eyes , with no signs of sukuna around, your throat is so dry it feels like thorns are pricking at it.
Now you were downstairs looking for water.
Unbeknownst to you, everyone’s already there ,
The second you stepped into the kitchen, Shoko noticed you first.
Then Sukuna.
And just like always, something in him changed immediately.
He’d been leaning against the counter beside Toji and Geto, lazily picking apart some story Gojo was telling while half the room listened in amusement. Tattoos stretched beneath the sleeves of his black shirt, rings catching against the fluorescent kitchen light every time he gestured.
He looked Confident and Sharp-edged. Like he always did.
Then his eyes landed on you and as soon as they did,His posture straightened subtly.
The tension in his jaw eased.
Like his entire nervous system recalibrated.
You walked over quietly, still sleepy enough that you barely noticed everyone watching. Sukuna’s gaze followed you the entire way until you stopped in front of him.
“You okay?” he asked immediately.
“Mhm.” Your voice came out soft from exhaustion. Then your eyes caught on the silver chain hanging crooked beneath the collar of his shirt. “Your chain’s twisted.”
“Huh?”
Without thinking much of it, you stepped closer.
Conversation around the kitchen slowly faded.
Your fingers brushed lightly against the cool metal resting against his throat as you fixed the clasp, carefully straightening where it had turned sideways against his skin.
And Sukuna went completely still and no,
Not in a dramatic way.
But the kind where someone forgets how to function entirely.
His hand tightened slightly around the cup he was holding while he stared down at you, breathing quieter ,shoulders stiff beneath your touch.
Gojo blinked. Then blinked again.
“No fucking way.”
You didn’t even notice.
You were too focused on fixing the chain properly, fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck every few seconds.
“There,” you murmured finally. “Better.”
Silence.
You looked up confused.
Every single person in the kitchen was staring.
Toji looked moments away from losing consciousness laughing. Geto had physically covered his mouth trying to hide a grin while Shoko watched like she’d just witnessed a rare astronomical event.
Gojo pointed directly at Sukuna.
“HE’S BLUSHING.”
Your eyes snapped back upward instantly And there it was.
Faint pink dusting across Sukuna’s ears and creeping slowly over the bridge of his nose while he looked at you like his brain had short-circuited.
Your lips parted slightly to say something,
“…wait.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna muttered towards Gojo without taking his eyes off you once.
That only made everyone laugh harder.
“Oh this is BAD,” Geto said through laughter. “He’s gone.”
“To think,” Shoko sighed dramatically, “the campus plague finally domesticated.”
“Fuck off.” He told them.
But there was no bite in it.
Not really.
Because you were still standing close enough for him to feel the warmth coming off your body, your fingers lightly resting against his chest after fixing the chain.
And Sukuna looked wrecked by it.
You smiled , you just couldn’t hold it in.
“Aww,” you teased softly. “You’re embarrassed?”
His eyes narrowed immediately, but it lacked its usual sharpness.
“Don’t start.”
“You’re literally red.”
“I am not.”
“You kinda are,” Toji interrupted giddily.
Gojo looked ready to pass away from excitement. “I HAVE NEVER SEEN THIS MAN EXPERIENCE HUMAN EMOTION.”
Before you could say anything else, Sukuna suddenly grabbed your wrist gently and tugged you against his chest.
A small startled sound left you as his arm settled around your waist instinctively, keeping you tucked against his side like proximity itself calmed him down.
“Enough,” he muttered lowly.
But when you tilted your head up at him, smiling still lingering on your lips, the blush deepened anyway.
And the kitchen absolutely lost its mind.
“HE GOT SHY.”
“THIS IS INSANE.”
“Somebody take a picture.”
“I’m gonna be sick,” Gojo announced dramatically.
Sukuna flipped everyone off immediately.
Yet even while doing it, his thumb rubbed absentminded circles against your waist beneath the hoodie.
Like touching you had already become second nature to him.
He had learnt to be gentle with you at all times, which was kinda shocking for someone like him, but he did.
And when you reached up one more time to flatten the collar of his shirt, Sukuna leaned down automatically without even realizing he’d done it.
The room erupted so loudly someone from upstairs yelled asking if a fight broke out.
Everyone was enjoying this way to much.
Meanwhile Sukuna buried his face briefly against the top of your head, muttering,
“You’re never coming downstairs with me again.”
You could only laugh a little because you know that’s far from the truth.
Dominate Paul lahote seducing his fem inexperienced imprint into having sx with him like teasing her,touching her in bed
gotcha hope you enjoy :)
quit fighting me - paul lahote x reader
You always forgot how big Paul’s couch felt until you were curled in the corner of it, your knees to the side as you were comfortable, the glow of your favorite movie washing over the room. The soundtrack hummed softly under the low rumble of Paul’s breathing beside you.
His arm was stretched behind you along the cushions. He wasn’t even touching you but somehow you still felt him. His energy per se.
He’d been behaving all night. Almost suspiciously well. You caught him glancing at you during all your favorite scenes, with that look he always got when he thought you weren’t paying attention, warm, intense, like he wanted to memorize the way you smiled.
And maybe that should have relaxed you.
But instead, it made the air feel thick. Charged. Like one wrong move and you’d be wrapped up in him with no escape.
So when the credits started rolling and Paul shifted closer, you tucked your blanket tighter around yourself as if it might protect you from whatever expression he was wearing.
Paul leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying you like he always did when he was deciding how gentle to be.
You push the blanket to the side, your face heated as your tennis skirt was hitched, you quickly adjust it before standing.
He was still seated. His gaze was still seated at you. The same gaze when he first saw you on sight when you came out of your house when he picked you up.
You yawn, dramatically a bit but the yawn was real.
“Someone’s tired.”
“Yeah. When I get home, I’m getting straight in the bed.” you say.
“You can crash with me.” he says with a small shrug.
“I can’t.” you whisper.
“Why?” he asked, seeing right through your lie.
“I…I have to..”
He patiently waited while you tried your very best to come up with a plausible excuse.
“Exactly.” he chuckled under his breath and stood, towering over you, causing you to look down at his living room rug.
He brushed his body against yours, causing your sock covered feet to shuffle towards where he wanted you to go.
“You really want me to stay the night?” you ask nervously as you were at the doorway of his room.
“Yeah. I really want you to stay the night.” he says.
You peak up at him. His gaze was dark, full of intensity that spiked your nerves.
“I-I don’t have anything to wear.” you whispered.
“I have a shirt for you. Come on.” he encouraged you to move past the doorway.
Entering his familiar room, you slowly and timidly sit down on his soft bed.
He gives you a look as if he’s trying to memorize the scenery of you on his bed before he turned his back and opened his closet door. He reached up and grabbed a shirt.
He tossed it and you reached and caught it with a perfect catch.
You held it up as it was an old shirt he didn’t care about, the letters slightly worn from the many times it spun in the washer.
With shaky legs, you stand and go to the bathroom. In the mirror, you try not to hyperventilate because it’s the first time you’re staying at his house through the night.
You shyly come back in his room, setting your clothes in his chair, avoiding eye contact since he was already in bed, no shirt. Waiting for you.
Sliding into bed when he peeled the covers back, he brought your body over closer to him.
You swallowed, already obeying without thinking. His chest pressed to your back, heat rolling off him like a second heartbeat. You felt small against him, fragile almost.
You clenched your eyes shut, feigning sleep, your heart hammering against your ribs as you heard him flick the lamp off at his side.
It was quiet until his fingers traced your waist, dragging teasingly upward, over your shirt. Purposefully slow. Purposefully maddening.
“Paul…” you whispered, already embarrassed by how breathy you sounded.
His hand splayed across your stomach, his palm hot even through the fabric. He held you there, not moving, just letting you feel the weight and heat of him. Your skin prickled, a flush spreading out from his touch. You were trembling, a fine, uncontrollable shiver that started deep in your core. He always made you feel like that no matter what he did.
His hand slides down the side of your neck, his thumb stroking your jawline with a possessiveness that makes you shiver, he turns your head over, telling you to turn over to face him. You couldn’t see in the dark, but he could see very well.
His mouth finds the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder. It’s not a kiss, but a slow, open mouthed exploration, his breath hot and damp against you. A low groan rumbles in his chest, vibrating through you, and you melt into the mattress. His hand follows the path of his mouth, sliding down your body, over the cotton of the nightshirt, until his palm rests, heavy and warm, on your lower stomach.
His fingers dip lower, past the hem of the shirt, and his touch is shockingly intimate through the thin lace of your panties. You gasp, your hips lifting of their own accord, seeking more of that delicious pressure but you push it hand away. He leaves it where you pushed it away.
His mouth crashed down on yours, not with gentle inquiry but with raw, hungry possession. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a claiming. His lips were firm, demanding, and you opened for him without a second thought, a moan escaping you as his tongue swept into your mouth. He tasted of something wild, something fundamentally Paul. One of his hands tilt your head back to deepen the kiss, while the other slid from your stomach to your hip, his grip firm, anchoring you.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were panting, your lips swollen and sensitive.
His hand on your hip moved, his fingers slipping under the hem of the nightshirt. They traced a burning path up the outside of your bare thigh, so achingly slow. You tensed, a bolt of nervous anticipation shooting through you.
His fingers continued their ascent, skating over the curve of your hip, and then, with an agonizing lack of hurry, he boldly cupped you through your panties. You cried out timidly, arching off the bed, the sensation so intense it was almost painful. The thin lace was soaked, a fact his knowing chuckle acknowledged.
He pressed the heel of his hand against you, applying a firm, steady pressure that made you whimper in the dark.
His fingers gently explore the shape of you through the damp fabric. Every tiny shift of his hand sends another jolt of pure need straight to your core, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, a slick heat blooming under his touch.
Gliding a finger along your entrance that had you twitching.
His hand moves, capturing one of yours where it lies fisted in the sheet. His grip is firm, guiding. He brings your hand down, pressing your palm flat against the hard bulge straining against his sleep shorts.
He closes his large hand over yours, bringing it down in his shorts. Your fingers run through the trimmed hairs as he’s showing you how to move. A slow, tentative stroke.
He groans, a deep, raw sound of pleasure that goes straight between your legs, and your own arousal spikes, a fresh wave of warmth flooding you. You’re shy, your movements clumsy, but his encouraging groans are a potent fuel.
He lifts his head from your neck, his eyes locking with yours, and then his mouth is on yours again. This kiss is different, deeper, hungrier, all consuming. He’s a talented kisser, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that’s both demanding and perfectly in sync with the slow stroke of your hand over him. You lose yourself in it, in the taste of him, the scent of his skin, the guttural sounds of his pleasure.
He hooked a finger in the waistband of your panties, “Lift your hips.”
The command was gentle but absolute. You obeyed, a shudder wracking your body as he peeled the damp fabric down your legs and tossed it aside. You were completely bare to him now.
Then his touch returned and this time there was no barrier. His fingers, found your core, and you nearly came off the bed again. The contrast was exquisite, the scratch of his skin against your incredible softness. He stroked you, once, twice, a slow, deliberate glide through your slickness that had you arching against the sheets.
He teased, circling your clit with a maddeningly light touch that made you buck against his hand.
The coil snapped. Your back arched violently as a climax ripped through you, silent at first, a tidal wave of pure, blinding pleasure that stole your voice, before a long, broken cry was torn from your lips. You clenched against his fingers, waves of ecstasy pulsing through you, until you were pulsating around nothing and trembling.
He guides you, his hands on your hips, until you’re straddling his lap. The position is shockingly intimate, your core pressed against the hard erection that he pulled out of his shorts. He leans back on his hands, watching you with heavy lidded eyes as you instinctively rock against him, a slow, hesitant dry hump that draws another low groan from him.
His hands slide under the nightshirt, his rough palms skimming up your bare sides. You jolt at the direct contact, your back arching. His thumbs brushing the sensitive undersides of your breasts. You’re braless and the feel of his skin against your softness is electrifying. His grip tightens, his hands molding to your curves, and you moan, dropping your forehead to his broad naked chest.
You rest your cheek against his chest as you kept your grinding against his erection tight and beneath your cheek, you can feel the powerful, steady beat of his heart.
His hands move to the hem of your nightshirt. He gathers the fabric, starting to pull it up. A bolt of pure, unadulterated panic lances through you, “Paul, wait-” you protest, your hands coming up to clutch at his wrists.
He stills instantly, “Quit fighting me.” he murmurs, his voice low but leaving no room for argument.
The command is silent but absolute. The fear is still there, a frantic flutter in your chest, but it’s drowned out by the throbbing ache between your legs. Your grip on his wrists loosens.
He doesn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion, he pulls the nightshirt up and over your head, tossing it into the shadows. The cool air hits your skin, making your nipples peak into tight, sensitive buds. You feel utterly exposed even though it’s dark in the room, sitting astride him, completely naked. A flush of embarrassment heats your cheeks, and you try to curl in on yourself.
“Don’t.” he growls, his hands coming up to frame your waist, holding you in place.
His thumbs stroke your hip bones, then slide upward, until his palms are cupping the full weight of your breasts. His touch is reverent, yet possessive. He teases your nipples with his thumbs, circling them, flicking them, until you’re writhing on his lap, little mewling sounds escaping your lips. The pleasure builds, a tight, bright coil deep in your belly, fed by the friction of your movements against his erection. You could hear the moistness echo through the room as you both groan together.
You’re lost in it, your world narrowed to his touch. The coil winds tighter, tighter, and then snaps without warning. Your orgasm crashes over you, a silent, shocking wave that makes your entire body seize. You cry out, a broken sound, as pleasure radiates out from your core, leaving you trembling and gasping against his chest.
He holds you through it, his hands gentle now, stroking your back.
Before you can even come down, his hands are on your hips, lifting you effortlessly and laying you back on the sheets. He shifts down the bed, his hands hooking under your knees, pushing your legs apart.
You know what he’s going to do. The thought sends a fresh thrill of panic and anticipation through you, “Paul…”
“Shhh.” He doesn’t give you time to overthink it. He lowers his head, and his mouth, that demanding, talented mouth, finds the very center of you.
You jolt off the bed, a sharp cry torn from your throat. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt. His tongue is flat and hot and relentless, laving broad strokes and glides through your sensitive folds. He groans, the vibration against your clit making you see stars. You taste like heaven. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open for his feast. He explores every inch of you with his tongue, learning what makes you buck and what makes you whimper, until you’re reduced to a writhing, pleading mess. He wasn’t tender headed as you’re able to grip his hair.
He focuses on your clit, sucking the aching bud into his mouth, and your second orgasm hits you like a freight train. It’s harsher, more intense, wracking your body with convulsions so powerful you’re sobbing his name, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, unsure if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away. He doesn’t stop, drawing out every last shuddering wave until you collapse, boneless and oversensitive, onto the mattress.
You’re floating, completely spent, when he moves over you again. His shorts are gone now, kicked off sometime during his attentions. His body is a furnace of hard muscle and slick skin.
He guides you back on top of him, his hands firm on your hips. You’re still trembling, your limbs like jelly. The broad, slick head of his erection presses against you, and your eyes widen at the sheer size of him. “I can’t” you think, a fresh wave of fear surging up.
You brace your hands on his chest, the muscles rigid under your palms. He guides himself, not with his hands, but with the subtle movement of his hips, nudging against your entrance. You sink down, an inch, and a sharp, startling pain makes you gasp, freezing instantly.
“Shhh, I know.” he soothes, his hands coming up to stroke your sides. His pours off his skin, a deep, radiating warmth that seems to sink directly into your muscles, soothing the sharp sting, melting the tension. It’s his shifter heat, a biological wonder that eases the way. You sink down another inch, then another, the initial pain fading into a breathtaking feeling of being stretched, filled, claimed. Your body clings to him.
He’s huge, and it’s a slow, careful process. He lets you set the pace, his hands resting on your hips, his eyes never leaving your face. When you’re finally seated fully on him, he lets out a groan that seems to come from the very depths of his soul.
You’re full, so completely full of him. You stay there for a moment, both of you breathing heavily, adjusting to the feeling. Then, tentatively, you move. It’s an uncoordinated, clumsy rock of your hips, but the sensation it creates is anything but. A low, guttural moan escapes you. He helps you, his hands guiding your hips, showing you a rhythm. Up, then down. A little faster.
You find a pace, riding him without experience but with a growing, desperate hunger. It was a high you were chasing and the tingles felt so good. The heat from his body is everywhere, a cocoon of sensation that amplifies every touch, every movement. The feeling of him moving inside you, the friction, the way he fills you, it’s overwhelming. You’re losing your mind, your head falling back as pleasure, pure and incandescent, begins to build again, deeper this time, more profound.
With a growl, he sits up suddenly, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing bear hug that pulls your chest flush against his. The new angle is shocking, unbelievable. He’s deeper than before, hitting a place inside you that makes you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. He holds you there with his palms digging in your rear, having you pinned against him, and takes over, his thrusts becoming deep, primal pistons of his hips.
It was tender and passionate as he’s able to kiss you in this position.
You whimpered tiny, not as embarrassed now, and he swallowed the sound with another kiss, deeper this time, his lips parting yours slowly, giving you time to pull away.
You leaned into him, fingers clutching his shirt, letting him guide the kiss. His tongue brushed yours in such talented manner that the white hot sensation was rearing its head in your direction.
He broke away only to kiss the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft place under your ear that made your whole body tremble.
He lifted you slightly, you land on your side on the bed as he milked himself out in his hand. His groans came rough as his hand roughly milked himself. He shuddered as he got up to clean himself up.
Your legs felt heavy, the ray of the bathroom light made you get a peak of your naked body. You scoot back and get under the covers as you hear the toilet flush and the sink come on.
The floorboard creak when he comes back in. Your eyes are closed this time as he lays down next to you in bed.
Hey…” he whispered, brushing a hand along your back, “You tired?”
A tiny hum came out of you. Soft, sleepy, adorable.
Nothing like the breathless mess you’d been minutes earlier.
“You should’ve told me, baby,” he murmured, voice softer than it ever got with anyone but you, “You’re exhausted.”
He smoothed the fabric of the blanket up to your shoulders, pressing you against him as he got comfortable.
“Paul?” you whispered.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” he whispered.
“You’re… Really warm…” you murmured, words slurring from sleep.
He smiled so soft, so impossibly gentle it would terrify the entire pack.
pairing: bradley “rooster” bradshaw x fem!reader
summary: you’ve always been the anywhere-but-here girl, so nobody expects you to move back home to north island. what you’re not ready for is your childhood friend bradley, who slips back into your life so easily it makes you wonder why you ever left.
tags: mitchell/maverick’s daughter!reader, opposites attract, free spirit x straight-laced, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining
warning(s): avoidant attachment style (ish?), reader tucks hair behind ear, wears a bikini, drinks alcohol, and is four years younger than bradley, suggestive content
word count: 11.9k
note: did i write this instead of doing my mountain of grad school readings? why yes i did. anyway, this has been such a long time coming and i’m so excited to get my first rooster fic out!! also there are no mentions of your mother/you being maverick’s biological child for inclusivity xx
masterlist
You reached the coast just before sunset, the kind of golden hour that made everything look idyllic. The air blowing through the open window tasted faintly of salt and home.
You turned up the radio, letting the familiar guitar riff of a Fleetwood Mac song cut clean through the noise. You were prone to drowning things out with music; it was a great way to avoid your own thoughts.
The car wasn’t new. You couldn’t afford new. But she had personality—a red 1970s convertible you’d found through a guy in Venice who insisted she “ran like a dream,” which was only true if that dream involved the occasional stutter uphill. You named her Cherry because subtlety was overrated.
Your whole life fit neatly inside Cherry: two suitcases in the trunk, a stack of half-filled notebooks on the passenger seat, and a battered guitar case in the back seat.
You’d spent the last few years chasing inspiration across cities like it was a full-time job with no benefits. You’d written songs in shared kitchens, poems on bar napkins, and once had an Oscar-worthy breakdown in a Portland laundromat when someone stole your clothes and left you with nothing but the denim shorts and old Top Gun sweatshirt you were wearing.
Life experience, you called it. Character development, if you were feeling generous. But after your last roommate tried to start a kombucha brewery in the bathtub, you decided it was time to come home.
Once you passed San Diego, the road curved inland toward the base. You slowed down, mostly because you always did here. The air had that sharp metallic tang of jet fuel that never quite left your memory.
You didn’t mean to look up. But then you did, and that was your first mistake.
Four jets cut across the sky in formation, sunlight bouncing off their wings. The sound reached you a few seconds later, deep and thunderous, vibrating straight through your chest. Your breath caught before your brain could even register why.
It always made you think of Bradley.
You wondered if one of those pilots was him. Seeing those jets reminded you that he’d stayed while you’d run.
You forced your eyes back to the road, heart doing that inconvenient nostalgia thing you pretended not to notice. You told yourself you were older now, grounded, emotionally evolved.
By the time you pulled into The Hard Deck’s parking lot, the sky was washed in peach and gold. The sign out front was still a little crooked, still sun-faded, and the gravel crunched under your tyres exactly the same way it had last summer. You turned off the engine and let the quiet sink in.
Your reflection in the rear-view mirror looked tired, but you could pass it off as intentional—messy eyeliner, bitten lips, wind-swept hair.
You got out and stretched, legs stiff from the drive, and reached into the back seat for your patchwork shoulder bag. The strap was a little frayed where it rubbed against your shoulder, but you liked it that way. It was the one thing you took with you to every city you’d called home.
Inside, the bar hummed with life in that low, comforting way you’d missed. The clink of glasses, laughter, the faint buzz of a jukebox humming in the corner. You could have closed your eyes and known exactly where you were.
The Hard Deck hadn’t changed since you’d visited your dad last summer. The same scuffed floorboards. The same pool tables that leaned slightly to the left. The same smell of salt and spilt beer baked into the walls.
Penny’s touch was everywhere. The neon sign over the bar gleamed a little brighter. The old jukebox, once half-broken and temperamental, now glowed in the corner like it had been restored within an inch of its life.
Eight years ago, it had been different. Louder, rougher around the edges. A full-on Navy haunt when Bradley was just another new aviator at Top Gun, eager to show you his favourite spots.
Bradley had taken you straight to the piano.
You could still see him there, sleeves rolled, hair too long, grin wide enough to make you forget how to speak. The room had been packed, people shouting, drinks sloshing, but he’d been completely lost in the song. You’d tried to keep up, but your hands knew guitar strings, not piano keys.
Bradley had only laughed, covered your hand with his, and pressed your fingers into the right chord. His touch had been light, sure, and entirely unfair.
“See?” he’d said, still grinning. “You’re getting it.”
You hadn’t been. You’d been too busy trying to remember how lungs worked.
Now, the jukebox played something jaunty, and you blinked as the memory desolved. The Hard Deck had changed since your first visit, and so had you.
“Well, look who it is!”
You turned toward the voice, already smiling. “Penny!”
Penny Benjamin was making her way around the bar, sun-kissed and grinning, all warmth and disbelief. She pulled you into a hug that smelled faintly of citrus and salt air.
“Pete wasn’t kidding,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “He told me you were moving back for real this time. I didn’t believe him. He’s been saying that for, what, two summers now?”
You laughed. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure I believed me either. But I think I’m ready to stay in one place for a while. Maybe even put down some roots.”
Penny’s smile softened. “Music to my ears. And if you need something to do while those roots take hold, I could always use another pair of hands behind the bar.”
You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “You’re offering me a job?”
“Only if you’re not too good for us locals now,” she teased. “Pete says you’ve been living the free spirited artistic dream. But I remember those drinks you made at the barbecue last summer. You’ve got some serious skills.”
You grinned, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “I could start once I’ve unpacked, assuming you’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” Penny ducked behind the counter, filled a glass with Coke, and added a wedge of lime. The ice clinked as she slid it toward you. “On the house. For my favourite Mitchell.”
You picked up the glass, hiding your smile behind the rim. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that.”
“Oh, please,” she said, smirking. “He already knows.”
You took a sip and let the comfort of being home settle in your chest. For the first time in years, you weren’t just passing through.
You were people-watching, entertained by the group of pilots playing darts and arguing about whose landing had been cleaner that day, when someone slid onto the stool beside you.
He was broad, blond, and cocky. The kind of man who probably practised his smirk on reflective surfaces. The service khakis gave him away instantly; neat, pressed, and impossible to mistake for anything but Navy. You knew more about pins than the average tourist, and the ones over his pocket told you everything you needed to know.
This man wasn’t just Navy. He was an aviator. Judging by the overconfident lean and movie-star grin, you’d bet good money this was the infamous Hangman you’d heard about from your dad.
“Well, hello there,” he drawled, flashing a grin that you could tell had a high success rate. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You visiting?”
You tilted your head, giving him your best imitation of a curious outsider. “Something like that.”
Hangman leaned closer, elbows on the bar, radiating charm. “Let me guess. You’re a tourist. Beach trip, maybe? Or did you come to watch the planes?”
You widened your eyes just enough to sell it. “Planes? You mean the Navy ones?”
Penny briefly caught your eye from behind the counter, her mouth twitching like she was desperately holding in a laugh.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” Hangman said, grinning wider. “The Navy ones. You ever been on base before?”
You shook your head, sipping through your straw with deliberate innocence. “No, can’t say I have. But I’ve always heard the pilots around here are impressive.”
He straightened a little, grin turning self-satisfied. “That’s one word for us. I could show you around sometime, give you the full experience.”
You leaned in, mirroring his posture, voice just soft enough to make him listen closer. “The full experience?”
“Strictly professional,” Hangman said, not even pretending to mean it. “Though, fair warning—once you’ve flown with a pilot, nothing else really compares.”
You blinked up at him innocently, hiding your grin behind your straw. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” Hangman rested a hand casually against the back of your stool, confidence oozing from every pore. You were about to give in a little and see how far he’d go when a familiar voice cut in.
“Hangman, step away from my daughter.”
You’d never seen a man pale so fast. Hangman froze, his grin disintegrating as he turned toward the source. “Sir?”
You spun on your stool, already smiling. “Dad!” You jumped up to hug your dad, laughing against his shoulder while Hangman looked like he was praying for a time machine.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Maverick looked entirely too pleased with himself when you parted. Calm, casual, just enough smugness in his voice to let you know he’d seen the whole thing. “You two know each other?”
“Not officially,” Hangman said tightly, posture stiffening like he’d just remembered how to stand at attention. “I was just, uh, welcoming her to town.”
“Sure you were,” Penny said, sliding Maverick a beer down the counter without missing a beat. “Very hospitable of you, Hangman.”
You grinned, unable to resist chiming in. “Such a gentleman. It’s generous of you to offer to show me around my hometown, but I think I’ll manage just fine.”
A loud laugh burst from the pool table. Payback, naturally. “Hangman, you hitting on the boss’s daughter?”
The reaction was instant. Phoenix nearly dropped her cue, doubled over with laughter until Bob caught her arm to keep her from tipping forward. Coyote choked on his beer.
Fanboy muttered something that sounded like “Oh, dead man walking.”
Hangman went very still. “I don’t know that I would call it ‘hitting on’ her,” he said faintly, but the damage was done.
You turned toward the group, the picture of composure despite the glee bubbling under your ribs. “Nice to meet you all,” you said sweetly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Bet you have,” Phoenix said, still giggling. “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone wipe the smug off Bagman’s face, but damn, I owe you a drink.”
Bob smiled shyly from where he stood beside her. “It’s nice to meet you,” he offered.
“Same here,” you said warmly. “You must be Bob. Dad’s mentioned you. All of you, actually,” you added, motioning to the group. “I’m really excited to finally meet you.”
“Damn, Hangman,” Coyote said, laughing as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder. “At least you went down swinging.”
“Yeah, straight into the ground,” Payback said, grinning. “Classic Bagman.”
Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “You all done, or should I start digging my own grave?”
“Don’t worry,” Maverick cut in, clearly enjoying himself. He clapped Hangman on the back with mock sympathy. “You’ll have plenty of chances to rebuild that ego in training tomorrow.”
That sent another round of laughter through the group, and you couldn’t help it. You reached up to hug your dad again, squeezing him tightly. “I miss you.”
No matter how far you’d run from his career, his shadow, or the kind of roots that terrified you, you always came back to this. Your dad had been the one steady presence in every stage of your life, the compass that never stopped pointing you home.
“Missed you too, kid,” Maverick said quietly, squeezing back before leaning away with a proud smile.
When you turned again, the rest of the squad had gathered around, curiosity replacing their laughter. Phoenix leaned her hip against the bar, Coyote nursing a beer beside her.
“So,” Phoenix said, studying you with a spark of amusement, “you’re Maverick’s daughter. Explains the confidence.”
You smiled. “Confidence or trouble?”
“Both,” Coyote said immediately, and everyone laughed again.
Phoenix tipped her bottle toward you, still smiling. “So what brings you back? Visiting, or…?”
“Actually,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m moving back home. Figured it was time. I’m crashing with Dad until I find my own place.”
“That’s brave,” Payback said. “Living with your old man again? You must really love him.”
Maverick just smirked. “She’s always had excellent taste.”
That drew another round of laughter and groans, and you rolled your eyes affectionately. “He’s already trying to recruit me as his new copilot.”
“Don’t tempt him,” Phoenix said, grinning. “You’d probably be better than half the guys in this room.”
You laughed, then nodded toward her. “I’ve been dying to meet you! How’s life in an elite squadron treating you?”
Phoenix lit up, leaning one elbow on the bar. “Aside from putting up with these idiots, it’s been great.” She broke off mid-sentence, gaze darting past you. “Bradshaw!” Phoenix waved him over with unfiltered enthusiasm. “About time.”
Your pulse stumbled.
Bradley paused in the doorway, tall and sun-browned, the golden bulbs casting a warm glow across his shoulders. The bar’s hum seemed to fade, or maybe it only did for you.
Phoenix glanced between you, her grin softening into curiosity. “You two must know each other, right?”
You tried to keep your tone light, though your smile wavered at the corners. “Yeah. We know each other.”
When you finally turned to face Bradley, his eyes were already on you—warm, surprised, a little disbelieving. Eight years apart, and it still hit like free fall.
You’d kept in touch for a while, after things between him and Maverick had soured. But life stretched the distance until texts faded to yearly birthday wishes, and visits stopped altogether. Maverick had moved off North Island, Bradley had been deployed more often than not, and you’d convinced yourself that growing apart was just the natural order of things.
Now, standing here, it didn’t feel so natural at all.
Bradley’s mouth curved, soft with disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you said softly.
The corner of his jaw ticked, just the smallest flicker of something you couldn’t read.
Phoenix glanced between you again, realising she’d just stumbled into something layered. “Okay,” she stretched the word out, raising her hands.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Bradley smiled, small and genuine and a little dazed, and closed the distance.
“Come here,” he said, and you were already stepping forward.
Bradley pulled you in without hesitation, his hand warm and solid against your back. The scent hit first: soap, sun, and that clean cotton smell that always clung to him. His shirt was rough with salt and sweat, the kind of texture that reminded you he lived half his life on tarmacs and flight decks.
His breath was close in your ear, even and steady, until you realised yours wasn’t.
“I didn’t believe Maverick when he said you were moving back,” Bradley murmured.
You smiled against his chest, trying not to inhale like someone deprived of oxygen. “Surprise again.”
When you stepped back, the air felt thinner. His hands lingered a beat too long, brushing your arms before he dropped them like he’d only just remembered how intimate it was. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then away, and you pretended not to notice.
You both pretended a lot of things.
“Still playing?” Bradley asked, his voice a little rougher than before.
“Guitar? Yeah. You still ignoring my playlists?”
He laughed, and the sound made your heart tighten. “Only the ones labeled ‘for when you’re feeling emotionally constipated.’”
You tilted your head. “So, all of them.”
That earned you a real grin. You hated how quickly it short-circuited your brain. He looked good—too good.
“You look…” Bradley trailed off, as if the word was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go. “Different.”
You raised a brow. “Good different, or ‘emotional crisis’ different?”
“Definitely good.” His voice dipped lower, softer. “You were always beautiful, but you’re glowing now.”
And there it was again: the pull. The quiet, magnetic thing that never really went away, no matter how much time or distance tried. You found yourself leaning closer without thinking, caught between instinct and caution, until your hand brushed his where it rested on the bar.
The contact was brief but enough to send a quick jolt through your body before you both instinctively pulled back, hiding behind awkward smiles.
“So,” you said lightly, thumb swiping at the condensation on your glass. “How’ve you been, Rooster?”
He smirked, eyes glinting. “It’s so weird to hear you say my call sign.”
You gasped theatrically. “Rude!”
“You can call me whatever you want,” Bradley said, quieter now. “But you’re the only one who still calls me by my name.” Something flickered behind his eyes, unguarded and dangerous. “I guess I missed the sound of it in your voice.”
Before either of you could say something you couldn’t take back, a voice cut through the moment.
“Hey, nerds!” Fanboy was waving from across the room, grinning like a man who had just spotted a plot twist. “Come join us! We know you’re childhood friends, but we want a chance to get to know Maverick’s daughter.”
You smiled, eyebrows arched at your so-called childhood friend. “What do you say, Bradley?”
Hearing you say his name brought another wide grin to his face. “I wouldn’t want to deprive your adoring fans,” he teased.
When Bradley gestured toward the booth, you followed. His hand brushed the small of your back as you passed; light enough to seem accidental, but enough to make your heart trip over itself.
When your dad invited you to a beach day with Penny and the squadron, you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence. An afternoon of dog-fight football, popsicles, and sand in your sunglasses felt like the kind of chaos you used to live for in childhood summers with Maverick and Iceman.
The afternoon sun brushed the waves with golden glitter. When Maverick called everyone over, you knew exactly what he was about to do. After the usual warm-up theatrics and fake groaning, teams were picked, and everyone persuaded your dad to join in.
Phoenix hooked your arm, already grinning. “Come on, you’ve got to see this circus up close. Hangman’s in peak insufferable form.”
You laughed, brushing sand from your shorts, and followed her. Bradley was already leaning back, shoulders flexed under the sun, tossing the ball to himself with that effortless control that made your stomach flip.
He looked like he belonged in a recruitment ad for hot, emotionally unavailable Navy pilots.
Bradley caught your eye, winked, and sent the ball your way like a dare you weren’t ready for. You jumped, barely keeping it from hitting your chest, and stumbled back laughing.
“Careful,” he called, jogging closer. “Wouldn’t want you spraining anything important.”
“Does my pride count?” you shot back.
“Absolutely,” Bradley said, grinning, and you had to fight the urge to glance at his hands. Lately, they had developed a suspicious habit of finding you. “I’m very thorough.”
Phoenix snorted, but gave no other commentary on his double entendre. You decided to ignore the very specific flutter that word sent through your chest. Thorough. Great. Fantastic. You were doomed.
You joined the team opposite Maverick and gave him the universal two-finger I’m watching you warning. The squadron hollered happily, and you could hear Fritz and Omaha exchanging bets on which Mitchell would be victorious.
Phoenix filled you in on the unspoken rules: always dive like it’s life or death, and never—under any circumstances—let Hangman get a free pass. It was easy enough to remember, especially with the Texan cackling at you from the other side of the beach.
The game started officially, Penny refereeing from the sidelines with exaggerated seriousness. You fell into a rhythm quickly, laughing harder than you had in years. Sand flew everywhere, the sun warmed your shoulders, and Bradley kept finding reasons to brush past you as you ran. He always seemed to be exactly close enough for your brain to short-circuit.
Every accidental touch made your heart skip.
“Hey, Mitchell,” Hangman called, standing close enough that you could smell his sunscreen. “You think you can take me down?”
“Cute,” you said flatly, flicking sand in his direction. “I may not be in the Navy, but don’t forget who raised me. I don’t do anything halfway, and I don’t lose.”
He raised both hands in mock surrender. “You’re scary. I’ll admire you from a safe distance.”
Phoenix groaned. “Emphasis on ‘distance,’ Bagman. She’s busy kicking your ass, not dodging your pickup lines.”
“Well said,” you declared, grinning and offering Phoenix a high-five.
“It’s nice to have you around,” she said earnestly. “Everyone’s already decided you’re one of us. Rooster’s obviously obsessed with you, but that goes without saying.”
Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who was laughing at something Bob had done. You told yourself you weren’t constantly glancing his way and dragged your eyes back to the game. You weret, of course, but denial was your favourite coping mechanism.
Hours passed in a blur, and you managed to avoid breaking anything. Hangman teased relentlessly, but with Phoenix and Bob around to back you up, you felt like you belonged. Bradley stayed close, subtly protective, saving you from catastrophic falls.
Eventually, Penny called out, “Snack and water break. You’ve earned it!”
Everyone collapsed onto towels in the setting sun. Bob handed you a towel, and Hangman leaned back, sunglasses low, pretending to evaluate your performance.
“Thanks,” you said dryly, wiping sweat off your forehead. “Your compliment is noted.”
You headed toward the coolers, only to realise the tie on your bikini top had loosened in the chaos. You made your way over to Bradley, your arm contorted behind you to keep the strings from coming undone.
He was sitting on a towel near the coolers, arms resting on his knees, watching Yale and Harvard fight over the last rocket-shaped popsicle.
“Bradley?”
He looked up, eyebrows lifting like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah?”
You shuffled a fraction, smiling unsurely. “The tie on my bikini came undone, and I can’t quite reach it. Could you fix it for me?”
Bradley’s eyes went wide. You caught the faint hitch of a breath before he tried to mask it. You sat in front of him with your back turned, showing him how you held the strings together.
He froze for a beat. Then another. His shoulders tensed, fingers twitching, too aware of the bare expanse of your back. Bradley shifted forward carefully.
You felt him before he touched you. His hands hovered near the strings, uncertain, cautious, as if he could break something with a wrong move. Your shoulders tensed when his fingertips brushed the skin of your back.
“Okay,” Bradley murmured. His voice was quiet, not commanding or joking. You caught the slight hitch in his breathing. Not fear, exactly; more like anticipation.
He looped the strings slowly, once, twice, adjusting. Gentle. So slow it felt like he was measuring time against your pulse. You were hyper-aware of the way his fingers pressed, the careful tilt of his wrists, how his arms flexed slightly with the tiniest tension.
You tried to keep your breathing quiet, but his shallow inhales gave him away. It felt like Bradley was holding everything back, keeping his distance in every movement, even while he was behind you.
His thumbs brushed the dimples at your lower back and a shiver zipped up your spine.
“There,” Bradley said quietly. His knuckles grazed your back again, lingering just long enough for heat to bloom where he touched you.
You felt every shift of his weight, every slow exhale that brushed your neck. The rest of the squad and your dad were chatting nearby, but you weren’t thinking about them. You were thinking about Bradley’s hands; how careful they were, how he couldn’t quite seem to stop touching you.
You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, his pupils dark, wide, and attentive. He was mesmerised by the shape of your shoulders, the tilt of your head, and the way you were biting your bottom lip subconsciously.
You wanted to say something clever. Something that wouldn’t make your knees fold. What came out was a whisper-soft, “Thanks,” which was neither clever nor steady.
Bradley didn’t move. He let his hands hover, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate lines into your skin. For a long moment, all you felt was the light drag of his fingertips.
You let yourself shift, just enough to meet him, just enough to let your bodies acknowledge what neither of you was saying. Not with words. Words would make this interaction real, and you weren’t ready to face that reality yet.
Bradley started to say something, but Phoenix’s voice cut through the air. “Who wants chips?”
You cleared your throat and stood, brushing sand off your legs. “Me,” you said, pretending your voice didn’t wobble.
You had been in town for a month, long enough to get sand permanently stuck in your shoes and afford a deposit on a nearby apartment. You had Penny’s generous customers to thank for that one; they tipped better than any bartending job you had in bigger cities.
The new apartment wasn’t much, just one bedroom, a minuscule kitchen, and the world’s most dramatic plumbing—but it was yours. And you loved it, even if the previous tenant had painted the bedroom a colour best described as the dark blue of an existential crisis.
You wanted sage green; something calm that didn’t make you feel like you were sleeping inside a sad thought.
The squad had all promised to help paint, because apparently manual labour was their version of team bonding. You’d stocked the fridge with drinks and ordered enough pizza to feed your notoriously hungry friends. Then the texts started. Bob had “a thing.” Phoenix’s “errand” mysteriously lasted four hours. Hangman sent a single thumbs-down emoji, which you assumed meant “no chance in hell.”
So when you opened the door and found only Bradley standing there, you weren’t surprised. He stood holding up a six-pack like a peace offering. His shirt was faded and soft-looking, hanging loose over his jeans in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a second.
He raised the beers. “Looks like it’s just us.”
You pretended to find that funny instead of vaguely panic-inducing. “Lucky you.”
Bradley’s eyes flicked past you into the apartment. “You sure about that? That’s a lot of wall.”
You stepped aside to let him in. “Well, your cowardly pilot friends backed out at the last minute. I’m filing a formal complaint with their superior officer in the morning.”
“Getting Mav involved,” Bradley said, brushing past you. “Bold choice.”
“Desperate times,” you muttered.
You’d already tried to scrub the old navy-blue paint off the walls, but the result looked like an avant-garde crime scene.
Bradley took it all in with an amused glance. “You started without supervision.”
“I’m an independent woman,” you said, reaching for a can of paint with exaggerated confidence. “I don’t need supervision.”
“You’re holding the can upside down.”
You looked down. “…That feels like an opinion.”
Bradley laughed under his breath, low and warm, and picked up a roller. “Come on, Picasso. Let’s paint ourselves a masterpiece.”
He crouched and opened the can for you, forearms flexing as he stirred the sage green paint and poured it into the paint tray. You tried not to stare and failed miserably.
The first few minutes were quiet except for the squeak of rollers and the hum of classic rock playing from your Bluetooth speaker. The playlist was mostly your doing: Tom Petty, Springsteen, and a few guilty pleasure tracks you hoped Bradley wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything.
Bradley painted like a man on a mission: slow and careful strokes, all precision. You, on the other hand, were a little more abstract. Less plan, more chaos with flair.
That had always been the difference between you. Bradley had his life plotted like a flight path, every box ticked and corner squared. You were impulsive, chasing whatever caught your interest in that moment. That probably explained why he was in the Navy, and you were affectionately known as the “anywhere but here” girl.
“Yours looks better,” you admitted eventually.
Bradley didn’t look over. “Years of repainting Navy housing.”
“Of course,” you said. “All those government-issued beige walls really sharpened your technique.”
He chuckled, rolling another line of paint. “Yes, I’m very well-rounded. Wait till you see me fold laundry.”
You pretended to swoon, voice all old-Hollywood and dramatic. “Oh, Rooster, your talent is simply too much for a girl to bear! Do you also do your own taxes?”
Bradley rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Keep your pants on, Grace Kelly.”
You fought a grin and lost. “Actually, I was going for Katharine Hepburn, but thank you!”
It was ridiculous how easy it was, how quickly you fell back into this rhythm; the back-and-forth, the teasing. The kind of ease that made you forget how long it had been since you’d really laughed like this.
You both reached for the paint tray. Bradley’s fingers brushed yours, touch, but it set off a spark in your stomach. Neither of you pulled away. You blamed the beer, the heat—anything but what it actually was.
“You missed a spot,” you said, because your brain was desperate to fill every silence.
Bradley leaned in to look, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “No, I didn’t,” he said, squinting at the wall.
“You did. There.” You pointed, mostly to distract yourself.
Bradley sighed, mock suffering in his voice. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”
“And yet you love that about me.”
That stopped him for just a second too long. Bradley looked at you, smiled, and nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Something like that.”
You tried for casual, reaching for your beer. “You’re getting sentimental, Bradshaw. Careful.”
He wiped a streak of paint off his arm with a rag, the muscles in his forearm becoming taut. “Don’t tell Hangman. He’ll make it weird.”
“He already makes everything weird. What’s one more?”
Bradley laughed, that low, familiar sound that always seemed to settle somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t tell if the room was warmer now or if it was just you. Probably just you.
The next song that came on made you pause. It was your favourite Otis Redding song, a soulful track that made everything feel too close, too soft around the edges.
Bradley stilled, putting the roller down to admire his painting progress. “I love this song,” he said, smiling faintly. “You really went for the classics.”
He hummed a few notes under his breath, low and rough around the edges. Then he sang along to the chorus, and you stilled like your body had turned to stone. Bradley’s voice fit the song perfectly; unpolished but warm, a little like arriving at home after a long trip.
“Still showing off, I see,” you teased to hide how your heart was doing double backflips.
Bradley shrugged, eyes still on the wall. “Occupational hazard.”
“Yeah, right. I think you just like reminding people you’ve got range.”
He laughed, the sound soft and deep. “Well, I did say I was well-rounded. I’m just living up to expectations.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, even though your voice came out thinner than you meant. Bradley’s singing was doing something to your insides that you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging.
Bradley must’ve noticed your silence because, without warning, he started singing along louder, like he couldn’t help it. His voice filled the room, easy and lazy and heartbreakingly good.
You rolled your eyes fondly, grinning. “Okay, rockstar, you’re ruining my productivity.”
Bradley dipped his roller, smirking. “You weren’t very productive to begin with.”
“Excuse me,” you said, gesturing to your wall. “I did this one all by myself!”
“Uh-huh,” Bradley said, mimicking your tone. “Meanwhile, I did the other three.”
By the time the playlist ended, the walls were painted a soft sage green. The room looked lighter, like it could finally breathe. Bradley stepped back, hands on his hips, inspecting the walls. A smear of green paint streaked his jaw, and somehow that made him even more endearing.
“Not bad,” Bradley declared. “Could almost pass for professional work.”
You pretended to inspect your section. “Yeah, I feel bad. I’m too broke to pay you.”
“I’ll settle for the pizza that’s definitely cold by now.”
You huffed a laugh. “Big spender.”
He shrugged, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. “It’s the company I’m here for, anyway.”
You blinked at that and were suddenly too aware of how close he was; of how his shoulder brushed yours as he turned to look at the wall again. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—warm, clean, maddeningly familiar.
Just like that, the room fell away, and you were transported back eight years.
After showing you all his favourite Navy spots on North Island, Bradley had driven you home in the same Bronco he’d driven in high school. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station that kept losing signal, and every few minutes, he’d reached out to fix the dial.
At the time, you hadn’t seen him in eight years.
Bradley had cut you out alongside Maverick when you were both teenagers, and it wasn’t until your twentieth birthday that you finally reached out. By then, he’d been twenty-four, two years into his Navy career, and hoping you’d call.
There’d been a lot of phone calls, the occasional letter, the postcards you’d sent him from wherever you happened to be that month. But none of it had felt quite real until you were sitting beside him again, the windows rolled down, the salt air blowing through the cab.
Bradley looked older, of course. Broader through the shoulders, quieter in his movements. The loud boy who used to tease you about your terrible driving had been replaced by someone who carried himself differently—steady, restrained.
You’d tried to hide how much that unsettled you.
“Still got the same car,” you’d said, nodding at the dashboard.
Bradley smiled, eyes still on the road. “She’s reliable. Thought about upgrading, but I couldn’t do it.”
“Too sentimental?”
“Too broke,” he’d corrected, grinning.
You’d laughed, and the sound surprised you. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed the way Bradley looked at you like he was storing the moment away for later.
He’d finally achieved his dream and been sent to train at Top Gun, and when he told you, you hadn’t hesitated to drive down from Santa Barbara to see him. You’d told yourself you were only catching up, but the truth was impossible to ignore now.
“How’s Mav?” Bradley had asked after a while, voice careful.
You’d inhaled sharply.
You and Bradley had reconnected a few years ago, but you’d never once talked about your dad. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend the distance was because Bradley had devoted his life to following in his father’s footsteps, and you’d devoted yours to getting as far away from your father’s career as possible.
The truth was messier. Maverick had set Bradley back four years, pulled his papers to the Academy, and they hadn’t spoken since.
You’d shrugged. “Still flying. Still impossible to live with.”
Bradley had nodded. “Guess some things don’t change.”
“Guess not,” you’d said. “I’m just lucky Dad was too sentimental to sell the house, so I don’t have to pay for an overpriced hotel whenever I’m home.”
The silence that had followed hadn’t been uncomfortable. It had been the kind of silence you only had with someone who already knew most of your stories.
When Bradley had pulled up in front of your childhood house, the porch light flickered on automatically. You’d forgotten how small it had looked, how the paint had peeled from the railing where you used to sit and talk with Maverick for hours on end.
Bradley’d cut the engine and turned to you.
“Thanks for the ride,” you’d said, because it had felt like the safe thing to say.
He’d nodded. “Anytime.”
You’d unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t move. Bradley hadn’t either.
“So,” you’d said, “Top Gun.”
Bradley had smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess I finally made it.”
“You always were the overachiever,” you’d teased.
“One of us had to be,” he’d teased you right back.
You’d rolled your eyes. “Hey, I got into college! I just decided not to go.”
Bradley had chuckled, and for a second, you’d seen the boy who used to sit on that same porch with you every summer. He and Carole used to make their way down from Virginia every year when you were growing up, and the two of you were always thick as thieves.
The memory had tugged at something in your chest. You’d cleared your throat. “You look good, Bradley.”
“Thanks,” Bradley had said quietly. “You too.”
You’d meant to leave it at that, but the way he’d said it had made your pulse jump.
He’d leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the steering wheel. “You ever think about those summers? The ones before—everything?”
“All the time,” you’d said before you could stop yourself.
Bradley had nodded once, eyes flicking down, then back to yours. “I missed you,” he’d said simply.
The words had hit like a wave. You’d imagined Bradley saying them for years, but now that he had, you hadn’t known where to put the feeling.
“You didn’t have to disappear, you know,” you’d said. “When Dad pulled your papers, he didn’t mean for you to disappear from our lives.”
Bradley had exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. “I know. But I couldn’t call you. Not then. I was so angry; at him, at myself, at the universe. I didn’t want you caught in the middle.”
“You didn’t even give me a choice.”
His jaw had tightened. “You were still in high school. I was eighteen and angry at the world. You had your own life to figure out. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
You’d laughed softly, without humour. “You always think you’re doing the right thing.”
Bradley had looked at you then, and for a second, you’d seen every year that had passed between you. He might have looked the same, only broader and tanner, but Bradley Bradshaw wasn’t the naive eighteen-year-old he’d been ten years ago.
“Let me walk you to the door,” Bradley had said, because no matter how much time had passed, Carole had raised him to be a gentleman.
He’d got out of the truck and come around to your side, opening the door for you. It had been such an old-fashioned gesture that it made you laugh, but the sound broke halfway out of your throat. You’d stepped out and headed for the porch together.
The boards had creaked softly beneath you, and Bradley had come to a stop as you’d fished your keys out of your bag.
“Well,” you’d said, “this is where you say goodnight and make me regret every life choice that led to this moment.”
Bradley had smiled that familiar half-smile you’d heard through the phone every few days. “Something like that.”
He’d taken a step closer. The space between you had seemed to shrink without either of you deciding it should. For a second, neither of you had spoken.
When Bradley had reached out, his hand hesitated in midair before finding your face. His thumb had brushed along your cheekbone, the touch feather-light, almost reverent.
Bradley’s voice had dropped, rough at the edges. “For what it’s worth, you are the most amazing person I know.”
You hadn’t answered. You couldn’t. You’d only tilted your chin up, and he’d leaned in at the same time. No hesitation now.
The kiss had been slow, too careful, like you’d both been afraid to break whatever fragile thing had survived all those years apart. Bradley’s hands had found your waist—tentative at first, then sure—and you’d sunk into the warmth of him.
When you’d finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.
Bradley had looked a little dazed. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
“Two years?” you’d said.
That had been when you’d noticed a shift in your phone calls. You’d been travelling the world, Bradley’d been trying to prove he deserved to be sent to Top Gun, and things didn’t feel so platonic anymore.
He’d grinned, soft and knowing. “Two years.”
You’d smiled back. “Go before I talk you into staying.”
“I’ll bring you coffee and pastries tomorrow morning,” Bradley had promised, still grinning.
Then he’d walked down the path to his truck. You’d watched him go, his figure lit briefly by the headlights as he started the engine. He’d waved once through the open window before pulling away.
The sound of the engine had faded, leaving the street quiet again.
And for a second, you saw another version of him in the same spot—a year later, walking away from the same porch, but with his jaw set and his eyes red from crying.
You’d watched him go then, too. But that time, he didn’t look back.
You blinked, and it was gone. Just Bradley again; older now, standing in your newly sage green room. He was still the person who’d known you when you thought you had the whole world figured out.
“Hey,” he said quietly, tilting his head. “You okay?”
You nodded too fast, trying to play it off. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
Bradley smiled a little. “Dangerous habit.”
“Tell me about it.”
You both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall like it held the answers to things neither of you was brave enough to ask.
You had never been the type to throw a housewarming party, but a ladies’ night felt doable. Low-stakes controlled chaos. You unpacked the last of your boxes that morning and figured it called for celebration.
So you texted Phoenix and Halo. By eight o’clock, there were two bottles of wine open, pizza boxes on the counter, and a shuffling indie playlist in the background.
Halo sat cross-legged on your rug, her hair in a messy bun and her phone halfway across the room because she kept getting work calls. Phoenix had claimed the end of your couch and was already halfway through her second glass of rosé, shoes kicked off, legs tucked under her.
Your little apartment smelled faintly of pizza and garlic bread. You’d lit a candle on the coffee table for ambience, but now the wax had melted into a crooked puddle.
“So,” Phoenix said, pointing her wine glass at you, “how’s it feel being back? You’ve been here what, five months?”
“Six,” you said. “And surprisingly not miserable.”
“‘Surprisingly’?” Halo echoed, grinning.
You leaned back into the cushions. You could feel the wine in your cheeks, warm and loose, making honesty come too easily. “I’ve always wanted to get out of North Island. Like, the second I was old enough to dream about leaving, I was halfway gone in my head.”
Phoenix arched an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“Not bad,” you said quickly. “Just… limiting. My dad’s great, he really is. But his great love has always been the sky, you know? Flying, teaching, all of it. And that comes with a certain lifestyle. Constant motion, waiting on calls, never really belonging to yourself. I spent my whole life watching him break the rules and still have to bend to someone else’s orders, and I swore I’d never do that.”
Halo poured herself another glass and nodded slowly. She shifted closer, her knee brushing your leg. “So you ran.”
You smiled. “Constantly. I was the ‘anywhere but here’ girl. New cities, short leases, jobs I didn’t care about. I convinced myself that if I kept moving, I’d eventually land somewhere that felt right.”
“And now?” Phoenix asked.
You hesitated, swirling your wine like it might spill if you said too much. “Now I don’t want to run. For the first time ever. Which is… weird.”
Halo tilted her head. “Weird how?”
You thought about it for a moment. “It’s kind of a relief, honestly. I like my job, I like my apartment, I even like that I can walk to the beach in under ten minutes. But it’s also a little scary. If I’m not running, what am I doing?”
Phoenix gave you a look that said she’d already guessed the answer. “Maybe you’re staying for a reason.”
You caught her smirk and groaned. “Oh, don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Phoenix said, all mock innocence. “Certain people seem to be one of the reasons you want to stick around.”
“‘Certain people’ who go by chicken-related callsigns?” Halo added, and Phoenix snorted.
You groaned. “Not this again.”
Phoenix grinned into her glass. “Come on, it’s so obvious! You and Rooster have been orbiting each other since you arrived. Everyone sees it.”
“Everyone?” you asked.
“Everyone,” Halo confirmed. “He looks at you like he’s trying not to. Which, honestly, makes it so much more obvious.”
You laughed softly, though something in your chest tightened. You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, your stomach fluttering with nerves. “You’re both reading too much into it. We’re friends.”
Phoenix leaned forward. Her voice dropped, low and sure, her eyes steady on yours. “Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t fix your shower head without being asked, or volunteer to pick up IKEA furniture over an hour away. I think the two of you are more than friends.”
You smiled, a little sadly. “Not so much. We, uh, used to date, though.”
For a second, both women blinked at you like you’d spoken in a foreign language. Then Phoenix choked on her wine, coughing into her hand as Halo’s eyes went huge. Her hand shot out, gripping Phoenix’s arm like she needed something to hold onto.
“I’m sorry, what?” Phoenix said once she recovered.
Halo’s jaw dropped. “You dated Rooster?” Her voice came out an octave higher than usual, and she squeezed Phoenix’s forearm for emphasis.
“Back when he first got sent to Top Gun,” you said. “I moved into my childhood house for a year, got a job waitressing in the next town over, and… yeah. We dated. I must’ve been twenty-four, Bradley twenty-eight.”
Phoenix straightened on the couch, her glass halfway to her lips and forgotten. “Hold on. That year? I was at Top Gun with him. He never said a word.”
You shrugged. “We weren’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.”
Halo let out a scandalised gasp. She twisted toward Phoenix, and the two of them started hitting each other’s arms out of excitement.
“Oh my god,” Halo exclaimed. “That’s why he used to skip out on bar nights?! We thought he was just being old and boring.”
Phoenix let out a snort, shaking her head. “You’re telling me I sat across from that man every day for months and he never once mentioned he had a girlfriend?”
You nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “He’d drive out to see me after training. We’d grab dinner or sit on the porch and talk for hours. Sometimes he’d stay the night if he didn’t have early drills. We decided not to tell anyone.”
Halo blinked, her expression softening as the air shifted. Her hand fell from Phoenix’s arm. “Why not?”
Your throat was tight, the words catching halfway up. Phoenix’s gaze softened when she noticed. Her hand settled over yours. You took a sip of wine before answering.
“My dad was still a taboo subject back then,” you confessed. “And I’m not a local celebrity, but being Maverick’s daughter means I’m a familiar face on North Island. We knew word would get back to him if people found out—or at the very least back to Uncle Ice. Besides, Bradley was in the middle of Top Gun, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. It was supposed to make things simpler.”
Phoenix snorted. “Sounds simple,” she said sarcastically. Halo gave her a nudge, a silent reminder to be gentle.
You smiled. “Yeah, we really nailed that part.”
The humour in your voice faded a little. “It was a good year, though. He was the perfect boyfriend—thoughtful, steady, stupidly chivalrous. He’d make me coffee in the morning and kiss my hand before he left for work. He’d tell me about flying without realising his whole face changed when he talked about it. I really loved him. But…”
You sighed. “But he was always going to belong to the sky. And I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be someone waiting for the next deployment or living by his schedule. I wanted to travel, to work, to not feel like I was stuck in my childhood house lying to my dad about who I was dating. We were in completely different places. So I left.”
Phoenix watched you for a moment; her usual sharpness softened. “Did he know you were going to?”
You nodded. “We both did. We just didn’t say it out loud. One day he dropped me off after dinner, and that was it. He hugged me one last time, and we pretended we weren’t both crying. He walked down the path, got in his truck, and drove away. I was in Nevada by sunrise.”
For a long second, none of you spoke. The music hummed quietly from the speaker, a slow song.
Halo reached out, her hand resting briefly on your knee. “Hey,” she said quietly. “That sounds brutal.”
You shrugged, though your throat felt tight. “It was a long time ago. Now we’re friends again. Or something close to it. We painted my apartment—thank you for abandoning me, by the way. I know a set-up when I see one,” you added, giving them a meaningful look. Phoenix and Halo didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “We still hang out in group settings, and we never told my dad what happened between us. It’s easier than I thought it would be.”
“Except you still look at him like you used to,” Halo said, tilting her head and grinning.
You gave her a small, helpless smile. Your chest ached, a soft pull just beneath your ribs. “Yeah, maybe. But we’ve both changed. Things are different now.”
Phoenix set her glass down on your coffee table. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s still completely in love with you.”
You laughed softly. “You think everyone’s in love with everyone.”
“Maybe,” Phoenix said, grinning. “But I’m right about this one.”
The conversation drifted after that, back to work gossip and whether Halo should see her ex while she was in town.
You could still feel the warmth of their closeness long after the laughter faded. But the subject of your history with Bradley lingered long after they’d gone home, and the apartment was quiet.
You stood by the sink, washing wine glasses. You’d spent years convincing yourself that staying meant settling. But now, standing there in your own little kitchen with three empty glasses and an ache in your chest, you weren’t so sure.
Your dad’s house still smelled the same. You’d expected it to feel different now that it wasn’t yours, but it didn’t. Just more lived in. There were photos on the mantel that hadn’t been there before, a new coffee mug beside the old ones, a few of Penny’s things scattered across the counter.
You heard them before you saw them, their voices mixing with the sound of the stove fan. Maverick was chopping tomatoes, Penny stirring something on the hob, both laughing at a story you couldn’t quite catch.
You leaned against the doorway for a second and watched them. Your dad looked lighter than he used to, and so did Penny. A quiet warmth crept in and you were happy the two of them finally figured things out.
When they noticed you, you were smothered with hugs and affection until you pulled away, laughing. Penny finished up the pasta, Maverick opened a bottle of wine, and conversation flowed the way it always did when the two of them were together. You didn’t have to fill any silences or think too hard.
Then there was a knock at the door.
“Can you grab that?” Maverick asked, wiping his hands on a towel.
You went to open it and stopped short when you saw Bradley on the porch.
“Hey,” he said, his voice even.
“Hey,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. You smiled, because that’s what you’d always done around Bradley. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
Bradley shrugged, eyes flicking past you toward the kitchen. “Mav invited me. Guess he forgot to mention it.”
“Right.” You stepped back to let him in, trying to ignore the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sea air. “Come on, they’re in the kitchen.”
He nodded, but his smile never reached his eyes. There was a tightness to him that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him. You told yourself it was nothing, but your pulse didn’t slow as you followed him inside.
Dinner didn’t go badly. If anything, it went almost too well. The four of you talked and laughed, the kind of easy rhythm you could fall into without thinking. You and Bradley had done this dance before; pretending you were just old friends, nothing more, nothing less.
He sat across from you, relaxed enough to look natural. He passed you the parmesan, smiled when Penny teased Maverick, and joined in when your dad told stories from the hangar. You found yourself smiling back, and for a while, it felt like old times.
After dinner, you and Bradley both tried to stand, but Penny waved you down.
“Absolutely not. You’re guests,” she said, already stacking plates. Maverick backed her up, grinning at your protests.
So you and Bradley ended up outside on the porch, on the same old bench that had been there since you were a kid. The wood creaked under your weight.
You sat with your hands clasped loosely in your lap. Bradley leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, silent in a way that wasn’t quite comfortable.
“So,” he said eventually, his tone careful. “You told Phoenix.”
You turned your head toward him. “Told her what?”
Bradley gave you a look, eyes narrowing just slightly. “About us.”
You blinked, surprised. “Oh. Yeah, it came up.”
He let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “You didn’t think to give me a heads-up before dropping that little piece of history into squad gossip?”
You frowned, sitting up. “It wasn’t gossip. It was just a conversation.”
“About something between you and me,” Bradley said, voice low but edged. His arms crossed over his chest like he needed somewhere to put the frustration.
You shifted slightly, mirroring the gesture without meaning to. “Bradley, it’s been eight years. It’s not like I was giving them details or spilling your secrets. We were talking; we’re friends.”
Bradley turned toward you fully now, eyes catching the light from the kitchen window. “You think I want everyone looking at me like some guy who couldn’t hold on to Maverick’s daughter?”
You stared at him, caught off guard. “That’s what this is about? What other people think?”
His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek jumping. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me sound shallow just because I care how it looks.” Bradley’s tone was clipped, defensive.
You exhaled, trying to keep your voice even. “I didn’t tell Phoenix and Halo to hurt you.”
“I know you didn’t,” he said. His voice cracked a little on the words. “But it still did.”
That stopped you for a second. “Why?” you asked quietly.
Bradley looked at you for a long moment before answering, his fingers tapping once against his knee. “Because you didn’t just leave town back then. You left me too.”
You felt your throat tighten. “You were never really here, Bradley.”
His mouth pressed into a line. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You turned toward him, heat rising in your voice. “You were always chasing the next posting, the next mission, the next step. I couldn’t even get you to slow down long enough to talk about what you wanted for dinner without it turning into logistics.”
Bradley pushed a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. “I was trying to build something—to have a plan. That’s what people do when they care.”
You let out a short, sharp laugh. “You cared more about the plan than me.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t know what you wanted.”
“I was twenty-four,” you said, your voice rising. “I was still figuring it out.”
“And you decided you couldn’t do that with me around!”
“That’s not true!” You were on your feet now, before you realised it, pacing a few steps toward the railing. “I loved you, but I couldn’t keep being the girl waiting for you to come home.”
Bradley stood too, his voice rougher now. “You could’ve told me that.”
“I did,” you shot back. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”
Bradley let out a sharp exhale and turned away, hands on his hips. “You think it was easy for me? I had no one, alright? My mom was gone, Mav and I weren’t talking, and you—” He broke off, jaw tight. “You were supposed to be the one person who didn’t walk away.”
You stared at him, your chest tightened. “You’re kidding.”
He frowned. “What?”
“You think it was easy for me?” you said, your voice shaking. “Lying to my dad? Pretending I didn’t still talk to you, didn’t still—” You stopped, swallowing hard. “Don’t put it all on me.”
“I’m not putting it on you, I’m telling you how it was!” Bradley’s voice cracked with something raw. “You had a home here. You had Maverick—wherever he was deployed that year. You had people who actually gave a damn. I had empty apartments and transfer papers.”
“Yeah, I ‘had Maverick,’” you echoed. “Some relationship we had that year, what with me lying to him every day.”
Bradley’s mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw flexed. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell him.”
“He’s my dad,” you said, voice rising. “The only parent I’ve ever had. Deciding to lie to his face every time he asked if I’d heard from you wasn’t something I did lightly. But we agreed to keep it quiet, remember? You didn’t want anyone to know.”
“I was protecting you,” he said quickly, taking a step closer.
You gave a short, incredulous laugh. “No, you were protecting yourself. Protecting your perfect image, your golden-boy career, your chance to prove you weren’t just Goose’s son dating Maverick’s daughter.”
Bradley’s eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” you said, your voice shaking. “But it’s true.”
He groaned, frustration sparking again. “You think you were the only one carrying something? You had your dad—someone who was always in your corner. I had to do it all on my own.”
Your throat burned. “You had me!”
“Until I didn’t,” Bradley shot back. “Until you decided you couldn’t handle it anymore and ran.”
That one hit deep. Your arms crossed instinctively, a weak sort of shield. “You make it sound like I didn’t even try.”
Bradley’s voice rose. “You didn’t stay.”
You inhaled sharply, feeling your eyes sting. “And you didn’t even notice I was falling apart!”
He froze, chest rising and falling fast.
“I couldn’t breathe, Bradley,” you said quietly, voice breaking. “Do you know what that felt like?”
His expression softened for half a second, but then his shoulders straightened, defensive. “You were always the ‘anywhere but here’ girl,” Bradley said. “I should’ve seen it coming. You’ve been running your whole life.”
You took a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep your eyes clear. “And you’ve been chasing ghosts,” you said, voice low. “Your father, your career, whatever version of yourself you think you owe him. I wasn’t going to stick around and become everything I was scared of growing up—living life according to someone else’s orders.”
The words hung between you, heavy and hot. Neither of you moved for a long moment.
Bradley finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “That you ran. That’s not fair.”
You didn’t answer at first, watching the way his hand flexed at his side, like he didn’t know what to do with it.
“I was the one running,” Bradley said finally, quieter now. “From everything. Every mission, every deployment, every new posting—whatever kept me busy enough not to think.” He gave a small, tired laugh. “I thought if I just kept working, I’d never end up like my dad.” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “But I was scared all the time. Terrified, actually. Of chaos, of losing control, of you seeing me come apart.”
You turned toward him, your voice softening. “Bradley…”
“I didn’t want you to go through what my mom did,” he went on, voice rough. “The waiting, the worrying. I thought keeping it quiet would protect you. But maybe I was just protecting myself. Because if something happened to me, and you were still—” He stopped, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t live with that.”
You stood still for a moment, feeling the wind shift, the scent of salt in the air. “I knew all that,” you said quietly. “I knew why you did it. Why you pulled away.”
Bradley looked at you then, searching your face.
You gave a small, sad smile. “You weren’t the only one who was scared. I felt stuck. Living in my childhood home again, pretending I wasn’t lying to my dad every day… it was like being sixteen all over again, except worse, because I actually had something to lose.”
You shook your head, the motion small. “Growing up with Maverick taught me to rely on myself, to move fast, to never get too comfortable anywhere. So when things started getting real with you, I panicked. I didn’t know how to sit still.”
Bradley’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. “You thought if you kept moving, you wouldn’t need anyone.”
“Yeah,” you said, voice low. “And then you ruined that theory completely.”
That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him. “You think I meant to?”
You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing between you. “Pretty sure you didn’t. You just existed, and that was enough.”
Bradley ran both hands over his face, dragging them down to his jaw. “You know, I thought I’d made peace with it,” he said. “I told myself I was over it. Then you moved home, and suddenly it all came flooding back like it never ended.”
You let out a slow breath, your heartbeat still loud in your ears. “Tell me about it.”
Bradley huffed a quiet laugh, then went still again. “You really didn’t mean to tell Phoenix?”
You shook your head. “No. I wasn’t thinking. It just came up, and I trusted her not to tell anyone. I guess I didn’t think she’d bring it up to you.”
“She told me we were being dramatic,” Bradley admitted, chuckling.
“She’s not wrong,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
That earned you a smile back—tired, but real. The tension between you eased, but it didn’t fade completely. Bradley looked at you again, softer this time. “You look different.”
“So do you,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching. “In a good way.”
His brow lifted just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you.
You took a slow breath. “You know, I’m proud of you.”
Bradley blinked, caught off guard. “Of me?”
“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “You worked so hard for everything, and you did it without a safety net. Without anyone really holding you up. You built the life you wanted from nothing, and that’s—” you exhaled softly, searching for the right word, “that’s brave. Doing it scared, doing it alone, is a hell of a lot braver than doing it with the kind of confidence someone like my dad has.”
His expression flickered, somewhere between disbelief and something warmer.
“I know your parents are proud of you,” you went on. “You did all the things you used to talk about when we’d sneak onto the tarmac and you’d point at the sky like it already belonged to you.” You smiled faintly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “You made me want to find somewhere that actually felt like home. And the only place that’s ever even come close was North Island, that year I was here with you.”
Bradley stared at you, silent for a long time. Then he leaned back slightly, shaking his head as if trying to get a handle on whatever was building in his chest. “You always did know exactly what to say.”
“That’s not true,” you argued softly.
He smiled at that, small and rueful. “You know what I always admired about you? How easily you fit in anywhere. You could move halfway across the country, not know a single person, and by the end of the week you’d have a new routine anda new friend group. I used to think that was your version of magic.”
You laughed under your breath. “It was survival.”
“Maybe,” Bradley said, eyes lingering on you. “But it’s also something I wish I had. I still have all your postcards. Philly, Austin, Chicago. I keep them in the top drawer of my desk, like little reminders that there’s more to the world than checklists and orders.” He hesitated, his thumb rubbing along the edge of his jaw. “You never settled for anything less than what felt right for you. And I think that’s what I learned from that year: if I could be just a little more like you, I’d be a much happier man.”
You smiled, small but real. “You do look happier. I’m glad I got to be a tiny part of that.”
Bradley looked at you for a long beat, eyes softening in the golden porch light. “For what it’s worth, you’re still the most amazing person I know,” he said quietly. “You were always so beautiful. You still are, more than ever.”
You smiled sadly, your shoulders lowering. “You’re the most amazing person I know too, Bradley.”
He laughed under his breath, then after a beat, said, “I missed you.”
You froze, every nerve in your body alert. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” His voice was low now, quiet in a way that felt dangerous.
“Because it’s not fair,” you said, breath unsteady. “You can’t just say that now.”
Bradley shifted closer, eyes flicking to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “You think I planned this?”
“I think you always have a plan,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
He smiled, small and tired, running a hand along his thigh. “Maybe this time I don’t. Maybe I’ve learned that not everything has to be perfect. That life with the people you love isn’t about checklists and timelines.”
You blinked at him. “You really mean that?”
“I do,” Bradley said, voice softening. “Being with you showed me I could let go a little. So, I’m taking the chance to tell you I still love you.”
The space between you shrank. You could see the faint crease between Bradley’s brows, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he should.
“Bradley,” you said quietly.
He reached up anyway and brushed his thumb along your cheek. You tilted your head slightly, closing the tiny gap, your pulse pounding in your ears. His fingers slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, tilting your face closer, and you inhaled sharply.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this,” Bradley murmured before connecting your lips.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. The kiss started slow, tentative, but the second your lips moved, Bradley’s restraint shattered.
His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and the rest of the world—the ocean breeze, the light streaming in from the kitchen window, the creak of the porch—faded out.
He groaned low in your mouth, and it made your knees weak. Teeth caught briefly on your lower lip, and you parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, tilting his head so your mouths fit perfectly together. Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, was electric.
You could feel the tension of the last eight years unravelling between you with every press, every gasp, every tiny, desperate shift closer.
Bradley’s hands moved to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips with a hunger that mirrored your own. You pressed against him, leaning into his warmth, letting yourself melt into the familiarity of him. It was reckless and indulgent and everything you’d wanted for ten years without ever saying it out loud.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bradley whispered between kisses.
You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, and kissed him again, harder this time. “I’ve been waiting—”
“For far too long,” he interrupted, nipping your jaw, then pressing his forehead to yours. “I know, gorgeous. But we’re here now.”
Bradley’s mouth moved over yours again, teasing then demanding, hands everywhere you wanted them. Your fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him close, shocked at how easy it felt to lose yourself in him again.
His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He whispered your name against your skin, and it made something inside you shatter and mend all at once.
“You’ve been mine all along,” Bradley murmured, voice urgent. “Even when we weren’t together, I still loved you. You were all I thought about, every single day, for ten years.”
“I love you,” you breathed, cutting him off with another deep, desperate kiss. “I always loved you.”
When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your foreheads together, both of you laughing breathlessly. Bradley’s hands stayed on your waist, yours on his chest.
“I’ve missed you,” he admitted, voice ragged.
“I’ve missed you too,” you breathed back, and it was impossible to say whose smile was brighter.
Inside, Penny froze mid-step, dish towel in hand, staring out the window.
“Are they—” she started, eyes wide as she watched you and Bradley tangled together on the porch. “Are they kissing?”
Beside her, Maverick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin slowly spreading across his face.
“Did you—?”
“Of course I knew,” he said smugly. “Ice and I had a long-running bet about when they’d get back together.”
Penny tore her gaze away from the window to stare at him. “You’re kidding.”
Maverick shook his head, smile softening, voice low and fond. “Can’t believe he got the exact month right.”
You stared curiously at the peculiar muscle on your husband’s toned stomach, currently closed as he naps beneath you on his chaise lounge. One finger reaches forward, lightly tapping against the outline of the mouth before pulling back.
To your surprise, it opens, lips curling into a cocky grin before it starts… speaking?! Its voice is deep and matches Sukuna’s perfectly, large tongue flicking out.
“Curious, hm?” It drawls slowly, flashing the sharp canines that had been hidden just seconds ago. You lean over to the nearby table, pulling a strawberry from the box and holding it tentatively near the mouth.
“Do you eat food?” You asked, sounding a little stupid talking to your husband’s stomach.
It laughs lightly, lips spreading in amusement. “I do, woman. What do you have in mind? A finger? An arm?”
You grimace. “Ew. No, I have a strawberry.” You press the tip of the strawberry against the tongue, watching it pull the fruit from your grip and chew loudly, red juice staining the sharp teeth.
You watch mesmerised at the unusual body part, noting how expressive it was and how it still managed to work even when Sukuna himself was asleep.
“Do you want another?”
“Hm.” The mouth hums for a second before the tongue flicks out and presses down flat against your two fingers resting against his lower abdomen.
Hesitantly, you lift them, saliva coating your fingers as Sukuna’s mouth stomach sucks on them greedily as if trying taste their flavour. You’re sat in awe, entranced as lewd sucking sounds fills the room.
“Ngh-“ Ryomen grunts suddenly, arm lifting from over his eyes as they flicker open. Immediately, his mouth pulls away from your fingers, closing innocently and leaving you both dumbfounded and aroused.
pairing: poly!moonchaser x Black fem!reader (remus lupin/james potter x reader)
summary: remus and james realise all you do is look out for your brothers. nobody ever looks after you.
word count: 4.8k
ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ content: angst, hurt/comfort, black brother angst, child abuse, abusive!walburga, james/remus/reader are in a pre-established situationship, physical and emotional violence, reader is sirius' twin sister and referenced as looking like him
author's note: when you realise moonchaser is an option... i actually really loved writing reader as sirius' twin
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ deep dive the archives
It occurs to Remus after a night where only you could console Sirius, that nobody ever looks after you.
He knows James and Peter are also explicitly attempting to avert their attention—to make it look like they are doing anything except listening to you and Sirius—because that is what he is doing, too. However, it is hard when you live in a cramped dormitory, with little to no privacy.
The curtains are mostly drawn around Sirius’ bed, but in his state, it’s obvious that both of you forgot to close them entirely, and the Muffliato charm hasn’t crossed either of your minds in the last half an hour.
Remus had considered casting it for you, but Sirius’ temper prevented him from doing so. The thought of upsetting him even more, or embarrassing him by letting him know they’d even heard bits and pieces, wasn’t worth it.
So, perhaps cowardly, Remus buries his face in his book. He doesn’t miss the glances that James keeps stealing from behind his own homework. Peter is probably doing the best job at keeping busy; he’s drawn his own curtains and must be ‘having an early night’ to escape it all.
“I know, I know,” your voice carries slightly louder than Sirius’ heaving sobs, not-surprisingly strong, because Remus knows how well you always manage to keep it together for both of your brothers.
“I can’t—I can’t—-”
“You can. You’re alright, Sirius,” you reassure him firmly, and he catches the movement of your hand brushing through his long curls as he lays his head in your lap, essentially cuddling your legs. “Reggie is fine. I’m fine.”
“I just wish you would both—both come with me,” Sirius says, his chest rising and falling with his cries.
“I have to keep an eye on Reg,” you say quietly.
“But you and Reg can come to James’,” Sirius pleads, “you know it’s better than at that house. It’s so much better.”
Remus listens to the silence of your pause. He has heard this conversation angrily whispered between the two of you too many times to count, and the verdict is always the same—you have to stay with your parents to look after Regulus.
You always tell Sirius you’re not as brave as him to leave, but Remus always thinks you’re a different sort of brave for staying. He doesn’t blame either of you. Sirius deserves freedom, but you deserve it too— and so does Regulus. He thinks if Regulus could only take a chance himself, then you wouldn’t hesitate to leave your wretched parents behind, too.
Remus notices the way James’ gaze flickers up at his name being mentioned, before his head immediately tilts back to his parchment and quill. James hasn’t written anything new in the last twenty minutes, and he’s awful at pretending.
His lip is tugged between his teeth as if, for a brief moment, he can’t decide whether or not he should say something. Thankfully, Remus thinks, James decides to keep silent.
“I’d love to come and stay at Jamie’s,” you tell him so gently that Remus wonders if you’re trying to stop yourself from becoming overemotional too.
James pulls a face like he’s trying to do the same thing.
“But more than anything, Sirius, I need to keep Reg safe.”
“That’s not your job,” he says desperately.
“No, I know. It shouldn’t be.”
“He’s made his own mind up,” Sirius says, and like clockwork, he starts to get angry. “He didn’t want to come. He said himself that it is a privilege to serve Voldemort.”
You shush him in a way that only you are able to without making Sirius angrier. Remus would like to see anybody else try to silence the eldest Black sibling without getting their head chewed off.
“Reg is younger than us,” you try. “And he’s confused and he’s wrapped up in the wrong group at the minute. But you know he’s just scared. He’s just listening to mother and father.”
“They’re not my mother and father,” Sirius protests sourly. “Might be yours and Reg’s, but not mine.”
Remus wants to jump in and exclaim how unfair that is. They all know how Walburga detests you almost as much as she hates Sirius. They all know how much the toxicity of the Noble House of Black gets to you—the pureblood traditions, the family duties.
Sometimes, Remus wonders if it’s worse for you because you are the only daughter. He has a strong feeling that it’s been worse for you since Sirius left, a theory both him and James had whispered about before. Though you’d never say anything, and he was almost certain you’d never let it on to Sirius.
Though Remus thought perhaps the reason Sirius was always so upset and angry at the world was because he did know it deep down. He likely knew how his estrangement was impacting the relationship between you, Regulus, and your parents. He wouldn’t say it out loud though, and maybe that’s why he blows up like this.
It’s why you’re the only one who can help him. And you’d mentioned to James once about how you have to do the same thing for Regulus sometimes.
Remus wonders what you do, when you must inevitably feel the same way as your brothers. You weren’t born to look after them, you weren’t created to make them feel better while you act as though everything is fine. You are not a robot, and yet he’s not sure he’s ever seen you cry about it. Even when Sirius is crying so hard he cannot breathe, and it looks like you’re seconds away from joining him. You never do.
“I just can’t stand how he won’t look at me. I wish I didn’t care about him.”
“He’s your brother. You’re supposed to care,” you tell him. “We all care about each other. You feel all of the care for him that mother and father should. Just as I do.”
Sirius’ sobs become less intense, dying down into embers of sniffles. Remus dares to glance up slightly, and he sees that Sirius has his eyes shut as you wipe a tissue across his face.
“I worry about you too, Y/N,” Sirius murmurs after a few moments. “I know you hate it when I say that, but I worry about you the most. I don’t want them to break you or use you up. You’re too good. You’re better than I am. Or Reg.”
“I’m not. The three of us are all just different,” you say stiffly. “The cards that we have been dealt are none of our faults.”
Remus watches curiously, to see if you’re angry, but you only look defeated as you brush a curl out of his face. Sirius hums in the same bitter way Remus knows means he doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue with you either, and instead settles against you to lay in a blissful silence.
It’s then that Remus watches you tilt your head to the ceiling, as if you are coming up for air, or breathing in something that doesn’t feel like clogged tears and heavy hearts. Your hand never stops brushing through Sirius’ hair, as if you are on autopilot, but he watches as your eyes begin to water.
He quickly averts his gaze when yours flickers over, and with pursed lips, you flick your wrist and the curtain whizzes fully shut, closing the small gap. A moment later there is a faint buzzing of the Muffliato spell.
Remus watches James finally stops pretending, and sits with his back against his bed, defeated.
⋆˚꩜｡
It’s only a few days before the summer before your final year when James finds you quietly arguing with Regulus by the Potions classroom.
He freezes in his tracks when he sees the tears that are silently streaming down Regulus’ face, and the distraught expression on yours as you sigh and bury him against your shoulder.
“He left us, Y/N,” Regulus says, a mixture of strained anger and frustrated sadness. “He chose the easy way out— he didn’t actually care if we follow or not.”
“Reggie, he begged us to come,” you remind him softly. “He was going to stay, remember? You’re the one who told him to go in the end. Mother was being horrible to him.”
“But mother’s just… like that. To all of us sometimes. That’s just how she is. We still have to—respect her.”
“Sirius doesn’t see blood as an obligation the way that you do, Reg,” you remind him. “Sirius sees family in his friends. He sees it in you and I. He sees a future without mother and he decides that’s what’s best for him. I don’t blame him, Reg. Not after the things she said to him.”
“She says those things to you and you never leave,” Regulus says.
James feels his heart squeeze in his chest. He knows he shouldn’t be listening, as he’s clutching his late Potions essay in his hands and hiding around the corner like a coward for you two to finish speaking. Only, he can’t help it. It’s sort of answering the missing puzzle pieces he could never ask you or Sirius, the ones that he and Remus often wondered about.
“Right, but I can’t leave you,” you admit. “I’d rather die than leave you with them alone.”
“I could handle it,” Regulus replies numbly. “If you’d like to just leave, too.”
“You know I won’t go until you do.”
“If you ask me one more time, I’ll never speak to you again,” Regulus suddenly huffs, and even James can detect the trembling in his tone, but he knows it still must be terrifying for you to hear. “I’ve already told you—I’m committed to the cause.”
James sticks to the wall as Regulus marches past him—so blinded by his anger and desperation to escape the tension, that he misses him. James hesitates and wonders if he should confront you, but then he hears your shallow breaths and all reluctance flees out the window.
“Y/N?” He murmurs as he rounds the corner, and you quickly flinch.
“James,” you say firmly, and eye the papers he’s holding. “You just missed Professor Slughorn. I think he’s retired for the evening.”
“Oh—I’ll—leave them on his desk, then,” James replies anxiously, and scratches the back of his head as if it will stop the thousands of thoughts from flying around in there. All things he wants to say, but never could.
You nod, and just as you turn to leave, he gently reaches out to you, his large hand splaying up your forearm and to your bicep, where he very carefully pulls you back into place, so you are subtly forced to look at him.
“Regulus really doesn’t like it when other people know his business, so it’s best you don’t repeat anything that you heard,” you say. “Even to Sirius. Actually, especially Sirius.”
James becomes even more flustered as he clears his throat and shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to say anything to anybody—or Sirius. I just wanted to check on you.”
“Me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “I’m alright.”
“Are you sure?” James asks.
“Yes. Are you alright?”
James hesitates. “I’m fine, Y/N. You know, it’s just… Remus and I… we were worried about how much pressure there is on you. To keep it altogether. I can’t imagine how overwhelming it must be.”
Your nose prickles. James knows that you have the same self-destructiveness as your brothers—the thing he sees in Sirius all too often. He knows you have that same deep-down self-loathing, and the dismissiveness that comes with the Black genetics.
He’s terrified of scaring you off. At least when he scares off Sirius, Sirius runs to you. He has no idea where you go.
“If you ever need to speak to someone,” James attempts to smooth things over, but he can see it in the way your eyes shift behind him and in the movement of your pursing lips that he cannot save this. “Remus and I. And Peter. We’re all your friends, you know? And the girls, of course, but you already—you’d already know that. I hope.”
Lily has already confirmed to him that you do not speak to her about your issues when he dared to ask her once. He’s overheard Mary and Marlene whispering about the way you’re always looking after your brothers one night—as if you were their mother.
“I know. Thank you, James,” you muster a small smile. “I should head off. It’s getting rather late.”
“Alright. Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, so softly that he’s unsure if you hear him, because you take off without looking back.
⋆˚꩜｡
Summer arrives, and Regulus is hauled up in his bedroom, and you are in yours, your door open as you stare across the landing at Sirius’ closed bedroom door. It nearly makes your eyes water—thinking of your best friend in the entire world living somewhere else, so hurt by the family you’ve both grown up in, that he saw no other choice than to leave.
You can hear mother crying down the corridor. She goes through phases where Sirius’ name isn’t to be mentioned, as if he is dead to all of them, and then other phases where she misses him like she has lost a limb; sobs wracking her body, her hands smacking surfaces.
Yourself and Regulus have worked out it is best to avoid her when she is in a manic state. Often, your similar appearances to Sirius brought out the worst in her. Especially you, with your longer hair, and your braver personality.
It is dinnertime when things blow up.
The house elves have poured her too much wine. You know it, father knows it, and Regulus knows it too—but nobody says a word, because mother keeps ordering more and more, and perhaps secretly, you all hope she’ll become the sort of drunk where she passes out prematurely and is forced to retire to bed.
Unfortunately, she does not this time. Tonight is one of her drunken rampages. One moment, she is eating, and the next, her glass is shattering against the wall behind father’s head, alcohol spraying everywhere as she screams in frustration.
Father closes his eyes. “Walburga—”
Your foot touches Regulus’ beneath the table. His silver eyes are wide but trained on his food, his fingers stiffening around his fork.
“How dare he!?” Mother sobs hysterically, and she starts to sink to the floor with her face in her hands. “How could he leave me? Why would he leave his mother!? After everything! After all I have given him!”
Her wails are haunting, sending shivers down your spine. You and Regulus say nothing but try to force down some more of your dinner, knowing what was to come. And it comes, seconds later.
“The ungrateful bastard!” She screams, and begins to kick her legs out at the table.
Father did not rise, but sighs heavily and drops his fork onto his plate, the clattering noise hardly heard about his wife’s racket. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
You can see the terrified look on Regulus’ face. He is usually good at hiding how he truly felt, but he struggles around mother. You know he loves her, but he also fears her more. Perhaps because one moment Walburga is the acting as the doting parents she knows she should be, and the next, everything is souring and rotting, and the mask is peeled back and nobody is safe from her sharp tongue and stern glare.
You slide onto the floor beside her. “Mother. Mother, it’s alright.”
“No, it’s not!” She seethes. “What an embarrassment he has caused to this family! What a sick excuse for a son. He’s horrible. He’s cruel. A disgusting, filthy blood traitor.”
You can feel your pulse rising and you swallow, doing your absolute best to bite your tongue and keep your mouth shut.
“He’s better off dead,” she snaps, and it’s your final straw.
“Don’t say that,” you order, your voice strained, your face clamped in a mixture of horror and fear for the repercussions. “Don’t speak about Sirius like that.”
His name leaving your mouth makes her expression go so firm that it rivals that of a rock. Her hand smacks your face so quickly that you jolt backwards, wincing as Regulus audibly flinches behind you. Hot pain explodes across your skin.
“You can be horrible as he is,” mother hisses into the silent room. “You’re just not brave enough to follow him.”
Your lips tremble, a mixture of the pain and the grief, and you pull yourself from the floor. Regulus is watching you like a hawk, his silver eyes shining so sadly that you want to grab him and haul him with you to the furthest place you can to get away.
“You’re both dismissed from the dining table,” mother mumbles into the floor, and Regulus is quick to shove his chair back and grab you by your arm, tugging you away from the dining room.
He leads you all the way upstairs and checks your face, his fingers and thumb pressing into your chin. You huff, your hands pushing him off. He only takes one step back so you can see his glare, your own fingers touching your face where it throbs.
“Let me look after you this time,” Regulus snaps, his voice thick.
“No. I’m your older sister. I’m supposed to be the one who helps you.”
“You help Sirius and he’s older than you.”
“By a few minutes. That hardly counts, Reg—”
“Oh, just don’t, Y/N,” Regulus huffs, and you watch as he begins to sniffle to keep his tears at bay. “You can’t keep defending him.”
“I have to, Reg. He’s our brother. I’d die for him. Just as I would for you.”
Regulus shakes his head. “You shouldn’t do that for me. I’ve been thinking a lot recently and you should probably just go with him. I know he keeps asking you. He needs you more than I need you.”
“That’s not true!” Your heart stutters in your chest.
“You’re not made for all of this, Y/N. You’re just going to waste your life if you’re here—looking after me. You should follow Sirius.”
You can feel your chest getting tighter and you will it not to.
“Come off it, Reg. You’re teasing me and it’s horrible. You say this to me now, but you’ll only resent me for it later like you do with Sirius now. You didn’t blame him at first—when she started smacking him and he had to go.”
Regulus shakes his head. “You know it’s more complicated than that with Sirius.”
“I don’t see why it should be. He’s your brother like I am your sister.”
Regulus shakes his head. “It’s not like that between us anymore.”
You hold on your throbbing cheek and close your eyes.
“I’m coming back. But I am leaving for a bit.”
Regulus swallows. “Maybe you shouldn’t come back.”
You still. “I have to.”
“You don’t want to.”
“No, I don’t. But you’re here. So I’m here.”
Regulus huffs at you. “You don’t get it, do you? You’ll only start resenting me soon. If you haven’t already, subconsciously. And I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. You’re only going to watch me take the dark mark this summer, you know. There will be absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.”
Your chest is heaving. “Regulus. Please.”
“If you stay, they’ll marry you off, or they’ll make you take the mark, too. You do know that, don’t you? You can’t look after me. I’m not a child anymore. I appreciate it all while it lasted. But now you’re in more danger than I am. You’re eighteen in November. You should take Uncle Alphard’s money and get as far away from mother and father as you can.”
“You don’t want that?” You ask him tearily. “To start your own life somewhere else?”
“I want it for you,” Regulus whispers.
“I’m coming back,” you tell him thickly. “I’m just going to… stay somewhere else tonight. To cool off.”
Regulus nods, his eyes following you around the room as you begin to shove a few things into a bag. He can’t help but think that you remind him so much of Sirius, the way you put things in there without checking what it is or folding it first.
One day he wants to follow you both. But he can’t leave yet.
⋆˚꩜｡
You purposefully do not pack enough clothes for more than two or three days, so that you will not be tempted to stay. You love Regulus more than yourself, but the idea of escaping the house you detest so much is often times so overwhelming that you worry you’ll act before you think someday.
You’re thinking of him the whole time as you approach the doors to the Potter household. You know he can handle himself for the meantime. He’s mother and father’s favourite by far; mother’s never laid a hand on him, though you’d never put it past her, because she never used to hit you or Sirius. You’ll be back soon. Regulus will be fine.
Right now, however, you are not fine.
Your hand creates a fist that gently knocks on the front door, and you budge impatiently from foot to foot as you wait for a response. It feels like your heart is attempting to make its way up your throat and spill from your mouth, your palms damp with sweat.
When the door finally cracks open, you feel no better as James Potter’s face drops at the sight of you, stood in his front garden with a stuffed bag hanging on your shoulder. You hesitate, and plant a finger to your lips.
Contemplation flickers across his face, his dark eyes pleading. “Y/N, are—”
“Shh,” you snip at him, “I don’t want Sirius to know I am here.” Your face softens and you tug your lip between your teeth. “I’m sorry. I had nowhere else to go.”
James swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing harshly in his throat, and he leans forward to grasp your bag, and steps aside so that you can enter into the foyer of his family home. You’re silent as you follow him up the staircase, past the room your brother had recently become into possession of, and into his.
Your eyes widen a little at Remus sprawled out across James’ bed, flipping through what appears to be one of James’ superhero comic books. He quickly sits up at the sight of you, on his knees, and James clicks the door shut behind him, casting a silencing spell quietly.
“Y/N?” Remus murmurs, his eyebrows tugged together, so concerned he looked older. His hands twitch over his knees, like he wants to come over and hug you already.
“Sorry,” you sigh, though the exhale of air does nothing to release the tension in your chest, and it comes out as some sort of pathetic half-hearted noise. “I had to get away for a moment. I just don’t want—I don’t really want Sirius to know, because he’ll only worry more, and I can’t stay. I have to get back to Reg. But I couldn’t…” You swallow, and to your horror, your eyes begin to burn hot. “I couldn’t breathe in that house.”
“Shit,” James curses as tears silently cascade down your cheeks, and he lifts an arm to wrap around your shoulders, bringing you into his chest without hesitation. He feels you trembling as you wrap your arms back around him.
Remus sits at the end of the bed, his hands on his lap, his shoulders hunched as he sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment, sharing a soft, sad look with James.
“Sirius has gone to bed early, so you’re alright,” Remus murmurs, as if that’s any consolation to your list of problems. He understands perfectly why you wouldn’t want to speak to Sirius about them. Sirius would only try to convince you to run away. He had a habit of meaning the best, but only hearing what he wanted to hear—and telling you what he would do, and failing to realise that not everybody was like him.
“Thanks,” you sniffle as you turn away from James, pressing your hands to your eyes.
“What happened?” Remus dares to ask, because he knows he will not like the answer, but a million different scenarios are running through his head, and he needs to settle on just one.
Your lips purse. “Mother—she smacked me.” Your throat bobs and you choke on another sob.
James’ jaw tightens and Remus looks like he can’t decide whether he wants to yell or be sick. They knew what Walburga was like; how the final straw for Sirius had been when she hit him so hard that he nearly fainted. From their understanding, it was mostly psychological and emotional abuse; shit designed to break you.
They hope this is your final straw, too, but they also know you—and they know that you’re too stubborn to ever leave without your youngest brother.
You sniffle and wipe your face. “Gods. This is pathetic. I am so sorry.”
“Why is it pathetic?” James protests. “You can speak to both of us. We’ve always told you that you can. Your mother is…”
“We’re not supposed to be like that,” you mutter, hastily ridding the puddles from your cheekbones. “We all said no…no feelings.”
Remus makes a noise in the back of his throat, and reaches his hand out to hold yours, squeezing your palm.
“That’s what you said, sweetheart,” Remus says gently. “We already told you we’d be whatever you wanted us to be.”
You shake your head. “Sirius needs you both. I can’t take you from him.”
“We’re still there for Sirius, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be there for you, too,” James protests firmly, a conversation that the three of you have had far too many times over the last six months or so. “You don’t deserve any less than him.”
Remus hesitates. “You’re allowed to feel safe, too.”
James watches the way you pause, your watery eyes flickering between them both. “Do you feel safe with us?” He asks.
“When I’m with you two, I feel like I’m not looking after anybody for a few moments,” you admit quietly. “Like I’m my own person. Nobody’s sister. Nobody’s daughter.”
Remus can’t help but slide his hand up from yours, up your forearm, to your bicep, where he drags you closer to him. Instinctively, you bury your face into him like you had done with James.
“You’ve been distancing yourself from us, dove,” Remus whispers worriedly, stroking your hair. “Is it because you knew summer was coming up?”
“I don’t like relaxing for too long,” you mumble.
James folds his arms across his chest. “By relaxing, do you mean feeling alright? Feeling happy?”
You shrug your shoulders, but it’s all the confirmation that they need to know that you’re just scared of having too much of a good thing, and the feelings that will come if it was to all go away suddenly. Sirius used to be the same.
They remember a time before everything had gotten so bad, where you had been easy-going and light-hearted—where you knew everything about them, and they knew everything about you. Puberty and ageing had caused you to hang out Lily, Marlene, and Mary a bit more in the most recent years, but you in yourself had never changed.
Not until the war became to prevelant in all of your lives. Not until Sirius left and your family was torn apart, you like a tuat piece of rope between them both, being tugged so hard that Remus and James were forced to wonder when you might snap.
“We really like you,” James hesitates. “You should know. I didn’t want to scare you off by telling you, but…but you deserve to know. You can decide what you do with that information.”
You peel from Remus and glance up at him curiously. He nods. “Dove, we thought it was slightly obvious we’d be anything you want us to be. But we’d like to be more than what we’ve been for the last few months.”
“I’m scared.”
“We know,” Remus strokes your skin delicately. “We’ll look after you.”
He feels you sag against him at that, as James joins you, and runs a hand through your hair, his eyes meeting yours. He kisses your forehead.
“Just let us,” he proposes.
You hesitate, but you nod. And Merlin, the feeling of the two bodies crushing you together feels so good. The pressure is perfect; the arms, the smells, the chests, the hair tickling you. It feels euphoric to indulge. And maybe you can stay here just a little while longer than usual.
summary: buggy the clown abducts you to join his act and is horrified to realize who your “boyfriend” actually is.
warnings: mild language, a few innuendos, reader is an unbothered queen, banter, the crew is sick™️ of the pda and comments, reader is a ragebaiter and borderline certified freak
you sighed tiredly as your head fell forward with the rest of your weight. your arms were tied above your head, ankles crossed comfortably against the spinning dart board, red ribbons holding you up tied into a bow.
“you know, pink really isn’t my color. at least give me plaid, these polka dots are blinding…” beside you, there was a long, exasperated sigh. you continued, however, shifting your head to the side to look at the clown on his so called throne. “also neon pink and green… i get that you’re a clown, but yikes— so flashy… yellow would be so much better. i also don’t really wear green… i have a friend— it’s kind of his thing…”
narrow eyes turned towards you, heavy eyelids sneered with blue sparkles emphasized his annoyance at you, “are you having a nice time? you’re just awfully chatty about all of this!” buggy’s voice cracked and you smiled to yourself, “no sense in wasting my energy… oh, wait– is that what you want? shit, my bad, sir.” you cleared your throat, inhaling deeply to raise your tone several pitches, “help! help me! this mean, scary clown has taken me prisoner! help me!” you cleared your throat again and turned to meet buggy’s eyes, expression blank, “could you pass me that jacket? it’s rather cold in here…”
buggy’s eye twitched and you fought back a smirk, “stop that! you’re insufferable! why aren’t you more upset?!”
you blinked once, looking him up and down and holding back a laugh. really, he had been perfectly fine with you— as much as a sociopathic, abducting, pirate captain clown could be…
“someone will come for me. he’ll be here in no time…”
“oh really? and who exactly is coming for you? your boyfriend?”
you hummed contently, letting your head fall back against the wall, “yes. my boyfriend. and i don’t think he’ll be too happy about you taking me…”
“oh, please. as if i would be afraid of this boyfriend of yours. do you see who i am? buggy the clown. pirate captain—“
“he can be very scary, thank you very much… much more intimidating than he looks. it’s part of the appeal.”
buggy made a choking sound and stood up. he crossed the room and knelt in front of you, “ick. none of that. this big scary boyfriend of yours can try to appease me and—“ he snorted, “talk you out of your new gig. but i guarantee he shall end up dead or as part of my act.”
you sighed, glancing at him with a small smirk. you said nothing and the longer you just stared at him, the more uncomfortable buggy seemed to become. “what is your problem?!”
you snorted, grinning at him innocently, “i get that a lot. say, do you have any food? i was enjoying that pizza before you so rudely put a bag over my head— anyways, can i get that jacket? i’d rather it not get thrown out and sewed into something bright and obnoxious…”
“shut up! enough from you! i’m going to gag you! you’ll be my silent show girl!”
you scoffed again, still smirking. you opened your mouth to argue when your eyes fell on a wanted poster hanging on the vanity mirror.
luffy.
you smirked to yourself and made a mental note to tell zoro that perhaps he wasn’t too far off of buggy being obsessive when it came to luffy and exacting his revenge.
“does someone have a little crush?” you shifted awkwardly as buggy, not realizing why he had obliged you with your jacket shifted it onto your shoulders, keeping a tight hold on you while adjusting it onto the front of you.
buggy’s eyebrows furrowed, opening his mouth in confusion before his eyes followed to where you were looking—
“no, you idiot girl! that little punk ruined my show! and made me look like a fool!”
you bit back a smile, shifting your gaze back to him, “well you shouldn’t let the opinion of one person let you feel bad about your entire show… and are you sure he made you look like a fool? i mean, you’re a clown. isn’t that the idea?”
buggy made a noise between a scoff, snort and a choke and you smiled, satisfied that it was so easy to get under his skin. “i know he doesn’t look like much! but that damn kid is a menace!” another smirk as you met his furious eyes and he continued, “monkey d. luffy is the single most disrespectful and pathetic excuse of a pirate that i’ve ever seen! and he think he’ll be pirate king!”
you fought the smirk away, eyes sliding from the wanted poster to buggy, eyeing him up and down like you were unimpressed, “doesn’t monkey d. luffy have the highest bounty in all of the east blue?”
there was a sharp crash and a few muffled gasps. buggy’s irritation turned to sheer rage and you lifted your eyebrows slightly, preparing for the lash out, tantrum or possible slap. the back of his hand smacked across your cheek and you fought the urge to curse. you had expected it and even with the glove it had stung. you swore you tasted blood and your vision blurred at the edges just slightly.
“apologies captain. i seem to have found your trigger word.” you smirked softly but when buggy raised his hand you flinched. buggy laughed lowly, grabbing both your shoulders and pulling you forward until your bindings were tight and your arms hurt. “careful, sweetheart. you don’t need that tongue to perform. perhaps your dear boyfriend will be upset about your sudden lack of tongue play, but i am growing rather tired of you.”
you eyed him sharply— a glare that you’re sure the rest of the crew would have flinched at— though buggy now just grinned. “i do look forward to meeting this boyfriend of yours. i sure hope he measures up to everything you’ve said… now i’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t. is he attractive? big muscles? surely he has something that can attribute to my act!”
you clicked your tongue. usually you could talk about luffy for hours– driving sanji and nami and definitely zoro absolutely insane by it— though now there was too much to be given away and spoil the surprise…
“he’s funny.”
“sweetheart, i’m a clown! funny won’t get far here.”
you hummed, fighting back a smirk, “he’s quite fit. though you wouldn’t expect it. he’s rather lanky and awkward, really. quick as a whip, too, though he doesn’t always use it. gets himself into a lot of trouble… insufferably good—“
buggy threw his head back and mimicked a snore, “come on, is that it?! he’s good and fit and funny. i can’t use any of that! does he have any special talent? anything at all? come on, sweetheart! his life hangs in the balance! circus act or corpse! sell me on him!”
“hey, excuse me—?”
your head snapped towards the tent flap at the familiar voice and the all too familiar frame that had just walked in. buggy’s rage turned to surprise before catapulting to infuriation and back to rage.
luffy.
your luffy.
“oh, hello!” luffy put his hands in his hips and grinned, as if greeting an elderly, or possibly quite young, family member.
“you!”
buggy leapt to his feet, staggering forward and throwing out a miscellaneous handful of tricks and traps.
luffy jumped straight in the air, stretching towards the high beam at the tip of the tent and hauling himself out of the way. he perched on a rafter, still smiling away.
“who is your friend? you’ve put her in an awfully short skirt.”
you rolled your eyes at this but didn’t miss the way his eyes took you in and his smirk spread.
“she’s none of your concern! my new act, until her alleged scary boyfriend shows up. would you get down from there!?”
buggy’s hand unattached and careered towards luffy with a force that would undoubtedly bruise or break a nose. luffy leapt and swung once again shaking his head disapprovingly. you met his eyes and his smirk returned, “big scary boyfriend, hm? seems like a lucky guy.”
you felt yourself smile and tilted your head, “oh, i don’t know, he’s pretty spectacular. i was just telling the captain here, all about him.”
buggy blinked slowly, looking between the two of you with growing agitation. there was a hint of amusement, however as he sighed and crossed his arms in expectation for you to continue.
“he must be, to land you… tell me, is he very attractive? nice body? deep eyes that you get lost in?”
you were smirking as zoro and sanji stopped in the entrance, both now realizing the situation and rolling their eyes.
“oh, he’s hot. really nice hair too. fun to pull.”
“oh, spare me—“ sanji rubbed his face with a sigh as zoro closed his eyes and took a deep breath. they were used to this— they lived with this daily– though now in a serious situation, they should have expected it…
luffy just smirked, eyes lighting up with playful suggestiveness. he tilted his head, “are you wearing my jacket?” he was clearly approving, smile spreading into an amused, slightly nervous smirk.
“oh, yes. i got cold and couldn’t find mine. i figured if i took zoro’s he would stab me…”
buggy had appeared to factory reset, twitching slightly, head nearly rolling as his eye twitched, “what!?” you shifted a bored expression towards him, half surprised that he was finally clued in.
“him!? this little brat?! of all the fucking people!”
you sighed, stretching your arms slightly and rolling your sore wrists, “i told you he would show up.”
“it’s luffy!? that damn straw hat wearing punk!?”
you sighed again, glancing over to zoro who was thoroughly amused and enjoying himself.
“you were supposed to meet me at the ship…” luffy gave you a pathetic attempt at a scold, crossing his arms.
“i was finishing my dinner. and then this ass hat put a bag over my head…”
“excuse me—!? you mean to tell me of all the people— and girls i could have grabbed– and i landed with—!?”
“you’re late. i assumed you would have been here sooner…”
“zoro and sanji had to calm me down a bit, first. originally, i was only mildly concerned that you weren’t back, but then when usopp came back without you, they thought i was going to seriously hurt someone.”
“hello!?” buggy’s voice cracked, his frustration coming out in a near scream, “are we not in the middle of something, here!? do you even see me!?”
“oh, they’re just like this… constantly forgetting about anyone else as soon as they’re together. it’s insufferable, really…“ zoro scoffed and rolled his eyes as sanji continued, “at first it was cute, but neither one of them have any shame. and the ship really isn’t that big—“
buggy looked mere seconds away from blowing a gasket and roared out to his crew, “get them!” sanji leapt into action as zoro went for buggy, himself.
luffy hopped down from the high top and landed mere inches from you, smiling incredulously. “that skirt isn’t at all your color…” his fingers closed gently around your wrists and untied the damn red ribbons that held you up. you hadn’t realized how much weight you had been held by your wrists, and stumbled forward into his chest.
luffy’s smile vanished for the first time since he saw you as his arms closed around you tightly, “are you okay? i’ve got you.” your other wrist was freed and you collapsed into him full force. he didn’t even stumble, holding you against him as if it had been weeks and not just mere hours. you closed your eyes, realizing you were shaking and had been more shook up than you had initially thought.
“i’ve got you… i’m here. i’m sorry it took so long…”
you just shook your head and buried your face in his neck, squeezing him like a vice, clinging to him like your life depended on it. luffy melted into you, glancing over his shoulder to be sure the moment wasn’t about to be interrupted.
buggy was laughing maniacally, body parts swirling around and launching like rockets. zoro dodged and sliced while sanji kicked and sent various body parts flying into walls.
“are you okay? did he hurt you?”
you shook your head, breathless from the adrenaline and free falling into the comfort and familiarity of him, “a bit humiliated by my outfit… and probably a bruised cheek, but otherwise—“
luffy’s grip tightened, his shoulders tensing. his head lifted from your shoulder as he took you in, “what?”
“it wasn’t really—“
“zoro!” luffy’s voice boomed, skipping over concern completely and landing on rage. zoro’s head turned as he sent a forearm flying towards sanji, who kicked it swiftly through the tent’s fabric top.
“aim high!”
buggy snorted, head detaching just before zoro’s blade swiped through his neck, “you idiot! you can’t kill me!” he laughed, glancing over to luffy with a disapproving head shake. luffy looked murderous, though he still kept his arm around you defensively and refused to move from your side.
zoro swung again and this time buggy dodged— directly towards sanji, who swiftly kicked buggy’s head towards zoro. buggy cursed, screaming bloody murder as sanji’s leg made contact.
“take her and go.”
zoro had swapped his sword for a bat and swung with incredible accuracy. there was a loud crack and buggy’s swearing and protests died as the rest of him slumped down, unconscious. there was a splatter of blood on the bat that zoro eyed in disgust before dropping it on the ground.
luffy had his arm around you still, as he perched beside you on the ram’s head. “i am sorry i didn’t come sooner.” luffy’s head fell on your shoulder and you took his hands. “i should have taken care of him. i should have— instead of zoro, i-“
“luffy. i’m fine.”
his thumb traced your cheek and you winced, causing him to frown. you no longer tasted blood, but your cheek stung and ached when you spoke.
“it’s my fault. i shouldn’t have left you—“
“luffy. it’s done…”
the merry was sailing away from the island and the circus and the unstable clown. he had come for you just like you said.
“i wish i had gotten to hit him.”
“me too… i would have aimed for that fucking red nose.”
luffy snorted and let out an obnoxiously loud laugh that could have woken the entire ship. “i think that skirt would have been nice if it came in black… do you think nami could dye it?”
you glanced at luffy with an amused smile, “luffy, i tore that thing to shreds. it was insulting to my eyes.”
“you’re kidding! you showed so much leg in it.”
you snorted and eyed luffy incredulously, “i think i’ll stick to my own wardrobe. and occasionally yours.”
“you can have anything you want of mine.”
you glanced up with a small smile, eyeing the pajama pants that were definitely luffy’s and entirely too big for you. you smiled to yourself again, remembering his great aversion to sleeping in clothes and how they really would be wasted if you didn’t have them.
“luffy?”
“yes?”
“i think i’m ready for bed…”
“i thought you would never ask.”
“luffy…”
“yes?”
“i mean actually sleeping.”
“oh, we can do that too…”
“luffy….”
you let out a single sigh as you caught his soft eyes and devilish expression. you felt yourself smile, taking his hand as he helped you to your feet.
hey! i really really liked your works, it’s so freaking good 😭
i’d like to request a zoro x fem reader, where in reader is like a man hater (has sharp tongue) or something like that. it’ll be nice if she has a past where she worked for the baroque works or anything you’d like and that could be the reason why she’s like that or why she acts/behaves like that. you can do any situation you’d like. thank youu, have a great day! 😘
a/n: i consider myself an overall man hater so 🙂↕️ and also please keep the zoro requests coming, thank u
content: language, tension, sanji goes through it, slight time jumps, jealousy, found family™️, slow burn
— .*•
man hater! - roronoa zoro
you may as well have stomped deliberately on sanji’s groin, the way you had left him after your first interaction. luffy had immediately decided you needed to join the crew, zoro had laughed more than anyone had ever seen, and usopp was hiding behind vivi and nami with a terrified expression.
you removed the slightest pressure of your heel from sanji’s back— having been coerced politely by luffy to release him— and let go of his wrists that you had held above his head until he was crying out in pain— no longer feeling his flirtatious tendencies or need to come on to every female in sight.
zoro was grinning— he hadn’t even jumped in to stop you, and was now nearly doubled over in laughter. vivi and nami exchanged anxious expressions and usopp nearly wiped out in his attempt to sprint as far away from you as possible.
“have you changed your mind?”
you cocked an eyebrow and turned your expression to luffy, lifting your leg just enough for sanji to scramble out of your restraint.
“do you mean about joining your crew, rubber band boy?”
luffy’s smile widened as he glanced between you and sanji, clearly unbothered that you had pounced on him like a feral cat and pinned him like it had been nothing.
“yes! we would love for you to join us.”
you lifted an eyebrow and almost laughed at the expression on the crew’s face. “cute.” you brushed off your jacket and crossed your arms, “i don’t think your crew shares the same enthusiasm, captain stretch.”
luffy, oblivious or unbothered by your name calling, grinned all the more, “i like that! it’s very fitting.”
you rolled your eyes and sighed, “why should i join your little crew? what’s in it for you?”
“i for one, would very much like to see you knock the cook on his ass daily. i don’t think he’s ever felt rejection so strongly…”
your eyes snapped to zoro and he didn’t drop his gaze or so much as flinch. his expression stayed neutral, as if he wasn’t even remotely phased by you. he had never spoken directly to you until then— he had never stared with those glazed, dumbstruck eyes or looked at you like you were an object to be won— or taken.
nami and usopp shot zoro a surprised yet warning expression, not at all thinking this was the time for zoro to be amused by sanji’s misfortune.
you held zoro’s gaze for far longer than you should have, sizing him up, taking him in fully as if trying to figure him out completely with just one look. he still didn’t flinch, and glanced away like you were nothing worth his attention.
“we could use another fighter. and vivi says you’re good at tracking people down… that could come in handy.”
you turned your attention back to luffy, though you didn’t look directly at him, “you realize who i worked for, yes?”
“baroque works. you were an assassin…” luffy shrugged, “vivi has told us all about you. and warned us that you would kill all of us in our sleep…”
“so you’re either extremely stupid or alarmingly trusting…”
luffy just grinned and shrugged again, “bit of both, i guess.”
nami rolled her eyes at this and rubbed her face. she muttered something to usopp and vivi, to which you smirked, “don’t worry, girls. if i wanted any of the boys dead, they already would be.”
zoro snorted at this, lifting an amused eyebrow. “are you doubting that, pirate hunter?”
zoro just glanced at you, eyelids heavy, expression unreadable. he blinked once before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. you felt your eye twitch. you had gotten some kind of reaction from everyone… but not him. your mind spun slightly, staring at him momentarily before turning on your heel and striding off.
“luffy are you absolutely sure about this? not that i’m questioning you as captain or anything, but—“
zoro shushed vivi and inclined his head slightly. nami and sanji had stopped walking, looking at zoro as if he had lost it.
“what—“
zoro was moving before luffy could open his mouth. the door to the bar was kicked open and the small gathering of baroque works agents turned their attention to the swordsman. you were pinned against the wall— keeping an incredibly collected face, despite your extreme disadvantage.
“that takes care of that problem—“
zoro spared sanji a single sharp glance before reaching for his sword.
“bit unfair, don’t you think?” zoro just glanced around the room as if he was debating on where to sit.
“this doesn’t concern you, pirate hunter. we should be doing you a favor… this one went rogue. it’s none of your business.”
zoro tipped his head slightly, eyes shifting, expression bored. he exhaled slowly, glancing back at luffy, who was beaming in anticipation. the first baroque works agent merely twitched and zoro moved.
you were breathless as the last agent hit the ground— unconscious or dead, you didn’t care— attempting to keep your expression neutral. you had been seconds away from a baroque works style execution… and yet the pirate hunter— your hands shook slightly and you cursed.
“i had it handled.”
zoro sliced through your bonds with a sharp expression, “i can see that.” he didn’t spare you a second glance as he stepped over a pile of bodies and reached for a drink behind the bar.
your disbelief turned to frustration and you stumbled after him.
“what’s your deal, green?”
zoro lifted an eyebrow, as if debating on whether you were taking to him or not. he just stared at you again, blinked once and downed the entire beer.
your irritation only grew and you felt your pulse rise, “why did you help me?”
again, zoro only glanced at you, eyes never once raking up and down your body like the usual interactions.
“he helped you because we aren’t like regular pirates.” luffy had stepped forward and put an arm around you, two which you spun and had his arm pinned behind his back. forgetting he was rubber— luffy just glanced at you with his usual damn smile, looking more amused than ever. you released him and stepped back, brushing yourself off.
“do not think for a moment that i owe him anything. i did not ask to be saved.”
zoro shifted on his feet, staring at the now empty bottle, “i don’t want anything from you.“ he reached for another beer and you just watched him. “if you have a death wish, i could even take you out myself if you want.”
you snorted, lifting your eyebrows, “i don’t plan on dying at the hands of a man… or his swords.”
“good, then.” zoro took another sip, still just staring straight ahead, “it’s smart to have a plan…”
your irritation grew to frustration at still not getting a single reaction out of him. yet, he had saved you— why—
“the offer is still there.” luffy had returned to your side and you fought the urge to step away. “you could join our crew. you don’t have to like us. you can even hate us… so long as you don’t attack us or go out of your way to betray me. if baroque works is after you, you’re going to need help. vivi here says you used to be friends… maybe you can have friends again. eventually…”
you blinked slowly, waiting for the catch or some sort of bargain. surely this captain was not truly offering an assassin that had taken down one of their best fighters multiple times a place on the crew…
“why?” your usual words and sharp tongue failed you, scrambling to find this straw hat boy’s alternative motive.
“because… we could use someone like you. and no one should have to fight alone. even if they are really good at it.”
the others exchanged glances that looked a lot less fearful, almost smiling— accepting that their captain hadn’t misjudged someone yet…
“at least let us give you a ride to a different island.”
“get out of my face, chef, or i’ll bruise it.” your tone was even sharper this morning, ever since being awoken to yells and shouts of excitement.
“my, aren’t you just lovely as ever this morning…” sanji still never learned— provoking you with that damn smirk on his face as if you hadn’t threatened— and accomplished— choking him out completely.
“back up.”
“too overwhelming to be in my presence, love?”
your mouth twitched and your fingers itched to close around his cooking knife and sink it into his shoulder blade just enough to hurt.
zoro, polishing his swords like it was a ritual, was smirking across the kitchen. the others had thought sanji and zoro’s bickering got old and had no idea what adding you to the crew would bring.
“this reminds me of when i talked my way out of a sticky situation. also with a beautiful woman… it ended quite well, i’d say.”
you turned your attention to usopp, lifting an eyebrow. you had learned quickly— needless for vivi to fill you in— that usopp thrived on his elaborate, facetious tales.
“was this before or after you woke up? and did you wake up with your hand around your—“
sanji’s grip on the knife slipped, nearly sending it careening across the room. usopp had gone extremely white, while nami and luffy sharply halted their entrance into the kitchen.
your lip twitched and you ducked your head, “apologies, captain… i didn’t realize you were here.”
“what is she talking about?”
“nothing.”
there was a collective panicked response, while zoro continued to merely smirk to himself. you stole a handful of the fruit salad, ignoring sanji’s protests and threats and retreated onto the deck where there was less people to lash out at.
“do you do it on purpose?”
you leaned back against the ram figure head, eyes partially closed, the long set sun no longer warming your face.
“be an asshole?”
there was a snort from vivi and she quickly covered her mouth. nami bit back a smile, “that’s not exactly the word i was going to use…”
“you should say what you mean. no need to spare my feelings… it doesn’t save any time, after all.”
nami smiled in amusement, shifting closer to you, “okay… so you are a bit of a bitch. but why? and why is it only the guys?”
“most of the guys.” vivi chimed in before quickly looking away and realizing she had said it out loud.
you snapped your gaze to her, lifting and eyebrow, “most of the guys? what does that mean?”
“oh— nothing… i was just—“
“if you mean luffy, he’s the captain and i do respect him.”
“you called him rubber band bastard earlier today and threatened to throw him in deep water because you know he can’t swim…”
you smirked slightly, remembering that luffy’s only reaction was pure terror before laughing it off, “he threatened to handcuff me to sanji until we got along.”
this time it was nami who laughed, “you know, i think sanji would enjoy that. you wouldn’t be able to stab him and to cause any bodily harm, you’d have to be extremely close…”
you rolled your eyes and shifted, “that is me getting along with him… i’ve never drawn blood and he isn’t dead, right?”
another snort.
“is that why you don’t pick fights with zoro? because you know you can’t beat him…”
you tensed, “i don’t pick fights. i defend myself. i make sure no one gets too close…”
“right, but why— i mean it seems like with zoro—“
“you keep bringing him up.”
“is it because he saved you?”
“no. zoro is different.”
“different how? none of the guys on this ship would ever—“
“i know.” and you had learned that. you could see them becoming like family— annoying older brothers maybe that you never wanted too close because they smelled and messed up your hair—
“he’s just different.”
“like, nonchalant and indifferent to everything? yeah, that’s zoro”.
your mouth twitched, “he’s never once looked at me. not like the others… i’ve never once seen his eyes take me in like i’m something to accomplish or—“
“sanji doesn’t mean anything by it. he’s just…. like that. it’s his personality.”
you shifted again, bringing your knee to your chest, “he doesn’t go too far. and luffy is oblivious… and usopp is scared of me.”
“well can you blame him?”
but that’s how you had always wanted it. lash out and prove yourself before anyone got any ideas about you… you had never been seen for you. it was always your body or the way you used to smile at everyone. so you built the armor. the fights, the sharpness, the rough edges that would cut anyone who got too close… you became a threat before anyone could be a threat to you. it never worked with zoro. he was unaffected by all of it… the times you provoked him, called him names, he would merely smirk and say nothing. or eye you like he hadn’t quite heard you.
“what are you drinking?”
“you’re not buying me a drink.”
you smirked slightly, “i never offered. i asked what you were drinking.”
zoro lifted an eyebrow, biting back a playful smile, “sake. what else is there?”
“whatever it is that sanji mixes together and calls art…”
zoro snorted, “i don’t drink fruity cocktails.”
you eyed him in amusement, “well of course the demon pirate hunter doesn’t drink fruity cocktails… i would never assume that he did. not nearly strong and manly enough for him.”
zoro glanced at you over his bottle of sake, eyes sparkling slightly, “i’m flattered. who knew you knew how to compliment a man.”
you rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t find it in you for your irritation to be sincere, “careful, green. we were almost getting along.”
“is that what this is?” zoro took another swig, smirking, “and here i thought you hated me.”
your expression sharpened, torn between amusement and irritation, “i don’t hate you.” you almost mumbled it, reaching across for a drink from sanji.
“i didn’t catch that… what was that?”
you glanced back at him, eyes narrowing. you sipped the drink sanji had slid to you, eyes locked on zoro caught between amusement and boredom. he still held his smirk, shaking his head slightly.
“i won’t tell anyone. except maybe sanji… it would drive him crazy.”
this time you did roll your eyes, smiling to yourself. roronoa zoro had somehow found a way to be an exception. he talked to you as if you were a rival, meeting your attitude and challenges as if he expected them. you stood to your feet, glancing back at him as he lifted an eyebrow.
“i’m going for a walk. hopefully you all can survive without me for a few minutes…”
“i’ll go with you. it’s dark and you never know what kind of creeps are lingering.”
you smirked slightly, lifting an eyebrow, “i can take care of myself.”
“oh, i know. i also have to take a piss.”
you snorted at this, eyeing him in amusement as his hip bumped the side of the table.
“too much to drink, pirate hunter?”
“that’s what i want them to think.” he stumbled just slightly and your hand steadied around his bicep. he tensed momentarily before eyeing you with a smirk. you rolled your eyes and felt his weight shift against you slightly.
his arm settled on your shoulder and for a startling moment you realized it felt nice. he was heavy— even if he was playing at being intoxicated. he swayed slightly and your hold on him tightened.
“you’re not going to bite me, are you?” you could hear the smirk on his face as you rounded the corner.
“i’m not really into biting… i find verbal assault does the job plenty. and if not, a swift kick between the legs never fails.”
zoro snorted at this, letting his arm drop from your shoulders with a shake of his head. he was smiling and you were momentarily stuck staring. he was nothing like the so called demon that had single handedly wiped out most of baroque works. as you grew closer to him you caught yourself holding up your defenses less and less. you had been laughing with him and the look on the crew’s faces and startled you into realizing that this had become normal for you— a comfort…
zoro had ducked down the alley to relieve himself and you leaned against the building, arms crossed, shaking yourself back into your high alert.
“now what is a fine lady like you doing with that one?”
you stiffened and glanced up at the voice. two marines stood watching you with curious expressions. one was much bigger than you and the other looked as if you could snap him in half with your hands. pink hair and glasses– despite his best attempt at standing at attention, he looked seconds away from shaking like a leaf.
“koby?”
zoro had returned to your side, looking bored once again.
“hello, zoro…” pink hair ducked his head, looking embarrassed and even more terrified.
“you again,” zoro rested his hand against the hilt of his sword, eyeing the taller one, “you still haven’t fixed your hair? enjoying the souvenir i left you?”
your attention shifted to the taller one and you snorted. his hair was crudely chopped off and uneven. the man’s face reddened and his expression turned sour. you glanced to zoro with a small smile, “i didn’t know you were a barber, zoro! perhaps now i know where to send sanji next time he gets on my nerves.”
zoro was smirking, arms crossed and almost laughing.
“you’re…with the straw hats? luffy’s crew? since when?”
you glanced at pink hair and lifted an eyebrow, “lots of questions over here… i don’t talk to marines. i only make fun of their hair…”
zoro snorted again and the two of you were nearly lost to laughter. clearly you had had more to drink than you thought and and the long journey had taken much more out of you than you truly realized.
“i thought we were setting out at first light.” zoro had been growing impatient and more on edge the longer you stayed on the island.
“well they didn’t have the part ready. and if someone hadn’t broken it with their huge muscles, we wouldn’t still be waiting…”
“oh, i’m flattered, love… but i think you’re too much for me to handle—“ he flexed, beaming in that same way that still got under your skin.
“i’m not talking about you, sanji.”
zoro smirked at this, to which you pretended to ignore.
sanji was still smirking, “sure sounded like you were talking about me… you can’t have meant string bean or moss head…”
you turned your glare to him again, “sanji, the only thing of yours i would ever call huge is your ego.”
“i’ll take it.” sanji winked and seemed to inflate all the more, “you haven’t seen all of me, love, you don’t ever need to worry about size.”
zoro shoved him at this and sanji just continued smirking. you rubbed your face and turned your attention back to luffy, “what do you want me to do? i can gather more supplies since we’re here another day…”
“yes! do that!”
you were still in disbelief that you had become a permanent crew member of the straw hats and that your captain was so consistently excitable and childlike.
“we should stay in groups, though, before we over stay our welcome.”
“right…”
nami had always been in charge of luffy, since sanji and usopp had repeatedly proven that they couldn’t keep track of him. sanji was still beaming as he took an eager step towards you, preparing to volunteer to be your partner.
“absolutely not.” you grabbed the arm of a half asleep zoro and pulled him along behind you. zoro opened one eye and trailed behind you with a sigh.
“what are we even looking for?”
“were you sleeping?”
“resting my eyes.”
“hey, there’s a swordsm—“ you hadn’t finished your sentence before zoro was already inside. you smiled to yourself, noting that he did get excited about some things.
you followed him inside, stopping beside him as his gaze lingered over a curved blade, “gonna learn to carry four?”
zoro smirked slightly at the thought, eyes trailing to you in acknowledgment, “no… i was thinking maybe you—“
“you’re roronoa zoro.”
your gaze shifted to the girl now gaping at zoro. you lifted an eyebrow, taking her in and trying to find recognition. zoro still looked at the sword, arms crossed in front of him like he hadn’t heard her.
“excuse me…”
you shifted, tensing slightly as the girl got closer.
“you’re the infamous swordsman.”
zoro exhaled and glanced to you, gaging your reaction before acknowledging her. you felt tense and hot. the shop suddenly felt too small and suffocating for this many people—
“i’ve studied you… you’re amazing.” her voice changed slightly– raised and more sing songy. your pulse increased and you couldn’t identify the twisting feeling in your gut. your vision blurred slightly and you swore the world shifted to red momentarily.
zoro was still looking at you, watching your posture, noticing the way you forced yourself to breathe— the way you had clenched your fists at your side without even noticing. zoro nearly smirked, eyes traveling slowly to the girl in acknowledgment.
he said nothing, though he quite enjoyed the way you squirmed and the murder in your eyes.
“are you looking for another sword? you can take your pick. it’s on me!”
your eye twitched and you had a brief moment of insanity where you saw yourself throwing the girl through the glass cabinet behind the counter. you startled at the thought and cursed under your breath. zoro was watching you. eyelids heavy, the slightest smirk on his face.
damn it.
“can i see that one?”
you felt a jolt of electricity run through you as he brushed against your arm to point at one behind the counter. the girl was trembling as she grabbed it and held it out to him. zoro lifted an eyebrow, eyeing it as he slowly slid it out of the scabbard.
“excellent choice… hand crafted and one of a kind. i’m sure it would do well for you.”
you weren’t aware of the murder in your eyes or the expression that would have most of the crew retreating to their rooms. but zoro was. and he smirked to himself as he handled the blade.
he tucked it back in it’s sheath and eyed you, voice dropping, “if you’re so worked up over a shop owner, perhaps you should leave.”
your gaze snapped to him and you swore he was amused. “hold this.” before you could recover or think of something smart, zoro was passing you the blade and guiding your elbow into the proper stance.
“i’m not—“
his touch was featherlight against your elbow, thumb tucking against your skin to guide your arm position. his touch was like lava— burning and slowly spreading throughout your arm.
“not bad…”
you had no recollection of him becoming so close to you. his chest was just against your shoulder, breath practically on your neck as he slowly pushed your arm upward.
“we’ll have to work on footwork. but i think it suits you.”
“me? i—“
“you think i’m going to leave your self defense training to sanji and luffy? please.” zoro stepped away from you and you felt like you were launched into a free fall.
“i’ll take it. thank you.”
the girl behind the counter was stammering and you were left with your mouth hanging open, desperately trying to recover from his body pressed against you.
zoro brushed past you again, tossing a few berry at the girl, smirking proudly to himself like he had just won a fight.
“you realize she was flirting with you? she wanted to give you the sword.”
zoro glanced at you, doubtful yet still hiding that smirk, “was she? i didn’t notice.”
you stared at him in disbelief, blinking once. zoro kept his eyes on you, expression unreadable. your hand twitched at your side, scrambling for something smart to say. zoro tilted his head slightly, “glad you noticed though… you certainly did seem very….aware of the situation.” his lip twitched, smirking faintly.
you spun around to eye him, “what does that mean—“
“it’s just nice that you have such a close eye on me.”
“i didn’t—“
“lucky for me, you chase any pursuers away with your sharp glare and slightly green complexion.”
your jaw fell open and you debated drawing the new blade just to wipe that damn smirk off his face.
“my green— i wasn’t— are you implying something, roronoa?”
his smirk deepened, “careful.”
“zoro—“
“you’re supposed to hate me.”
“zoro—“
“using my first name seems awfully close and personal.”
you had your hand on your sword, eyes narrow, daring him to continue. zoro eyed you, arms crossed, standing just inches from you, eyes on your hand on the sword, “you’ll never draw fast enough with your hand like that.”
you glanced down, irritation turning to intrigue. zoro shifted, readying to move closer to you to show you a better stance. there was a shriek in the distance and you flinched. zoro tensed, hand on his own blade.
the scream sounded again– sharper, more frantic, ending in a sharp hysterical laugh.
your eyes flashed to zoro, who already looked inconvenienced, “luffy…”
shit.
zoro drew his swords and took off at a run. you followed him, huffing slightly; not used to carrying a sword. zoro skidded to a stop, swords still drawn and ready to strike, “luffy.” he sounded more irritated than concerned.
“hey guys!” luffy grinned down at you, completely unbothered and unconcerned by his situation. he was strung up by his wrists and ankles, stretched across the overhead posts like electric wires.
“luffy…. what the hell happened?”
“i think we overstayed our welcome.” he was still smiling. zoro spun his swords once, glancing around in search of the threat.
“zoro, give me a hand.”
he lifted an eyebrow and you glared at him, “i’m going to get him down. let’s go!”
“oh, i’m fine, guys! it kind of tickles…”
you blinked slowly at him, glancing briefly to zoro in disbelief. captain…. your captain. laughing at the attempt of punishment and torture.
“luffy. it’s time for us to go.” zoro knelt slightly, hand on your ankle as you placed your foot on his knee. he stood up, lifting you onto the low hanging roof and hoping to whatever fate that you didn’t fall.
“i’m telling sanji that you were on your knees for me.”
zoro scoffed, rolling his eyes with the cross of his arms, “please… to help you onto a roof.”
you smirked down at him, meeting his playful expression, “i’ll take it.”
luffy was still smiling, though up close you could see the tiredness and wear in his eyes. “i was supposed to meet the others at the ship… nami has the part!— hey you have a sword!”
you sighed, glancing at luffy with a soft scold, “try not to fall when i cut you free, yeah?”
luffy just grinned, nodding in agreement.
you slid down the final roof, glancing up to make sure luffy didn’t splat on the ground instead of gracefully slide down. your foot broke through a rusted tin roof and you cursed as your entire heel fell through, sinking to your thighs. there was a undignified groan and the roof gave way completely.
you landed in a firm hold, warm arms holding you like you were about to break. you half hoped to glance up and see luffy grinning at you, proud of himself for catching you and waiting for you to notice him. but you knew the arms. you knew the tense muscles and thickness of the chest against your back.
zoro was smirking down at you, placing you on your feet without further embarrassment. “you’re acting like that’s your first time scaling a roof.”
“most roofs hold my weight!”
“you were so damn loud with those heels. i expect we’ll be overtaken at any moment.”
you stared at him in irritation while he just continued to eye you with a barely there smirk. you huffed and pushed away from him, smoothing out your cloak and willing away the heat in your face.
“i would, you know.”
“sneek around on a roof without being noticed? yes, i’m sure you could. as we established, you can do anything and be damn good at it.”
zoro’s smirk returned, eyes shifting to you and looking you over as if considering his next words. his tongue flicked across his teeth and he glanced back at luffy, who was craning his neck to watch the sunset as he walked.
“get on my knees. only for you, though… if you asked.”
your knee buckled and you stumbled forward, nearly crashing over a barrel of fish entrails and oil. you were left with your head spinning and eyes wild, trying to regain any sort of composure and pull yourself together.
zoro merely smirked, steadying you with two fingers on your elbow, “too much to drink, ex assassin?”
you whirled around. he held the same playful smirk and amusement you had, clearly enjoying himself and his effect on you.
“guys—“ you glanced away from zoro and towards luffy, who was pointing ahead of him. zoro had already drawn his sword, eyes sharp and calculating.
“always a damn fight…” you rolled your shoulders and braced yourself.
“we were just leaving!” you fought the urge to roll your eyes at luffy’s typical naivety and friendliness.
the small pack struck and met zoro’s block. you dodged a man attempting to tackle you and managed to kick him in the tail bone on the way past, sending him careening head first into the sand.
“use your sword!” zoro’s eyes were on you despite the three guards surrounding him. you rolled your eyes and ducked again, “i’ve had no training!” you hopped over luffy’s extended fist that knocked several of the men down.
“you don’t need training with these people—“ zoro was knocked back as he said it, skidding to a halt with his back to you. the numbers seemed to continued to grow; while luffy knocked them out, you and zoro had no shame in bloodshed. you hadn’t done anything to these people… two days on their island sharing stories and trying to be helpful and this was how they repayed you—
“easy!” luffy scolded from somewhere beside you and you grunted in irritation. you felt zoro shift as his swings became much less lethal. you ducked and dodged and hoped you looked like you had some sort of a clue about how to fight with a weapon. you were spun then, feet flailing beneath you as you fell forward into zoro. his arms locked around you, catching you against his chest and holding you there. you glanced up at him, wide eyed, both breathless and closer than either of you needed to be. he was nearly smirking, eyes locked onto you with a look you had never seen.
“oi! there you are!”
you were aware of sanji approaching, though you couldn’t seem to step away from zoro. you were still breathless, though you didn’t know if it had anything to do with the fight. alarm bells rang in your head, but you ignored them and wondered when the hell the swordsman had actually snuck past all of your defenses.
luffy was catching sanji up on the fight and sanji was watching you and zoro with a disbelieving smirk, “damn you, moss head…”
౨ৎ — after you let it slip that the vibrator you just bought can’t get you off, bsf satoru gojo is more than happy to help || MDNI, smut. 1.6K words
inspo from this post by @blkkizzat. love her sexy brain.
there’s nothing quite as thrilling as having the man you told your exes not to worry about perched right between your legs.
you lie on your bed, naked from the waist down while your best friend sits fully clothed and examines your vibrator like he wishes he had a microscope to give him a better look.
he moves it from one hand to the next, the very picture of indifference when he switches it on.
satoru shakes his head when the toy quickly spurs to life and fills the room with it’s constant hum, “there’s no way wanted to throw this away,” he starts “seems perfectly fine to me.”
your eyes narrow the tiniest bit.
“well, you're not the one who has to use it.” you grouse defensively.
and maybe you were a little more pent up than you thought, because the image of him doing just that starts to take shape. the man practically lives in sweats, so you’ve caught the print of his dick more times than you’d ever care to admit.
and in your mind’s eye, you can picture him rubbing the vibrator against his tip then all the down the thick veiny length. white lashes fluttering and neck muscles bulging as the vibrations made him twitch in need—
cerulean eyes flicker to yours, and satoru smiles like he knows exactly what you're thinking. slow, full of teeth and boyishly sexy.
“you’re totally thinking about me using it, aren’t you?”
you forcibly expel the image away with a shake of your head.
“you wish,” you smack his arm a little too hard, and it has him groaning between a chuckle. ignoring the flush in your cheeks, you raise an eyebrow at him, “i still can't believe you offered to do this by the way.”
“i can’t believe you agreed,” he quips just as quickly and well…fair enough. because you couldn’t either.
satoru readjusts so he’s on his knees and dips his head, his eyes following the length of your body until they land right between your legs.
you watch them dilate until only a thin ring of blue remains, and the longer he stares, the more heat rushes south. cool air feathers over your cunt and the achy tease of it, coupled with the weight of his rapt attention, have your legs trying to close again.
satoru doesn't let you get far though. he grumbles his disapproval, freehand spanning over the plush flesh of your thigh and spreading you open again.
“don’t go shy on me now.”
your hips shift a little. “you’re staring.”
he huffs out a laugh, hand spasming over soft skin, “can you blame me?” he asks with a good helping of reverence and not a lick of denial in the question.
his eyes never stray away and fuck, you don’t even think he’s blinking.
“almost want to take my time with how pretty she is,” his chest rises with a deep inhale, like he’s trying to breathe you in. “wet too.”
one look at your face lets him know that you would walk out if he tried, and he has to stifle a grin.
“maybe next time,” he decides, and when he sees you about to tell him there won't be a “next time”, he lifts the vibrator and presses the tip of it against your clit.
and for someone who claimed it didn’t work, the effect it has on you is intense. your breath hitches, body bucking up, and he groans at the sight of your tits bouncing under your shirt.
he nearly dropped to his knees in anguish when you refused to take it off, but the way your nipples stiffen under the fabric almost makes it worth it.
“oh shit,” the moan draws his attention away from your chest, and he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth at the fucked-out look on your face.
satoru drags the silicone toy along your slit, and while glittery wetness immediately drenches it, it’s not nearly enough.
so he rears back and draws his cheeks in. when his lips part, a fat blob of spit splatters onto your clit. your hips pitch and the mess drips all the way down to your ass.
satoru watches your head roll against your pillow. hair splaying out messily and eyes a little too glassy, “toru,”
“too pretty for your own good, ” he husks quietly. as if it was only meant for his ears.
he presses himself against your thigh. cock thick and hard as it strains under his jeans, and you clench around nothing. suddenly painfully empty.
with how easy it is for satoru to map your reactions, someone would think this wasn’t the first time the two of you were doing this. it's like he can sense what you need long before you do. so, when your lips part to beg him for something your mind can barely string together, he's already nudging the vibrator against your entrance and slowly pushing it inside.
he pumps it in and out of you in deep, teasingly slow strokes that make it impossible to bite back your moans.
they sound embarrassing to your ears. all too high some moments and wavering into soundless gasps in others, but satoru clearly doesn't share the sentiment. he grinds his cock against your thigh harder, and it pulses with each sound that pours out your mouth. he feels them wash over his back and light up the base of his spine in a white-hot beam.
“you’re so fucking hot,” the vibrator is turned up a couple notches, and you freeze when you feel it.
you’re close.
a broken gasp escapes, then you react how you always do.
you run from it.
panicked and restless when your hips shift back and each pulse has you squirming.
you only get far enough to make an inch of the dildo slip out before a hand curls around your waist and holds you in place.
“where are you going?” gojo tilts his head at you and you think his eyes are the brightest you’ve ever seen them.
slowly, something clicks into place behind them, and a huff of laughter bubbles out.
“wait…don’t tell me you're a runner,” he's so tickled you're tempted to hit him again. but it's impossible to do anything but jerk when he plunges the toy to the hilt again. “well shit, baby, no wonder you thought it was broken.”
his eyes crinkle at the corners, and you would’ve found his wide grin cute if he didn't turn the intensity all the way up.
he lets the toy buzz inside of you and when you recoil, both hands grip your hips and swiftly tug you back.
“nuh uh, we can’t have you running away when you’re so close.”
“f-fuck, i can’t,” you whine. head shaking from side to side, and he coos.
“of course you can, pretty,” satoru drapes his body over yours, one burly thigh snug between your legs to keep the toy in place. and to keep grinding against your soft thighs.
“you’re doing so much better already,” he murmurs quietly, hips already moving against you. “just need me to hold you down and make you take it, hm?”
he phrases that like a question but slants his lips over yours to muffle your answer. satoru groans into your mouth, tongue swirling around yours and teeth sinking into your bottom lip.
your fingers twist into the sheets, clutching at them as if they would ground you. it proves useless because the filth coming out satoru’s mouth is clearly trying to leave you wrecked by the end of this.
“god, the sounds you make around fake cock,” he grunts against your jaw, hips shuttering for a moment before rutting harder. “should’ve—shit—just offered you the real thing.”
arousal pools around the vibrator to drip down onto the sheets below and it takes everything to keep your eyes from rolling backwards.
“oh my god,” you whimper, and he licks up the seam of your lips.
“be a good girl and stop holding back. let yourself feel it,” your hips roll upwards and his chest rumbles with a sound that doesn’t even sound human anymore. “yeah, there you go, fuck yourself on it.”
he was delirious. blabbering almost as much as you were, but at least he was halfway coherent. your limbs seal around him. legs coiling tight around his trim waist and hands sneaking under his shirt to scratch at his back.
your nails must dig in a little too deeply because a hiss is punctured against your lips. you draw back, scared you hurt him, and he shakes his head.
“do it again,” he pleads. palming your clothed tit. “like you mean it this time.”
a shocked huff leaves you, “jesus, you’re insane.”
the unhinged laugh that echoes through your room only proves your point, but you oblige. your nails rake over his muscled back, and the sound he makes makes your clit pulse.
“oh, c’mon baby harder,” you cut into skin, and he chokes. “ah—fuck yes!”
satoru doesn’t bother holding himself up anymore. he just lets all his weight bear down on you, basically trapping you under him.
he drops his head to the swell of your breast, and your back bows when he latches onto your nipple through your shirt, sucking it into his mouth and wetting the fabric.
“cum for me,” he hums against the peak when you tense under him.
you have a brief moment of panic when your breath gets stuck somewhere in your chest. it wracks with a broken sob, and even when you go limp with your release, the vibrations between your legs don’t stop.
satoru shudders not long after you. moaning between your breasts while his cum makes a mess of his briefs. it spurts onto material in thick pulses and you swear you feel it on your skin. warm, sticky and sleek.
he stays on you for a second longer, then lifts himself onto his elbows so he doesn’t accidentally smother you.
it’s only when he slides the vibrator out that air returns to your lungs. tension leaves your body and your spine loosens again.
your eyes flit over to him and they bulge when you see him raise the toy to his mouth. glossy lips wrapping around the silicone, as he sucks your arousal and cum off of it.
the slurping noise he makes while he keeps his eyes on yours has liquid heat building up in your belly again, so intense it’s like you didn’t cum seconds ago. he releases it from his mouth with a pop and grins widely.
“see? works perfectly.”
you had a total psycho for a best friend, and whatever craze that infected him had to be spreading. because when he parts your legs again, murmuring something about making you squirt with round two…
note: hi this is a scheduled post. period cramps currently have me on my ass but i’ll be back online as soon as i can. lmk if you saw any errors okay? okay.
ps: @rambld see what other best friends are doing? lock in.
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ satoru spirals with jealousy, realizes he’s in love with you, and ends up desperately confessing before wrecking you all night to prove you’re his.
✿ ◞◟) gojo satoru 𝓍 female!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, fwb to lovers, jealousy, pussy eating, fingering, oral (f! receiving), nipple play, multiple orgasms, heavy overstimulation, desperate & needy satoru, marking, crying during sex, praise kink implied, dirty talk, begging, unprotected sex (p in v), creampie.
the thing about gojo satoru was that he’d never had to work for much of anything in his life.
it wasn’t arrogance, well… not exactly — or maybe it was, but it was the kind of arrogance that came from being six-foot-three with a face that made people stop mid-sentence, from having a laugh that filled up whatever room he was in, from being the kind of person who could walk into any party and leave with whoever he wanted without ever having to try.
and satoru knew what he looked like; he knew what he did to people. and somewhere along the way, he’d learned that keeping things light, keeping things easy, was the only way to make sure nothing ever got messy enough to hurt.
that was why, freshman year, when he’d first pulled you aside after a night of too many drinks and way too much static between you both, he’d laid it out plain and simple;
no feelings. no complications. just having fun.
of course, you’d agreed; you’d shrugged, even, like it was nothing, and something about that had made satoru like you even more. there was no whiplash, no pining, simply two young people who happened to fit together really, really well, and who were smart enough not to ruin it by wanting more.
and it had worked, for three whole years, it had worked.
you were satoru’s go-to, his reliable, the only person he texted at midnight with nothing but an address or a you up? and you’d show up, or he’d show up, and there was no pretense, no performance, just the two of you, falling into each other like it was the easiest thing in the world.
satoru knew by heart the pretty little sounds you made when you were trying to stay quiet, satoru knew the way your hands fisted in his sheets when he hit the right spot, satoru knew the way you’d shove at his chest afterward, laughing, telling him to go get a towel, you menace.
and he knew — he knew — that there was no one else.
not because you’d ever promised each other anything; you hadn’t, that was the whole point. but somewhere along the way, it had just become… understood. you were his. not in a way that required words, but in a way that was simply true.
so when nanami mentioned, so casually it almost didn’t register, that he’d seen you at that café on fourth street with some guy from the business school — tall, dark hair, looked like he was trying way too hard — gojo didn’t react.
really, he didn’t react.
he just stood there in the doorway of nanami’s apartment, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, and blinked.
“what?”
“your friend,” nanami said, unbothered, because nanami was always unbothered, which was probably why gojo kept him around. “the one you’re always with. she was on a date.”
a date?
the word landed somewhere in satoru’s chest like a stone dropped into still water, and the ripples spread outward before he could stop them.
“it wasn’t a date,” he heard himself say, and even he didn’t believe it at all.
nanami just raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his beer.
“she was laughing at his jokes. he paid. and she let him walk her to her door.”
satoru’s jaw tightened.
he didn’t even ask how the hell nanami knew about the door part. actually, he didn’t ask anything. he just stood there for a beat too long, then laughed — a short, sharp sound that didn’t reach his eyes — and said something dismissive, something about good for her, and walked away.
but the feeling didn’t go away.
it sat in satoru’s chest for the rest of the night, heavy and hot, and by the time he got back to his own apartment, he’d convinced himself it was just… surprise. yeah, that was all. you’d never once mentioned going on a date. you’d never mentioned anyone else. and okay, fine, you didn’t owe him that, you didn’t owe him anything, but—
but…
satoru woke up the next morning with that same weight pressing down on him, and it didn’t lift; not when he went to class, not when he sat through a lecture he didn’t hear a word of, not when he pulled out his phone and stared at your name in his messages; his thumb hovering over the keyboard, typing and deleting and typing again.
hey, you free tonight?
what are you doing later?
heard you went on a date???
satoru deleted that last one before he could send it.
it sounded crazy. it sounded jealous. and gojo satoru didn’t get jealous; no, gojo satoru was the one who’d set the rules in the first place. gojo satoru didn’t do complications.
so why did it feel like his chest was caving in?
he told himself he wasn’t going to say anything. he told himself it was none of his business. he told himself that whatever you did, whoever you saw, it didn’t matter, because you weren’t his, and that was exactly how he’d wanted it.
but, three days later, satoru saw you walking across campus.
you were smiling. not at him — you were smiling at your phone, your thumbs moving fast over the screen, your cheeks a little pink. and you were dressed differently, too. not in the sweats and oversized hoodie you wore when you came over to his place, but in a pretty skirt. a pretty skirt. with your legs bare and your hair down and something soft and open about your face that satoru had never seen before.
or maybe he had, maybe he just hadn’t been looking.
oh.
the realization hit him like a freight train.
satoru was in love with you.
not the casual, comfortable fondness he’d let himself feel. not the you’re fun, you’re hot, we work well together kind of affection, but something real. something terrifying, something that had been growing in the spaces satoru purposely hadn’t been paying attention to, rooting itself deep, and now it was way too late to pull it out.
satoru stood there in the middle of the quad, simply watching you walk away, and for the first time in his life, gojo satoru had no idea what to do.
he spent the next two days trying to talk himself out of it.
it was just habit, he told himself. you’d been around for three years, of course he’d miss you if you weren’t there anymore. it didn’t mean anything. it was just—
but every time he closed his eyes, he saw you in that skirt, smiling at your phone, laughing at some other guy’s jokes.
and the thought of someone else’s hands on you, someone else’s mouth, someone else waking up next to you in the morning, made something in him go white-hot and feral.
satoru couldn’t eat, he couldn’t even sleep; the boy was pacing his apartment like a caged animal, running his hands through his soft white hair until it stuck up in every weird direction, and when his phone buzzed — your name lighting up the screen — he nearly dropped it.
hi, you okay? haven’t heard from you in a few days.
satoru stared at it.
and then, before he could think better of it, he was grabbing his keys and walking out the door.
satoru didn’t knock.
actually, he never knocked — you’d given him a key ages ago, back when it was easier than you having to get up and let him in at 2am — but this time, when he pushed the door open, there was nothing easy about it.
you were sitting on your couch, a textbook open on your lap, a pen prettily tucked behind your ear. your hair was up in a messy bun, and you were wearing those ridiculous fuzzy socks you loved so much, and you looked so normal, so you, that his chest physically ached.
“satoru?”
you looked up, eyebrows drawing together. your eyes swept over him — at the wild hair, the dark circles under his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw — and something shifted in your expression. now there was concern, and confusion.
“what’s wrong? you look—”
“don’t go.”
the words roughly came out before satoru could stop them; cracked at the edges, not his voice at all.
you blinked. “what?”
satoru stood in the doorway, completely frozen, his hand still on the doorknob. he’d imagined this moment a hundred times in the past two days, and in every version, he was smooth, he was charming, he found the perfect words, the perfect smile, the perfect way to make this easy.
but that wasn’t what happened at all.
what happened was that satoru’s hands started shaking. what happened was that his voice cracked in the middle of your name. what happened was that he stood there, six-foot-three and undone, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
“i heard you went on a date.”
your mouth opened before closing again.
“how did you—”
“it doesn’t matter.”
satoru stepped forward, then stopped, like he wasn’t really sure he was allowed to come any closer. his hands were shoved in his pockets now, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was working, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes.
“just—don’t go on another one.”
“satoru…”
“i know,” he laughed, but it was hollow, nothing like the easy, carefree sound you were used to. “i know i don’t have the right to say that. i know what we are. i know i’m the one who said no feelings, no complications, no—”
satoru’s voice broke.
he stopped, slowly swallowed, and when he looked up at you, his eyes were bright, his usual arrogance stripped away until all that was left was something raw and desperate and so achingly human it made your chest tighten.
“don’t go,” he said again, softer this time. “please.”
you set your textbook aside slowly, your heart pounding.
you’d never seen satoru like this. hell, you’d never seen him anything less than composed, less than perfectly in control, and the sight of him right now — messy, shaking, his carefully constructed walls crumbling around him — made something twist in your stomach.
“satoru,” you said carefully. “what are you saying?”
he crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees in front of the couch.
your breath caught.
satoru’s hands came up to rest on your knees, his fingers curling into the fabric of your sweatpants like he was holding on for dear life. he was looking up at you now, and there was nothing playful in his gaze, nothing teasing, just heat and fear and something that looked terrifyingly like love.
“i’ll do anything,” satoru said, and his voice was low, rough, cracking on the last syllable. “i’ll be whatever you want. whatever you need. just—just don’t—”
satoru couldn’t even finish the sentence.
his forehead dropped to your knee, and you felt the shudder that ran through him, felt the way his hands tightened, and your heart, your stupid, traitorous heart, was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.
“i’ll stop being an idiot,” he mumbled against your leg. “i’ll stop pretending i don’t—that i don’t—”
he lifted his head, and his eyes were wet.
gojo satoru, who literally never cried about anything, who laughed in the face of anything serious, who had spent three whole years keeping you at arm’s length so he wouldn’t have to feel this — was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
“i love you,” he said, and the words came out broken, desperate, nothing like the smooth confession he’d probably imagined. “i love you, and i’m an idiot, and i know i don’t deserve to ask you for anything, but please. please. don’t go.”
you stared at him.
and then, before you could think, before you could second-guess or talk yourself out of it, you were leaning forward, cupping his face in your hands, and pulling him up.
satoru came easily, eagerly, his huge hands sliding up your thighs as he rose to his knees, then higher, until his face was level with yours. his breath was warm against your lips, his alluring eyes searching yours for something you weren’t sure you knew how to give.
“say something,” he whispered. “please. i’m losing my mind.”
you simply kissed him.
and this kiss was three years of pretending you didn’t want more, three years of biting your tongue and telling yourself it was fine, three years of loving him from a safe distance — all of it poured into one desperate, messy press of lips.
satoru made a sound against your mouth, something between a gasp and a groan, and then his hands were in your hair, pulling you closer, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper. his tongue slid against yours, and the taste of him, the feel of him — familiar and yet completely new, now that there was nothing held back — made your head spin.
“i really thought—” satoru broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. “i thought you were going to—some other guy, and i really couldn’t—i couldn’t breathe, i couldn’t think—”
“there was no other guy,” you said, and you heard your own voice crack, heard the tears you hadn’t realized you were holding back. “i went on one date, and i spent the whole time wishing it was you.”
satoru’s hands tightened in your hair.
“say that again.”
“i wished it was you, satoru,” you whispered. “i’ve always wished it was you.”
the sound he made was almost pained, and his mouth found yours again, hungrier this time, and his huge hands slid down your body — your shoulders, your arms, your waist — like he was relearning every single inch of you, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
“i’m sorry,” he breathed against your lips. “i’m sorry i was so stupid. i’m sorry i made you think—”
“satoru.”
“—that i didn’t want this. that i didn’t want you. because i do, i want you so much it scares me, i want—”
you kissed him quiet, and satoru completely melted into you, his weight pressing you back against the couch cushions, his body covering yours like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world.
“show me,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.
satoru’s pupils were blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen, his hair a complete mess; he looked wrecked, he looked beautiful.
“show me how much you want me.”
his breath stuttered out of him.
“fuck,” satoru whispered.
and then the boy was kissing down your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat, his huge hands pushing up under your shirt, his palms flat against your stomach, your ribs, the undersides of your breasts.
“i’m gonna make you feel so good,” he said, and his voice was low, rough, and reverent. “i’m gonna make you forget anyone else ever existed. i’m gonna make you mine.”
satoru looked up at you then, still on his knees between your legs, his face flushed, his eyes dark, and there was nothing playful about him; just a man who’d spent three whole years running from something he should have been running toward, finally, finally done pretending.
“tell me you want that,” he said. “tell me you want me.”
you reached down, cupped his face in your hands, and pulled him up until his lips were a breath away from yours.
“i’ve always wanted you,” you said. “i was just waiting for you to catch up.”
he kissed you like a man drowning, and you let yourself fall.
satoru’s mouth was desperate, hungry, like he was trying to make up for three years of holding back in a single kiss. his hands were everywhere — your jaw, your neck, your shoulders, your waist — like he couldn’t decide where to touch first, like he needed to feel all of you at once or he’d forget how.
you kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. satoru’s weight pressed you into the couch cushions, and you could feel his heart pounding against your chest, or maybe that was yours, or maybe it was both of you, tangled up together and beating out of sync.
“need—” satoru gasped against your mouth, pulling back just far enough to breathe, and his voice was wrecked, barely there. “need you in your room. now.”
you didn’t have time to respond before he was pulling you up, his huge hands sliding down to grip your thighs, lifting you without apparent effort. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and his mouth was on yours again before you could even register that you were moving.
satoru didn’t break the kiss.
not when he stumbled slightly in the hallway, not when his shoulder bumped the doorframe, not when he slowly lowered your body onto your bed and followed you down, his body completely covering yours like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go for even a single second.
your back hit the mattress, and satoru was there, everywhere, his lips never leaving yours. his tongue slid against your lower lip, then into your mouth, slow and deep, and you moaned, your hands coming up to tangle in his white hair, pulling him closer even though there was nowhere left to go.
“satoru,” you breathed, and he made a sound; low, almost pained, against your mouth.
“say it again.”
“satoru—”
his hips pressed into yours, and you felt him then, already hard and so so so desperate through his jeans, and the way he shuddered when you instinctively rolled up to meet him sent a thrill through your entire body.
“fuck,” satoru whispered.
his lips trailed away from your mouth, down your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just below your ear.
“i’ve got you. i’ve got you, okay? just let me—”
satoru’s hands were shaking as he pushed up the hem of your shirt, his palms sliding against bare skin, and he pulled back just enough to look at you; and oh, his eyes were dark, pupils blown so wide there was barely any blue left.
“you have no idea,” he said, and his voice cracked. “how long i’ve wanted to do this. for real.”
you reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and tugged it; satoru helped you pull it over his head, and then he was bare above you, with broad shoulders and lean muscle, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.
you let your hands trace down his collarbone, his chest, the lines of his abdomen, and he shivered under your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a second.
“you’re so pretty,” you said without thinking, and he let out a breathless laugh — the first real laugh you’d heard from him all night, soft and surprised and a little embarrassed.
“that’s supposed to be my line.”
satoru dipped his head, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat, then lower, his lips dragging down your sternum as his fingers found the hem of your shirt again. he pushed it up, slowly, uncovering you inch by inch, and when his mouth reached the lace of your bra, he paused.
his breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel him trembling again as he looked up at you through his lashes.
“can i?”
you nodded, not trusting your voice, and satoru smiled before hooking his fingers under the fabric and pulling it down.
satoru’s hands were so careful as he bared you, reverent almost, and the way he looked at you completely made your stomach flip; like you were something precious, something he couldn’t believe he got to touch.
“god,” the boy breathed, and then his mouth was on you, hot and wet and so perfect, his warm tongue circling your nipple before sucking gently.
your back arched off the bed, a gasp tearing out of you, and his hand came up to cup your other breast, his thumb brushing over the peak in slow, deliberate circles.
“satoru—”
“i know,” he murmured against your skin, switching to the other side, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed the sting. “i know, baby. i’ve got you.”
the words sent a rush of heat through you, pooling low in your belly, and you could feel yourself growing wetter by the second, your thighs pressing together instinctively.
satoru must have noticed, because his hips rolled into the mattress, a soft groan escaping him, and his mouth started moving lower again; down your ribs, your stomach, your hipbone, his lips and teeth and tongue leaving a trail of fire in their wake. he paused at the waistband of your sweatpants, his fingers hooking into the elastic, and looked up at you.
“okay?”
well… you were pretty sure you’d never been more okay in your entire life.
“fuck, yes,” you said, and your voice came out breathless, desperate. “please.”
satoru’s eyes darkened.
he pulled your sweatpants down slowly, dragging them over your hips, your thighs, your knees, his knuckles brushing against your skin with every inch. when he reached your ankles, he tossed them aside, and then he was just staring at you — you, laid out beneath him in nothing but a pair of thin cotton panties that were definitely already soaked through.
satoru’s hands slid up your calves, your knees, the insides of your thighs, pushing them gently apart. you let him, spreading for him without hesitation, and the noise he made when he saw the dark spot on your underwear was almost animal.
“fuck,” he breathed. “you’re already so wet.”
your face burned, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed — not with the way he was looking at you, like you were something he’d been starving for.
satoru hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down with the same agonizing slowness; you lifted your hips to help, and he slid them off, discarding them somewhere on the floor, and then—
then he was just looking at you. all of you. his gaze so intense it made your thighs twitch, made you want to close them, but satoru held them open, his hands firm on your knees.
“so pretty,” he said, echoing your words from earlier, and his voice was rough, reverent. “so pretty, and you’ve been right here the whole time, and i was too stupid to—”
he cut himself off, shaking his head, and then he was lowering himself, his shoulders spreading your thighs further apart, his breath hot against the inside of your leg.
“satoru—”
“i’m gonna take my time,” he said, his lips brushing against your inner thigh, just inches from where you needed him. “i’ve waited three years. i’m not rushing this.”
satoru pressed a soft kiss to your thigh, then another, then another; each one higher, closer, until you were squirming beneath him, your fingers twisting in the sheets, a whine building in your throat.
“please,” you gasped. “satoru, please—”
“tell me what you want.”
“you know what i want.”
satoru hummed against your skin, and you felt his smile, his lips curving against your thigh.
“i want to hear you say it.”
your face was burning, your heart pounding, your entire body pulled taut like a string about to snap.
“i want you to—” you swallowed, your voice dropping to barely a whisper. “i want you to taste me.”
satoru’s exhale was shaky, almost surprised, like even though he’d asked for it, hearing you say it hit him harder than he expected — even though it’s not the first time.
“yeah?” his voice was low, a little rough. “you want my mouth on you, baby?”
you nodded, unable to form words, and he made a guttural sound before finally, finally lowering his head.
the first touch of his tongue was so light you almost thought you’d imagined it; it was a slow, flat lick from your entrance to your clit, broad and warm and unhurried, and your hips jerked off the bed, a cry tearing out of you.
“god,” satoru breathed, and you could hear the grin in his voice. “you taste even better than before.”
he did it again, slower this time, dragging his tongue through your folds like he was savoring you, and your hand flew down to tangle in his white hair, holding him there.
he groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight up your spine, and his arms slid under your thighs, hooking over his shoulders, opening you up even more.
“stay still for me,” satoru murmured, and then his mouth was on you properly, his lips closing around your clit, his tongue circling in slow, deliberate strokes.
you couldn’t have stayed still even if you tried.
your hips rolled against satoru’s face, chasing the pressure, and he simply let you, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you steady enough for him to work. he sucked gently, then harder, then released with a soft pop that made your breath hitch, before diving back in.
“satoru—”
“i know,” he said against you, his voice muffled, and the vibration made you moan. “let go. i’ve got you.”
satoru’s tongue flattened against your clit, pressing down just right, and your vision went white at the edges, but then he pulled back, switching to something slower, softer, and you whined in protest.
“patience,” he said, and you could hear the smirk even if you couldn’t see his face. “i told you. i’m taking my time.”
he kissed your inner thigh again, then your other thigh, then back to the center, teasing you with the lightest flick of his tongue before pulling away again. you were shaking now, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, and he seemed to sense that you were at your limit, because he stopped playing.
satoru’s mouth covered you again, his tongue working your clit in tight, focused circles while one of his hands slid up your thigh, his fingers brushing against your entrance.
you were so wet that he slid inside without resistance — one finger, then two, curling up just right, and your back arched off the bed, a broken cry escaping your lips.
“there she is,” satoru murmured, his breath so warm against you. “there you go, baby. that’s it.”
his fingers moved slowly at first, matching the rhythm of his tongue, in and out, curling against that sweet little spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.
you could feel yourself tightening around his long fingers, your climax building low and deep, and satoru must have felt it too, because his pace quickened, his tongue pressing harder, his fingers curling faster.
“come for me,” he said, his voice rough, desperate. “wanna taste it. wanna taste you when you fall apart.”
his mouth closed around your clit again, sucking gently, and his fingers pressed deeper, and the combination was too much, too perfect, too everything—
you shattered.
your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your hips bucking against satoru’s face, your hands fisting in his hair, a scream caught in your throat, but he didn’t stop; satoru kept licking, kept sucking, kept his fingers buried deep inside you, working you through it, drawing it out until you were gasping, trembling, completely undone.
and then, when you thought it was over, when you thought he’d finally let you breathe—
satoru didn’t stop.
his tongue was still moving, slower now, gentler, but still there, still circling, still pressing, and your overstimulated nerves lit up like fireworks, too much and not enough all at once.
“satoru,” you gasped, tugging at his hair. “satoru, i—”
he hummed against you, and the vibration made you whimper, your thighs trying to close around his head.
“shh,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. his chin was wet, his lips red and swollen, his eyes dark and half-lidded. he looked drunk. “i’m not done with you yet.”
“i can’t—”
“you can,” satoru lowered his mouth again, pressing a soft kiss to your clit that made you jolt. “you’re gonna give me one more. i know you can.”
his fingers started moving again, slow and deep, and his tongue went back to your clit, lighter this time, barely there, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge.
“you taste so fucking good,” he said, his voice muffled, and you could hear how much he meant it, could feel it in the way his hips were grinding into the mattress, desperate for friction he wasn’t giving himself. “i could stay here all night. i could eat you out until you forget your own name.”
your hands pushed weakly at his head, but he didn’t budge. if anything, he pressed closer, his tongue flattening against you, his fingers curling deeper.
“t-toru, please, it’s too much—”
“it’s not,” satoru said, and his voice was thick, almost reverent. “it’s not too much. you’re doing so well. you’re so good for me. just one more, okay? just one more, and i’ll stop.”
his thumb found your clit while his fingers kept working, rubbing slow circles that had you seeing stars, and you could feel the pressure building again, faster this time, sharper, too intense and too perfect and you couldn’t—
“that’s it,” he breathed. “that’s it, baby. let go. let go for me.”
your second orgasm hit before you could brace for it, ripping through you like a wave, and you did cry out — a broken, sobbing sound, your back arching off the bed, your hands shoving at his head, trying to push him away because it was too much, too much, too much—
but satoru didn’t move.
his mouth stayed on you, his tongue gentler now but still present, still tasting, still drawing out every last shudder until you were lying there, limp and trembling, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.
only then did he lift his head.
satoru looked wrecked; his lips were slick, his chin wet, his hair a wild mess from your fingers. his chest was heaving, and when you looked down, you could see the obvious strain in his jeans, the way his hips were pressing into the mattress like he was trying to get any kind of friction.
but he was smiling, like he’d just been the one to come.
“hey,” he said, his voice rough, and he crawled up your body, his weight settling over you, his face hovering above yours.
satoru reached up, softly brushing the tears from your pink cheeks with his thumb, his expression tender in a way you’d never seen before.
“you okay?”
you couldn’t speak, so you just nodded, your breathing still uneven, your legs still shaking.
he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose.
“you were so good,” satoru murmured against your skin. “so perfect. tasted like heaven.”
you let out a shaky laugh, your hands coming up to rest on his chest; you could feel satoru’s heartbeat under your palms, racing as fast as yours.
“you’re insane,” you whispered.
satoru grinned — that familiar, cocky grin, but it was softer around the edges.
“yeah,” he said, his hips pressing into yours, letting you feel exactly how much he’d enjoyed himself. “but you like it.”
and you didn’t deny it.
you just pulled him down by the back of his neck and kissed him, tasting yourself on satoru’s lips, and felt him smile against your mouth.
“i’m not done with you yet,” the boy said when you finally broke apart, his forehead resting against yours. “but we’ve got all night. yeah?”
you smiled, your fingers tracing down his chest, over his stomach, to the waistband of his jeans.
“yeah,” you said. “all night.”
satoru’s grin softened into something warmer, something that made your chest ache in the best way ever.
he kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour every word he’d said tonight into the way his lips moved against yours. your fingers found the waistband of his jeans again, fumbling with the button, and for a moment he let you, his breath hitching when your knuckles brushed against the hardness straining beneath the denim.
but then satoru’s hand gently caught yours, his long fingers lacing through yours and pressing your palm flat against his stomach instead.
“wait,” he murmured against your lips. “wait.”
you blinked up at him, confused. “i thought—”
“i know what you thought,” his voice was low, rough, but there was a softness underneath it that made your stomach flip.
satoru brought your joined hands up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
“and i love that you want to. but not tonight.”
“satoru—”
“tonight,” he said, releasing your hand only to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “you’re the one getting taken care of.”
you opened your mouth to protest — you really wanted to touch him, you wanted to make him feel as wrecked as he’d made you — but he simply shook his head, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“let me,” he said, and his voice cracked just slightly on the words. “please. i need to show you. i need to—” he paused, swallowing, his eyes searching yours. “i spent three years pretending i didn’t want this. pretending i didn’t love you. and i can’t—i don’t want to be selfish anymore. not with you.”
your throat tightened. “toru, you’re not—”
“let me do this,” he whispered. “let me love you the way i should’ve been loving you this whole time.”
you couldn’t argue with that; not when satoru was looking at you like that, like you were something so precious, something he was afraid to break. you nodded, your hand coming up to rest over his on your cheek.
“okay,” you breathed. “okay.”
the smile he gave you was radiant — not the cocky, practiced grin he wore for the rest of the world, but something real, something so raw.
and then satoru was kissing you again, and this kiss was different from all the others; it was way slower, and it was way deeper. his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that made your toes curl, his hands sliding down your sides, your hips, your thighs, relearning every curve.
when he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. he sat up, kneeling between your legs, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as he reached for the button of his jeans.
satoru didn’t rush; his fingers worked the button open, then the zipper, and the sound of it seemed impossibly loud in the quiet of your room. the white haired boy pushed his jeans down his hips, and you couldn’t help the way your eyes dropped, couldn’t help the way your breath caught when you saw him — the thick length of him straining against his boxer briefs, a dark spot already forming at the tip.
“fuck,” you whispered.
you reached out, your fingers brushing against satoru’s, and helped him push them down.
he was — god. you’d seen him before, of course you had, three years of this arrangement meant you knew every single inch of him, but this was different. this was satoru, your satoru, kneeling above you with his heart in his throat and his cock now heavy against his stomach, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that really mattered.
you’d always known that satoru was big, but seeing him right now, flushed and leaking and so hard it had to be painful, made your mouth water.
“you’re staring,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, but there was a tremor underneath it.
“you’re worth staring at.”
satoru’s cheeks flushed — a pretty pink that crept up to the tips of his ears — and something warm unfurled in your chest. you reached for him, wanting to touch, wanting to wrap your hand around him and feel the weight of him, but he caught your wrist again, gentle but firm.
“i told you,” satoru said, lowering himself over you, his forearms bracketing your head, his hips settling between your thighs. “tonight’s about you.”
you could feel him then — the heat of him, the press of his cock against your inner thigh, so close to where you were still slick and sensitive from before.
your hips twitched involuntarily, seeking friction, and he let out a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours.
“so impatient,” he murmured, but there was no teasing in it, just wonder. “you have no idea what you do to me.”
satoru shifted his hips, and then he was there — the head of his cock sliding against your wet folds, nudging against your sensitive clit before dragging back down, coating himself in the wetness that was still there from when he’d had his mouth on you, and the sensation made you gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders.
“satoru—”
“i know,” he breathed. “i know, baby. i’ve got you.”
he did it again; a slow roll of his hips that had his cock sliding against your entrance, but not entering, just teasing, just feeling. the friction was maddening, the heat of him searing against your most sensitive parts, and you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for him to fill you.
“please,” you gasped. “please, satoru, i need—”
“what do you need?” satoru’s voice was strained, his jaw tight, and you could see the effort it was taking him to hold back; his arms were trembling on either side of you, his abs tense, every line of his body drawn taut. “tell me.”
“you,” you said, and your voice cracked. “toru, i need you inside me. please.”
his eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a shudder running through him, and when he opened them again, they were dark, pupils blown so wide there was barely any blue left.
“yeah?” he reached down between you, his hand wrapping around his cock, and the sight of him — the way his fingers didn’t quite close around the girth of him, the way his knuckles brushed against your wetness — made your thighs tremble. “you want this? want me to fill you up?”
“yes. god—yes.”
satoru guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you, and for a moment he just stayed there, not pushing in, just letting you feel the stretch of him. you were already so wet, already so ready, but he was so big that even the pressure of him made you gasp.
“breathe,” he whispered, and then he was pushing in.
slowly. oh, so slowly you could feel every inch of him; the way your body had to open up to take him, the way he had to pause halfway to let you adjust. his jaw was clenched, his eyes squeezed shut, and you could feel him shaking again with the effort of not just slamming into you.
“f-fuck,” satoru gritted out. “fuck, you’re so tight. you feel—” his voice broke, and he pressed his forehead against yours again, his breath coming in ragged pants. “you feel so good. so fucking good.”
he kept going, inch by inch, until finally — finally — his hips were flush against yours, and you were full, so full you could barely breathe, could barely think. satoru was buried inside you to the hilt, and the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he was stretching you so perfectly made your eyes water.
“okay?” he asked, and his voice was wrecked. “are you okay?”
you couldn’t speak properly, so you simply nodded, your hands sliding up into his soft white hair, pulling him down until your foreheads were touching.
“move,” you whispered. “please move.”
satoru pulled back slowly, the drag of him against your walls making you whimper, and then he pushed back in, just as slow, just as deliberate; the rhythm he set was unhurried, almost lazy, his hips rolling against yours in a way that made every nerve in your body light up.
“look at me,” he said, and you did, your eyes meeting his.
satoru’s face was flushed, his lips parted, his hair falling into his eyes; he looked so beautiful like this, undone, all his carefully constructed walls stripped away.
“i want to see your face when i make you cum.”
his pace picked up, just slightly, each thrust pressing him deeper inside you, harder, until you could literally feel him in your throat. satoru’s hands slid under your hips, tilting you up, changing the angle, and when he hit that sweet little spot inside you — that spot that made your vision go white — you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“there?” he asked, and there was a desperate edge to his voice. “is that the spot, baby?”
you couldn’t answer, hell, you couldn’t do anything but cling to him as he drove deep into you, each thrust hitting that same spot over and over again. satoru was kissing you everywhere now — your mouth, your jaw, your throat — his lips and teeth leaving a trail of heat wherever they touched.
“you’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough. “so fucking beautiful. i can’t believe—” he thrust harder, and you moaned, your back arching off the bed. “i can’t believe i almost lost this. almost lost you.”
his mouth found your collarbone, your shoulder, your breast; satoru took your nipple into his hungry mouth, sucking hard, and the combination of that and the way he was deeply fucking you made you sob.
“satoru—satoru, i’m close—”
“i know,” he said, and he sounded drunk, drugged, his words slurring against your skin. “i can feel you, baby. you’re squeezing me so tight. fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”
satoru reached down between you, his thumb finding your clit, and the touch, even through the overstimulation from earlier, sent a jolt through you so intense that you nearly screamed.
“cum for me,” he said, his voice breaking. “cum on my cock. let me feel it.”
satoru pressed down on your clit in slow, tight little circles, matching the rhythm of his hips, and the pressure built and built and built until—
you completely shattered.
your orgasm ripped through you like a wave, your body arching off the bed, your walls clenching around him so hard that he groaned, his hips stuttering against yours.
“fuck—fuck, i’m—”
satoru came with a broken cry, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his hips grinding into you as he emptied himself inside you, hot and thick. you could feel it — the pulse of him, the warmth of him filling you up, and the sensation was so intense, so intimate, that you felt tears slip down your cheeks.
for a moment, neither of you moved.
his weight was heavy on top of you, his breath hot against your skin, his hands still gripping your hips like he was afraid to let go; you could feel his heart pounding against your chest, or maybe it was yours, or maybe it was both of you, tangled together and beating as one.
“toru,” you whispered, your fingers threading through his hair.
he lifted his head slowly, his eyes dazed, his lips red and swollen; he looked wrecked, completely undone, and when he saw your tears, his expression crumpled.
“hey,” he said, his voice hoarse. “hey, what’s wrong? did i—”
you shook your head, pulling him down until your foreheads were touching again.
“nothing’s wrong. i just—” you laughed, the sound watery. “i love you. i’ve loved you for so long.”
satoru’s breath caught, and then he was kissing you again, soft and slow, his lips moving against yours like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
“i love you too,” he said when he finally pulled back. “i love you so much it scares me.”
you smiled, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
satoru pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the spot just below your ear.
“i love you,” he said again, like he was testing the words, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say them. “i love you. i love you. i love you.”
you could feel him still inside you, softening but not fully, and when he shifted his weight, you winced —nsensitive, so sensitive, every nerve in your body still humming.
but satoru didn’t pull out.
instead, he lowered himself onto his elbows, his face hovering above yours, and started moving again; slow, shallow thrusts, barely pulling out before pressing back in, and the drag of him against your overstimulated walls made you gasp.
“satoru,” you whimpered, your hands pushing weakly at his chest. “i can’t—i’m too—”
“shh,” he murmured, and there was a wildness in his eyes, something desperate and hungry. “you can. you can take it. you’re doing so well, baby. so good for me.”
his hips kept moving, that same slow, torturous rhythm, and you could feel yourself growing wetter around him again, your body betraying you, responding to him even when you thought you had nothing left to give.
“i’m not done with you,” satoru said, and his voice was low, reverent. “i told you. all night.”
his hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, and you actually sobbed, the sensation too much and not enough all at once.
“you feel that?” satoru asked, his thumb circling, his hips grinding. “you feel how wet you are? you’re dripping, baby. you’re dripping all over my cock.”
and you were. you could feel it, the mix of his cum and yours sliding down your thighs, soaking into the sheets beneath you; the filth of it, the intimacy of it, made your face burn, but you couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t do anything but cling to him as he fucked you slow and deep.
“i want to feel you cum again,” he said, and his voice was shaking. “i want to feel you squeeze me again. can you do that for me? can you give me one more?”
you shook your head without even thinking, but satoru just give you that soft, devastating smile.
“you can,” the boy said. “i know you can. you’re so good for me. my good girl.”
the praise washed over you, warm and intoxicating, and you felt something loosen in your chest; your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and satoru groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before picking back up.
“that’s it,” he breathed. “that’s my girl. take it. take all of me.”
satoru was moving faster now, his hips snapping against yours, his thumb still working your oversensitive clit in tight, focused circles, and the pleasure was building again, sharp and bright, and you could feel yourself climbing toward something that felt almost too big to contain.
“satoru—i’m gonna—”
“i know,” he said, and his voice was wrecked, desperate. “cum for me. cum again. let me feel you.”
you came with a scream, your body convulsing around him, your nails raking down his back; satoru followed you a moment later, his hips stuttering, his mouth finding your shoulder to muffle the sound of his own groan as he spilled inside you again, adding to the mess, to the heat, to the overwhelming fullness that had you trembling beneath him.
he collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his face buried in your neck. you could feel his pulse racing against yours, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps, and for a long moment, neither of you moved.
finally, satoru lifted his head.
his face was flushed, his hair a complete disaster, his lips parted and kiss-swollen; he looked like he’d been thoroughly ruined, and the sight of him made your chest ache.
“i love you,” he whispered again.
he smiled; that soft, real smile that you were starting to think was made only for you, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“this is just the beginning,” satoru said, his voice rough but warm. “i’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”
summary: a fortune, the student council presidency, and a future already negotiated for you—complete with a ryomen engagement ring after you graduate from university. you’ve got it all… but is that really what you want? an unexpected friendship with gojo satoru makes the answer far less certain.
warnings: (18+) smut, porn with plot, fluff, light angst, college au, academic rivals/annoyances to lovers, oral (fem. receiving), p in v, criminally down bad!gojo, mentions of frat parties, alcohol consumption, marriages of convenience, family troubles, and overall rich people problems ™️, the university they go to is heavily implied to be aristocratic, brief sukuna x reader but she doesn’t fw him, anatomy & physiology facts that are probably incorrect but we shall ignore that for the sake of the plot
word count: 16.9k
art by bimyo_n!
Rumor has it that everything began the moment winter break ended.
You extended the handle of your suitcase and walked toward the foyer, where you were sure your mother was already waiting. By the time you rounded the corner, she was already unlocking the front door and pulling it open.
As if it couldn’t be any more obvious that she was eager for you to leave the house and return to university.
If you had to guess, the end of each break between semesters was her favorite time of year.
Well, that and her birthday—because your father had made a habit of buying her a new handbag each season, and if there was anything she loved more than a mansion to herself, it was a mansion to herself full of designer purses.
“The car is waiting for you,” she said simply, her tone lacking the warmth of a mother wishing her daughter farewell.
You hardly noticed its absence. You hadn’t felt it in years, anyway. You’d be lucky—or unlucky, you weren’t quite sure—if she hugged you goodbye.
Just as you opened your mouth to reply, you noticed the furrow in her brow. Wordlessly, she pressed her hand between your shoulder blades to correct your posture. “How is it that you’ve somehow managed to develop a slouch? Your father and I didn’t pay for you to go to charm school for nothing to come of it.”
Your jaw tightened, the familiar urge to shrug her hand away flared, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “And where is he? He couldn’t take an early lunch to come home and see me off?”
She released a breath that sounded more like a laugh than a scoff. “Why would he? You’re going to be back in two months for dinner with the Ryomen family. He’ll see you then.”
This time, your bitterness did reach your voice. “Oh. Right. That.”
Your suitcase was plucked from your side by the family driver and you watched as he loaded it into the trunk.
“Yes. That.” Your mother tugged at your skirt, as if that would make it any longer.
She looked at you sharply. Her message was clear, even though it remained wordless: don’t show up wearing something like this the next time we see you.
After all, appearances were important. You had learned that from an early age.
By the time you were ten, your eyebrows were already being plucked biweekly. Sometimes, thrice in one month, should your mother notice a hair out of place. At eleven, you learned what pore strips were, why they were used, and what people would say about you if you didn’t. Once you were fourteen, styling your hair came as easily as walking on two feet.
But the Ryomen family didn’t care about that as much as your mother did.
What they truly cared about was securing a fortune that would create generational wealth. They cared about fostering a bond with your parents that would lead to a prosperous business relationship. They only cared about you because you were the business—an investment that they expected to mature on schedule. Well, you and Sukuna, their son, whom you have practically been betrothed to since you were six years old.
Graduation was approaching, and you would bet your life that this dinner was a gimmick—one for both sets of parents to nudge you two closer together. Not that they cared whether you truly got along. Aligning the Ryomen fortune with your family name would make your combined estate as good as gold. They likely just wanted to ensure that the eventual marriage (business deal) would be lifelong.
Which is to say, they wanted to drill it into your head that filing for divorce was not an option once everything was said and done. How sweet of them.
You couldn’t worry about that now, though. You were already running late, and you needed to get back to campus and unpack. Classes start tomorrow morning, and you would hate to be seen with bags under your eyes—and your mother would certainly hate to hear about it from the monumental amount of staff at Mikage Academy, who seemed intent on notifying her of nearly every step you took over the past few years.
“Well, I should be going,” you muttered—more to yourself than to her—because you weren’t even confident she was listening anymore.
Your suspicions were confirmed when she muttered a final ‘don’t forget about the dinner’ before shutting the door behind you. She didn’t follow you out. Didn’t hug you goodbye either.
Once you were inside the vehicle—headphones on, with music blaring loud enough to drown out any chance at forming a coherent thought—you relaxed your shoulders and slouched, because there was no one here to pester you about it.
At least that was something you could be thankful for.
☆
The student council election was rapidly approaching, and that was just about all you were allowed to think about.
You knelt on the ground with a paintbrush in your hand, carefully mapping out the words Vote Y/N for Student Council President! :) on the posterboard.
The headphones in your ears were turned up a bit too high, because you hadn’t even noticed that your best friend, Utahime, had entered the empty workroom until she accidentally kicked over the can of red paint you had been using. You gasped as it splattered all over the poster, leaning back on the heels of your feet to ensure, at the very least, that it didn’t get on your clothes.
“Utahime!”
“I’m sorry!” she said quickly, tilting the can upright again.
The damage had already been done, though. She knelt beside you and carefully folded up the poster, tossing it into a nearby bin. Wiping her hands against each other, her eyes landed on you.
“Let the record show that I didn’t mean to do that and am guilty of all crimes regardless,” she paused, then smiled at you. “You know, you don’t really need to campaign. No one has run against you in, what— three years?”
You frowned as you wiped your thumb over the dot of paint on your skirt. It was small enough that an untrained eye wouldn’t notice. “I know that, but you can never be too sure.”
“Actually, you can be,” she retorted, but retrieved a fresh posterboard for you anyway. “The only way you lose this election is if a meteor penetrates Earth’s orbit and targets Mikage specifically, and in that case, we would all be dead anyway.”
You raised a brow as you dipped a fresh paintbrush into the can. “In that case, I should campaign to make sure that everyone died with an intent to vote for me.”
Utahime laughed with a shake of her head but didn’t push it any further. “I should run a smear campaign against you in the school’s newspaper. Maybe then, your effort won’t be for naught.” She paused. “Speaking of— have you read the newspaper lately?”
You were stopped dead in your tracks. If Utahime had managed to read the entirety of the university’s boring-to-death newspaper and felt it was important enough to bring up to you, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. “Yeah? Not this week’s issue, though. Why?”
“Of course you read it regularly,” she mumbled with a smile before fishing her phone out of her backpack. “There’s a new column for blind items. About the students. Can you believe that this shit actually made the final cut? It’s awesome.”
You invaded her personal space to look at her phone screen. “No way. What are they saying?”
Utahime laughed. “Just read it for yourself. I had to change my outfit because I read them this morning while brushing my teeth and laughed so hard, I toothpaste-bombed my own shirt.”
Reading the blind items to yourself, you can’t help but stifle your laugh that comes before the unease settles in. Someone had written these based on what they had observed, and despite how harmless they seemed now, the concept of that person walking among you was something that left a pit in your stomach.
A certain basketball player was seen coming back to his dorm room around 4 a.m. with multiple shades of lipstick on his neck.
A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has been shitting in the showers for two weeks straight.
A sorority girl tossed the entirety of her roommate’s makeup collection out the window and blamed it on someone else, resulting in their expulsion from the sorority.
A notorious rich boy blew his semester’s allowance on a new sports car.
You skimmed the rest and ensured that none of them could be about you before you handed Utahime her phone back. “I’m sure we all know who number four is about.”
She shrugged but nodded anyway. “Right? I mean, Gojo revs his engine like it’s nobody’s business all the time.” She looked down at her phone. “I wonder who’s shitting in the showers, though.”
“Maybe that one’s about Gojo, too,” you quipped, too quickly to hide the bite in your voice.
You regretted how much you sounded like your mother then, and how easily it had come out.
Your family’s disdain for the Gojo family stemmed long before you were born. Hell, before your parents were even born. The details of it all were up for interpretation at this point—nobody talked about it, and you never dared to ask—but to your understanding, Gojo’s great-great-great-grandfather had screwed over yours—somehow, some way—and this was what had come of it. You would be reluctant to believe it. After all, there were quite a few tools in your own family, and you liked to believe you were nothing like them.
But the asshat that was Satoru Gojo lived up to his reputation, as far as you’d learned. That was enough for you to write him off.
Not to mention, he was the only student here at Mikage who posed a threat to you. He was academically gifted and never let you forget it; most things came easier to him than they did you, and you hated him for it.
Well, that and the time he spilled beer all over your shoes at a frat party freshman year. He probably didn’t even remember it had happened, but you did, because some other dipshit had been recording the entire ordeal and posted it online.
The earful you’d gotten from your parents that day was enough for you to stay away from him entirely.
All the while, Utahime raised her eyebrow with a grin. “Oh, wow. You’d better hope he didn’t hear that, or else you just lost a vote.”
☆
All things considered, you were having a good day.
Even though your hair is still slightly damp from the rain and the perfume you put on only two hours ago has nearly worn off, you’re pretty confident that you’ve just aced your first Anatomy & Physiology test.
Every other person in the lecture hall is already relaxed, scrolling on their phones while they wait for your professor to hand back the graded exams—because all things considered, it’s only worth three percent of your total grade after all calculations. And yes, you have done the calculations (twice!), because heaven forbid you be uninformed about anything relating to your academics.
You glance at your watch nervously. You hope this class is released on time, because attending it was only the second thing you’ve checked off your mile-long to-do list for the day.
You have a student council meeting at 2 p.m., a meeting with Professor Yaga at 3:15 p.m. about an upcoming scholarship opportunity, and a study date with Sukuna at 4 p.m.—where he doesn’t do much of anything at all aside from scrolling through red pill looksmaxxer Instagram reels for two hours.
A test is lazily tossed back onto your desk, and you pick it up immediately.
It’s a 98%. An A.
You smile to yourself, but it doesn’t last very long. It falters the moment you feel a presence looming over your shoulder—one that carries the scent of expensive cologne. It’s light and masculine, and reminds you of summer, for whatever reason. You may have complimented it if the presence hadn’t beaten you to speaking.
“Only a ninety-eight? Poor thing. Didn’t sleep well or something?”
Suddenly, your compliment dries up, because you’d know that voice anywhere. Satoru fucking Gojo.
You snap your head around so fast it nearly spins off your spine. “Stay away from me and get a life,” you say through gritted teeth, but snatch his test from his hands despite yourself.
And there, in the top corner, written in pen, is a 100%. From what you can tell from all the talking he’s doing right now—which you aren’t listening to a lick—he’s pretty intent on rubbing it in your face.
He clicks his tongue and places his hand on the back of your seat, using it for leverage as he leans over you a bit more. “See? You got number thirteen wrong. You said the fluid inside body cells is extracellular fluid. Ouch.” He pats the back of your seat, as if it’s any consolation. “You know, I’m free Thursday afternoons. I could tutor you, and once the exam comes around, that frown will be turned right-side up—”
You stand abruptly and hand his test back to him, your wrist so rigid it may as well cut through ice. “Oh, I’m so good off that. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with an ice pick.”
Satoru tilts his head, his grin so smug it makes you sick. “Well, suit yourself. Speaking of—pretty sure ice picks are usually on clearance this time of year. Y’know, with it being spring and all.”
A single glance around the room tells you nearly everyone else has already left, and that it’s painfully obvious you and Satoru are the only ones who stayed behind to talk. You’d rather not be spotted with him again. You don’t bother hiding your eye roll as you zip up your backpack and walk away, crumpled test in tow.
“Hey, where are you going? What about our riveting conversation?” he calls after you, and you can practically hear his grin when he speaks. “It was a funny joke!”
The door slams shut behind you.
☆
You can’t stand Sukuna—no matter how hard you try.
“Can you at least turn that down?”
Sukuna grumbled under his breath before slumping even lower into the seat he dwarfed in size, but he lowered the volume of his Instagram reels just enough to pacify you. “What’s it matter, anyway? There’s nobody here.”
You huffed and tried not to take it personally, as the single person currently sitting beside him. “It matters to me because, unlike some people, I actually care about my grades. Very shocking, I know.”
It might be shocking to most—which you’d understand, because it even shocks you on most days—but Sukuna is one of the few people in your life who understands you.
Not when it comes to the things that make you who you are as an independent person. He couldn’t recite your full name if he tried, nor could he remember your birthday, favorite color, or go-to drink order at your favorite café.
Because at the end of the day, Sukuna doesn’t see you. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to. But after everything, he knows you better than most. He knows about the things you don’t say out loud. He knows how much you hate going home, because he hates it just as much. He knows that none of this truly matters, because your parents have had your futures lined up for over a decade, and none of your hard work plays a factor in that.
Where the two of you differ is this: you still seem to be under the assumption that hard work might relieve you of your fate, but Sukuna has long since adopted a different worldview. He thinks that if everything is going to work out in the end—a nice house, a somewhat decent spouse, a few kids in the far future—then what’s the point in trying in the meantime?
“Jeez, woman. I was just asking. It that time of the month or somethin’?”
You scoffed, but didn’t dignify him with a reply.
You don’t know what this is exactly—whatever you and Sukuna are. You aren’t dating. You have kissed a few times—experimental and primarily drunk kisses shared at parties that never amounted to anything, because, well… you just don’t like each other. You aren’t sure if you’re even friends, or if you’d want to be.
At most, you’re familial acquaintances, which is the polite way of saying that he is supposed to be your husband one day, if your parents have anything to say about it.
“I just need to focus. Yaga said I have a good chance at landing the internship, but that doesn’t mean I should start slacking off now.”
“What internship?”
You blinked.
“The internship I applied for three months ago?”
Sukuna blinked.
“The one I passed three rounds of interviews for?”
You scoffed. “For fuck’s sake, Sukuna, it’s just about the only thing I’ve been talking about for months!”
He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, okay. Jeez. The only thing I’m noticing right now is that I’m not the only one being loud in the library anymore.”
A swarm of harsh replies flooded your mind, but you tamped them down—because you were 99% percent sure Sukuna was far too dim-witted to grasp whatever insult you could chuck his way anyway.
“Whatever. I need to get going.” You packed up your belongings and stood, taking a step in the opposite direction before he caught your arm. You glared back at him. “What?”
“Are you mad at me or somethin’? What’d I say?”
Once again, you didn’t give him a reply and walked away.
Sukuna leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest with a shake of his head. “Women.”
Once in the hallway, you approached the vending machine. You could use a pick-me-up, even if it were in the form of junk food. Just as you were within a few feet of it, an infuriating man with white hair slid in front of you. Satoru was quick to slide a dollar into the machine and punch in whatever he wanted.
“Oh—sorry, did you want something?” he asked over his shoulder, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips.
You were fed up with men today. No, scratch that. You were more than fed up with men today. You rolled your eyes and began to walk away, and maybe Satoru had a change of heart, or maybe he realized that your fallen expression didn’t just have to do with running into him.
“Hey, no— come back, I’m serious,” he called after you. He reached into his pocket and slid another dollar into the machine. “What do you want?”
You turned around, eyeing him closely. “I don’t need your dollar, Gojo.”
Unfazed by your tone, he laughed. It was boyish and carefree in a way that surprised you. “I know you don’t,” he said simply. “Way to make me feel nice about my good deed, though. I didn’t know a single dollar could move you so much.” You narrowed your eyes at him, and he tilted his head toward the machine in response. “C’mon. Pick something.”
And because you just couldn’t catch a break today, your stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly. You placed a hand over your abdomen immediately, your face nearly losing its color.
“…Gummy bears,” you finally managed to choke out. “Please.”
Satoru smiled and punched in the corresponding code for a bag of Haribo Gummy Bears. “Decent choice for a starving woman. Not sweet enough for my taste, but decent.”
You huffed out a breath, watching him retrieve both of your chosen snacks. “Sour Patch Kids? Really?”
He handed you the gummy bears before nodding once. “Yup. Really.” He paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “I thought you’d like them. I mean, you’d definitely fit in with them.”
“Fit in with who?”
Satoru tore the bag open and popped one into his mouth. “The Sour Patch Kids. Y’know—with this whole mean-girl-who-hates-me getup you’ve got going on. Really sour of you.”
Your eyebrows pinched together. “That’s so stupid.”
“Yeah, but you almost smiled. Saw it with my own eyes,” he chirped back, chewing on the candy. You smoothed your expression, and he shook his head. “No, no, no— don’t hide it now. That’s just unfair. I paid a dollar for that smile.”
Your face tightened, because now you really were fighting the urge to smile, damn it. “Whatever,” you snapped as you started to walk away—then stopped, your expression tightening even more. “I mean… thank you. For the gummy bears.” You said one last thing before turning your back on him. “And don’t think this means I like you now, because I don’t.”
Satoru just smiled. “Yeah, of course, wouldn’t dream of it.”
☆
Your phone vibrated late into the night.
If it were any other day, you would’ve been fast asleep by now. You’d been strict about your sleep schedule ever since you accidentally discovered—at twelve years old, six hours into a late-night 3 a.m. deep dive—that not sleeping enough can result in the brain eating itself.
But even the fear of having a peanut-sized brain by the time you were forty hadn’t been enough to lull you to sleep tonight, which was how you found yourself watching ASMR cat spa day videos at 1 a.m.
You groaned when you glanced at the top of your screen and saw who dared to interrupt your doomscrolling.
sukuna: hey
sukuna: i can see u reading my texts.
sukuna: stop being mad at me and listen
sukuna: theres a party tomorrow night and i think you should come
sukuna: and before u get all “i need to focus and stay in and be boring all the time” on me just listen
sukuna: u should take time away from your hw and relax
You nearly smiled. This might’ve been the nicest thing Sukuna had ever said to you.
sukuna: plus i wanna go and it looks bad if we arent there together. people talk.
Never mind.
you: i’ll think about it
sukuna: cool. be ready by 9
you: i never said i was going???
☆
Spoiler alert: you wound up coming to the party.
The air is stale and smells of vape smoke and alcohol. The frat house is far too crowded, and from where you’re standing in the kitchen, everyone looks like a pack of sardines wiggling around to a 2010s pop song that no one has quite caught the rhythm for yet. And yet, for all of your complaining, you’re still here—looking your best, at that.
You weren’t as much of a bore as Sukuna made you out to be, but you could admit that you didn’t party nearly as much as you had when you first started at Mikage. The passing of time makes you more responsible, or whatever the poets say—you can’t remember, and you’re honestly a little tipsy already, truth be told.
Suddenly, Shoko nudges your side with her elbow. “Hey, party girl. You gonna stand in here all night, or do you plan on joining us at some point?”
“I didn’t even see you there,” you say through a laugh, waving a hand through the air to dissipate some of the vape smoke Toji blows only a few feet away. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
You follow her through the crowd, only managing to bump into a few people along the way while clutching your Solo cup tight to your chest. It’s warmer now that you’re enveloped in this sea of bodies; your cheeks feel hot, but you pay no mind to it. You’re not sure how long it takes before you and Shoko reunite with Utahime and Nobara, the four of you forming a little circle for yourselves—something that looks conspiratorial from the outside, but feels like a haven on the inside.
“Took you long enough,” Nobara says by way of greeting. She glances down at your cup. “What’d you find in the kitchen?”
“I don’t even know what the hell this is. I just grabbed whatever was unopened and poured it into a cup with ice. I’m hoping it’ll water down,” you reply with a shrug.
Nobara scoffs. “Toji never stocks shit for these parties—deadass, this is the worst frat. I don’t even know why we come here.”
Shoko laughs, though you can barely hear it over the music. “We come here because girls get in free at the door. I mean, if I’m gonna get shitfaced and regret my decisions tomorrow morning, I sure as hell don’t wanna pay for it.”
Utahime taps Shoko’s cup. “Yeah, speaking of getting shitfaced—you’re drinking water once you finish that. I can’t carry you back to your dorm. The last time I tried, I basically dragged you there.”
Shoko groans but doesn’t fight it. All of a sudden, the three of them lock eyes on something directly behind you, and their expressions fall.
Utahime’s face goes white as she places her hands on your shoulders. “Girl, don’t turn around. I’m so serious.”
“What are you talking about?” Your brows knit together, even as you’re already turning.
And when you see it, your eyes widen.
Sukuna is making out with some girl in the center of the room, and while the sight doesn’t make you sick, it does make you nervous. In the span of three seconds, a million thoughts rush through your mind.
You’re granted a glimpse into your future: a future where you marry a man who invites you to a party just to make out with another girl right in front of you. A future where you never feel secure enough to let your guard down, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. A future where you die even more miserable than you feel right now.
Not because you’re jealous. No, you couldn’t care less what the hell he does. It’s the principle that bothers you.
If you were expected to keep up appearances and make time to “bond” with him out of your already packed schedule, why was he allowed to do whatever he pleased?
You hope no one else is paying as much attention to him as you are, because the last thing you need is both of your parents finding out and breathing down your neck, trying to put Sukuna on a leash.
“Just classless,” Shoko hums.
You turn back around, laughing. “He’s a mess. I don’t know what the hell my parents are thinking.”
Nobara sighs. “You should run away and join the circus or something. They’ll never find you.”
You laugh to yourself, knowing they’re only trying to make you feel better. But the impending doom of your upcoming graduation feels worse than ever now. You feel suffocated—like the air is too warm to breathe—so you mumble out a half-assed excuse before slipping through the crowd and out onto the balcony.
It’s cold outside. Refreshing against your skin.
The party has spilled out onto the front lawn, and the sight is so ridiculous it brings you an odd sense of comfort. Choso wobbles on two unsteady legs with Nanami perched on his shoulders, currently trying—and failing—to fish toilet paper out of a tree. Two seconds later, they go tumbling over together, face-planting into the grass.
“That’s gotta hurt.”
You gasp, wrenching away from the edge of the balcony to look behind you.
And there he stood.
Satoru fucking Gojo.
Only now, he looks different. More casual. Relaxed, right down to the smoothed wrinkle between his eyebrows and the clothes he’s wearing now. You’ve never seen him in anything but collared dress shirts and black slacks, courtesy of Mikage Academy’s suffocating dress code.
He takes a step closer. Then another. Soon he’s beside you, forearms resting on the railing. His shirt stretches across his frame, and your eyes traitorously trace the curve of his bicep. The sharp line of his jaw. The slope of his nose.
You tear your gaze away before it gets embarrassing. Has he always looked like that?
Clearing your throat, you mirror his posture. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he replies easily. He glances at you, then back out at the lawn. “Nice party. Solid DJ choice.”
You huff. “Small talk? Really?”
Satoru shrugs. “I figured I should ease into it. You don’t exactly look like you’re in the mood for my usual charm.”
“You mean being insufferable?”
“Wow,” he says. “I was more so going for memorable.”
Your eyes meet. You’re the first to look away.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I don’t really know how to talk to you when I’m not irritated with you and your stupid gloating.” You pause, then lift a finger. “And before you say anything—I aced the quiz yesterday. So if you came out here to rub it in, save it.”
“Oh no,” Satoru deadpans. “My entire plan— ruined right before my eyes.”
You glance at him. He’s smiling, but it’s softer than usual.
“No,” he continues, dropping his head slightly. “That’s not why I came out here.”
Your brows pinch together. “No?”
“Nope. I needed air. And maybe a tetanus shot after sitting on that couch, ‘cause that thing’s disgusting.”
You laugh despite yourself.
“And,” he adds casually, “I saw you come out here.”
You turn toward him. Somehow, his eyes look brighter at night. “Is that your official reason?”
“Mostly,” he says. “What can I say? I’m curious.”
“About?”
“About why you look like you’d rather be anywhere else than at a party like this.”
You hesitate. “It’s… complicated, I guess.”
“Ah,” Satoru nods.
You scoff, easily reading between the lines. “It has nothing to do with Sukuna. Well— okay, maybe a little. But not like that.”
He tilts his head. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looked like your boyfriend might have a lot to do with it.”
“Ew. No,” you say quickly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Something shifts in Satoru’s expression. “Good to know.”
You blink. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Just is.”
You roll your eyes, but continue anyway, words spilling easier now. “If my parents have their way, he’ll probably be more than my boyfriend someday.” You grimace. “Which is terrifying, because he’s about as smart as a box of rocks, and I can’t be around him for more than ten minutes without wanting to bang my head against the wall.”
Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Here I thought I was harsh.”
Panic flickers through you when he doesn’t say anything else right away.
“I know it sounds stupid,” you rush on. “There are people who’d kill to have something lined up like that, and here I am complaining. My mom married my dad for business reasons and they’re… fine. I think.” You run a hand over your hair. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want to be married right after graduation. I don’t even know if I want to get married at all.”
Satoru doesn’t interrupt, but when he does speak, his voice is quieter. “That doesn’t sound stupid. In a place like this,” he gestures toward campus, “everything’s a transaction. Degrees, connections, last names.” He scoffs lightly. “My parents won’t shut up about networking. Meanwhile, the best relationship I’ve built here is with the lady who gives me extra french toast in the dining hall.”
You laugh, clearly surprised. Not only because the french toast sucks, but because you wouldn’t expect something like that from him. It should make you feel less impressed with him, but for some reason, it doesn’t.
“I’m serious,” he adds. “Peace isn’t exactly encouraged around here. If anything, you’re expected to trade for it.”
“And you?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “You don’t seem all that worried about it, for someone who comes from a family like yours.”
Satoru shrugs again, but this time it’s different. Less flippant. “Guess I just decided a while ago that I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.”
The quiet that follows is heavier than the music inside. You can hear the hollers and shuffling feet just inside, but it fades away just as quickly as it came.
“You make it sound easy,” you say.
He smiles. “Hey, I never said it was. It’s just easier than the alternative, is all.”
You nod because it feels appropriate, and you aren’t sure what else you should do. Talking with him is surprisingly easy, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to be doing it. That you should be doing it. Even now, you wish you could resonate with Satoru’s ideology, because all you can think about is how much your parents would hate this.
“My parents would hate this,” you blurt out, accidentally saying your thoughts aloud.
You look at him, embarrassed and doing your best to hide it. It feels strange, knowing just how much you’re supposed to hate talking to him yourself, but don’t.
He rubs the back of his neck. “This conversation?”
You try not to stare at his bicep, flexing right in your face.
“Yeah,” you admit. “My parents hate your family. Always have.”
“Mine aren’t exactly fans of yours either.” Satoru laughs, tilting his head slightly. The feeling was mutual—he couldn’t take much offense at it. Still, he asks, “Do you feel that way too?”
“What do you mean?”
He turns to look at you, his expression almost serious. “Do you hate me?”
You huff. “I don’t even understand the reasoning all that much. I just know that the animosity exists, and that I’m expected to respect it— and I guess I have, for the most part.”
“That isn’t what I asked,” he replies simply. “Do you hate me? On your own terms?” He pauses then, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he looked a tad nervous. “I’m sure I’ve given you enough of a reason to. More than one, I’d bet.” He glances away. “The first time we ever spoke, I spilled beer all over your shoes. I shouldn’t have been holding it anyway— I hate beer.”
“I knew you remembered!” you yell, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve been holding that grudge against you for years now.”
“What? Of course I remember. I apologized immediately,” he says quickly. “Pretty sure I almost got on my knees and everything.”
You click your tongue and shake your head. “The damage was already done.”
The conversation stills for a moment, and you choke over your words before managing a more serious reply.
“For as obnoxious as you are, I don’t hate you. No. I don’t even know you well enough to hate you if I wanted to.”
“Alright, I’ll take it.” Satoru smiles to himself. “I think you’d form a better opinion of me if you let me get to know you. You’re a tough nut to crack, you know— been tryin’ for years.”
You stare at him, and he doesn’t cower in response. Not that he typically would, but you half-expected him to.
“I’m serious,” he says instead. “We should be friends.”
Your laugh comes out sharp. “Absolutely not. My parents would be livid. Beyond livid, actually—they’d probably murder me. And I mean, a true crime podcaster’s wet dream type of murder. No joke.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I think we should definitely be friends,” he says through his laughter. “I’ve always wanted to be in a documentary. Confessionals and all. A face like this is made for the cameras.”
“You’re such a jerk,” you scoff, nudging his side, barely able to fight off your smile.
“Mm-hmm. A big jerk that you’re still talking to,” he replies. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted to be my friend too.”
You don’t reply, which might have just been an answer in and of itself.
For the first time throughout this entire conversation, Satoru turns his body to face you properly. His head tilts down enough to accommodate the height difference between you.
“I think this might be the first argument you’ve ever let me win,” he grins.
You narrow your eyes. “This isn’t a win. It’s more like… a draw. A tie.”
“Sure. A draw, a tie. Potato, potahto. Whatever.” He extends his hand toward you. “So. Friends?”
You take it and shake it. “Yes. Friends.”
He smiles. “See? Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
When your hands fall apart, Satoru’s hand stills at his side—fingers flexing—before he grasps the railing. You straighten, stepping back from it yourself. The night air suddenly feels too thin, as if there isn’t enough of it for the two of you to breathe anymore. More anxiety than anything else.
“I should probably go,” you murmur. “It’s late.”
And you’ve been talking for quite some time now, which only means it’s a matter of time before someone notices and writes a blind item in that stupid newspaper column.
“Right,” he replies. “Need someone to walk you home?”
You shake your head. “I think I’ll manage.”
Satoru nods, his smile slow as it turns up at the corners. “Alright. Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Night,” you reply weakly before reemerging into the party.
You reunite with your friends, who seem even more over the night than you are. The four of you walk back to your dormitory together.
☆
You royally fucked up this time.
To no surprise, you won the student council election with flying colors. No one had the balls—or…clit? You don’t discriminate—to run against you throughout the election cycle.
With some surprise, however, you decided to celebrate your victory with the other board members, taking way too many shots from a bottle that was emptied far too quickly.
On a fucking Tuesday.
You mentally kicked yourself—and you would’ve done the same physically if you weren’t on the verge of blacking out.
Vision splotchy, you glanced around the dorm, only to find that everyone was already passed out cold. You couldn’t stay here—you had a meeting bright and early!
And so, with some difficulty, you finally managed to find your purse—the one you had hidden while sober, back when your only concern was someone stealing the $60 in cash from your wallet.
Widening your eyes, the bright screen was a blur of letters and colors, but you managed to open your contacts app. Typing in an ‘S,’ you clicked Shoko’s contact, praying she was awake and able to come pick you up from the off-campus housing.
The line rang twice before someone answered.
You sigh in relief. “Girl, red alert! Get your sexy ass up and come pick me up!…please.”
“Woah, Prez. I had no idea you thought about me this way. Tell me more.”
Your heart dropped straight to your ass.
“Satoru…?” you whine, more than ask.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m startin’ to think you meant to call someone else. Bit of a blow to my ego, but I can handle it.”
Slumping against the couch, you huff. “Meant to call Shoko. Need a ride.”
Silence filled the line for a moment, then an insufferably attractive laugh broke it. “Are you drunk right now?”
You sniffled. “A little. I mean—a lottle. I-I mean, a lot. Very drunk. Drunk and stranded.”
You heard rustling on the other end, the faint jangle of keys. Your eyes fell shut. You were so damn tired.
“Okay, I just left my apartment. Where are you?”
In any other situation, you would’ve refused Satoru Gojo’s help. You were a strong, independent woman. You didn’t need a man to come to your rescue.
But the longer you sat on this couch, the more you wanted to ditch your mandatory meeting in the A.M. and pass out right here.
Even in this state, you were smart enough to know staying wasn’t an option.
“I’m at off-campus housing down the street. Please hurry. And bring water. And snacks. And a blanket. And—”
“Yes, boss, I’ve already got all of that—along with a partridge in a pear tree. Jeez, you’re needy.” He laughed, and it made you pout. “I’m only a few minutes away. Hang tight.”
⭑
“Watch your head, watch your head!”
Thunk.
“Oww,” you whine, rubbing the top of your head while Satoru busied himself fastening your seatbelt.
Rounding the front of his sports car, he slips into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life a few seconds later, but the car stayed in park. Instead, he reaches for the ice-cold water bottle in the cup holder, twisting off the cap before handing it to you.
“How much did you have to drink?” he asks, sounding almost agonized. “Don’t know if you know this, but it’s Tuesday night.”
It took you about ten seconds, a long drink of water, and a deep sigh of relief before you answered.
“I won the presidency,” you finally say, as if that answered everything.
“Ah.” He reaches for a nearby pack of gummy bears. “This good? That’s all I could find on the way.”
“Yes,” you barely cared, tearing the package open. “Y’know, Gojo…you’re kinda nice.”
He huffs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really? What gave you that idea?”
Chewing thoughtfully, you started listing things your sober self would’ve never admitted.
“You came to get me even though I’m such a bitch to you. And you brought me water, and my favorite candy, and—hic!”
“And you tease me all the time, but you aren’t that mean when it comes down to it…” You sniffle. “I honestly wish you were. It’d be easier to hate you.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he finally shifts the car into drive. “Aw, sorry about that. I can be mean to you if you want?”
The drive was quiet, mostly because it was so short—the streets were empty at this ungodly hour. When Satoru parked and killed the engine, he turned to look at you and froze.
You were chewing on gummy bears with tears streaming down your cheeks.
“Are you a sad drunk?” he asks, even though he already knew. “Aw, you are, aren’t you?”
You sniffle. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He shifts toward you, more careful now, lifting the water bottle back to your lips. “‘Cause we’re friends now. I’m nice to my friends. C’mere.”
To his surprise, you let him tip the bottle, drinking without protest.
Swallowing, you frowned. “No, you aren’t.” Sniffle. “You’re mean to Suguru. And Nanami. And Toji…”
Satoru’s smile is lopsided. “You have a point. Guess I’m just nice to you then.”
“But why?” you press, not even realizing it. “You have no reason to be.”
Satoru was the type of man who had never needed to wish on stars to get what he wanted.
All it took was a swipe of one of his many credit cards or the mention of his family name. It worked without fail.
For everything except one thing, and she was sitting right beside him.
Oblivious to the fact that since freshman year, she’d made his heart race every time she was near. From the moment he met her in biology—cut down by her sharp tongue—he’d felt motivated instead of defeated.
He’d gone home that night thinking about her. Stayed up, even, planning ways to talk to you the next day. Ways to make you look at him. Talk to him. Give him the time of day.
You had no idea what you did to him, and right now, he had no place to tell you.
He leans back with a quiet hum. “For someone so smart, you can be a little dense sometimes.”
Your sniffle cut him off. His head snaps toward you, and his chest nearly caved in at the sight of fresh tears welling up.
“No, no, no, no— hey, I was joking! I didn’t mean it, I swear.”
Satoru cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. His eyes searched yours, softening despite himself. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
“You’re kinda cute when you’re drunk,” he says.
What the fuck?
Why would he say that out loud? Right now? Of all times?
“You’re kinda cute all the time,” you replied easily, fingers fumbling with the pendant on his necklace. “You smell really nice, too.”
Satoru’s heartbeat doubled, but he forced himself not to read into it. Not now. Not when you’re in this state.
He cleared his throat, pulling his hands away. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”
He stepped out first, then opened your door. Your eyes met his as he reached in to unbuckle you. “Easy,” he murmured.
Getting you out of the car was about ninety-five percent Satoru’s effort; you leaned into him the majority of the way, the two of you making your way toward the side entrance. It felt like it took hours to climb the stairs—but in reality, Satoru carried most of your weight without breaking a sweat.
By the time you reached your room, he helped you onto your bed, carefully slipping off your heels. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing over the faint mark the strap had left behind. He leaned over you slightly, hand smoothing over your hair.
“Get some sleep, okay?”
You didn’t notice when he set a bottle of aspirin and fresh water on your nightstand. You just curled under your blankets on instinct, heavy with exhaustion. Your eyes cracked open just enough to catch your on-call-Uber-driver-slash-friend retreating toward the door.
“Satoru?” you called.
He paused, one foot already out. “Mm?”
“I like it when you’re nice to me.” You shook your head. “No—I mean… I like being your friend.”
Satoru smiled faintly. “Me too.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
☆
You despise how much you enjoy being friends with Satoru Gojo.
You despise how attentive he is. How he silently hands you a pencil a beat after you realize you’ve come without one. How he holds the seat down for you so you can sit more easily in the lecture hall. How he gives you one of his AirPods whenever you’re in the library together, looking for your own books respectively, yet highly aware of how far you are from him when the music begins to chop up.
You despise how much he’s gotten you to let your guard down. How he makes you laugh whenever one of your student council meetings goes awry, because the high of being reelected as council president only lasts until the first meeting. How he assures you that you can get through whatever issue you’re working through with your boardmates, because, according to him, if you were able to snag his vote, then you can just about do anything. How he references Digimon or whatever video game he’s played last into just about every other conversation, to the point where it borders on endearing and annoying—but the expression he wears when he talks about it makes you easily decide on the former.
You despise how he makes you feel. How a simple nudge to your side whenever you reply with a smartass comment makes your face feel warm. How the scent of his cologne lingers after he leaves, and how you feel disappointed when it finally dissipates. How you’ve now become acutely aware of the length of his eyelashes, the vibrance of his eyes, the smile lines that look more handsome on him than you’d ever like to admit.
But more than anything, you despise that you just can’t find anything to hate about him—no matter how hard you try.
It had only been a little over a month, and yet it’s difficult to remember what it was like when the two of you weren’t friends, or what faulty reason you had to hate him in the first place.
You doodle a bit rougher in your notebook as you wait for instruction to begin, trying to get your mind off it. Off him.
Like clockwork, he plops down into the seat beside you, lazily extending his legs before placing a small white box on your desk.
“What’s this?” you ask, setting your pen down. When you open it, you find your favorite pastry sitting inside, untouched. Your brows knit together. “How’d you know this was my favorite?”
When you look at him, he’s already chewing a bite of the muffin he bought for himself.
“We’ve been to the café twice together and you got the same thing both times. How could I not know by now?”
You take a bite of your own, chewing thoughtfully. You’ve been to the café with Sukuna more times than you can count on both hands, and not once has he remembered what your go-to order is. It shouldn’t mean so much—in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a four dollar pastry—but it does. It feels good to be known, even in the simplest way.
“Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, no prob,” he replies, setting his muffin down. “Your stomach growls when you don’t eat in the morning—I could hear it from three aisles back.”
You shove his shoulder, eyes wide. “Shut up. No, you couldn’t.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he relents with a grin, glancing your way. “It was four aisles back.”
You roll your eyes, face warm. You glance down at his muffin, and he clutches it closer to himself.
“No looksies,” Satoru says firmly. “Daddy doesn’t like to share.”
You grimace. “Ew. Gross. Don’t call yourself that.”
“Mommy doesn’t like to share?”
“Even worse.”
Satoru sighs in playful defeat, and just in time—before he can try again—your professor addresses the class and starts the lecture.
And no more than five minutes later, he doesn’t even complain when you ask for a bite of his muffin.
☆
You’re nervous about your upcoming Anatomy & Physiology exam.
The air outside is brisk, the cold biting at your cheeks as you speedwalk toward your dormitory. Even though this is nowhere near your first rodeo with the freezing-to-pleasant transition between winter and spring, it never gets easier to manage. Especially not now, with your arms full of flash cards, two folders, an oversupply of fresh scratch paper, and blank scantrons that are just about begging to be practiced on—which means you don’t have a free hand to grab a hot chocolate from the on-campus café. What a great start to your study session this is.
Your steps are quick, and from afar, you probably look like you’re lightly jogging, which isn’t the best look considering you’re wearing a thick, furry winter coat and a pair of fuzzy pajama pants. It isn’t ideal, but you planned for this venture outside your dorm room to be quick.
That is, until you trip on a shift in the sidewalk and tumble forward.
You catch yourself on your hands, which only makes you realize that your supplies are now blowing away. You manage to pick up a few things on your own and reach for a folder—only to realize someone else has already picked it up.
“Nearly gone with the wind,” Satoru sighs. “Good thing I was here to save the day. No need for thanks— it’s all in a day’s work.”
You straighten once you’ve gathered the rest of your things. “You and your gloating. Don’t you ever get tired?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head, then glances down. “Cute slippers.”
Your eyes follow his gaze to the fuzzy slippers you only ever dare to wear out when your feet are freezing. You shift your feet and nudge his chest. “Shut up. They’re warm!”
“And fashionable,” he lilts, and gestures to the armful in your hands. “What’s all this for?”
“Studying,” you answer, because it’s obvious. “I’m gonna make flashcards for the A&P exam and probably take a few practice tests.” You reach for the folder still in his grasp. “So, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down a sec.” Satoru lifts the folder out of reach. “Let me help you out, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes. “Why? Don’t you want to score better than me anyway?”
“Oh no,” Satoru says flatly, face blank. “You’ve exposed my master plan once again. Whatever will I do?” Then he grins. “How could you think so little of me? I’ll score better than you without sabotage, you know that.”
“As if,” you retort, averting his gaze.
Satoru raises an eyebrow. “If you’re so confident, prove me wrong.”
You tuck your lips into your mouth, weighing his offer. On one hand, you’re hesitant to let him into your room—afraid that you might not dislike it. That you might even like being alone with him. On the other, you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge like this.
Your pride settles it for you.
“Fine,” you say. “I will. Follow me.”
☆
Rumor has it that this was where it all truly began.
Your bedroom.
It was all rather easy at first. You’d spent about an hour making flashcards, a time primarily spent in silence—save for his voice making noise pollution every so often. Mostly moans and groans about how bored and hungry he is, which fall on deaf ears.
By the time you finish the deck, Satoru’s jacket is hanging on the back of your desk chair, and he’s lazily sprawled across your bed. He’d offered to take the chair, but you insisted that sitting made you focus better. Which it does, but you’re also too nervous to sit beside him on the bed right now.
He tosses a stress ball toward the ceiling, catching it with one hand. “Done yet? I’m dying here. The fun part is supposed to be me quizzing you.”
You straighten the cards before tossing them his way, the deck landing on his stomach. “Yes, now hurry up. I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he chirps, propping himself up against your pillows as he gathers the cards. He clears his throat, glances once at you, then back down. “What are the two primary functions of the skeletal system?”
It doesn’t take you more than a second. “Support the body and protect softer body parts.”
He hums and flicks to the next card. “What three things does the muscular system allow the body to do?”
You hum, rubbing your chin. “Movement, support, and… heat production.”
Another flick. “What about the nervous system?”
“It controls immediate responses to stimuli,” you answer easily.
Satoru huffs, flipping through card after card as you breeze through half the deck. Soon you’re naming the primary functions of individual muscles—temporalis, masseter, sternocleidomastoid, extensor digitorum—you’ve lost count of how many you’ve answered correctly. You’re zoned in, until he looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.
“These are too easy for you,” he declares. “You need something more challenging.”
You squint and lean back in your chair. “What? These are plenty challenging.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced. “Nope. You need more independent practice. Stuff you can’t predict.”
“Like what?” you ask. “Since you’re so smart, I’m assuming you have an alternative method. Put up or shut up.”
Satoru exhales through his nose, meeting your gaze without missing a beat. He’s long since learned your tone, your bite. He grins and sits up straighter, lifting an arm and pointing to his own. “What does the tricep do?”
You blink. “Straightens the arm at the elbow? Duh. I thought this was supposed to be hard.”
“Shh, be patient. A master is at work.” He pauses, then asks, “What about the orbicularis oris?”
Your posture straightens against your will, gaze dropping to his mouth. Your eyes trace the curve of his lips—where that muscle would be—and you watch as the corners of his mouth tug upward. Five seconds pass—longer than any question has taken you so far.
“It allows for movement in the lips,” you finally say.
“Mm,” he sighs. “Only half credit. That’s a little vague. Name three specific functions and I might reconsider.”
The room feels warmer. You clear your throat. “Speech, whistling, and… kissing.” Your eyes flick away to your desk as you fuss with loose papers, trying to come off as busy or distracted. You add quickly, “It’s informally known as the kissing muscle. Everyone knows that.”
A low whistle leaves him as he rises from the bed, stretching his arms over his head before stalking toward your desk. He stops behind your chair, flashcards still in hand.
“What’re you doing?” you ask, still facing forward.
He sets the cards down in front of you and places one hand on the desk, leaning just slightly over you. He isn’t touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back, and certainly close enough to make your thoughts scatter.
“Told you,” he murmurs. “I’m helping you study.”
You swallow. “How, exactly?”
He exhales, breath brushing your neck. “Have you practiced for the muscle identification portion yet?”
Shit. You’d nearly forgotten about that. From what you remembered your professor saying, there would be anatomy models stationed around the classroom, highlighted with nothing more than a single muscle on each one. It would be your responsibility to name the muscle and its function on the spot.
“Not really,” you admit, shrugging. Your back brushes his chest, and you clear your throat quickly. “How do you plan on helping with that?”
Satoru brushes your hair off your shoulder, knuckles barely grazing the back of your neck before his thumb presses gently into a muscle along your upper back. “For starters: what muscle just helped you shrug your shoulders?”
You swallow thickly. Your breath leaves you shaky, and you hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps rising on your skin when his thumb traces again, slow and deliberate. Meant to tease you, you’d imagine.
“Upper trapezius,” you say, breathy despite yourself.
“Good.” You can hear the smile in his voice. His hand moves, thumb sliding to the back of your neck. “Your neck’s tense.”
“Well,” you say, forcing a shaky exhale, “it’s not every day I become a study tool. First day on the job.”
He laughs, and there’s something charged beneath it. “You saying you don’t like my method?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all,” you blurt. You glance up and freeze at how close his face is. “...I’ve liked others less. That’s all.”
A lopsided smile. “So you want to continue?”
Your answer is immediate. “Yes.”
His thumb presses more firmly at your neck. “What muscle is tensed up here?”
“Trick question,” you mutter, “still the upper trapezius.”
“Good.” His hand flattens, gliding down your back, following the natural arch of your spine as your breath catches in your throat. “Now tell me—”
Your heart is pounding.
“—what muscle is making your back arch like that?”
You scoff, trying to straighten. “You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s not an answer,” he tuts. “Don’t know it, huh?”
“Of course I do,” you stammer.
“Then tell me, smart girl.”
Your stomach twists with nerves and something far more dangerous. He shouldn’t excite you. He should make you pull away, push him out, undo whatever this is. And yet, your mind wanders to what it would be like if you didn’t. If you invited him to stay instead.
You shake your head, grounding yourself. “Erector spinae.”
He hums. “See? Not so hard.”
“It was plenty hard,” you murmur, stealing a glance up at him.
He tilts his head, just enough to meet your eyes. Your lashes flutter as you switch between each of his eyes. His nose is nearly brushing yours, and it terrifies you just as much as it intrigues you. No, actually—what you’re feeling now goes beyond simple intrigue. It’s excitement. Bordering on longing.
“What are you doing?” you ask, words tumbling out of your mouth.
“Just lookin’ at you,” he replies easily. “You’re pretty.”
“Wha–? Sh-Shut up.”
He grins. “You’re cute when you’re shy, too.”
From the beginning, Satoru was supposed to be nothing more than a thorn in your side. Someone sharp and irritating. Something to endure. But when given the chance to poke where you were weakest, he’d held you instead.
His hand slides to your waist, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He still hasn’t pulled away, and you pray that he doesn’t. You don’t want him to.
You lick your bottom lip without thinking. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the movement—and he doesn’t bother hiding it, even after he’s sure you’ve noticed.
And when he’s least expecting it, at least as far as you can tell, you rock up onto your toes, hands fisted into his shirt, and press your lips to his.
Your lips slot into his like two puzzle pieces fitting together. His hands tighten their hold on your waist, and when you force yourself to pull away, to face the music of your decision made on a whim, you find a blushing Satoru staring back at you.
A soft, nervous laugh leaves his lips, breath warm against yours.
“Well, if you thought studying was hard…”
…Oh?
Your gaze dips.
Oh.
He’s hard.
From a single peck.
His sweatpants hang low on his hips, giving you a slight glimpse of the light trail of hair that leads toward the prominent bulge in the fabric. The sight alone makes your mouth water, enough for you to, within the span of a second, wonder what it’d be like to feel it. From sight alone, it looks big. Heavy.
Every warning system inside your head blares all at once, telling you that this is a bad, bad, bad, horrible, horrible, horrible decision. And yet, you lean into him again.
You kiss him once more, hands clutching onto his shirt as you tug him down to meet your mouth, which he does with no hesitation. His lips are softer than you imagined, gentle on yours.
“And which muscle is responsible for that?” you ask against his mouth.
He smiles, you can feel it. “Ischiocavernosus.”
Satoru’s large hands smooth over the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing at all. You’re lying on your bed before you realize it, and he is hovering atop in between your parted legs.
His lips tear away from yours, kisses mapping out a trail of heat along your jaw. Your hand slips into his hair, tugging when his mouth finds the sweet spot just beneath your ear.
Your back arches off the bed as a signifier.
“Found it,” he rumbles against your skin, smiling against it.
His mouth is searing, kissing down your clothed chest until he pushes your shirt up just enough to expose your belly. Open-mouthed kisses mark his exploration of your skin, hot and wet as he traces the curve of your side.
Your stomach flutters when his mouth kisses down your belly, strong hands holding your waist in place while his tongue darts out to get a taste of your skin.
Satoru’s movements, you realize, seem automatic. Like he’s thought about this before, planned for it, even—he was just waiting for you to give him the chance.
Hands suddenly paw at his shoulders, your hips squirming slightly. “Stop teasing me, Satoru.”
Satoru laughs, fingers tugging your fuzzy pajama pants down just enough to kiss your hip bone. “Fine, fine. Under one condition.”
Your heart pounds. “What is it?”
His hands smooth over your thighs as he shifts a bit lower. “Let me taste you.”
You blink a few times, clearly surprised. You’ve never been with a guy whose first move is to go down on you. “Okay… I mean, if you want to—ah!”
His hands are skilled in the way that they pull the hem of your pants down, leaning back just enough to peel them down your legs and toss them aimlessly onto the floor.
Satoru’s eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen, focused on the apex of your thighs as he flattens to his stomach. His hands move your legs to rest on his shoulders, his lips already on your inner thigh.
“Fuck, thank you,” he whispers against your skin, wet kisses inching closer to your core.
And when his mouth finds the wet patch on the gusset of your panties, Satoru knows he’s a goner.
His grip tightens on your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut, he flattens his tongue over the fabric. That only lasts a few seconds before his fingers tug the flimsy material down your legs, and his lips are latching onto the true source.
A groan escapes him the moment his tongue laps at your essence. “Tastes so sweet.”
Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at the root when his lips close around your clit. Your hips would’ve bucked into his mouth if his iron grip wasn’t keeping you in place.
Even with his face buried in your pussy, he manages to speak.
“Mmh— tastes like candy, baby. Thought about this s’many times.”
The confirmation only makes you twitch, which he seems to notice if the firm press of his tongue to your clit is any confirmation.
“Ah— shit, Satoru. Right there.”
Satoru thinks that he could do this forever. Could live and die a happy man, cheeks warmed by your thighs pressing in on them and the taste of you on his tongue.
His nose bumps against your clit, tongue slipping lower to gather more of you on his taste buds. His hips begin to rut into the mattress like a dog in heat, a whimper leaving his throat when you tug particularly hard on his hair.
“S-Sorry,” you manage, fingers releasing the strands of his white hair.
Blue eyes meet yours, and he forces himself to pull his tongue off you just long enough to speak. “Baby, I don’t care. Tug on it even harder if you wanna. Your pleasure feels good to me.”
“Masochist,” you say through a breathy laugh.
His mouth is back on you. “Only for you.”
You’re like sugar on his tongue, the type of ambrosia that men should go to war for. Satoru knows he would in a heartbeat.
The feeling of his tongue kitten licking your clit has your hands shooting down, one sliding back into his hair and the other scratching at the back of his hand on your thigh.
Satoru gives it to you without a second thought, your fingers lacing with his as you press his hand down on your stomach.
His eyes crack open to watch your face, twisted in a pleasure that he’s proud to have given you. He sucks your clit into his mouth before releasing it with a slick pop.
Only, your hand in his hair presses his face back into your pussy, and Satoru is nothing if not willing to please you.
The groan that leaves him travels up your spine, and your hips begin to twitch, thighs closing in on his head. A mewl leaves your lips, clutching his hand before you cry out, the first wave of your orgasm wracking through you.
Satoru flattens his tongue, licking up every drop of your syrupy release, hellbent on committing the taste of you to memory.
His voice is deep and scratchy when he speaks. “You’re beautiful when you cum.”
Your eyes snap open, a newfound heat finding your cheeks. “Shut up.”
He’s crawling up to meet your lips with a smile, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh. Just telling the truth.” He kisses your lips, and you taste yourself on them. “Sweetest pussy. I’d go for seconds if you let me.”
You’re tempted by the offer.
Only, something else tempts you more than it should.
Satoru hisses the moment your palm presses against the bulge in his sweatpants, forehead knocking into yours. His hips twitch against your hand, and when he closes his eyes, you can tell he’s doing his best not to grind into your hand.
A quiet laugh leaves your mouth. “I think I’d rather do something else.”
His hands fist into the bedsheets in an act of restraint. “Like what?” he asks, voice strained.
You huff, free hand taking hold of his chin, forcing him to look at you. “I think you’re smart enough to figure it out.”
“I don’t wanna assume. It’s ungentlemanly, y’know?” His lips press against yours, pulling back before you have the chance to deepen the kiss. “Ah-ah-ah, can’t do anything more ‘til the lady asks.”
He’s so fucking annoying.
The pout on your lips is too cute to handle. Satoru debates kissing it away. Only, your next words stop him in his tracks.
They come out more demanding than you intended, trying to hide how needy you really are. “Stop wasting my time. I want you to fuck me, Satoru.”
His cock twitches against your hand. Maybe bossiness works best with him.
“That’s so hot,” he says, panting.
Satoru immediately reaches for the hem of his sweatpants and boxers, pushing them down his legs in a hurried, uncoordinated manner. He nearly topples over once or twice in his haste.
Soon, though, his erection springs free, slapping against his stomach. It’s somehow even bigger than you initially imagined…lengthy, and flushed a pretty shade of pink at the tip.
This time, Satoru doesn’t tease you like you were expecting him to. Doesn’t gloat.
Instead, he kisses your cheek, then your forehead, until his mouth finally finds yours, a broken sound escaping him the moment he rubs his tip through your folds.
Then, his eyes find yours, and it feels like the world stops on its axis.
Forehead to forehead. Chest to chest. Your hand in his hair, his on your cheek. With Satoru Gojo of all people. The one person in this world whom you should stay away from.
And here he is, looking at you like you’re worth more than your family name and the money bags that come with it, like he wants you for you. Nothing else.
“We don’t have to, baby,” he whispers, sweet and gentle, as if sensing the mental games you’re playing with yourself. “I’m happy to just be here with you. I mean it.”
There it is. An out.
You should stop this before it starts. You should do your best to save the peace between you and your parents—what’s left of it, anyway. You should forget about the way your chest warms up when his thumb strokes over your cheek.
But then, wise words ring out in your mind.
I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.
And in this moment, you realize that losing Satoru would far surpass mere disappointment. It isn’t something you can bear, nor do you ever want to.
You shake your head, leaning up to kiss him, nice and soft. “I want this. So… stop making me wait.”
Satoru laughs, lips on your cheek as he notches himself on your entrance. “Yes, ma’am.”
Inch by inch, his length stretches you open, making your hands grasp at his shoulders for purchase, nails sinking into his skin. You whine at the intrusion, not used to his size by any means.
“You’re okay, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, one hand holding your cheek while the other strokes your hip. “Doing so good for me. Just a liiittle more.”
You huff, risking a glance downward, only to see he was only half inside. You throw your head back on the pillow. “Liar.”
He smiles against your lips, kissing you. “Figured a little white lie never hurt anyone.”
A moment later, Satoru pushes his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. You both release breathy moans at the same time, grips tightening on each other.
He pulls out, just the tip remaining, before sliding back inside your warmth, creating a slow, languid pace—giving you the chance to adjust to him.
You kiss him then, all teeth and tongue and want, panting hot against his mouth while your hands slip into his hair. “Fuck— faster, Toru. Please.”
The sound of his name on your tongue, so wanton while he’s inside you, spurs him on in a way he’s never felt before. His hands take hold of your hips, angling them up slightly so that he can fuck you deeper, the pace of his hips growing needier with each passing second.
“Mmh, wanted you for so long,” he says, words muffled against your skin while he kisses down your neck. “This—hah—can’t be real, baby. Feels so good.”
You drag his mouth back up to your lips, tongues sliding against each other in a fit of passion that you can hardly comprehend right now with how good he feels.
“So good,” you whimper into his mouth. “Want more, Satoru, please—”
“Shh, I got you,” he says.
And then his hands press down on the back of your thighs, folding them up against your chest. He pounds into you without sense, the new angle opening you up to him in a way that makes you see stars.
The sound of his balls slapping against your ass fills the room, the sounds of your pleasure only adding to the conversation.
Satoru pushes your shirt up, a sound between a whimper and a gasp, leaving him the moment his gaze sets on your breasts. His mouth latches onto your nipple before he can think twice about it.
“You weren’t—mmh—wearing a bra the whole time?”
You whine, trying to drag his mouth back to yours by your grip on his hair, but he doesn’t let up. “Y-You ask stupid questions.”
He flattens his tongue, laving over the underside of your breast, his hips never faltering. He groans against your skin. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t give me that attitude. Haven’t I been good? Yeah?”
A pout forms on your kiss-bruised lips. “Mm— I’m not giving attitude.”
Satoru laughs, the sound raspy and deep. “You are, pretty girl, but it’s okay. Toru’ll make it all better.”
His lips are back on yours, to your satisfaction, and his hand slips between the two of you, thumbing at your clit. You gasp, stealing the air from his lungs, clinging onto his shoulders and back like a koala bear.
A warmth coils in your stomach, making you squirm against his thrusts. Your nails claw into his back, raking down his skin, surely leaving marks that Satoru will admire for days. A memento of the moment he’s been waiting for.
His cock twitches inside you when you moan again, your pussy clenching around him like a vice, tight and warm.
You whine. “Satoru—”
“Mm-hmm, I know, baby, don’t you worry,” he says, voice slightly smug as he continues to draw circles over your clit, feeling the way it pulses against his thumb. “Give it to me, sweets, know you can do it.”
Your hips buck up against his, your orgasm crashing into you. Your body tenses around him, squeezing him impossibly tighter.
If the way his pace stutters is any clue, you know he’s close. When you pulse against him, he drops his head onto your shoulder.
Satoru whimpers, so lost in his pleasure that he can no longer function. He fucks you shallowly now, and lost in your own mind, you turn your head to whisper in his ear.
“Inside,” you request, voice breathy. “Please, Toru.”
That makes Satoru cum before he can realize it.
Hot spurts shoot inside you, his sounds muffled against your skin while his own climax wracks through him. It seems like it goes on forever, but the moment he kisses the underside of your jaw, you realize that he’s finished, finally slipping out of the post-orgasm delirium you put him in.
When your eyes meet his, both of your eyes widen, expressions almost sheepish.
As if it were finally occurring to you that you just had sex with Satoru fucking Gojo, you feel a bit shy, blinking up at him and absolutely unsure what to say.
“…Hi,” you whisper.
Satoru seems to share your thoughts. He brings his hand to your cheek, knuckles brushing over your flushed skin. “Hey, baby.”
Unsure of what to do, you decide to lean back into your old reliable method. The only way you know how to talk to him is without allowing a hint of affection to seep into your voice. Be mean to him.
“Get off me,” you say, pawing at his chest halfheartedly, “you’re heavy.”
It seems that Satoru has learned you well enough to know exactly what you’re doing. Trying to push him away the moment it all feels like too much to handle, reverting to what you know best.
He lowers his head, brushing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. “Mm, no can do, pretty. I like to cuddle after sex, guess you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
You squirm as he begins to pepper your face with kisses, wet and dry, trying to get a proper reaction from you.
“Okay, okay!” you exclaim, laughing without realizing it. “Fine. We can cuddle…but we have to clean up first.”
Satoru beams at that. He kisses your forehead before practically leaping off your bed, searching for a towel. You aren’t sure why the sight of him prancing around your room in his birthday suit makes you feel so…warm and tingly inside.
God, what has he done to you?
You yawn, rubbing your eyes. “On the left side of the closet. Third drawer down.”
A second later, he’s back and wiping away the mess between your legs, careful with his movements. Once finished, he pokes around in your clothing drawers, managing to find a pair of fresh underwear and a pretty blue shirt that you should've known he’d pick out.
“Matches my eyes,” he preens, doing most of the work as he pulls the panties up your legs and the shirt over your head.
“Of course you’d notice that,” you scoff, trying to ignore how warm this all makes you feel.
With his boxers back on, he climbs back into bed with you, lying on his back. A surprised sound leaves him when you rest your head on his chest, hand draped over his middle.
Satoru wears a smile as he wraps an arm around you, free hand lacing with yours. “Thought you didn’t wanna cuddle.”
“I never said that,” you grumble.
He laughs to himself, the kind that signifies he’s up to no good. “Aww. Just a cute little cuddle muffin you are.”
“I’ll get off you right now if you don’t—”
He immediately stops laughing and tightens his hold on you. “Sorry, sorry. You run a tight ship.”
☆
In your experience, the morning after could go one of two ways.
You could either cringe at yourself and your decisions, make awkward small talk with the person you had shared not only your body but also a bed with, and then tiptoe out of your hookup’s room, or not-so-discreetly kick them out of yours.
Or, you could still make equally awkward small talk upon waking up, limbs still entangled and clothes mostly scattered across the floor, but not feel the gnawing feeling to run away and never speak to this person again.
And so far, you’re in no rush to make him go.
Satoru shifts in his sleep behind you, one arm draped lazily over your middle while the other pillows your head. You blink blearily as you run your fingertips along his forearm, tracing the veins in his hand until you cover it with your own. His fingers slightly twitch until they fill the spaces between yours.
His nose brushes the back of your neck, inhaling indulgently. His arm beneath your head bends and curls inward, his nails gently scratching your scalp. “Morning.”
You feel your heartbeat quicken in your chest. His voice is deep and groggy from sleep, his lips just barely grazing your skin as he speaks. It only gets worse (or better?) when he presses a kiss to the crook of your shoulder and neck, firmer now yet unhurried.
The strap of the camisole you’d thrown on last night after your shower was now pinched between his thumb and forefinger, slowly slipping it down the curve of your shoulder as his lips explored further.
“Good morning,” you manage out, voice slightly weak but not entirely from just waking up. “How’d you sleep?”
You can feel his lips twitch against your skin, probably turning into a smug grin if you had to guess. His hand stopped on your bicep, his chin now resting on your shoulder as he pulls you closer.
“Better than usual,” he says, voice rumbling in his throat. “Even with you stealing the covers from me all night, it’d be worth it every time to wake up to this.” He picks his head up just enough to look down at you. “You?”
Your cheeks are warm, and you bury half of your face into the pillow. “Better than usual. I actually feel rested.”
Reaching an arm out, you turn the clock on your nightstand toward the bed. 2:38 p.m.
“We slept the whole day away!”
Satoru hums behind you, chest rumbling against your back. “Mm, good sex tends to do that to people.”
You smile, looking back at him over your shoulder. “Oh? So that’s why you were snoring into my ear all night?”
“Precisely why,” he replies easily, before pecking your lips. “Pussy put me right to sleep.”
This time, you lean in to kiss him. When you pull away, you freeze.
Oh fuck.
Then you shoot up out of bed, eyes wide and panicked. It’d just dawned on you that, for all the days you could have had sex with your annoying-rival-to-friend, it had to be the day of the Ryomen dinner. And, of course, you had to oversleep with said annoying-rival-to-friend-and-now-hookup still in your bed.
The drive alone would take two and a half hours.
“Holy shit, I need to go,” you say, scatterbrained as you rush into your closet.
Satoru props himself up on his elbow, sounding more panicked than he likely intended. “What? Why?”
You return to his line of sight, already half-clothed in a pristinely ironed dress, bouncing on one leg as you tug your stockings up. “I have to go to dinner with my family and the Ryomens. My mom is going to kill me.”
And he’s left to watch, helpless, as you check yourself in the mirror—putting your earrings on, looking beautiful as ever…to go have dinner with another guy and his family.
Satoru knows he should be relaxed about this. He needs to chill out. You had sex, yes, but it’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.
(Even though he’d thought about how great that would be as he admired you while you slept.)
“Oh, cool,” he says, forcing a cheery tone into his voice. “What for?”
You press your lips together, hastily applying your makeup lest you show up late with none on. “I’m not really sure. Probably to talk about their plans for us post-graduation. That’s all they talk about these days.”
He bites the inside of his cheek.
Doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Sex between friends can be…casual. Don’t read into it so much.
“Right,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck, doing his best to seem relaxed. “Sounds boring.”
You nod at him through the mirror before turning to face him. “Yeah, it will be.”
A silence settles the moment your eyes meet.
Slowly, you walk over to him—still lying in your bed, clad in nothing but his boxers. “I’m sorry I’m leaving like this.”
He waves a hand through the air, making an exaggerated pshhh sound. “Don’t worry about it. I get it.”
You give him a lopsided smile before leaning down to kiss him. He barely has time to close his eyes—to savor it—before you’re already pulling away.
“I’ll text you, okay?” you say. “You can use my shower again if you want. Make yourself at home while I’m gone. Just don’t use up my body wash—it’s expensive.”
Satoru lets out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, no promises. Have fun.”
And then you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you.
He falls back against the mattress, dragging his hands over his face.
It’s casual, he tries to remind himself. Don’t be a crybaby.
But you kissed him goodbye.
What was casual about that?
☆
The hallways are abnormally crowded today.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, Shoko’s messages flooding in.
shoko 💗: hi
shoko 💗: how was the dinner?
shoko 💗: did your parents finally come to their senses
shoko 💗: and drop the stupid engagement idea????
you: i wish
you: they seem even more into the idea now
you: mind you, sukuna fell asleep at the dining table with his fork hanging out of his mouth
you: like oh okay i’m seeing it now, total HUSBAND MATERIAL right here
shoko 💗: fuck my chungus life
you: fuck mine too
The sound of hushed voices in the distance distracts you, making you glance in that direction.
Only then do you realize that they’re looking right at you.
Actually, it feels like everyone is looking at you.
No, worse. It feels like everyone can see through you. Like they know exactly what you’ve been up to. What you did when no one was around.
But that’s ridiculous. How could anyone know?
Suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, you glance back down at your phone.
you: i feel like everyone is staring at me today
shoko 💗: maybe because you look sexier than usual?
you: one can only hope
You crash into someone, limbs flailing, only to be steadied by a gentle grip.
“Watch where you’re going, iPad kid,” Satoru teases, a wide smile on his face.
You pocket your phone, huffing out a laugh despite yourself. “I was watching where I was going. You just came out of nowhere.”
“Uh-huh, totally,” he says.
Without thinking, you glance over your shoulder toward the group that had been watching you earlier, the itch still unscratched.
Always observant, Satoru tilts his head. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing, I’m fine,” you answer instinctively.
“Talk to me,” he says, nudging your arm softly, still trying to keep things light.
Then your eyes meet his—his blue irises practically begging you to open up.
“It’s just…” Your voice trails off, growing quieter. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you? About…”
Satoru leans back slightly, like the question physically hit him.
“Uh— no,” he says. “No, I didn’t. Promise.”
You catch the shift in his expression—the way it falters, like something just closed off.
Your eyes squeeze shut. Shit. “No, it’s not that I regret it or anything, it’s just that—”
“It’s okay,” he cuts in, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really. It’s fine. You don’t have to explain.” His eyes meet yours again. “I didn’t tell anyone. Don’t worry.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes quickly. “Good. I’m glad we got that figured out.”
“Me too,” you say, though you don’t sound convinced anymore. “Did— did I say something?”
Satoru shakes his head, that boyish smile slipping back into place. “Nah. You’re good.”
You glance around again. “…Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats. “Are you going to the party this weekend? Choso’s frat is throwing.”
You nod. “Yeah, I’ll be there. I assume I’ll see you there too?”
“Yup,” he says with a nod. “Well, I’ve gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you later?”
“Yeah,” you say, turning to watch him walk away down the hallway.
Well… that conversation went well.
Right?
☆
After a few days of Satoru avoiding you like the plague, you’re starting to think your conversation didn’t go so well.
He’s only sent you one Instagram reel over the last three days—and it was about tips and tricks for studying anatomy. Was he doing this on purpose? The last time you studied for anatomy, it ended with you in bed with him.
For what feels like the tenth time this hour, you check your messages.
Satoru :D: Good morning
Satoru :D: Sleep well?
you: good morning
you: yes i did, did you?
And there’s been no response since.
You wonder if you should message him again.
Maybe his phone got swept up in a tornado. (It’s 75°F and sunny outside.)
Maybe he’s currently being attacked by alligators and desperately needs you as a lifeline. (Though you know he wouldn’t even accept your help—he’d be convinced he could take an alligator in a fight.)
Maybe he just hasn’t seen your text. (You saw him repost a TikTok about boba milk tea an hour ago.)
You tap on the text bar, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
“There’s no way you’re about to double text a man.”
You jump, quickly locking your phone. “Utahime, I was not. I was just checking our messages.”
Utahime hums, clearly unconvinced, scrolling on her own phone. “You keep telling yourself that, girl.”
Rolling onto your back, you stare at the ceiling, hands folded over your chest.
“Are you seriously sulking right now?”
“I’m not sulking!”
(You were definitely sulking.)
Utahime sighs, nudging your side. “Did you read this week’s blind items?”
You shake your head. “No.”
She tilts her head down at you. “Well, I’m pretty sure one is about you.”
“WHAT?!”
You’ve never sat up this fast in your life—lightheaded and dizzy as you reach for Utahime’s phone.
There is going to be an engagement post-graduation between a male and female from two of the most well-known families on campus.
A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has still been shitting in the showers. (P.S. Can you please stop already?)
A notorious rich student was spotted talking to a girl who comes from a family that begins with the last letter of the alphabet. Are sparks flying?
A male has been making piss-poor SoundCloud music at 4 AM for the past week. (Please stop. You are better off sticking to your career path in accounting.)
A pit forms in your stomach.
Had Sukuna told someone about your situation? You want to say no—but once he’s had enough to drink, anything is possible.
But the one that concerns you more is the third item.
Could Satoru have already moved on? To a girl from the Zenin family?
Utahime presses her thumb between your eyebrows, smoothing out the crease. “Hey. What happened to taking these with a grain of salt? They’re probably not real. Aside from the shower shitter—that one seems pretty legit.”
You let out a weak laugh. “Yeah… you’re probably right.”
Even still, the pit in your stomach doesn’t go away.
☆
Music thrums against the walls, people packed in like sardines, moving with no particular rhyme or rhythm. Smoke fills the air, a thick fog that has no chance of dissipating.
Sukuna’s arm is snug around your shoulder, something that you would have never thought twice about before. Now, though, you notice it like a thorn in your side.
You try to scan the room, in search of your friends who you knew would be here tonight. Only, a hand on your face draws your attention elsewhere, and Sukuna is kissing your cheek in farewell before you can even realize he’s leaving you to fend for yourself.
“Later, girl,” he says, so casually, as if he had the right.
Fucking typical.
You huff and wave your arm through the air, coughing quietly. Once the smoke cleared just enough, your gaze locked in on something in the distance.
Satoru. Standing beside a girl from the Zenin family.
But even as he stands beside her, his glowing eyes are already on you.
Suddenly, it hurts to breathe. The walls are caving in on you. The music fades into a silence that becomes even more overbearing than the bass.
Anger rises in your throat. Anger you have no right to feel.
After all, Satoru wasn’t yours. You weren’t his. He can do what he wants, as can you. How could you forget that? And why did you want to?
If you were a braver person, one who could be honest with herself, you would walk across this room. You’d tell him how you feel. You would say it now, out loud and to his face. At least then, he’d know how you felt.
The problem, though, was that you weren’t any of these things. You were terrified and hesitant—so all you could do was this. Look at him and hope he can put the puzzle pieces together on his own. You can only hope he likes how it looks once it is completed.
Your feet are moving before you can realize it. A moment later, you find yourself in the bathroom, pressing your back against the door to slam it shut.
You release a sharp breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your hands cover your face as you approach the sink, palms pressing against the countertop.
Then, you catch your reflection in the mirror.
You know better than this.
You know better than to wish for something that you have no right to.
You know better than to want Satoru. You know better than to envision a simple life with him. To want him in a way that is uncalculated and real.
Dropping your head, you close your eyes. Squeeze them shut, and hope that you were anywhere else but here, in this dingy bathroom with a flickering lightbulb above your head.
The door opens and shuts behind you.
You pick your head up, and there he is.
Satoru.
His chest presses to your back, his hands bracketing yours on the counter as he dips his chin into the crook of your neck. “Were you not going to come say hi?”
You roll your eyes despite yourself, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. “No. Seems like you were a little preoccupied.”
Silence stretched thin between you.
Then his hands find your waist, spinning you around to face him.
“Don’t do that,” he says, voice soft and almost pleading.
You swallow. “Don’t do what?”
“You know what,” he replies, “act like… you don’t care. Like you don’t feel anything for me, just because you’re upset.”
You avoid his gaze. “I’m not upset. It’s not like we’re dating. You can do what you want with…whoever you want.”
Satoru huffs, forehead knocking into yours before he pulls back. “How long are we going to keep doing this, baby?” he asks, hands finally coming to settle on your waist. “I don’t want anyone else. Not like how I want you.”
Finally, you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his.
It almost made you want to cry, realizing how easy things with Satoru were. How he opened himself up to you without fear, because he didn’t want an ounce of doubt to live in your head.
Maybe it was your turn to return the message.
“Me neither,” you finally admit.
His expression softens in relief.
“Good,” he murmurs, brushing your hair away from your face.
Your lips press together. “But why’d the blog say you were with a girl from the Zenin family?”
“The same reason that the stupid blog says you and Sukuna are together,” he says with a shrug. “It’s a rumor. People see you standing next to someone—at a very healthy distance, by the way, a very platonic and normal distance—and run with it.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t go around letting my rumored girlfriends kiss me on the cheek, though.”
You tilt your head, knowing full well that Satoru was capable of knowing that there were no feelings between you and Sukuna. “Careful, you almost sound upset.”
He shrugs his broad shoulders, tilting his head in the same direction you did. “Depends. Is he a good kisser?”
Your fingers are still gripping the edge of the counter. “He is.”
Satoru glances over your face, the corner of his mouth twitching once he notices the slight pout on your lips. “Better than me?”
You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you’re not a liar. “No.”
A small smirk. “Good.”
“Maybe you should get back to your friend,” you retort, shaking your head.
“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” Satoru coos, hand cupping your cheek, thumbing over your bottom lip.
You splutter. “What? I’m not.”
“No?”
“No.”
Satoru’s hand starts to pull away. Panic sparks in you, and your hand shoots up, wrapping around his wrist to keep his palm against your face. He smiles softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.
“...Only a little,” you finally admit.
Satoru’s fingers thread into your hair, guiding your forehead to his lips. “That’s okay. I was jealous too.”
“Jealous? You?”
“Jealous. Me.”
You clear your throat, and for the first time in your life, you decide to prod for further reassurance.
“Do you like her?” you ask, voice small.
He seems distracted, his lips on your cheek now in a chaste kiss. “Hm?”
“Do you like her?” you repeat, hands prodding at his chest to make him meet your eyes. “That girl you were talking to.”
Satoru scoffs, like the answer was obvious. “No. I’m a one-lady type of guy.”
That answer shouldn’t make your face feel warm, but it does. He’s turned you into mush, putty in his hands.
His thumb brushes over your hip bone. “Did you let Sukuna kiss you because you like him?”
You shake your head. “Maybe I just like kissing people. It’s fun, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, nose brushing yours. “But do me a favor, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, heart rate doubling in your chest.
“The next time you wanna kiss someone, come to me instead,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your sides. “I’m better at it, anyway. Said it yourself.”
You can’t bite back your smile now, nor do you try to. “Okay.”
“Okay, baby.”
You hoped no one noticed how long you’d both been gone from the party, but when you exited the bathroom together—lip gloss smeared on Satoru’s mouth and your hair messier than before—it likely told the entire story for you.
☆
You wake up wrapped in a Digimon throw blanket.
A small, sleepy groan leaves you as you try to move—to stretch your limbs after a night of sleep.
Only, the heavily weighted blanket on top of you, known as Satoru Gojo, doesn’t make it very easy.
His arms are wrapped so tightly around you that you’d think he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night—so he set up precautions beforehand. His cheek is pressed against your bare chest, using your breasts as pillows.
The best pillows on the market, he says.
Blinking blearily, you scan his bedroom. Now, after only two months of dating, it looks like a shrine to you.
A framed photo of you hangs on his wall, another propped up on his bedside table. There’s one on his desk too—taken on the first day of your internship—set beside his computer.
Because, as he says, “seeing you smiling in that pretty little dress motivates me to study, ‘cause I need to pay for your tastes somehow.”
You’re smiling now, glancing down at him, his cheek squished against your skin. Your fingers glide through his hair before smoothing down his back, soothing the faint sting of the scratches you’d left the night before.
A quiet whine leaves him, and he fumbles blindly for your hand, guiding it back to his hair so you’ll keep playing with it.
“Good morning to you, too,” you murmur, scratching lightly at his scalp.
“Morning, baby,” he mumbles, voice rumbling against your skin.
Without opening his eyes, he presses a kiss to the underside of your breast, his mouth already trailing down the column of your stomach.
“What’re you doing?” you ask, smiling.
“Eating breakfast,” he replies simply, mouthing at your hip bone.
Just as he reaches for the hem of your panties, his phone begins to buzz on the bedside table. Undeterred, he tugs them down an inch.
“Ignore it.”
Then his phone buzzes again. And again.
A moment later, yours buzzes too.
Slightly concerned now, you reach for it, unlocking the screen to a message from Shoko.
shoko 💗: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP
shoko 💗: [article link]
You tap the link, your eyes widening as you read the headline.
“What?” he asks, already pouting slightly at the interruption. “What is it?”
Wordlessly, you turn the phone toward him.
Satoru Gojo and Y/N L/N were spotted on the Gojo family’s personal yacht, indulging in promiscuous activities.
And to make matters worse, front and center is a picture of you sitting in his lap—his hand squeezing a handful of your ass like he’s afraid it might run away from him.
You press your palm to your forehead. “I told you we shouldn’t have taken the yacht out that day.”
Satoru hums, clearly distracted. “How do I save this picture? You look really sexy in this.”
“Satoru, focus!” you say, lightly swatting his shoulder. “What should we do?”
He shrugs, fingers resuming their slow work of tugging your underwear down your legs. “Right now, I’m thinkin’ I’ll finish my breakfast. We’ll figure the other stuff out later.”
You think you should protest—but the moment his mouth finds you, every argument dies on your tongue.
Because you know that he’ll make good on his promise. This will be figured out, one way or another.
And as long as you have Satoru by your side, you think you’ll be just fine.
Rumor has it you brought him home the next weekend to meet your parents.
Rumor also has it that from that moment on, the arranged engagement with Sukuna was off.
a/n: heyyyy yallll!!! how are you?
me?? posting 2 fics in one month?? #imonaroll #unstoppable
no, but seriously, if you read this all the way through thank you so much!! it’s the longest fic i’ve ever written so it’s a lil experimental for me. this is also my first time writing for gojo in about two years and it’s my second time writing him ever sooo i’m still figuring out how i want to characterize him lol
anyway i hope you enjoyed, as always please let me know your thoughts <3
warnings: probably ooc hotch, reader is unashamedly and unabashedly down bad for hotch and she shows and owns it, seriously, if this real life, she'd get written up or possibly fired lmao. age-gap relationship (duh). some cameos - you get a cookie if you know who they are. mostly fluff and crack, but there plans for angst. divorced!hotch. jack does not exist in the universe.
notes: forewarning i'm rusty as hell, regarding writing, so forgive me. this idea was conceived almost this time last year. most parts have been finished. as always, please let me know what you think! pics are owned by their respective owners.
masterlist | ask
love is embarrassing masterlist
part two | part three, pt 3 excerpt | part four | part five
iked by a.hotchner, yourgirlgarcia, s_riley and 247 others
lilprivyn it's my birthday, i can cry if i want to (there was no crying involved)
tagged haley_lane, prentiss.here, yourgirlgarcia, jj.jareau, and 9 others
derek_morgan happy birthday
lilprivyn y so dry, derek? :(
derek_morgan Well it might be because SOMEBODY kept asking for me to do shots with her
lilprivyn as someone who has never consumed an alcoholic beverage in their life, i assume that this is not about me
prentiss.here major hottie alert!
lilprivyn no u
a.hotchner Happy Birthday. I hope you had a fun night!
lilprivyn thanks boss! wish u were there tho!
prentiss.here get a room
comment liked by derek_morgan and david_s_rossi
lilprivyn rossi was there but he did not want to take any photos :( even tho it was my bday (so there was a little bit of crying involved)
david_s_rossi I was not. You cannot prove that I was there, in that room, with all that neon and glitter.
lilprivyn and the boas and the cowboy hats! do not forget about the cowboy hats
view more comments
iked by a_hotchner, yourgirlgarcia, prentiss.here and 127 others
lilprivyn birthday pt 2 photo dump
song we fell in love in october - girl in red
yourgirlgarcia you're glowing star girl!
lilprivyn it's because i have you in my life pen <3
derek_morgan Hold up there, cowgirl. Who's the man?
lilprivyn wouldn't u like to know
jj.jareau I think we would all like to know.
prentiss.here ^^
lilprivyn it was actually a random man
david_s_rossi I thought we taught you better than that.
jj.jareau @/spence.reid, we need you here. Can you guess who that man is?
lilprivyn i'm going to block all of u and report ur accounts
jj.jareau We'll just get Penelope to reinstate them.
view more comments
liked by lilprivyn, dave_s_rossi, yourgirlgarcia and 6 others
lilprivyn HOTCH ur first selfie ♥‿♥
derek_morgan Damn, baby girl has it bad
lilprivyn yeah, pen got it real bad for her chocolate thunder
comment liked by a.hotchner
lilprivyn anyways, as i was saying, ur first selfie and it's truly a masterpiece
yourgirlgarcia Don't think I've ever seen you in other than a suit, boss.
prentiss.here Didn't think I'd ever see him in any other place than the office.
comment liked by jj.jareau
dave_s_rossi Are you joining in with the kids with all of their selfie nonsense?
lilprivyn rossi, as if ur feed is not just your face, your book, your face and italian food
lilprivyn can i join u next time
comment liked by a.hotchner
a.hotchner Yes. I would like that.
comment liked by lilprivyn
lilprivyn (⑉• ﻌ •⑉)
prentiss.here GET A ROOM
comment liked by derek_morgan, david_s_rossi and jj.jareau
lilprivyn em, don't be jelly, i have some lovin' for u too <3
lilprivyn i thank god everyday that i have eyes that work
comment liked by a.hotchner
derek_morgan Notice how there's only one person that's constantly commenting?
lilprivyn yeah, derek, why don't you like get a life and stop commenting on hotch's photo?
part two | part three, pt 3 excerpt | part four | part five
an// YOU GUYS! Y’all crushed Showtime so much, I had to write a lil extra of the team figuring it all out! Truly thank you to everyone who enjoyed it, I cannot remember the last time I had a fic get so much support! TY 💐
-
It was hard for you and Aaron to go back to being at odds after being undercover. It's been weeks, but it’s taking some time for that mask to go completely back on at work. The team kicked it all back off again with a joke the second you sit down for a briefing.
“Thanks for joining us, Mrs. Hayes.” Morgan smirks, turning in his chair back and forth.
You roll your eyes while Emily sits down next to you and asks him, “You’re still stuck on that?”
“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”
You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”
Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”
You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile.
He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”
The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.
Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”
“Is it?” Rossi questions.
Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction.
JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”
“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two.
Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”
“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.
“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”
“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”
You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes.
“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”
“Garcia!” Hotch warns.
She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.”
“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”
“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states.
Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes.
“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”
“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.
Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”
“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”
Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”
You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely.
“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out.
No denial. Just silence.
Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail.
“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now.
You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.”
“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals.
Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”
Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”
“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”
“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.
You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.”
“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out.
Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement.
“Yes.”
Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.”
“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?”
You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”
“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states.
“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.
You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns.
Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.
-
Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.
The elevator dings.
JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”
Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you.
You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug.
“Hi.”
You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”
Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees.
JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”
Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”
He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”
“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand.
“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”
The bullpen goes totally silent.
You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”
“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”
“Jack…” Hotch warns.
You can tell he’s just getting started.
“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.
“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”
He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.
“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head.
“Always ask the child.” JJ nods.
“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug.
“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”
“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures.
“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head.
“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.”
Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”
You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.”
You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes.
Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”
Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”
“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”
Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”
“Jack.”
Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.
“What? Honesty matters.”
“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues.
You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”
Aaron gives you a look. Warm and unguarded. His smile is real, full of life and tender. The expression that is totally foreign to the team on his face, but they now know it belongs to you.
summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him?
word count: 7 K 🌵
-
“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.”
Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality.
You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it.
“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.”
“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file.
Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”
“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.”
Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”
Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.”
Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”
“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.”
“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”
You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.”
Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.”
“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.”
All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch.
“Theft of youth.”
Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”
“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes.
“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues.
“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.”
Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.”
You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch.
Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.”
It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup.
“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”
“No.”
Hotch’s answer immediate.
You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.”
His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.”
“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”
JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”
“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment.
“Which means?” Garcia questions.
“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”
More eyes fall back to you.
You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”
Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.”
“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins.
You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.”
“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?”
The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow.
“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh.
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.”
The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work.
“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”
“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense.
“Somehow I’m still offended.”
Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.
“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team. Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan.
“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.”
“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly.
“Immensly.” She continues to beam.
A long pause.
Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”
He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod.
“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”
You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.”
“Yes,” He said flatly.
You grin wider, “Then I’m in.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”
Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.
This is going to get complicated.
-
The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful.
“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.”
Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”
“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help.
“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”
He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.
“Progress.” You bite your cheek.
“Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.”
“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.”
His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.”
“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.”
Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”
“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”
“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly.
You beam, “Exactly.”
His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”
“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.”
He exhales quietly.
“I want to add something else.”
He looks back up.
“Power.”
He frowns, “Explain.”
“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”
He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.”
“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”
The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea.
“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.”
“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.”
The silence stretches back over the jet.
“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.”
“That’s the point.”
He stares for a long moment, “Fine.”
You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”
“A conference.”
“Boring. Try again.”
He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.”
“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”
Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it.
“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”
“Why twice?”
“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.”
Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.”
“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”
Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.”
You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you.
The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family.
As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second.
“Breathe. Like you like me.”
“I don’t-”
“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”
Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun.
You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches.
“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck.
You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.
“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.”
He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” You tease.
They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease.
“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.
You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!”
Hotch blinks, looking back down at you.
You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.
When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you.
“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.”
His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.”
You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.”
You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism.
-
The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside.
Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts.
She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.”
You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”
You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."
”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.
Word spreads fast in this neighborhood.
The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.
You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.”
Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.”
“I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.”
He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.”
“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”
You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.
“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face.
“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”
The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him.
“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room.
By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right.
“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.”
He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too.
“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.
You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross.
The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.”
You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.”
He exhales slowly, “Understood.”
You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt.
You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department.
He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real.
You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence.
You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.”
“Goodnight.”
Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open.
You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him.
“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep.
He freezes for half a second.
Then recovers, “Sleep well?”
You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good.
“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows.
You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support.
By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be.
Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”
“Tell me about it.” Emily whined.
Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub.
Neighbors slow as they pass.
A man across the street checks his mail. Twice.
You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned.
It’s bait.
And it’s effective.
Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.
“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!”
You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”
Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does.
“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s.
It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response.
“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”
Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house.
“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”
“What-”
“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”
His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.
“Forty-five minutes.” She answers.
“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face.
“I’ll work on it.”
He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow.
-
Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story.
“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”
Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.”
“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.”
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”
“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.”
Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear.
“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.”
He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled.
“Understood.”
The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic.
An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space.
A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter.
Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view.
“You good?” You ask quietly.
“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”
You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”
His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No, but it gets the job done.”
You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back.
“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral.
“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.”
You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now.
Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”
Garcia typing away furiously.
“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.”
Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”
Garcia hesitates before answering.
“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.”
“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron.
“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”
“Let’s give him a show.”
You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him.
He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard.
“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips.
Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.
You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera.
“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel.
“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”
There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.”
Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.”
Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity.
“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia.
“Mhm.”
You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.
“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps.
It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off.
-
You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once.
All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display.
“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil.
Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.
You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.”
He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over.
Too many faces.
You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves.
He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable.
From the street, it’s enviable.
From the cameras, he’s raging.
“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece.
JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.”
You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur. Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.
You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food.
“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”
“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”
Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”
Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”
Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.
“I know,” he says. “I really do.”
The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.
From just behind her.
A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.
Too still.
You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too.
“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.”
She then turns where the other boy still watches.
“And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.”
Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens.
You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia.
“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”
There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece.
“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together.
You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.
“So, how long have you guys lived here?”
“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him.
“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”
Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch.
Sharp. Hurt. Furious.
Hotch squeezes a warning.
His eyes flick up to your face for the first time.
You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.
Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.
“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.”
“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds.
“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-”
“Garcia.”
“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”
Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear.
“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.”
Bingo.
You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too.
“Does anyone have eyes on him?”
No answer.
You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless.
The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.
-
Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.
“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells.
“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously.
“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.
“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds.
“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.”
-
Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.
“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door.
His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast.
He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”
Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.
“On your knees.”
Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet.
Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time.
“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”
You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?”
You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.
“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”
“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs.
“Correcting my theft of youth?”
Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes.
“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”
Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone.
“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.
You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”
Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.”
The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake.
“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.”
Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill.
“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.”
You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”
His head bobs.
“Then put the gun down.”
He hesitates.
Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”
The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready.
“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.”
Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols.
-
The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.
“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.
“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?”
“No ma’am!”
“We’re going!”
“Okay, okay!”
Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings.
“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.”
You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror.
Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”
He matches your lean, a step closer.
“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”
The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.”
“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”
A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.”
Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle.
“Neither do I.”
-
The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins.
For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing.
“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”
You close your eyes.
Hotch exhales through his nose.
JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”
Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-
“Garcia.” Hotch warns.
You groan, “Oh my god.”
Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.”
Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.”
Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”
“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.”
“That was tactical.”
You snort loudly before you can even stop it.
Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”
Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”
You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”
“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”
“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.
JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab.
Hotch’s ears turn red.
“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.
“Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face.
“I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees.
Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch.
“It was part of the profile.” He reminds.
Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”
Silence.
Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”
His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”
Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”
You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.”
“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”
Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”
"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"
“You’re welcome, you pervs!”
You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold.
Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac.
“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.”
The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase.
“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open.
He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.
“Probably not.”
extra of the team finding out here!
an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!
summary: Hotch is sick and refuses to go home and take care of himself, so the team decides you’re the best person to handle it. Or, handle him. It turns out your boss isn’t the only Hotchner sick today.
word count: 5.3 K FLUFF OMFG
-
The team was already placing bets on who was going to bite the bullet and tell Hotch to go home. All heads would end up turning to you.
“Why me?” You huff.
“You’re the only one who is going to make it a foot past the door and you know it.” Emily bites the end of her pen, spinning around in her chair to face you.
“Statistically, Y/n would be able to get the furthest into the office before Hotch kicks her out.”
“Pretty boy,” Morgan shakes his head while sitting on the edge of his desk, “He does not kick Pretty Girl out.”
You shake your head, still not even bothering to give them your attention. You continue writing your report, feeling multiple sets of eyes boring into you. Another sneeze can be heard from the office upstairs, you have to fight the urge to look up at his window.
It didn’t take a genius to know that Hotch was sick, it was apparent the second he walked in this morning. Coat buttoned up to his chin on a warm April morning. Red nose and a faint rasp in his voice.
“He’s pale.” JJ comments, “Like hospital pale.”
That has your attention. Your head snaps up to look up at the windows where your boss is sat at his desk working. They’re right, he does not look good.
“So, who’s feeling brave?” Rossi asks, walking out of his office and gesturing to Hotch. “I already tried earlier this morning.”
Rossi’s eyes fall to you.
“No.”
“Bella!” He praises, walking down the steps to come closer to your desk, “Kid, you’ve got the right way with people.”
“And you’re his favorite.” Morgan adds, you flip him off over your shoulder.
From behind you, Reid mutters, “Statistically speaking, the likelihood of him allowing any of us to question his well-being without consequences is extremely low. Y/n, however is-”
“Enough.” You roll your eyes and get up from your desk. You hate that this worked.
Everyone was quick to celebrate their success until you look over at them after climbing up the stairs, the bullpen going silent. You knock on the doorframe as gently as possible.
“Sir?”
He waits for a second or two before looking up from his computer, his eyes still sharp but glossier than normal. His cheeks look flushed, and now that you’re this close you can see that he’s sweating. He’s too warm, and it looks like he’s holding himself up with sheer will.
“You’re sick.”
“I’m functional.” His fingers still hover over the keys.
“That is not the same thing.” You lean against the frame now, you can feel the focus of everyone coming from behind you.
The corner of his mouth twitches, “What are they saying out there?”
“That you’re stubborn. And a workaholic. And that you’re going to pass out dramatically if we don’t get you home.”
“That last part sounds like Morgan.”
You cut him a look that shows you aren’t going to let him change the subject.
“I’m fine-” A sneeze cuts him off before he can finish whatever reason he was about to sell you for why he’s fine to stay.
“You were saying?” You raise your brows with an unimpressed look.
“You need rest.” You add quietly, taking a step into his office. Your fingers hover over the edge of his desk.
“We have a briefing and new case loads-”
“You need rest.” You repeat, “You have an entire team to delegate this to. Go home for the day.”
“Are you telling me what to do?” You can tell he’s using his energy to show you an entertained face.
“Highly suggesting.” You quip.
Your eyes hold on each other, something unspoken passing between you two. It feels warm and familiar. Every time you two are alone it turns to this eventually. The tension burns past all forms of professionalism.
He exhales eventually, “Fine. One day.”
Your smile was immediate.
“I’ll walk you out.”
Hotch pushes back his chair and stands, instantly swaying.
“Hotch-” you reach out. He stabilizes himself on the desk, bracing himself.
“I-uh-I’m fine.” He says it more like a reflex rather than actually expecting you to believe him.
“You’re really not.”
His knees buckle for a half second, “Morgan!”
You reach out a hand to help Hotch stay up, Morgan was quick to get to you.
“Can you help him down to my car?” You ask, looking directly at Morgan, “I’m gonna pack up his stuff and then I’ll drive him home.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Morgan reaches out an arm under Hotch’s. He hesitantly takes it and they slowly walk out of the office together. You close his laptop and grab all of his current and upcoming case files.
Rossi tilted his head toward Hotch and Morgan “You driving?”
You answer while walking out of his office before Hotch could, “No.”
“He almost passed out while standing up, he’s not driving.” You go over to your own desk and grab your things. “I’ll keep my phone on.”
JJ smiles softly at you, “Text us when you get there.”
You nod and walk ahead of Hotch and Morgan to hit the button for the elevator. Your car was thankfully not too far away in the garage. Morgan managed to get a sneaky ‘favorite’ in before you pulled out of the garage, him waving at you both.
The drive was quiet at first. Hotch was leaning back in the passenger seat, one hand bracing his temples and blocking his face. He can’t even keep his eyes open at this point.
“You should’ve told someone sooner.” Your voice soft, breaking the silence.
“I didn’t want to disrupt the team.” His voice still full of gravel.
You look over at him, “Hotch, you are the team.”
He didn’t even bother trying to fight you on that one. The car went back to the silence until you were nearly halfway to the Hotchner residence. His phone ringing loudly from the pocket of his briefcase.
“It’s school.” He straightens immediately in his chair and answers, “Hotchner.”
“Mr. Hotchner? This is the school nurse, Jack is running a fever and isn’t feeling well. We need someone to come pick him up. I know his Aunt Jessica is out of town for the next three days.”
His face fell instantly, “I can be there in twenty minutes.”
You turn around hearing all of this, you know you already passed the school.
“Y/n, you don’t have to do this.”
“You’re sick.” You smile, “He’s sick.”
“I can take care of my son.” His voice is tight, but it isn’t defensive.
“Hotch, I know you can. But what are you going to do?” You ask, raising your brows with genuine concern. You don’t want to outright tell him he can barely take care of himself, how does he expect to take care of an eight year old.
He studies your face, looking for signs of pity or judgement. All he can find is care and concern.
He nods, “Thank you.”
You don’t say anything back, you don’t need to. You simply smile and keep on driving.
-
Hotch looked steadier walking down the hall than he did back at the office. If you had to guess, it would be purely parental adrenaline fueling him. In the nurses office Jack is sitting on a cot, his cheeks are flushed to match his dad.
“Hey, buddy.” Hotch’s voice is softer than you typically hear.
“Hi, Dad.”
Jack sat up a little straighter, looking over his dad’s shoulder to spot you. His expression froze still before a surprised grin graces his face.
“Y/n!”
You smile and take a few more steps into the nurses office to crouch down to his level.
“Hey, Jack. I heard you aren’t feeling too well.”
He shrugs you off, trying to play it cool. “I’m okay.”
You reach a hand out to brush his hair off his forehead, “You’re pretty warm, bud.”
Jack closes his eyes and leans into the touch. Hotch notices, of course he did.
“You came with Dad?”
“Yeah, I drove him.”
You vaguely hear the nurse telling Hotch about how his fever was still rising. She insists on taking his temp one more time before leaving.
“Any chance you can do him next?” You ask, nodding your head to where Hotch stands with his arms crossed.
Hotch cuts you a glance that reminds you he’s your boss.
“Kidding.”
“Are you feeling sick as well?” The nurse turns her focus back on Hotch.
“Yeah, it would seem the family is coming down with it.” He sighs, reaching out his arm to check the time on his watch.
“Well, hopefully you aren't the next one, honey!” She winks at you and turns back to the paperwork on the counter behind her. Hotch doesn’t bother to correct her, not the time. He’s lacking enough energy to explain the dynamic and who you actually are to them.
“Dad, you’re sick too?” A worried expression takes over Jack’s face. His eyes are wide with concern. You beat Hotch to the punch.
“Just a little bit.” You answer, “Don’t worry, we’re gonna take care of him and you. Teams take care of each other.”
He nods and mutters a quiet ‘that’s good’. You can see how tired the little guy is, his eyes are watery.
“Ready to go home, buddy?” Hotch asks.
He nods again, getting up and slowly walking out. You follow both of the sick boys, as they lazily walk out to the car. The drive is quiet, you have the radio playing softly. Jack is curled up in his seat in the backseat, you can see him fighting to stay awake. He watches you in the mirror, and pretends he isn’t. Hotch catches him a few times too.
“Are you staying?” he asks at one point.
You glance over at Hotch before answering him, “If that’s okay with your dad.”
Jack looks at his dad. He looks back at him, his expression turns sweet when looking at his son.
“Yeah, she’s helping us today.”
Jack visibly relaxed back into his chair.
“Cool.”
You bite back a chuckle, focusing on the road ahead of you. By the time you’re pulling into the driveway, it’s not even noon. The neighborhood is quiet. It’s the middle of the day during the work week, most people aren’t home right now. Hotch is never at home right now.
“Alright,” You turn around to face Hotch from your seat still, “Operation Get Better starts now.”
Jack perks up, “Is there soup involved?”
Hotch huffs out a quiet laugh that turns into a cough. You turn back to look at him, cutting him a concerned face.
“I’m fine.” He mutters.
“Mhm.”
You all moved into the house together, Jack close to your side. Hotch was grateful the house was actually in a fairly clean state. Jack kicks off his shoes at the door and plants himself on the couch with a groan.
“We just need fluids, rest, and probably cartoons.” You continue walking past the living room to the kitchen.
Jack nods, “Doctors say cartoons help?”
“Of course! Ask Spencer the next time you see him.”
Hotch is sure you’re banking on Jack forgetting by the time he sees Spencer next, unless he actually has unleashed some cartoon fact on you already. He tries to ignore a wave of dizziness that rolls through him. You clock it instantly.
“Sit.” You insist.
“Y/n-”
“You don’t get to argue today.”
Jack looks between you two, “Dad, you should listen.”
He looks defeated as he stares back at his son. You would be concerned for how you’re ordering your boss around if it weren’t for his cute rosy cheeks. He is far from your boss right now and you both know it. Defeated, he sits down.
You let out a satisfied ‘hmph’ before turning back toward the kitchen to see if Hotch actually has what you need to make soup. Thankfully, he’s well stocked and you’re able to navigate yourself around the kitchen as if you had done it a hundred times. Every once and a while you catch Hotch looking over the back of the couch and watching you work.
“She’s pretty cool.” Jack whispers loud enough for only his dad to hear.
You continue stirring obliviously at the stove, your sleeves pushed up while humming along to something that he’s sure played in the car earlier.
“Yes.” He quietly agrees, “Yes, she is.”
-
The smell of chicken noodle soup has completely taken over the house. Hotch and Jack were sitting at the counter now that you were nearly finished.
“Do you cook like this often?” Hotch asks.
You don’t look up from the pot, “Always, I love to cook.”
After pulling down two bowls, you bring one over to Jack first.
“Careful, it’s hot.” You warn.
Jack pulls it closer with both hands. You grab the other bowl and put it in front of Hotch and then just lean against the edge of the counter facing them. Jack takes the first cautious bite after blowing on his spoon.
“This is… really good!”
You gasp dramatically, “Is it?”
“Mhm!” He nods eagerly.
You turn to Hotch who is watching both you and Jack, so you raise an unimpressed brow.
“Eat.”
“I am not eight years old.” He reminds.
“Correct.” You smile, “Which means I shouldn’t have to tell you.”
He raises a brow to match yours. You can barely see it, but the corner of his mouth that is typically in a frown wavers which tells you he’s hiding his amusement. It’s moments like these, looking into his warm brown eyes, that you get confused on what you mean to each other. It’s clear to see the care, and warmth right on each other's face.
He pauses, before taking a sip of his own.
“... This is very good.”
You beam, “Did you hear that Jack?”
He nods, but it doesn’t take long for his cough to pick up. You rub soothing circles on his back that do nothing.
“Alright,” You huff and begin walking down the hallway toward the stairs, “Where would I find medicine?”
“Bathroom cabinet.” He calls after you.
You make your way to the guest bathroom and find a thermometer, fever reducer, and kids medicine. No adult medicine. You peek your head outside to the hallway, as if Hotch was going to catch you. You know he’s in no state to be running upstairs, so it’s safe to check his bathroom. Which means going into his bedroom.
You’ve never been in his room before, even with all the times you’ve been here. There’s never been a reason. Unsurprisingly everything is in perfect order, including adult cold medicine. You also grab a couple wash cloths before bounding back down the stairs.
“I hate medicine.” Jack whines dramatically.
“Everybody hates medicine, but we can make your dad go first.”
You snort at Jack’s grin, pointing at his dad with his own laugh. Hotch does a good job going first, taking the small cup from your hand after you measured it out. You do the same for Jack after.
“Temp check.”
You take Jack’s temperature, the same as it was at the nurses office. You move onto Hotch, who huffs before complying.
“Higher?”
“Managable.”
You all make your way back to the living room, Jack was visibly fading away with exhaustion. You and Jack take the couch and Hotch takes the armchair. Jack’s eyelids droop between the cartoons, he slowly shifts closer to you.
“You okay, Jack?” You reach out a hand to press his hair back off his forehead.
Half-gone, “Just sleepy.”
“Come here.”
You help him pull his blanket up over his shoulders while he settles his head in your lap. You freeze for a second, your hand hovering over him before it feels natural. You run your hand over his hair, after a few minutes his breathing evens out. Hotch is watching you both from the armchair, unable to look away.
“You’re very good with him.” His voice is low enough for Jack to sleep through.
You look down at him, “He makes it easy.”
“Jack doesn’t trust people easily.” He reminds.
“I know.”
It gets quiet in the room again, the house faintly humming with life. The refrigerator cycling, TV cartoons, wind brushing against the windows, and Jack’s deep sleep breaths. You finally look up at Hotch, his eyes already on you.
“You should really rest too.”
“I’m fine.”
“You have a fever and you’re sitting upright.”
He doesn’t deny it.
He looks around the room, his eyes falling on Jack. You absentmindedly trace circles over Jack’s back, everything feels so calm.
“The house feels..” He pauses, looking for the words.
You wait.
“..warm. It feels right.”
Your chest tightens immediately. You’re sure if Jack’s head wasn’t in your lap right now, your body would force you to stand up.
“I don’t want to sleep away a minute of it.” He continues.
“You won’t.”
You keep your voice as soft as possible. He meets your eyes.
“I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
Something in his face shifts, you think it's a relief. Maybe something deeper. Maybe something too dangerous for either of you to admit or put a name to.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.” You reply.
Jack stirs slightly before burrowing in closer to your lap. You smile and pull the blanket up a little closer. Hotch watches for another long moment, then he decides to recline the chair. He closes his eyes, but doesn’t fall asleep right away. He just rests, letting the sound of Jack breathing and your quiet presence anchor him.
The house stays warm.
-
Jack stirred first. It started with a cough that became restless and ended up with him looking at you with a disoriented look while he rubbed his eyes.
“Hey, buddy.”
His voice comes out gravely like Hotch’s did this morning, “I’m hot.”
“I know,” You gently guide him upright, “Let’s cool you down a bit.”
You look over at Hotch and are thankful to see that he’s still out cold. The tension in his shoulders finally dropped, replaced instead with the kind of exhaustion that is built up on days of no sleep. Maybe even years of it.
“Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”
Jack nods, and he takes your hand as you both walk upstairs together. You get him a cool wash cloth and place it on his forehead after tucking him in. You negotiated another round of medicine as it’s been hours and it’s wearing off.
“Cold!” he mumbles the second it makes contact
“Sorry, it’s a necessary evil.” you whisper.
“Are you staying?” He’s already drifting back again.
“I’m just gonna be right downstairs.” You promise, “I’ll check in on you, and you just call my name if you need anything.”
“Okay.” He murmurs, eyelids fluttering closed.
Within minutes, he was asleep again.
-
When Hotch wakes up, it’s darker out now. Evening is settling around them, the TV is off and a new scent takes over the house.
You move quietly around the kitchen, cooking some fresh vegetables and rice to add to leftovers and make them stretch a little longer. Something comforting and warm enough to fill the house with the smell of home.
Currently you have Garcia on speaker while working through a sinkful of dishes.
“- yet you’re still there?” She practically shrieks, you immediately dry your hands to turn your volume down.
“I’m making sure that two people I care about don’t starve or pass out.”
Garcia hums knowingly, “Mhm, that’s what you’re calling it now.”
“I actually called to ask you about the cases, but you’re the one that keeps circling back.” You huff, rinsing another dish.
“Yes, yes, crime fighting and moral obligations,” You can hear her typing away, “I gave Rossi the stuff you sent over earlier and he said it was good. The team is very curious-”
“Garcia.” You warn.
“Morgan is starting a pool-”
“I’m hanging up.” You groan.
“Wait!” She yells loudly, “How is he?”
You dry your hands with the kitchen towel, “He’s resting. He’ll be okay.”
“And Jack?”
“The same. His fever is going down.”
A pause.
Garcia awes, “You’re good for them, you know.”
You don’t answer.
“Okay.” Garcia’s voice is gentle, “I’ll let you go, call if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
“Night, Mama Bear.”
You sigh, “Goodnight, Garcia.”
You shake your head and turn around to lean against the sink, nearly jumping out of your skin when you see Hotch leaning against the doorway. He looks way too charming in a casual hoodie and sweatpants, a small smirk on his face. Sleep is still lingering in his eyes, but he looks better.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear Garcia call you mama bear.”
“Yeah, she’s been pretty insufferable since she found out I was still here.”
He steps into the kitchen slowly, still a little disoriented from sleep.
“I just checked on Jack.” Your voice is soft, “He’s asleep upstairs. The fever is still there, but it’s lower.”
He nods, relief flashing across his face, “Thank you.”
Hotch says it in a way that carries weight. Gratitude layered with something deeper. Something warmer. He leans across the counter from you, studying your face in the kitchen light.
“You didn’t have to stay all day.”
He heard you going over your case notes with Garcia and making sure the team was still pushing through all their work without him there.
“I know.”
“You had paperwork. Your own life. Your own-”
“Aaron.” You cut him off sweetly.
The use of his first name hung between them. Rare. Careful. Intentional.
“I stayed because I wanted to.”
Silence takes over the kitchen, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It was charged in that simmering way you both had ignored for months.
“You step into chaos like it’s second nature.” He finally breaks the silence, “At work. Here. With Jack. With me.”
You smile, “It feels right.”
“You make me feel safe.”
Your hands still, no longer twisting the kitchen towel you’ve been holding since you were doing the dishes. His eyes are looking over you while he searches for the words.
“I try to keep a distance. It’s part of leading the team. It’s part of protecting the team.”
“I know.”
“But with you-” He exhales slowly, “It’s harder.”
Your heart went from skipping to beating erratically.
“This thing between us?” You ask quietly.
He nods, his eyes refusing to leave yours.
“It’s not one sided.” You admit.
The air in the house shifts. Neither of you move closer together. Neither of you move away.
“I worry about what it means,” He says honestly, “For the team. For Jack. For you.”
“All valid concerns.” You agree.
“And yet, today felt…”
“...right.” You finish for him.
He nods, and takes a half step closer to you. He reaches out his hand for yours and you take it, letting him pull you into his side. You melt into him while he wraps his arm around you.
“What would this look like?” You ask after a moment.
“I would say slow, but you already fit in so well.” He confesses, “I’m already going to have a hard time letting you leave.”
“Then maybe we just… start dating.” You reply.
The simplicity of it made something in Aaron’s chest lighten. He hadn’t felt like this in years.
“Casually.” he agrees.
“Casually.” You echo.
You sway together in the kitchen, some of his weight on you as the time passes and his strength weakens.
“You need more cold medicine.” You mumble into his chest.
He exhales a laugh, “You got it.”
You step away to grab the bottle and pour some for him.
The corners of his mouth lift, “Are you staying?”
You meet his gaze, steady and calm.
“For a little while longer, if that’s okay.”
His answer is immediate, “It is.”
-
Jack was groggy when you went upstairs, his sheets tangled around his legs in bed.
“Dinner time, bud.”
He blinks up at you, “Soup?”
“Not this time.”
You help him out of bed and together walk downstairs and join Aaron at the table.
“How’re you feeling, buddy?” He asks right away.
“M’okay.” He looks between you two, “Did something happen?”
“What do you mean?” You ask, while passing out food onto their plates.
“Daddy won’t stop looking at you.”
Aaron’s face immediately goes into his hands, his elbows resting on the table. You can see the red peeking through his fingers. You clear your throat to let him take this one.
“Uh-” Aaron coughs, something tells you it has nothing to do with his cold, “Y/n and I are seeing each other. Like really good friends. She’s gonna hang out with us more.”
“Cool.”
Jack picks up his fork and begins shoveling in the food in front of him. You and Aaron both exchange surprised looks.
“How do you feel about that, Jack?” You ask.
He shrugs, “You both take care of people, and you both save people from the bad guys.”
“That’s true.” Aaron nods.
“And,” Jack continues, “You both worry about each other a lot.”
Your chest tightens, and you smile fondly at him. This kid is smart.
“You wouldn’t be upset?” Aaron asks, caution still in his voice.
He shook his head instantly, “I think we’d be a good team!”
His words land heavier than an eight year old could have ever intended. You reach over to brush his hair off his forehead again.
“That’s a pretty great way to think about it.”
Dinner was lighter even with the heavy eyes and exhausted bodies. Jack managed to clean his plate before his blinks started to slow. You barely touched your food, a headache setting in. You wince after grabbing all the plates. Aaron notices. Of course.
“You okay?” He asks.
“Fine.” Your answer is automatic, “Just tired.”
Jack squinty, getting his second wind, “You sound like dad did this morning.”
You sneeze before anyone else can say anything else. You whip around after to look at them at the table.
“Oh no.”
“Y/n is sick!” Jack shouts.
“Yeah, I should probably head out.” You clear your throat which is starting to feel scratchy. Aaron gets up from the table to walk you to the door.
“No.” Jack’s voice firm, still at the table, “Y/n, you said that teams take care of each other.”
You turn to Aaron, quietly muttering ‘this kid is good’.
“He’s so going to the BAU.”
“God, I hope not.”
You both turn back to Jack who is looking at you with wide concerned eyes.
“You don’t have to-”
“We do have the guest room. Extra blankets and medicine. Amazing soup leftovers.” Aaron grins.
“You make a very good point.” You sigh.
Jack pumps a sleepy fist in the air to celebrate, followed by a yawn and a coughing fit. You immediately crouch down and rub his back, Aaron places a hand on your shoulder in silent thanks.
It didn’t take much to get Jack to go to bed for the night after that. One cartoon and snuggle with you were negotiated, and the promise that you would be here in the morning. After that, both you and Aaron followed him up the stairs to tuck him in. One last round of meds before bed, slowly pulling his door shut.
You lean against the door, Aaron leans against the wall opposite you. A shiver runs down your spine, you rub the goosebumps on your arms.
“You’re getting worse.” he comments.
“I’m fine.” You can’t even ignore how bad your voice sounds when you speak.
“C’mon,” He takes your hand in his and leads you through his room to the bathroom, “You need medicine.”
“Yes, sir.” You tease weakly.
He hands you a fever reducer and some cold medicine without comment.
“You know,” You hold the pills in your hand, “this feels a little like karma.”
“For?”
“Bossing you around all afternoon.” You smirk.
A wide smile stretches across his face, “You’re still taking them.”
You eye him for a moment, before rolling your eyes and throwing them back and chasing it with some water. He doesn’t step away, instead boxing you in against the bathroom counter, making sure you stay upright.
You aren’t that sick, yet. Instead his care charges the moment with the close contact. Neither of you back away, still just drinking each other in.
“You know,” Your voice hushed, “I can’t get you sick back yet since you’re still sick.”
His mouth twitches. He knows what you’re doing.
“You’re sick.”
“So are you.” You counter.
“That isn’t responsible-”
“But what’s the harm?” You innocently raise your brow, but the way you bite down on your bottom lip is far from fair.
He exhales, he’s close enough that it fans across your face. Months of almost moments that have bounced between you two. Lingering glances and quiet conversations.
His voice is low and strained when he finally speaks, “I’ve thought about this,”
“Me too.” You interrupt.
“More than I probably should.”
You nod, “Same.”
You chuckle and he reaches a hand forward to brush his thumb across your cheekbone.
“This is a terrible idea.” He continues.
“Yet, you’re still pressing me into this counter.”
He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, but he is pressed against you now. Your ass meeting the edge of the counter.
“And even if this is a terrible idea, I’m willing to risk it.”
His breath caught at that. For a moment he studied your face like he was memorizing every inch. His touch is warm, careful in a way that makes you ache. You lean into his hand.
“You’re sure?”
You know this is him trying to give you an out. A safe exit away from a future relationship with your boss and his son that you already care too much for.
“I’ve been sure for months.”
That is all he needed to hear.
The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant from both of you. As if you were both desperately afraid of breaking the other, but when his hand shifted to cradle the back of your neck you took the opportunity to card your fingers through his hair. All the months of restraint breaking while the kiss deepens. Warm and searching each other in a way that is long overdue.
You exhale softly against him, he pulls you closer by wrapping his arm around your waist to hold you both steady. When you both can’t catch your breath, you pull away and rest your forehead against his.
Bitter cherry flavored cold medicine has never tasted so good.
“So worth the risk.”
He let out a rare loud surprised laugh, the sound erupts butterflies within you at how warm and unguarded he is right now.
“Definitely.” He agrees, “We’re going to have to be very careful at work.”
“Absolutely,” You nod, “I plan to be extremely professional while secretly thinking such naughty things about you.”
“That sounds distracting.”
You slide your hands around his torso, “You’ll survive.”
You tilt your head up to capture his lips in another quick kiss. And another. And another. You only pull away to turn to the side and sneeze loudly, shaking you both in your spot.
“I’m so sorry we got you sick.”
“It was worth it.”
AN// goddddd i love needy hotch! and sweet lil jack 🥹 also i developed a cold this week while writing this (which i did not have at the start of writing this) which did feel like a form of karma for something… anyway i hope you enjoyed 💋
Can I get a combo of drunk aaron being totally whipped for his partner, and with a side of the team being surprised with it, and I’d like a milkshake of the partner loving on Aaron because that man need some soft love after all the trauma he went through 😭
Puppy in a Suit
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader
WC: 2.8k
Warnings: Fluff, alcohol, club setting, lovey-dovey Hotch.
Summary: Hotch gets drunk at a team outing and the team sees first hand how much he truly loves you when his walls and unit chief frown have been stripped away.
A/N: I'm such a sucker for clingy, lovesick puppy dog Hotch. Also, so sorry for having this forgotten in my inbox since January
The bass thumped through the club like a second heartbeat, vibrating up through the floorboards and into every bone, lights flashing in purples, blues, and reds across the crowded dance floor. Strobe pulses cut sharp angles through the drifting haze from the fog machines near the DJ, catching on sequined dresses and sweat-glistened skin, while the air carried the mingled scents of spilled liquor, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic tang of dry ice.
It was rare for the team to go on an outing like this... almost unheard of, really. The last time they’d all gone out together, other than eating, had been years ago, before losses and burnout had carved deeper lines into everyone’s faces. But Garcia had declared a mandatory “steam-letting” night the moment she had met the team in the bullpen as everyone filed out of the elevator, ready to gather your things and go home.
No one had argued. Not Morgan, who usually preferred his own brand of decompression with a sledgehammer in a new project house. Not Emily, who you’d seen quietly chain-smoking on the tarmac as you wait for Rossi and Hotch to pull the cars around. Not JJ, whose eyes had been glassy with unshed tears since the final victim profile. Not even Hotch.
He’d simply looked up from the email he was still pretending to read, met Garcia’s determined gaze across the room, and given one slow nod. That was it. No lecture about professionalism, no reminder of the early-morning briefing Strauss had scheduled. Just quiet acquiescence. The team had stared for a full three seconds before Garcia let out a triumphant whoop that echoed down the hallway, yelling something about glitter and high heels.
You’d claimed a large semi-private booth in the back corner, tucked away from the main crush of bodies but still close enough to feel the pulse of the crowd. The curved leather bench wrapped around a cluster of high-top tables cluttered with evidence of how the night was going so far: half-empty glasses catching stray flashes of neon, condensation pooling beneath bottles of IPA and lager that sweat slow beads down their sides, and a handful of vibrant cocktails Garcia had insisted on ordering purely for "aesthetic purposes": blue curaçao things with sugar rims, glowing pink cosmos, and one absurdly tall layered drink that changed color when stirred. Straws bobbed amid melting ice and fruit garnishes wilting under the heat of too many hands.
The music thrummed loud enough to force everyone to lean in close, raised voices, cupped ears, shoulders brushing as conversations overlapped, but not so deafening that laughter couldn’t cut through. Every so often, a burst of it would erupt from the group.
You sat tucked against Hotch’s side, your thigh pressed to his, his suit jacket long since draped over the backrest.
His arm rested casually along the top of the seat behind you, fingers occasionally drifting to graze the bare skin where your shoulder and neck met in absent and affectionate little touches. At first glance, he looked like he always did at the end of a work day: shirt still as crisp and white as when he put it on this morning, tie loosened just enough to reveal the hollow of his throat, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows exposing his forearms, posture straight and composed even in repose. The only giveaway was the faint, persistent flush high across his cheekbones, like the heat of the room had settled there and refused to leave, and the way his eyes kept sliding back to you every few seconds, his pupils dilated, and the usual sharp edges melted away with the alcohol.
He’d started with a single scotch, sipped slowly while he listened to the team decompress. Then another, because Rossi had lifted his glass in a quiet toast to “surviving another week of hell,” voice rough with the same exhaustion they all carried. Then a third, nudged across the table by Morgan with a wide grin and a low, teasing “C’mon, Hotch, live a little, you’re off the clock, man.” By the fourth, Hotch had let Garcia talk him into switching to something lighter: a whiskey sour she’d pushed his way with a little too dramatic flair, declaring “because it matches your brooding aesthetic, sir, and also it has a cherry, which is basically a party in a glass.” The shift had begun then: the first real loosening of his shoulders, the slow blink of lashes that lingered a beat too long on your face, the quiet exhale that sounded almost like relief.
The team noticed it in stages, the realization spreading like ripples across the tables.
First, Emily caught him staring at you while you laughed at something JJ said. Your head was thrown back just enough for the lights to catch the curve of your throat. Hotch’s usual guarded expression had melted into something so openly fond, so unguarded, that Emily actually froze mid-sentence, drink halfway to her lips. She blinked hard, did a double-take, then whispered under her breath, “Is Hotch… smiling? Like, actually smiling?” Her voice carried just enough disbelief to make the others closest to her turn their heads.
Morgan leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, squinting through the shifting colored light as if trying to solve a visual puzzle. “Nah, that’s not smiling,” he drawled, slow grin spreading across his features. “That’s… glowing. Man looks like he swallowed a damn sunrise.”
Penelope, mid-sip of her neon drink, nearly choked when she followed their line of sight. She set the glass down with a clink, eyes wide behind her sparkly glasses. “Oh, my God. Look at his eyes. He’s got full-on heart-eyes. Heart-eyes on our Unit Chief’s face! I need photographic evidence before he sobers up and denies this ever happened.”
The booth went suspiciously quiet for a beat. Everyone’s attention had zeroed in on the two of you, the air between the team crackling with barely-contained amusement and something softer, something almost protective of the way Hotch was looking so relaxed for once.
You felt Hotch’s fingers brush your shoulder again. The touch was light and absent, tracing the strap of your bra through your shirt, almost like he couldn’t help himself, like the contact was as necessary as breathing for him. You turned your head, catching his gaze in the fractured light, the usual sharp focus softened into something warm and hazy. He gave you that small, lopsided smile he usually saved for Jack when the boy scored a goal or for the quiet mornings at home when sunlight slanted across the kitchen table.
“You okay?” you asked softly, leaning closer so he could hear over the music, your hand coming up to rest lightly on his knee under the table.
He nodded once, the motion carrying the careful precision of someone aware he was tiptoeing toward drunk but not quite there yet. “Better than okay.” His voice was a little rougher now, words slurring just at the edges. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
The table went even quieter... if that was possible at all ...the team exchanging wide-eyed glances like they’d just witnessed a miracle.
You laughed, the sound bubbling up despite the sudden heat in your cheeks. Reaching up, you smoothed a hand over his jaw, feeling the faint rasp of stubble under your palm, the warmth of his skin. “You’re drunk, Aaron.”
“Little bit,” he admitted without hesitation, no defensiveness, no attempt to play it cool. He leaned into your touch like a cat seeking warmth, eyes fluttering half-closed for a second as though the simple contact was the best thing he’d felt all night, all week even. “Doesn’t change facts.”
Rossi raised a brow across the table, one corner of his mouth twitching upward as he swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler. The low light caught the silver at his temples and the faint lines of amusement etched around his eyes. "Never thought I'd see the day Aaron Hotchner gets sappy in public," his voice rich with that familiar dry humor you’d all come to love since the day he first stepped foot back in the BAU after ending his retirement.
"Public?" Hotch echoed, blinking slowly, lashes heavy with the weight of whiskey and sudden confusion. He turned his head in a lazy arc, scanning the booth as though the team had materialized out of thin air, like he was only now registering the audience. His brow furrowed for a second, processing the faces lit in shifting neon hues. "You're all here?"
Morgan barked a laugh, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back against the leather of the booth cushion. "Yeah, boss. We're here. Watching you turn into a puddle right in front of our very eyes."
Hotch frowned again, almost boyish in its puzzlement, then... miraculously so ...he shrugged. Actually shrugged. One shoulder lifting in a careless roll that sent the collar of his shirt shifting against his throat, like the opinion of the entire table carried no more weight than a passing breeze in his inebriated state. "She's worth it," he said simply, voice low and matter-of-fact, as though stating an indisputable truth.
Your face heated instantly, warmth blooming from your cheeks down your neck. You slid your hand down his leg, finding his larger one already waiting near his knee, fingers curling around yours. You laced them together, palm to palm, and gave a soft squeeze, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. "Easy, tiger," you murmured, keeping your voice light despite the sudden thickness in your throat. "You're gonna embarrass yourself."
"Too late," Emily muttered from across the table, grinning wide behind the rim of her glass, eyes sparkling with mischief as she took a slow sip, knowing that come Monday morning, this would be the talk of the bullpen.
But Hotch wasn't listening anymore. The team's barely-contained amusement faded into background noise for him. He turned fully toward you, body angling in the booth until his knee pressed against yours, free hand rising to cup your cheek.
His palm was warm, calloused from years of gun grips and late-night paperwork, his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone in slow, reverent sweeps. "You always take care of me," he said quietly, voice dropping to an intimate, gravel-rough register. "After cases. When I'm tired. You make coffee exactly how I like it, but you always add that tiny splash of cream anyway because you know I secretly like it better. You rub my shoulders without me asking, right where the knots live. You… you make everything better."
The table had gone dead silent now, the chatter and clinking glasses swallowed by the moment. Even the music seemed to fade a little, the relentless bass retreating to a distant pulse as though the club itself had paused to listen.
Garcia clutched JJ's arm so tightly her knuckles went white, glittery nails digging into sleeve fabric. "Did he just... ?" she breathed, voice pitched high with disbelief and delight.
JJ nodded slowly, eyes soft and a little misty in the shifting light. "He did."
You smiled, eyes stinging just a bit at the raw honesty in his words, the way they landed. Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat, tasting the faint sweetness of whiskey sour. "I love taking care of you," you murmured against his lips, voice barely above a whisper. "And I love you."
He exhaled, as if the words had physically settled something inside him. "Love you more," he said simply, then pulled you closer until your head rested on his shoulder. His arm wrapped fully around you now, hand splaying protectively over your ribs, fingers spreading wide as though to shield every inch of you from the noisy world beyond the booth.
Morgan cleared his throat dramatically, the sound theatrical enough to draw a few chuckles from the group. "Alright, I'm calling it. Hotch has officially left the building. We got a lovesick puppy dog in his place."
Emily snorted, covering her mouth with the back of her hand to muffle the sound. "A very tall, very serious lovesick puppy dog."
Rossi chuckled and raised his glass in a lazy salute. "To Hotch finally loosening up. And to the woman who made it happen."
Everyone toasted except Hotch, who was too busy nuzzling into your hair like he was trying to memorize the scent of your shampoo, even though it currently resided in his shower, nose brushing against the strands with slow inhales. "You smell like home," he mumbled, voice muffled against your scalp, barely audible over the music.
You laughed quietly and slid your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, nails gently scraping in soothing little patterns. "You're adorable when you're drunk."
"Not adorable," he protested with the smallest hint of a whine to his tone, but there was no heat in it, just a sleepy, half-hearted grumble as he tilted his head further into your touch. "Handsome. Stoic. Intimidating." Repeating things he had heard others call him throughout his career.
"Adorable," you repeated firmly, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple.
Hotch hummed in contentment, his eyes half-closed, lashes casting soft shadows on his flushed cheeks. "Fine. Only for you."
The team watched the exchange with varying degrees of shock and delight, wide eyes, barely suppressed grins, and a few phones discreetly angled over the edge of the table.
JJ smiled softly, resting her chin in her hand, eyes warm. "It's sweet. He deserves this." She muttered, mostly to herself.
Emily nodded. "Yeah. They both do."
The tone switched up as quickly as the attention had fallen on the two of you as the song changed. Garcia gasped, clapping her hands together. "Dance floor! We need to dance!"
Most of the team piled out of the booth, dragging each other toward the lights with laughter and mock-protests from Rossi. You started to shift, intending to join them, but Hotch’s arm tightened around you, fingers curling gently into your side.
"Stay," he said quietly, almost pleading, his voice low and rough against your ear. "Just… stay here. With me."
You melted instantly, all thought of dancing vanishing. "Okay."
You turned in the booth so you could face him better, knees bumping his under the table. Hotch looked at you like you were the only person in the room, maybe even the only person in the world. His hand found yours again, thumb stroking over your knuckles in slow, absent circles, tracing the ridges and valleys like he was learning them by heart.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he said, words careful but clear despite the alcohol. "After everything… Haley, Foyet, Scratch, losing so much… you walked in and made me believe I could still have this. Happiness. Love. You."
Tears pricked at your eyes. You moved to cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over the faint stubble along his jaw, feeling the subtle tremor beneath his skin. "Aaron…"
Hotch leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling in the small space between you. "Don't ever leave me," he whispered. "Please."
"Never," you promised, voice thick with emotion. "I'm right here. Always."
He closed the distance, kissing you. It was tender, reverent, like he was pouring every unspoken feeling into it, lips moving against yours with an aching gentleness. When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy, but he was smiling, really smiling, small and crooked and brighter than the club lights.
The team filtered back eventually, flushed and laughing, hair slightly mussed from dancing, and found the two of you like that: you curled into his side, his head resting on top of yours, both of you quiet and content amid the chaos.
"You two good?" Morgan slid back into the booth across from you, still catching his breath.
Hotch lifted his head just enough to look at him, cheek resting against your hair. "Better than good." Then, without missing a beat. "She's perfect."
Garcia squealed, hands flying to her cheeks. "I can't handle this level of cute! My heart is literally exploding! I need air!"
You laughed, burying your face in Hotch’s neck to hide your blush, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.
The night wore on, more drinks (water for Hotch from now on, at your insistence), more stories, more laughter, but Hotch stayed glued to your side. Every so often, he'd murmur something sweet against your ear, or brush his lips over your temple, or just look at you like you hung the moon. Because you’d hung his moon.
By the time the group called it a night, Hotch was leaning heavily on you for balance, arm slung around your shoulders, steps a little unsteady on the sticky floor as you guided him toward the exit.
The team watched you go, his broad frame swaying slightly into yours, your arm secure around his waist, the two of you murmuring quietly to each other like the rest of the world had fallen away.
Emily shook her head in fond disbelief, arms crossed as you slowly slipped out of sight. "Who knew? The big boss man is a cuddly drunk."
"Only for her," Rossi smirked, slipping his coat on.
Morgan grinned, clapping Rossi on the shoulder. "Lucky bastard."
