#Ceramic lecture | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cumironi · 2 months ago

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ACADEMIC MISCONDUCT : PU$$Y SUBMISSION EDITION jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. bold of you to assume that your pu$$y now belongs to you after you fück your professor. and you even have the audacity to go on blind date without telling them? yeah, go on a date, get rearranged’ they said.

wn. non-sorcerer au!, professor-student au, 23 you & 31 them, possessive behavior and aggressive jealousy from a very large, very unhinged professor, power imbalance (professor/student), but you, likes it and he really likes it unprotected sex with zero post-nut clarity, degradation + praise in the same breath, oral fixation, spit kink, desk abuse, pussy worship in the form of punishment, rough $ex featuring emotional damage and breeding threats, heavy marking, territorial growling, and minor furniture damage, aftercare only implied because he’s still pissed off, she’s in love, he’s obsessed, nobody’s normal & he thinks jealousy is a valid teaching method.

GOJO SATORU

the first time satoru hears about it, it’s in the most humiliating way possible. not from you. not from a whisper in the dark where he can pull your legs apart in warning. no—he’s sipping coffee in the staff lounge, sunglasses half-slid down his nose, when utahime walks by and drops it like a nuclear bomb.

“your favorite student’s going on a blind date tonight,” she says with a teasing lilt. “you might lose your little lap bunny.”

the burn in his gut is immediate.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. he just raises the cup to his mouth again, lips curving over the ceramic, smile like a crack in glass.

“you good?” she asks.

“me?” he hums. “always.”

but he’s not. not when he watches the way you walk into lecture fifteen minutes late—bra strap peeking, lip gloss shiny, hair freshly done like you’re trying to fucking kill him.

and you smile at him. that smile. the one that always means trouble. “sorry, professor,” you murmur, breathy and full of fake guilt. “overslept.” his jaw ticks. “overslept or busy texting your mystery date?”

you blink.

you weren’t expecting him to know. that’s cute.

“what?” you laugh, sliding into your seat in the front row like you own him. “someone’s been gossiping, huh?”

“someone’s been sloppy,” he replies, and you freeze for half a second—because there’s a shift in his tone. less playful. more predator.

“i didn’t know you cared.”

he grins, teeth sharp and sweet. “oh, i don’t.”

liar.

he barely makes it through the lecture.

every time you shift in your seat, his mind goes dark. legs spread. knees over his shoulders. your cunt swollen and twitching, leaking down to his tongue while you cry about how full you are. how ruined. how stretched.

but apparently not ruined enough if you’re out there letting strangers buy you dinner. he waits until after class. the hallway clears. he stands by the door, hands in his pockets, sunglasses gone. eyes sharp. you pretend you don’t see him, but your steps slow as you pass, hips swaying like bait.

“office,” he says.

you roll your eyes, playing coy, but your thighs press together. he sees it. you’re wet already. you’ve been wet since he raised his voice during lecture. he shuts the door behind you. doesn’t lock it, but it might as well be. the air tightens around you like a noose.

“you think i don’t know what you’re doing?” he murmurs, stepping close.

“what am i doing, professor?” you ask, head tilted, eyes wide with mock innocence.

“playing games.”

“maybe i am.”

his hand slams on the desk beside your head. you flinch—just a little—and smile up at him like you want to see how far he’ll go. “do you know what that does to me?” he hisses. “hearing someone else is going to get to touch what’s mine?”

you raise a brow. “yours?”

“yeah.” his hand moves to your throat—not tight, not choking, but firm. possessive. his thumb brushes your jaw. “mine. don’t tell me you forgot.”

“you never said i couldn’t.”

he laughs, wild and soft and bitter. “baby, you can’t even cum without me holding your hips down.” your face heats. your lashes flutter. your thighs clench, and he sees it again. he always sees it. “what—gonna fuck the date with my cum still inside you?” he taunts, lips ghosting over yours. “your pussy’s shaped like me, you think he’s gonna know what to do with that? you think he’ll recognize the sound you make when you’re close? the way you tremble?”

“satoru—”

you shouldn’t have said his name.

his mouth is on yours before you finish it. furious, hungry, a kiss like punishment. his tongue slips in and steals every excuse from your mouth.

“strip.”

“someone might come in—”

“then be quick.”

you hop up on the desk, skirt riding high, no panties underneath. his hands are there immediately, fingers spreading your folds, already slick, already begging. “fuck—look at this,” he murmurs, thumb teasing your clit while you squirm. “who got you wet like this, huh? your little blind date?”

“n-no,” you whisper.

“then who?”

“you…”

“say it.”

“you, professor.”

his smirk curls against your thigh. “good girl.”

you gasp when he spits on your cunt, two fingers slipping in, slow and deep. “god, you’re still shaped like me,” he groans, watching the way your walls pulse around his fingers. “i ruin you every time and you still need more. filthy fucking girl.”

“please,” you whimper, hips lifting.

he leans in and bites your thigh, hard enough to mark.

“no begging,” he growls. “you want something? you earn it. tell me you're canceling the date.”

“satoru—”

he slaps your clit, sharp and fast, and you choke on a cry.

“tell me.”

“i'll cancel it! i will—fuck, please—!”

he hums, pleased, dragging your juices across your slit, up your stomach. his fingers curl just right, and you clench down like you never want him to leave.

“that’s better,” he says, kissing your thigh. “my good girl.”

he fucks you with his fingers until you're sobbing his name, clinging to his shirt, and when you cum, he doesn't stop. doesn't let up. he pulls you down to the floor, bends you over the desk, and sinks into you raw.

“look at you,” he moans into your neck. “crying like this cock doesn’t live inside you already. slut.”

“yours—yours—”

“damn right. if i find out you even talked to someone else like this, i’m showing up to your date and fucking you in the bathroom while he waits.”

“satoru—!”

“you like that idea?” he pants, hips pounding. “like the thought of me destroying you where everyone can hear? ruin your reputation like i ruined your body?”

“yes—please—don’t stop—”

he doesn’t. not until he fills you to the brim, holds you tight, whispers against your spine that he loves you too much to let you go. that he’ll make you remember who owns you, every fucking day if he has to.

GETO SUGURU

geto suguru is quieter about it than gojo. where gojo would rage and bark and leave you marked in broad daylight, geto is the kind of man who waits. watches. listens to your excuses like they’re confessions. he’s twenty years your senior, your professor in comparative philosophy, always perfectly pressed in black button-downs and silk ties. calm, unreadable, devastating.

and the moment he finds out from shoko that you’ve got a blind date lined up for friday night, he doesn’t lash out. he doesn’t even frown. he just hums, pours his tea, and murmurs,

“ah. so she wants to be owned by someone else.”

and shoko, who’s always had too good a sense for danger, only raises her brow and says, “you gonna let her?”

“oh, not at all,” he says. “she’ll learn.”

you don’t know he knows. you come to his office hours like you always do, in your oversized hoodie and those dangerous little shorts that barely peek past the hem. knees tucked under you on his leather couch, eyes wide and innocent as you ask for help on your thesis. your thighs are bare. your lip is glossed. and there’s a new tension in the room you don’t recognize until you shut the door.

“lock it,” he says, not looking up from his laptop.

you pause, your stomach twisting. “what?”

“i said lock it. if we’re going to be alone, we ought to have privacy, don’t you think?”

your fingers tremble slightly as they twist the lock. you turn to face him, unsure why he feels different today—why his voice is thicker, why his gaze lingers too long on your thighs.

“something wrong, professor?”

“plenty,” he says, folding his hands in his lap, eyes fixed on you like a hawk. “but let’s start with you. tell me about this little date of yours.”

your mouth dries.

you try to deflect. “who told you that?”

“does it matter?”

you stay quiet.

“you were going to let someone else touch you,” he says, and his voice is soft. unbearably so. “someone else between your legs. someone who doesn’t know how your cunt tightens when you’re scared. someone who’s never had your throat bulging around their cock. tell me—what exactly do you owe this man?”

“i wasn’t gonna sleep with him,” you whisper.

he rises slowly from his chair.

“you think that excuses you?”

his tone is mild, but your thighs clench together on instinct. you feel it immediately—the sharp ache in your core, the phantom throb of memory.

“you think not fucking him is the line?” he continues, walking toward you, each step measured. “so kissing would be fine? letting him buy you food? letting him think you’re available, when you walk around every day stuffed full of my cum?”

your mouth opens to protest, but nothing comes out. he stands over you now, tall and calm and terrifying.

“stand up.”

you do. your legs shake.

“strip.”

you hesitate, but he doesn’t repeat himself. just looks at you like he’s waiting to see whether you’re still worth keeping. your hoodie falls to the floor. your tank top next. your shorts. your bra. you’re bare in seconds, eyes wide and throat dry as his gaze moves over you, slow and thorough.

“good girl,” he murmurs. “at least you remember how to obey.”

he reaches for you. his hands are large and warm and deceptively gentle as they slide down your back, cupping your ass. “this body is mine,” he says, fingers sinking in. “this pussy is mine. and if you ever give so much as a smile to another man again, i will fuck you so thoroughly you’ll limp into lecture with my cum leaking down your legs. do you understand me?”

you nod frantically, breath caught.

“say it.”

“yes, professor—yes, i understand—i’m yours—”

he kisses you then. not sweet, not loving—deep and hot and consuming. his tongue swallows your gasp, his fingers press between your thighs, and you moan when he finds you already wet. “filthy little thing,” he whispers against your lips. “do you even know how you smell? you think he wouldn’t have known the moment he sat next to you that you belong to someone else?”

“i’m sorry—”

“too late.”

he turns you around, pushes you forward over the desk with one hand on your back. the cool wood shocks your skin. his other hand spreads your legs.

“no prep today. you’re going to take me raw and open like the little slut you are.” he unzips his pants. you hear it—the low rustle, the metallic clink, the hiss of breath as his cock slaps against your ass.

and then he pushes in.

“fuck—so tight. you’re always tight,” he groans, sinking inch by inch, slow and brutal. “doesn’t matter how often i fuck you. greedy little cunt always pretends it’s the first time.”

“nghhh—professor—” you cry out, nails clawing at the desk. “too deep—”

“nonsense.” he grips your hips, pulls you back into him until he’s fully seated. “this pussy’s shaped for me. if it hurts, it’s because it’s remembering who it belongs to.” he starts to move. slow, deep thrusts that scrape against your walls, dragging every sound out of your throat. you sob into the wood. he doesn’t stop.

“he would’ve been too soft,” geto murmurs, voice low and cruel. “he wouldn’t have known how to make you scream. wouldn’t have known you need to be taken. broken down. loved in pieces.”

you moan. high and breathless and helpless.

“yours—i’m yours—please—”

“prove it.”

he reaches around and slaps your clit. once. twice. then again, until you’re sobbing with it, hips jerking, cunt fluttering around him like it’s begging. “cum for me,” he says. “right now. show me who this pussy belongs to.”

you scream when it hits. muscles locking, eyes rolling back, your body spasming under him as you cum so hard you nearly collapse. he fucks you through it, relentless.

then he pulls out. flips you over.

“you’re not done.”

he lifts you onto the desk, spreads your legs, and slams back in, face inches from yours. one hand on your throat now. the other cradling your thigh like something precious.

“i’m going to breed you so full of me, you’ll taste it for days.”

“yes—please—need it—”

“fucking slut,” he growls, snapping his hips faster. “do you even know what you’re doing to me? every time you leave, every time you smile at someone else, i want to ruin you.”

his eyes burn into yours—dark, hot, overwhelming.

“mine.”

he cums with a deep groan, pressed tight against you, cock twitching as he empties inside you in thick, hot waves. your name is a curse on his lips, his hips grinding into you even as he spills every drop. he holds you through it, arms firm around your back, forehead pressed to yours.

“you’re not leaving,” he says.

“never,” you whisper.

“you’ll come here every friday instead. knees on the floor. mouth open. or bent over this desk. or tied to the chair. whatever i want.”

“yes—yes, professor—”

he kisses you again, this time slow. reverent.

and when you try to stand, he presses you down with a hand on your belly.

“we’re not finished.”

NANAMI KENTO

nanami kento doesn’t yell. he doesn’t snap, doesn’t lose control. no—he calculates, measures, and when he’s angry, it’s a quiet thing. sharp. surgical. deadly.

he hears about your blind date from a colleague in the economics department. just a harmless comment in the lounge “your favorite little research assistant’s going out friday. hope her date knows what he’s getting into.”

nanami doesn’t react. not then. just adjusts his tie, thanks them for the information, and finishes his coffee.

but something turns in him. something cold.

because you—his girl—were supposed to tell him first.

the rest of the week, he’s painfully polite. unreadable. you don’t even realize he knows.

he still reads over your papers. still offers notes. still lets you curl up in the office armchair while he types, his jacket draped over your legs like always. but he doesn’t touch you. doesn’t kiss you. doesn’t slip his hand under your skirt while murmuring about Kant or market elasticity.

and it’s driving you insane.

friday comes, and you knock on his door before class, expecting the usual. affection. maybe a quiet, breathless fuck before lecture, up against the bookcases while the windows fog.

but when he looks up at you from his papers, you feel it. the distance.

“you look nice,” he says, flatly. “you always get that dressed up for lecture?”

you freeze.

“...you heard.”

“i did.”

you try to explain, but he waves a hand—elegant, firm, final.

“i’m not interested in your excuses,” he says, rising from his seat. he’s taller than you remember when he’s angry. “you knew what we were. what i am to you. and still you thought it acceptable to allow another man the idea of you.”

“kento, it wasn’t like that—”

“then tell me what it was like,” he says, voice low now, eyes dark. “was it innocent? were you simply bored of the way i fuck you so good you cry? was he going to hold your hand while my cum was still dripping out of you?”

your breath stutters.

“get on the desk.”

you blink. “what—now—?”

“i said get on the desk.”

you do, slowly, knees spreading as you sit on the edge. the wood is cold beneath your thighs. your skirt rides up when you move. he watches it happen, expression unreadable.

“take off your panties.”

you slip them off. he catches them in one hand, brings them to his face. inhales.

“still wet,” he murmurs. “but not for him, was it?”

you shake your head. “no, never—just you—”

he steps between your legs, unbuttoning his cuffs. rolling his sleeves up, slow. precise. you know what that means. “put your hands behind your back,” he says. “don’t move them unless i say.”

you obey. trembling.

his fingers trail up your thigh, reach your cunt, already damp and pulsing. he doesn’t praise you. doesn’t tease. just slides two fingers in, curling up until your hips jerk. “you know this body belongs to me,” he says softly. “and still, you wanted to test me. make me jealous.”

“i didn’t—”

“you did,” he cuts in. “and now, you’ll apologize with your body.”

he pulls his fingers out, glistening with slick, and wipes them on your tongue. you suck instinctively, eyes wide and glassy.

“such a good girl when you’re being used,” he says, unbuckling his belt. “i wonder if your date would’ve known what to do with this messy little mouth.” his cock’s hard already—thick, veiny, flushed. he strokes it slowly as he watches you. the room feels hot. too small. full of tension.

“open.”

you do.

he slides in slow, all the way down your throat, until you gag.

“mm. yes. that’s what you’re made for,” he murmurs, one hand in your hair. “that’s what you were always made for.”

he fucks your throat with slow, punishing thrusts, hips rolling forward as you drool down your chin, tears pricking your eyes. “think he’d last this long?” nanami growls, cock hitting the back of your throat over and over. “think he’d know to tap your cheek when you start to panic? think he’d praise you when you take it all like this?”

you choke and sob, eyes locked on his, desperate for forgiveness.

he pulls out suddenly, tilts your chin up, and kisses your spit-slick mouth.

“you don’t get to cum yet,” he says. “lie down.”

he flips you onto your back, presses you flat to the desk. one hand on your sternum to pin you down, the other guiding his cock back to your dripping cunt.

“no prep. no lube. you don’t deserve kindness today.”

he thrusts in rough—deep—full. your back arches, a sob spilling from your lips.

“f-fuck, kento—”

“quiet,” he snaps. “take it.”

he fucks you hard, relentless, his body covering yours, holding you still. your arms are still behind your back. you can’t move. you can’t breathe. all you can do is take it.

“you feel that?” he hisses. “every inch? memorize it. because if you ever dare give someone else your attention again, i will fuck you like this in front of your date. i will make him watch as you cry for my cock.”

“kento—i’m sorry—!”

“you will be.”

he fucks you through your apology, through your cries, until you cum screaming, writhing under him, cunt spasming around his cock.

he doesn’t stop.

he fucks you through it, chasing his own release, and when he cums, it’s deep—hot—thick. he stays inside, hips grinding as if trying to brand you from the inside out.

he leans down, presses a kiss to your temple.

“mine.”

you nod, broken and blissed out.

“say it.”

“yours. only yours. always.”

he pulls out slow. watches his cum leak out of you in a thick white string.

“you’ll clean this desk before you leave.”

“yes, professor.”

he buttons up, straightens his sleeves, and finally—finally—cups your face in both hands. “next time you think about someone else,” he says, soft and serious, “remember how it felt to have me make you forget your own name.” and kiss your forehead like a loving lover he is.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

he hears about the date during a smoke break.

not from you. never from you. nah—you’d rather bat your lashes, wear those tight little skirts to lecture, and play dumb like you don’t leave his sheets soaked every thursday after seminar.

it’s one of your friends, the mouthy one with no sense of self-preservation, who lets it slip. “she’s got a date friday night,” she says, scrolling through her phone like she didn’t just toss a lit match onto gasoline. “some guy her cousin set her up with. cute, apparently. tall.”

toji just stares at her, chewing on his cigarette filter, jaw ticking.

“is that so.”

the friend doesn’t even notice how still he goes. how his eyes stop blinking. how the air around him shifts—sharp, tight, violent. he doesn’t go back to lecture that day. he waits. in his office. door unlocked. lights dim. and when you knock—sweet, innocent, clueless—he’s already leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, cigarette smoke curling out the cracked window.

“close the door,” he says.

you do.

you’re smiling when you step in, like always, like you think you’re safe with him.

you’re not.

“heard you’ve got plans friday,” he says, casual.

you blink. “...huh?”

“cute guy. tall. set up by your cousin.”

the smile falters.

“oh. um… how did you—”

“your friend’s got a big fuckin’ mouth,” he says, eyes narrowing. “but i’m glad she does. otherwise i wouldn’t have known my girl’s out here giving other men the idea they got a chance.”

you swallow.

“it’s just dinner, toji—”

“yeah?” he laughs, cruel and quiet. “just dinner? or were you gonna let him take you home after and find out your pussy doesn’t even work for anyone but me?”

you freeze. cheeks flush. thighs clench.

he notices. of course he does.

“strip.”

“we’re in your office—”

“i said strip.”

you do. shaky hands pulling your shirt over your head. skirt sliding down your legs. no bra. no panties.

he raises a brow.

“you were hoping i’d fuck you today, huh?”

you nod.

he stands. walks toward you slow. like a lion. like a man who’s about to ruin something for fun. “on the desk. legs spread.”

you scramble up. lie back. legs trembling as you open them. he grabs your ankles and yanks you forward so hard your back slams into the wood. “look at that,” he murmurs, staring down at your dripping cunt. “already leaking. pathetic.”

“toji—”

“shut up.”

he leans in, mouth dragging over your inner thigh.

“you think he could handle this?” he whispers, lips brushing your pussy lips, breath hot. “you think he’d know what to do when you cry because you need it deep enough to hit your fucking stomach?”

his tongue flicks out. one slow, nasty lick up your slit. you moan.

“nah. he wouldn’t know shit,” he says. “probably cum in his pants just from looking at you.”

he doesn’t eat you like you’re fragile. he devours you like a man starved. spit slick, mouth messy, his tongue bullying your clit while two thick fingers sink in deep and curl—

“nnnhh—fuck—!”

“shut. up.” he growls into your cunt. “this isn’t for you. this is punishment.”

your hands grip the desk so tight your knuckles ache. your moans echo off the walls. his tongue is relentless, fingers fucking you open like he’s carving his name inside you. “gonna remind you,” he pants, licking into you again, “what you belong to. whose cock shaped this pussy.”

you cum once. then twice. your legs tremble. your voice breaks.

he stands. yanks his belt open.

you barely manage to lift your head before he’s already jerking his cock out—hard, heavy, flushed dark and wet at the tip. he doesn’t waste time. just lines up and slams into you in one brutal thrust.

“nghhh—fuck—too much—”

“shut up,” he grits. “take it. you wanted this. dressed like that. fuckin’ around like a dumb little slut. you wanted me mad.” he fucks you hard. brutal. filthy. his hips snapping forward, cock pistoning in and out, wet sounds filling the office louder than your choked sobs. his fingers dig into your hips. he bites your collarbone. he growls into your neck—

“mine. mine. you get that, yeah? this cunt? this body? your moans? mine.”

“yes—yes, toji, yours, only yours—”

he lifts one leg over his shoulder. angle shifting. cock punching so deep you see stars. “you don’t fucking go out with anyone else,” he growls, sweat dripping. “i’ll beat the shit out of him. you hear me? i’ll break his fuckin’ jaw.”

“yes—yes, please—”

you’re close again. so close. sobbing his name, begging him not to stop.

he leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

and in a whisper, soft and broken, he says—

“can’t stand the thought of someone else even looking at you.”

you cum so hard you nearly black out. clenching around him like your body’s apologizing for even thinking about someone else. he cums with a groan, deep and low, spilling inside you with a stuttering thrust, cock buried to the hilt.

he doesn’t move.

just breathes heavy. holds your hips. presses his lips to your cheek like he’s sorry for being so rough—even though you loved it.

you blink up at him, dazed. wrecked. full.

“still think about going on that date?” he murmurs.

you shake your head.

“good girl,” he says, and kisses you again. “now get dressed. i’m driving you home. and you’re staying over.”

“why?”

he smirks. dark. smug. possessive.

“so i can fuck you again every time i remember some other guy thought he had a chance.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“she’s going out friday,” gojo says on lunch break, deadpan, blue eyes hiding behind his blue glasses as he glance at sukuna who’s passing by. “blind date. someone her cousin set up.”

utahime’s jaw drops. “wait—does sukuna know?”

shoko just snorts. “oh, he’s gonna kill someone.”

he does not kill someone. he waits.

and when you walk into his office after class—hair tied up, skirt short, lip gloss shiny—he doesn’t say hello. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t greet you like the spoiled, cum-dumb princess you are. he just says, voice flat, “so. friday.”

you freeze halfway to the desk. “…what about it?”

his gaze doesn’t leave your face. his hands stay folded in his lap. but his jaw ticks, and when he speaks next, it’s soft.

too soft.

“you really gonna go let some stranger sit across from you like he deserves to breathe your air?”

“it’s not serious—”

“no,” he cuts in, calm but sharp. “serious is when i fuck you against this desk so hard you cry into my tie. this is worse. this is betrayal.”

“ryo—”

he stands.

you take a step back. instinct. survival. but he’s already in front of you, hand at your throat—not tight. not yet.

“let me get this straight,” he murmurs, eyes narrow, voice low and dangerous. “i fuck you every week. sometimes every day. i have you creaming around my cock until you can’t say your own name. i’ve trained this pussy to open for me just from my voice—and you think you’ve got the right to sit pretty at a table with some other guy who’s gonna ask you what your favorite fucking color is?”

you gasp as his grip tightens—still not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who the fuck he is.

“was gonna wear that little red dress, weren’t you?” he growls. “the one that clings to your hips like my hands do. gonna smile at him like you didn’t choke on my cock two nights ago.”

“i wasn’t—i’m not—”

“you’re not what? mine?” he leans in, lips grazing your cheek. “don’t lie.”

you whimper.

he presses you back against the wall, one thigh wedging between yours. you’re already trembling. wet. your panties are useless. “thought maybe you forgot,” he murmurs, dragging his hand down to cup your cunt through your skirt. “thought maybe this slutty little pussy needed a refresher.”

“please—”

“mm. beg better than that, sweetheart.”

he drops to his knees.

on his knees.

your terrifying professor. eyes full of menace. tattoos inked down his arms like warning signs. and he’s already pushing your panties aside, tongue licking into your folds like he’s trying to taste the betrayal out of you. “fuck—look at this,” he mutters, mouth messy already. “she’s crying. like she knows she did something wrong.”

“ryo—fuck—”

he groans, slurping wetly, tongue flicking over your clit before diving back in, fucking you with it. his fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you open wider. “you gonna let him see this?” he pants, slick coating his chin. “this greedy, pretty pussy? this pussy that drools just from hearing my voice?”

you shake your head. “no—never—only you—”

“damn right only me.”

he stands. lifts you. throws you over the desk like you weigh nothing. you hear the buckle. the zipper. the low, filthy growl as his cock slaps against your ass. “this pussy’s shaped like me,” he snarls, rubbing the fat tip through your folds. “and now i’m gonna remind it.”

he doesn’t ease in. he slams.

“ah—fuck—!”

“that’s right,” he grits, hips snapping. “take it. take the cock you earned when you signed up for my class just to stare at my hands.” you’re drooling on his papers. the whole desk shakes. he’s balls deep, thick and brutal, fucking you with the rage of a god and the precision of a scholar.

“you think he’d fuck you like this?” sukuna hisses, pulling your hair. “think he’d know how deep you need it? how to hold your hips down when you start running from the stretch?”

“n-no—just you—just you—”

“say it louder.”

“only you—only you, professor—!”

his hand slides down your back. presses between your shoulder blades. pushes you flat. he leans in close, voice in your ear like sin itself. “you even look at another man again, and i’ll fuck you in front of him. bend you over the table and make you apologize with your mouth full.”

“fuck—please—”

“you gonna cum? you think you deserve it?”

“yes—no—fuck, please—”

“beg for it.”

“please—please fill me up—need it, need you—mark me—make it yours—please, professor—” he cums with a snarl, cock twitching deep, hot, thick. so much it spills out as soon as he pulls out, dripping down your thighs, making a fucking mess of your skin and the floor.

and he’s not done.

he flips you over, fingers spreading your legs again.

“we’re doing it again,” he mutters, already getting hard. “i’m gonna fuck you ‘til you forget his name. then i’m gonna make you say mine.”

you’re shaking. breathless. soaked.

but you nod. “yes, professor…”

he smiles, wicked and soft and utterly terrifying.

“good girl. now say goodbye to that date.”

SHIU KONG

he hears it by accident.

he’s leaving the staff meeting early—bored, irritated, fingers twitching from not having his hands on you all week. he cuts through the hallway outside the student café, phone out, when he hears it:

"she’s got that blind date friday," one of your friends says, sipping from a pink thermos. "her cousin set it up. some finance guy—kind of basic, but tall."

the other giggles. "honestly, she needs a break. she’s been acting weird since she started doing research with professor kong. like—head always somewhere else. probably pent-up or something."

he stops walking. dead still.

his thumb taps the side of his phone. once. twice.

then he turns around, expression blank, and walks back to his office with the same precision he uses when writing evaluations that determine entire academic futures. when you arrive at his door, you knock twice, peeking in like nothing’s wrong. like everything’s normal. he’s sitting on the couch. black shirt. collar undone. sleeves rolled. no tie today.

“close it,” he says, voice quiet.

you do.

you turn toward him, already reaching into your bag to pull out notes.

“come here.”

your fingers pause.

“is it about the paper or—”

“here.”

you move to him slowly, sensing it now—that shift. that tightness in the air. the way he won’t quite meet your eyes. he pats the space beside him on the couch. you sit. then he says it. quiet. cruel. calm. “you have a date friday.”

your stomach flips.

“i—i canceled it. i wasn’t even going to go—”

“but you agreed to it.” he turns his head. finally meets your gaze. “you said yes. you planned it. you got dressed in your mirror and thought about someone else seeing you like that. thought about someone else sitting across from you while you were full of me.”

your breath stutters.

“shiu, it didn’t mean anything—”

“you were going to let him think he had a chance,” he says, voice sharper now. “let him smile at you. laugh. maybe offer to walk you home. not knowing this pussy’s been ruined beyond recognition.”

his hand slides up your thigh.

"spread your legs."

you hesitate. “the door—”

he turns to you, and it’s not a look. it’s a warning.

“spread them.”

you do.

he pushes your skirt up. doesn’t remove it. just drags his fingers between your folds, slow and unforgiving. you're already wet.

“you knew i’d find out,” he says. “you fucking knew. and you wanted me to.”

you gasp as he slips two fingers inside you, curling immediately.

“you thought maybe i wouldn’t care? that i’d let you go? let someone else take this tight little cunt and figure out too late it only reacts to my voice?”

“shiu—please—”

“no,” he snaps. “you don’t get to beg yet. i’m not finished talking.”

his fingers fuck you slow, deep, methodical.

your legs shake.

“you think your blind date would know how to hold you like this?” he says, voice softer, almost amused. “how to curl his fingers just right so you’re dripping before you even get his pants off?”

you whimper.

“he wouldn’t know you need to be told you’re a good girl when you’re close. wouldn’t know how much pressure it takes to make you cry.” he pulls his hand away. grabs your chin. forces you to look at him. “get on your knees.”

you drop immediately.

he stands, undoing his belt with steady hands.

his cock is already hard—thick, flushed, leaking.

“open your mouth,” he murmurs. “show me what’s mine.”

you do.

he slides in with a slow, possessive thrust, groaning low when your lips wrap around him.

“fuck, just like that,” he mutters. “this mouth was made for me.”

he fucks your mouth slow at first. then deeper. rougher. holding your head still, eyes dark with something unreadable. “you were gonna let him buy you dinner,” he pants. “while you’re here gagging on me. what the fuck were you thinking, huh?”

you try to respond, and he laughs. breathless. bitter.

“don’t talk. swallow.”

he cums down your throat with a low growl, hips twitching, cock pulsing, his fingers buried in your hair. he doesn’t pull out until he’s sure you’ve taken every drop. even then—he holds you there. breathing hard. and then he says, soft, “friday, you’ll be here. that same time. on your back.”

he cups your cheek.

“you’ll make it up to me properly. because if i ever hear that someone else even looked at you like they could have you—”

his thumb drags across your lips. “—i’ll make sure the next time i fuck you, it’s somewhere they can hear.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he’d heard it during a staff lounge conversation, casual and cutting all at once.

“your favorite’s going on a blind date friday,” one of the adjuncts said with a chuckle, biting into a biscotti. “cousin set it up. cute guy, apparently. she deserves a break—bet she’s been stressed with finals.”

hiromi hadn’t looked up from his espresso. hadn’t said a word.

just stared into the dark liquid like it was reflecting the exact shape of your betrayal.

“a break,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word on his tongue like it was poison.

“yes,” he added, standing, “perhaps i should offer her one myself.”

you step into his office later that day, papers in hand, expecting to go over your thesis on moral relativism and postmodern legal structures.

you don’t expect to find him already seated at his desk like a judge behind a bench—robe replaced with a charcoal suit, tie loosened, gold pen resting on his fingers like a gavel waiting to drop.

“professor?” you say softly.

he doesn’t answer. just gestures to the chair across from him.

“sit.”

you do.

“you’re being tried,” he says.

“tried for what?”

he opens a folder on the desk and flips a page with deliberate care.

“charges,” he says, eyes not leaving the paper, “include deception, abandonment of contract, and attempted trespassing of personal property.”

“personal property—”

“my cock,” he clarifies, calm as ever.

you blink. your mouth opens.

but nothing comes out except, “i canceled the date.”

“after accepting it. after planning it. after entertaining the idea of another man—an outsider, an intruder—touching what’s been shaped by me.”

you cross your arms. “i didn’t sleep with him. nothing happened.”

he finally looks up.

and smiles.

“you think penetration is the only act that counts in my courtroom?”

he stands. paces slowly behind you. voice steady.

“tell me, did you pick an outfit? something tight, something pretty? did you wear perfume? maybe that gloss you like, the one i can taste for hours after i’ve finished with you?”

“i—”

“answer, counselor.”

“…yes,” you whisper.

“good,” he says. “we’re making progress.”

he walks back in front of you, palms flat on the desk, leaning in close.

“defendant, please rise.”

you stand, nervous. throat dry.

“remove your shirt.”

“professor—”

“you want leniency? cooperate.”

you unbutton. let it fall off your shoulders.

“bra.”

you hesitate.

he raises an eyebrow. “i can add obstruction to the list.” you unclasp it. drop it. his eyes drag down your chest with the hunger of a starving man hiding behind courtroom procedure. “now,” he murmurs, circling you again, “state your defense. clearly. and convincingly.”

you clear your throat.

“i didn’t mean to betray you. it wasn’t real. i didn’t want him. i canceled. i only want you.”

“and yet your actions—”

“do not match the intention,” you finish. “but your honor, if we judged solely by intention, half the world would be in prison.”

he pauses.

smiles.

"touche."

then he grabs your waist and lifts you onto his desk like you weigh nothing. “but,” he says, stepping between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs, “my laws are stricter.”

“what are my sentencing options?” you whisper, breath catching as his fingers drag closer to your soaked cunt. “option one,” he says, slipping two fingers inside you without warning, “i fuck you until you cry.”

you gasp, hips jerking.

“option two,” he continues, curling them deep, “i fuck you until you forget what dating even means.”

“and option three?” you moan.

he smirks.

“both.”

his mouth crashes into yours—hot, punishing, possessive. he tastes like espresso and judgment. you cling to his shoulders, thighs trembling as he fucks you with his fingers, slow and rough. “what’s this?” he growls. “tight. fluttering. wet. evidence suggests you like being punished.”

“i do—fuck—i do—”

he pulls back.

undoes his belt.

“bend over the desk. court is now in recess.”

you turn, arching for him, breath shaky.

his cock slides in deep—all the way.

you scream.

he grunts, hands gripping your hips. pace brutal.

“this pussy,” he pants, thrusting hard, “takes me like it was custom-built. you think someone else could manage this? think he’d know how to stroke this spot—” he slams in. “—or what you sound like when you’re just about to fall apart?”

you’re crying.

not from pain. from overstimulation. from being seen. known. owned.

“guilty,” he hisses, fucking you through it.

“guilty—yes—i’m guilty—”

he cums deep, cock twitching as he fills you.

he leans over you, lips brushing your ear.

“sentence: mine. indefinitely.”

you nod, sobbing into the desk.

he kisses your shoulder.

“case closed.”

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sapsolais · 1 year ago

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#(pathetic whining)#why does everyone i love have to live far #i am craving Community again. where are friends in my area who are not a 3 hour drive at least #week long drive at most #crying. wailing even #this is not my usual occasional feelings of “deer roadkill moment” but more akin to “sopping wet kitten in the rain”#philosophy sucks. the people who are actually engaged in that class are all not. self aware. like #the way they speak tells me everything i need to know. i love discussing shit like that. but the minute you start talking like #you don't work a job to be here then i'm immediately tuning u out. it's the Elitest Academic Bubble Syndrome #psych is more lecture and not a lot of discussion. and i'm cool w my coworkers but we're in such dif places in life that it makes it hard 2 #connect outside that y'know #i'm hoping maybe next quarter's classes might!! surround me w some cool people ;; i'm taking my best friends' advice #i need an art class. even tho i hate traditional art classes. thinking ceramics would be cool AND maybe be filled w gay people #reader if you've made it this far. pick a god and pray for me please #i would just like. friends please c':#sap says #me: reads fics abt people my age carpooling 2 college or bonding thru retail hell #me: (head in hands)#argh. ooougherahraa. if only it were that easy :')

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shaiyasstuff · 3 months ago

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in between | sylus

synopsis : You were kids once—mud-streaked promises, pinky swears, laughter echoing through summer nights. He said he’d never change. He lied. content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus

part one

He hadn’t meant to walk through the door.

He told himself he wouldn’t. Told his mom he had things to do—anything to get out of sitting at that table again. In that house. With you.

But somehow, his feet still led him there. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was something he didn’t have the language for.

And when you opened the door—

He forgot how to breathe.

You looked different. Not in the way people mean when they say that.

You looked distant.

Like the girl who used to knock on his window was a lifetime behind you.

Like he was just someone you had to be polite to.

And he supposed he was.

He slipped inside quietly. Sat at the table like he still belonged there.

But he didn’t.

Everything looked the same—your mom’s dishes, the chipped ceramic bowl in the center, the floral napkins folded at every plate—but it all felt off. Tilted. Like stepping into a memory that no longer fit right.

When your mom brought him a plate and smiled like nothing had changed, he nodded.

“I couldn’t miss out on the fun. Sorry,”the words felt foreign in his mouth.

“You’re always welcome here,” she said. “You practically grew up with Y/N.”

And that’s when it started.

The tightening in his chest.

He glanced at you. Just for a moment.

You flinched.

It was subtle—barely noticeable to anyone else—but he saw it. The small twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes dropped to your soup like it suddenly demanded your full attention.

It was like watching a bridge collapse that he had spent years pretending was still standing.

He said nothing.

What could he say?

That he missed you? That he was sorry? That every time he saw your name on his phone, he wanted to respond, but the guilt sat so heavy in his stomach that he couldn’t even move?

He didn’t know how to explain the fear. The way he’d watched himself become the person he swore he’d never be—and then chose to stay silent because it was easier than admitting he’d already lost you.

The table erupted into laughter. Stories from childhood. The time he’d fallen from the treehouse. The brownies you once insisted had magical powers. The mud monster incident in the front yard.

You didn’t laugh.

You smiled, a tight little thing that didn’t quite reach your eyes. And then you went quiet again.

He stared at his plate.

He wanted to leave.

But he couldn’t.

Not when you were sitting across from him.

Not when every second was another echo of the past he didn’t know how to let go of.

Then your father said it.

We’re moving.

And the world tipped on its axis.

Your mother’s hand smoothed over your hair, pride in her voice as she said you’d gotten a full scholarship.

That you were leaving.

That this place—this table, this town—would soon be behind you.

His mother turned to him, smiling. “Boy, won’t you congratulate her?”

His head lifted.

And your eyes met his.

He saw it all in a heartbeat.

The hurt. The history. The question.

Do you still care?

He wanted to tell you that he never stopped caring.

That he didn’t know how to say it anymore without sounding like a lie.

That everything he’d pushed down, buried under pride and fear and time, was clawing its way to the surface now that you were slipping through his fingers.

Instead, he swallowed it down.

“‘Grats,” he said.

Barely above a whisper. As if the word itself tasted like ash.

He didn’t dare look at you again.

Because he knew—deep in the pit of his chest—that if he did, he might fall apart.

—•

“Welcome to your first class of Art History…”

Your new lecturer’s voice droned somewhere in the background, muffled and distant, like it was coming from underwater.

You barely registered the words as you sat in your seat near the window, head tilted slightly, gaze fixed on the unfamiliar skyline outside.

New city.

New campus.

New beginning.

And yet, you felt hollow.

The kind of hollow that textbooks couldn’t fill. The kind that sat quietly in your chest, not loud enough to break you—but present enough to remind you of what once was.

Class ended in a blur—names you wouldn’t remember, voices that didn’t belong to anyone yet.

You gathered your books and slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping through the crowded hallway without a word.

Your new home wasn’t far. Your parents had moved again—closer this time, just ten minutes from the college. They said it would make the transition easier.

You weren’t sure if anything could make it easier.

The sun was beginning to set as you stepped outside, casting the sky in shades of orange and soft gold.

You walked slowly, letting the light press against your skin, letting it warm the spaces inside you that still ached when they remembered.

It had been a year.

A year since you stood on that sidewalk. Since Sylus looked at you like he might say something—but didn’t.

Since you told him you were moving on.

You tilted your face toward the sky, breathing in the evening air.

The light touched the rooftops like it was trying to hold onto something.

It was a day like this when you last saw him.

You wondered, fleetingly, where he was. What he looked like now. If he still wore that stupid smirk when he didn’t know what to say.

If he still wasted his time chasing things that didn’t matter.

If he remembered you.

If you were still just someone.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibration in your pocket. You reached for your phone, swiping right without glancing at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Y/N!”

You flinched slightly, pulling the phone a few inches from your ear at the sudden volume. You smiled despite yourself.

“Jeez. Watch it, my ears,” you murmured, soft amusement lacing your tone.

“Sorry!” your old friend laughed on the other end, her voice familiar, grounding.

Then another voice came through, gentler.

“Hey. How’s your first day?”

Zayne.

You felt your expression soften, your gaze dropping to the pavement as a shy smile pulled at your lips.

“Yeah, it was great,” you said dryly. “New faces and strangers. Always fun.”

They both chuckled, and you could almost see them, hear them as if they were beside you again—back in that hallway, leaning against lockers, teasing each other before the world changed.

And just like that, the ache in your chest didn’t feel quite as heavy.

Not gone.

But not unbearable, either.

You kicked at the pebbles scattered beneath your shoes, the crunch of gravel beneath your steps grounding you as your thoughts drifted—uninvited—back to that night.

The night where the ache finally spilled over.

The night where your heart stopped pretending it was fine.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of him. Not like that.

But Zayne had caught you anyway, steady and quiet as your knees buckled beneath the weight you’d carried alone for too long.

You remembered the way he didn’t flinch when your tears soaked into his shirt.

The way he said nothing as you gripped the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

The movie you were supposed to see faded into irrelevance. You never even made it to the ticket booth.

Instead, he led you to a nearby park, settled you gently onto a weathered bench under a flickering streetlamp, and disappeared for a moment—only to return with a popsicle.

Your favorite flavor.

You didn’t even know he remembered.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t push.

He just sat there, beside you, his presence soft and unwavering. The kind of comfort that didn’t need words to mean everything.

Your fingers curled around the cold plastic wrapper, eyes still stinging as you looked up at him through the blur.

“I’m sorry, Zayne,” you whispered, voice thin and barely there.

You didn’t elaborate.

You didn’t have to.

He understood.

I can’t love you. Not when a part of me is still grieving someone who let me go too late.

He looked at you for a moment, quiet.

And then he smiled. Gentle. Knowing.

“I know,” he said softly.

And that was it.

No bitterness. No disappointment.

Just a boy sitting beside a girl whose heart was still in pieces—offering her something sweet to hold onto, even if it would melt between her fingers.

“Zayne and I are moving some stuff into our new apartment,” she said over the phone, her voice bright with barely-contained excitement.

You smiled to yourself, already picturing her bouncing around the living room with energy she couldn’t contain, while Zayne—patient and unbothered—quietly did all the heavy lifting.

“I’m happy for you guys,” you said, and you meant it.

Not long after that night at the park—the night you fell apart in Zayne’s arms without needing to explain—something between them had shifted.

It was sudden.

So sudden, in fact, that when they told you they were officially dating, you’d nearly dropped your cup. Your jaw had hit the metaphorical floor and stayed there for a solid minute.

But you weren’t bitter.

Not even a little.

You were surprised, sure. But not hurt. Not jealous. Just… oddly relieved.

You were happy for them.

Truly.

They deserved something soft. Something steady.

And as for you—

You were still learning how to carry the ache without letting it define you.

You were still learning how to grieve Sylus in the quiet moments—without clinging to what never had the chance to become anything more.

Now, there was no pressure. No guilt curled beneath your ribs whenever Zayne looked at you a little too long.

No unspoken tension waiting for answers you didn’t have.

Just space.

To breathe.

To feel.

To heal.

And maybe that, in its own quiet way, was progress.

“I can’t believe you’re not going to college,” you sighed teasingly into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as your steps echoed down the quiet street.

On the other end, she scoffed without missing a beat.

“I’m going to be an influencer. Don’t need a degree to go viral, babe.”

You laughed, the sound soft, fond. “Sure. Just don’t forget me when you’re famous.”

You could practically hear her salute through the phone, the way she probably struck a dramatic pose in the mirror while doing it.

You smiled.

These were the moments that felt easy—untouched by everything you’d left behind.

“Okay, I’m almost home,” you murmured as the familiar building came into view, its windows catching the last blush of evening light. “Miss you guys. Talk soon.”

Their voices overlapped in a mix of muffled Okays and Good lucks, and then—

Silence.

The call ended.

And you were alone again.

But for once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy.

Just… different.

A stillness that came after the storm.

“Honey, how was your first day?” your mom asked as you set your bag down on the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh.

She placed her cup of tea aside and moved toward you, arms already wrapping around your shoulders before you could answer.

Her embrace was warm and familiar—steady in the way only a mother’s could be. She pulled back just enough to ruffle your hair.

You groaned. “I spent two hours on that.”

“Oh, look at you,” she teased, smiling. “Already talking back to your mother.”

You watched as she moved around the counter, opening the fridge with that habitual grace as if this home wasn’t new and she knows exactly where everything was.

She pulled out a small plate and set it in front of you.

Cheesecake.

The good kind.

She leaned on her elbows across the counter, her expression playful as she wiggled her brows.

“So,” she said, voice laced with mischief, “any cute college boys I’ll be meeting soon?”

You scowled, grabbing your fork and taking a bite without answering.

“Mom. Don’t be gross.”

She laughed—soft and easy, like it was her favorite thing in the world to tease you.

And maybe it was.

A small part of you was grateful for it.

Because after everything, this—your parents, home, cheesecake—felt safe.

And you were learning to find comfort in the small things again.

“Class was ‘aight,” you said with a shrug, leaning your elbows on the kitchen counter. “Though… I do miss our old place.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

You missed more than the house.

You missed the memories carved into its walls.

The boy with silver-white hair who used to chase dandelions with you, laughing breathlessly as they floated just out of reach.

The front porch swing at his house, where you’d both sit cross-legged and argue over who cheated at checkers.

The warmth of late afternoons and the way time used to feel like it belonged to you.

But you didn’t say any of that.

You didn’t say his name.

Didn’t admit that sometimes, when the wind caught the edge of your sleeve just right, it felt like you were still back there—still ten years old and unaware that people grow apart even when they promise not to.

You weren’t going to admit you missed him.

Not out loud.

Some feelings were quieter than words.

And some losses hurt more when spoken.

—•

He didn’t plan to pull you away.

He didn’t even know what he’d say.

He just saw you—standing there, laughing beside someone else—and everything inside him twisted. Like something old and raw had been torn open again.

So he did what he always does.

He acted without thinking.

He dragged you behind the school like a coward looking for somewhere to hide his guilt.

You yanked your hand away the moment you stopped. Your voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

“What the hell?”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared. Trying to memorize the shape of your anger.

You looked…

God, you looked like everything he used to know.

“You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he cut you off. Not because he didn’t want to hear it.

But because he already knew.

He knew what he’d done.

He just wasn’t ready to hear it from your lips.

Then your finger jabbed into his chest.

“Don’t act like you don’t know why.”

Your voice was shaking.

So was he.

“You don’t get to stand here and play victim. You don’t get to act like you weren’t the one who walked away.”

And you were right. Every word.

Still, he stood there. Still, he said nothing.

For a second, just a second, the air shifted.

You looked at him like you used to. But not with love. Not anymore.

With grief. With betrayal. With the kind of pain that comes from being forgotten.

“How long has it been?” you demanded. “How many years? How many nights have I spent alone just because you couldn’t bother to reply?”

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But his throat closed around the truth.

He saw every message.

He wanted to reply.

But the longer he stayed silent, the harder it became to come back.

And he hated himself for it.

You turned away. He thought you were done.

But you weren’t.

“Not cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?”

He snapped out of it then, stepped closer before the shame could pin him in place.

“You’re not them,” he growled, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You couldn’t have been further from the truth.

You scoffed. “Then what am I, Sylus?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what were you, really?

The girl he thought about every time his phone lit up with a message he didn’t answer.

The one he still checked the window for at night out of a habit he never broke.

The only person who ever made him feel like more than just a name passed around by people who liked him for what he wasn’t.

He wanted to say everything.

That’s what you were.

You were everything.

But the words lodged themselves in his throat, too sharp to speak.

And then—

A laugh, loud and careless, broke through the clearing.

A group of guys rounded the corner, the familiar cadence of their voices cutting into the quiet like a blade.

One of them spotted Sylus, grinned.

“Yo, Sylus,” he called, his eyes flicking to you. “Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?”

You turned to Sylus, and in that instant, he felt your stare land like a weight on his chest.

Waiting. Again.

You were always waiting for him to say the right thing.

And he?

He was always too scared to give it.

So the smirk slid onto his face—automatic, defensive, false.

He heard himself say, “No she’s… just someone.”

The moment it left his mouth, he knew.

He knew he’d just ripped something fragile to shreds.

He knew your silence would come next—not because you had nothing to say, but because you had finally given up.

Your laugh was quiet. Not amused. Not bitter. Just… tired.

“Just someone, huh?” you said, voice light but hollow. “I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.”

Then you stepped around him.

And he didn’t stop you.

Not because he didn’t want to—

But because his friends were still there. Because his mouth was still twisted into that damn smile.

Because he didn’t know how to reach for you without unmaking himself in front of everyone.

So he stood there.

Frozen.

They kept talking, teasing him, nudging his shoulder like none of it mattered.

But he didn’t hear them.

Didn’t move.

Because his eyes were still fixed on your retreating figure.

And for the first time in a long time, Sylus felt something shatter—quietly, irreversibly—inside him.

You weren’t his anymore.

He wasn’t sure you ever were.

But more than that now, he wasn’t even sure he had the right to miss you.

His friends clapped him on the back, loud and oblivious. “Come on, man—coach wants us there for the farewell speech.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to stall, to say not now—but they were already dragging him forward, laughter echoing in his ears like static.

The clearing faded behind him.

You were gone.

He turned once, just over his shoulder, hoping for a glimpse—one last look—but all that met him was the emptiness where you used to stand.

Still, he felt the eyes on him. Expectation. Performance.

So he straightened up. Let the smirk slide back into place like armor.

“Alright,” he said, voice light.

And just like that, he followed them inside.

Leaving the truth—and you—behind.

That night, he lay in bed, phone in hand, the glow of the screen painting his face in cold light.

Your contact was still there.

Still saved under the name Kitten.

Still untouched.

Still yours.

His brow furrowed, thumb hovering just above the call button—so close. Too close.

He stared at the name like it might say something first, like it might make the decision for him.

But he didn’t know what he would say if you answered.

Didn’t know if he even had the right.

I’m sorry felt too small.

I miss you felt too late.

So he didn’t call.

His hand fell away, fingers curling into a fist before he shut the screen off and tossed the phone across the room, where it landed with a dull thud.

The silence that followed was louder than anything.

His hands clutched the hoodie you had returned, the fabric wrinkled from how tightly he held it.

It still smelled faintly like your room—like something warm, like something that used to feel like home.

He exhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat as he stared down at the worn cotton, the one thing you’d kept—until now.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, cursing himself.

Cursing the silence.

Cursing how easy it had been to become everything he once swore he wouldn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your friend.

And started being a stranger who hurt you.

“I don’t need it anymore.”

You had said it so clearly, so firmly—like a full stop at the end of a sentence he’d refused to read for years.

But he heard it.

Not just the words, but everything underneath.

The years of silence. The weight of being forgotten. The way your voice trembled just enough to betray what you still hadn’t said.

And he saw it too.

The way the light in your eyes dimmed—not from anger, but from exhaustion. From the kind of pain that doesn’t scream, only lingers.

His chest ached.

His hands flew to his face, fingers tangling in his hair as he let out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the silence, voice cracking.

He should’ve stopped you.

Should’ve said something—anything.

But he hadn’t.

And now the only thing he could do was sit with the echo of your goodbye.

“You think we’d still be friends when we go to high school?”

Your voice echoed in his mind, soft, hopeful, laced with the kind of innocence that didn’t know what distance felt like yet.

The streets were empty now, save for the dull pound of his footsteps hitting the pavement. He ran—not toward anything, but away. From the weight. From himself.

Back then, he’d linked his pinkie with yours without hesitation.

“I promise,” he’d said. “We’ll still be friends.”

A car honked somewhere in the distance, jarring him back for a breath.

“I won’t turn into a jock,” his memory added, almost bitterly now.

A door creaked open across the street. A light switched on in someone’s hallway.

And then it hit him. The one memory louder than all the others.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

His pace slowed.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t realized what you meant in the moment. Hadn’t heard the quiet fracture in your voice, the way your eyes didn’t meet his when you said it.

But now?

Now he knew.

You weren’t used to being ignored.

You weren’t born expecting to be left behind.

He made you that way.

With every unanswered message.

Every silence.

Every time he turned away when he should’ve held on.

He made you used to him being gone.

And now that you were leaving—

He had no one to blame but himself.

And now, he was left with nothing but regret.

Heavy. Constant.

The kind that clings to your ribs, that colors every corner of memory in a dull, aching gray.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t see you again.

That maybe it was better that way.

He didn’t deserve another chance—not after the silences, the shoulder shrugs, not after he said you were ‘just someone.’

But then—

He turned the corner.

And there you were.

Just standing there.

Dressed in jeans and that lazy, thrown-on t-shirt—like you always wore on weekends when he used to show up at your door with a half-burnt DVD and snacks neither of you ended up eating.

His breath caught.

Everything else stilled.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

And he let himself look. Just for a moment.

God, you were still you.

But different now. Lighter, somehow. Not because you weren’t hurting—he knew you were—but because you had made peace with the hurt.

Moved through it.

Past him.

Then your eyes met his.

It was like being cracked open in silence.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, uncertain—like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

“H–Hey.”

You blinked, glanced away, and suddenly the sidewalk was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“How long?” he asked. It came out too fast.

You rubbed your neck, the way you always did when you were nervous.

“A week.”

A week.

Seven days before he would never see you again, never hear your voice or even get the chance to make things right.

Seven days where you would finally be rid of him.

And he hated that he couldn’t stop it.

But he nodded. Looked down.

“I—” you started, and he straightened.

You paused, choosing your words with care.

“I don’t care about all that anymore.”

His heart stuttered.

You looked at him when you said it—really looked. And he knew.

You meant it.

And that hurt in a way he didn’t know how to name.

“I’m going to move on now,” you added, voice quieter. “A new life and all that.”

He wanted to say don’t.

He wanted to reach for you.

To take it all back. To beg.

But the words never made it past his throat.

“I hope you get all the things you want in life, Sylus.”

And you smiled. Soft. Final.

Then you lifted your hand, gave him a small wave, and stepped aside.

Let him pass.

Let him go.

He turned to watch you—hoping, foolishly, that you’d glance back.

But you didn’t.

Because you were no longer waiting.

You were no longer his.

And he…

He stood there long after you disappeared from view, aching in the quiet, wondering if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for the way he lost you—

Not in one moment,

But in all the ones where he stayed silent.

“Sylus, I’m open!”

The sharp squeak of sneakers echoed through the gym, followed by the rhythmic thud of a basketball against polished wood.

“Thanks,” Sylus muttered, tossing a quick pass before jogging toward the bench.

He collapsed onto it, chest rising and falling with every breath, sweat clinging to his skin like second skin. A bottle of water was thrust into his hand. He took it without a word, downing half of it in seconds.

It had been a year.

A year since you left—without goodbyes, without a backward glance. A year since you walked out of his life and took the sun with you.

His teammate plopped down on the floor in front of him, breath ragged, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’re killing it today,” he said between pants. “I can barely guard you. You’re a machine.”

Sylus let out a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re just small.”

“Fuck off,” his friend laughed, tossing a towel at him.

Basketball had become his refuge. Since the day you left, Sylus threw himself into the game like it was the only thing holding him together.

Hours bled into days in the gym. He skipped college applications, skipped birthdays, skipped chances at moving on.

This was simpler.

This was better.

At least on the court, he didn’t have to think about you.

His friend peeked at him from the corner of his eye, the laughter fading as something more serious took its place.

“You still haven’t contacted her, huh.”

It wasn’t a jab. Just an observation. But it hit harder than any shove on the court.

Sylus stilled.

The bottle in his hands crinkled slightly under his grip. Sweat dripped down his temple, trailing along his jaw as he stared at the floor.

“No.”

Quiet. Like a confession. Like he was finally admitting to something he couldn’t undo.

His friend let out a breath, not surprised. “You should’ve just told her from the start, man.”

There was no malice in his voice. Just the kind of tired honesty that came from watching someone spiral.

He looked at Sylus then, more gently this time. “Hate to say it, but… I told you so.”

Any other day, Sylus would’ve rolled his eyes, thrown a towel at his face, maybe cracked a joke about height.

But not this time.

This time, he didn’t say anything.

Because this time, he knew.

He knew his friend was right.

He glanced at his friend—same look on his face as that day on the bleachers. The day he saw you across the court, laughing with Zayne like you didn’t used to be his.

Sylus let out a breath, low and quiet. “I know,” he murmured.

His friend huffed a short laugh, standing as he offered a hand. “Come on. Break time’s over.”

Sylus finished the last of his water, the plastic crumpling in his grip. Then he took the hand, let himself be pulled back into the court.

Where it was easier to run than to feel.

—•

Sylus dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud before sinking into the couch.

The sun had already slipped past the rooftops, leaving the living room in a soft, fading gold.

He leaned his head back against the cushions, muscles aching, the weight of the day settling into his bones.

“Sylus has been doing great! He’s actually trying out for a local team soon—”

His mother’s voice echoed down the stairs, light and proud.

He cracked one eye open to watch her descend, phone pressed to her ear, smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of him.

She always spoke like that. Like he was doing just fine.

Like he hadn’t spent a year trying to outrun everything he never said to you.

Sylus sat up slightly when his mother gave his leg a light tap, where it lay stretched across the coffee table.

“What about Y/N? How’s she doing over there?” she asked casually, her voice bright.

But the moment your name passed her lips, something in him stilled.

His ears perked up, almost involuntarily, and he found himself leaning in just a little—just enough to catch the faint sound of your mother’s voice through the speaker.

“She’s doing well. First day went great, she’s upstairs studying now—”

That was all he caught. But it was enough.

Enough to stir something sharp in his chest.

He didn’t know if he should be relieved, knowing you were okay. Or heartbroken, knowing you were okay without him.

You’d moved on. Quietly, gracefully. Just like you always did.

And yet his heart twisted all the same.

Soon, he was lost in thoughts of you.

Did you still look the same?

He pictured you—brows furrowed, hunched over your desk with a pen in hand, sketching or scribbling notes the way you used to.

The soft light of your room casting shadows on your cheek, hair tied up in that lazy knot you always wore when you were focused.

Were you smiling now?

Were you lighter—freer—now that he wasn’t in the picture?

He swallowed hard, the thought settling like lead in his chest.

Maybe you were happy.

Maybe you were better off, now that you no longer had to carry the weight of loving someone who didn’t know how to hold you right.

“I’m just saying, man—if you hadn’t let Colin’s bullshit get to you, you wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

His friend’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, cutting through the silence of Sylus’ room.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the mirror across from him, at the fading polaroid tucked into the frame—

You, smiling. Him, slightly out of focus beside you, hand on your shoulder.

He exhaled, voice low. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. “Yeah, well… there’s no point sulking over it now. It’s been a year.”

Sylus flopped onto his bed, the mattress creaking beneath him as he pressed the phone to his ear. His friend’s voice carried on, unfazed.

“I mean, weren’t you the one who said you promised her? That you’d never be like the others? Then you got into high school and suddenly, being one of the cool kids mattered more.”

Sylus’s jaw tensed. “Hey, cut me some slack, will you?”

A scoff crackled through the speaker. “Dude, I’ve been cutting you slack. Any less and I would’ve dragged your sorry ass to Y/N’s front door years ago.”

Sylus grunted, thumb hovering before he ended the call. The phone fell beside him on the bed with a soft thud as he dragged both hands down his face.

His friend was right. He didn’t need to hear it again to know.

Somewhere along the way, his pride had started speaking louder than you ever did. His image, his place, his need to belong—it all started to matter more than how you felt.

And the worst part?

He knew.

He’d known for a long time now.

But knowing didn’t change anything.

Not when you were already gone.

His eyes drifted to the hoodie draped over the bedrest—the one he had once given you, the one you threw back at him that day without a word.

It still sat there, untouched.

The scent of your home had long faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of his room. Only a faint trace of something remained—something like old warmth, something like grief.

Just memories now.

Faded fabric, frayed edges, and the weight of promises he never kept.

And in that stillness, with nothing but the echo of your absence clinging to the walls, Sylus finally whispered the words he should’ve said years ago.

“I’m sorry.”

Soft. Barely audible.

Meant only for the ghost of you that still lingered in the room.

But it’s too late for apologies now, isn’t it?

Too late for words to fix what silence already broke.

masterlist

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umbrella-show · 4 months ago

Text

𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞

I know I've been doing a lot of Shadow Milk stuff but I wanna give Burning spice cookie some love for a moment bc hes so cool ❤

The clang of clashing metal filled the open space. You swung your axe repeatedly in a frenzy, desperate to at least graze the dough of the Beast of destruction. Yet, he dogged every single one of your sloppy swings with ease. Trained onto the way you haphazardly swung the smaller axe over and over again, his eyes were narrow. Not in concentration, but in an expression of disappointment. Sweat dripped down your forehead as you stumbled forward in exhaustion, but continued to attempt to attack him. His axe met yours halfway, and with ease, he hit your axe out of your hands. The axe flew out of your hands and lodged into one of the nearby red stone pillars. A spice servant just so happened to be walking past and was nearly impaled by the weapon as it landed inches away from their head. They quickly scurried away, not sticking around to find out if there were any more flying axes that would pose a threat.

With no weapon and no way to defend yourself, you helplessly looked up at the Beast cookie. You heavily panted, your adrenaline immediately dissipating and the exhaustion causing your body to tremble. You began to finally recognize the overwhelming heat present in the training room from the natural environment of the dessert you were in. His sharp glare sent shivers down your spine and you found yourself freezing on the spot. His silence was greatly unnerving. He wasn’t known to be quiet in the slightest. Yet, he was staring down at you with a prominent scowl.

“That was pathetic.”

Burning Spice cooke spat out, his low and harsh tone making you flinch. You said nothing and only continued to look up at him. His towering stance caused you to shrink further, desperately wishing you could disappear and escape his disappointed gaze. You feared he would dispose of you. Reduce you into crumbs. Your gaze wandered to his own axe, practically as tall as him. One swing of that and you would be crumbs, and your dust would be left to travel into the air and join the rest of the spices who had fallen to the Great Destroyer's hands.

“Yet, I know you are capable of much more. That spark. That flame in your eyes. I have not forgotten it.”

His voice was gruff as he lectured you, making sure to look directly in your eyes. He was searching for something. Probably that so-called ‘spark’ he claimed he had once seen. You didn’t know what he meant by that. He soon continued, resting his battle axe over his shoulder.

“Fanning that flame, it will grow into an inferno that can scorch the most impenetrable civilizations and can snuff out the strongest of flames with a single blow.”

A faint smile pulled at his lips, revealing more of his sharp yellow teeth. The sight intimidated you greatly and made your feet shuffle underneath you. He didn’t seem to care about you uncomfort, his smile only growing as he seemed to be thinking deeply.

“Yes. You shall get there, in time. We will continue later. Retrieve the axe.”

Burning Spice cookie left the training room without another word. You hobbled over the axe stuck into the stone pillar. Gripping the handle, you heaved with all the strength you had left to pull it out. It remained lodged in the stone.

You only continued to stubbornly tug at the small axe. However, no matter how hard you tried, it didn’t budge. It wasn’t like you were at your full strength, you thought as you continued to pull. You had just spent a while overexerting yourself in your fierce training with the Beast cookie. You still persisted, leaning almost your whole weight back as you pulled.

Burning Spice cookie returned with a ceramic bowl in his hand. He noticed your difficulty in reattaining the axe in the pillar, and sighed in annoyance. He placed the bowl on the floor and strided over to your struggling form. At his arrival, you got the hint and stepped away from the axe and let him handle the work. With one swift tug of the handle, the axe was released from the wall. He called for a spice servant, demanding they sharpen the small weapon. Cowering, they quickly fled to fulfill his orders.

Burning Spice cookie ordered you to follow him to the bowl, sitting on the floor with crossed legs and prompting you to do the same. In the bowl, you saw some fruit. Mostly berries hanging on short, thin vines, though you could see some cantaloupe mixed in as well. You glanced at the appetizing looking fruit before looking at him. He looked at you expectantly. After a few seconds of silence, with an annoyed sigh, Burning spice cookie took one of the cantaloupes and dropped it into your hands.

“Eat,” he impatiently demanded. “In order to train harder, you need sustenance.”

You eagerly obliged, and began tearing into the cantaloupe with fervour. You didn’t realize how starving you were until you had taken that first, juicy, delicious bite and continuously ate more. You ravenously ate everything in the bowl, the juices of the cantaloupe and berries messily staining your mouth. You finished the bowl in a matter of minutes.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you took a moment to close your eyes and relax for just a few seconds. Of course, you could never fully be at ease, as you could feel Burning Spice cookie’s judgmental stare at your sudden tranquility. Yet, he gave you a full minute to decompress before grunting impatiently and getting up from the ground.You soon followed after you opened your eyes to his expectant glare.

“You may not rest. Rest can wait until you’ve reached your full potential.”

Before you could ask what he wanted you to do next, he suddenly turned his back to you, began walking, and ordered you to follow. Wordlessly, you walked behind him, your face displaying a visible expression of confusion and shock when he led you out of the temple and into the desert. Your attention averted to him as he muttered in a low voice. You were unsure it was directed at you or if he was speaking to himself.

“Now, let us do a new type of training.”

The wind kicked up spice into your face. Covering your eyes with your arms, you didn’t dare to open them in the middle of the Spice storm. Taking a step forward, you forced your body to move against the wind and further into the storm.

“How is this part of training-?!”

You coughed violently as you felt your throat burn from the specks of spice you accidentally swallowed. Burning Spice cookie stood, unbothered, in the hazardous storm. In fact, he smiled and laughed without a care as he watched you struggle. He stood in front of you at a distance, monitoring your every step. With crossed arms, he surveyed, entertained, at your scared expression and difficulty adjusting. He was waiting for you to reach him. Yet, you knew he could easily continue forward and leave you behind if he chose too, considering his calmness in such a hazardous storm.

“You need to get accustomed to the weather. That is part of your training. You must be prepared to fight in any conditions. Even in the eye of a Spice Storm.”

You took another step forward, leaning your weight forward to prevent the wind from pushing you back. You caught a glance at Burning Spice cookie through your blurred vision. He was still there, you confirmed. Watching you. You could still feel his piercing glare through the wind.

“Keep going.” He yelled, his hair widely whipping around him. “Ignite that spark. Fan the flame!”

A grunt left your throat, forcing your body forward. Step after step, your pace quickened. You continued to cough, but you ignored that and pushed forward. You came closer and closer to him. He seemed absolutely delighted by this, thoroughly entertained. He egged you on.

“Yes! YES! Keep going! FAN THE FLAME!!!”

“I-I can’t!”

“DO IT!!!”

Tears brimmed in your eyes as you compelled your body to continue. Step after step took incredible effort, but the fear of being swept away by the storm if you faltered for even a second compelled you to heed Burning Spice cookie’s orders. You shrieked as you felt the wind fiercely rush past you, your hair flying into your face. You pushed and pushed forward. You were only a few feet away from him.

He held a wide, toothy smirk as you inched closer. He could see it! That spark of determination began to grow into a powerful flame the more you continued forward. Your body trembled in exhaustion, but your eyes held that familiar look of determination.

That same look he had seen when you had gotten yourself between Golden Cheese cookie and him. The way you looked up at him, with pure anger and furry. Despite how fearful of him you obviously were, he could see it clearly through your body language. It was completely unwise to stand up to him so boldly. He knew you knew fully well he could easily crush you. Yet, you had tried to push him away, pathetically hitting your fist against his firm chest in an attempt to protect your dear friend. Pathetic and foolish, he had thought, and he returned your pointless punches with a blow of his own. Of course, you had flown back and were sent tumbling across the ground. The dough on your side and arm has slightly cracked, making it painful to move. Golden Cheese cookie had called out your name in utter horror at your condition.

Burning Spice cookie found satisfaction in her pain. Staining one of her most precious treasures with his destructive hands. His satisfaction, however, was unmatched to the pleasure he felt when he demanded her to fight him. The thrill he would experience by bringing about destruction to her precious treasures, and then her in the end, would be unmatched to anyone he had ever rivaled.

Yet, a sudden harsh poke at his back had caused him to look over and see you. You had hurled a stone at his back, your trembling form attempting to stand up straight and tall with difficulty. What really caught his attention, however, was your expression of complete and utter rage. Your jam was boiling, he could see it clear as day. Your eyes had held a mix of emotions, all burning inside you to create a powerful inferno that dared to rival his. You glared at him in pure and utter rage. He only stared back, momentarily stunned, before a wide smile came across his face. You, he had realized, could make you a worthy opponent.

After he had captured Golden Cheese cookie, he immediately began to train you as he waited for her to recover. Not only would it pass the time while he waited, but he could simultaneously still get some entertainment by pushing you to your limits and beginning to forcefully drill his teachings into your mind. He was going to mold you into the perfect soldier with brute force. He could see you were capable of being a worthy opponent. In fact, it seemed he was succeeding as he watched you persist through the storm. He could already see a part of himself in you. That passion in your eyes, he felt, could almost match his own. Almost. It would eventually get there if he continued training you. And he planned to do just that.

Once you had reached him, he wordlessly picked you up, slung you over his shoulder and calmly walked out of the Spice storm. The armor of his shoulder dug into your abdomen uncomfortably.

“With enough training, you’ll be able to FIGHT in a Spice storm with no issue.”

You could feel the wind calm over time as you walked further and further from the Spice Storm and towards the temple. You were completely exhausted, yet, you knew he wouldn’t let you rest. He repeated to you, as your eyes drifted from closing to opening, that rest could only come when you were pushed to your very limits. You silently forced your eyes to stay open. You dared not disobey him. The last thing you wanted was to die like this, by his hands. You needed to stay strong and wait until Golden Cheese cookie came back. You prayed to the witches, that she would.

You stood in the middle of the now abandoned temple you had trained in. The temple was annihilated. You did your best not to step on all of the ruble and broken pots, as well as the crumbs littering the floor. In the chaos of it all, the small metal axe you were familiar with was laying on the ground, under a large piece of the crimson rock. Slowly, you grasped the handle and lifted the axe to your face. The metal showed evident signs of use, some dents present from the training that you hand endured. Dust covered the metal weapon. Unconsciously, you wiped the metal with your hands, revealing your blurry reflection on the clearer surface. You examined your eyes through the reflection. Your dough held a few scratches, but over all, not much damage was physically done to you. You assumed even the Beast of Destructions knew to limit his power when training you, as he could easily crumble you or leave some nasty scars had he not been so mindful. You realized some of the remaining crimson dust made your eyes look redder on the metal.

You let your arm fall to your side as soon as you heard the call of the golden goddess herself, stronger and greedier than ever. She impatiently yelled for you in a loud, prideful tone that was clearly heard in her voice. You shouted out a short response, your hand tightening around the handle of the weapon. You weren’t sure why, but you decided to take it with you. Letting go just felt.. wrong. In a way. You began to briskly walk to meet Golden Cheese cookie and Smoked Cheese cookie observing the destruction of the temple. They were eager to get back to the kingdom, and you couldn’t deny you felt the same way.

With an unreadable expression, and a mix of complex emotions weighing heavily in your chest, you took one last long look at what remained of the temple. You turned away and departed with Golden Cheese cookie and Smoked Cheese cookie by your side. You had a feeling you’ll see Burning Spice cookie cookie again. When and where that meeting would take place, you were unsure. Yet, you were convinced that he would eventually hunt you down.

#umbrella stories ☂️#crk #cookie run kingdom #yandere crk x reader #crk x reader #burning spice crk #burning spice x reader #burning spice cookie #burning spice cookie x reader #yandere cookie run #cookie run x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #yandere cookie run kingdom x reader #yandere cookie run kingdom #yandere crk

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wandasgirl69 · 4 months ago

Text

A simple request—

Paring(s): Wanda Maximoff X female!reader

Summary: After a long, exhausting day, all you want is to unwind in your girlfriend's arms.

word count: 1.9K

tags l content: established relationship, smut, breeding kink, mommy kink, cockwarming, breastfeeding, induced lactation, sub reader, Wanda has a cock, abandoned movie lol.

A/N: I'm excited and nervous to post this lol, it's just a short drabble. I hope you guys enjoy! (and yes, it's about me and my girl— again.)

The day had drained you completely. Endless lectures, overwhelming assignments—your mind felt like it was on the verge of shutting down. As you stepped into your apartment, the familiar scent of home instantly soothed you—a mix of fresh linen, vanilla, and something distinctly Wanda. With a deep sigh, you dropped your backpack by the door, kicking off your shoes without caring where they landed.

All you wanted—no, all you needed—was to unwind. Just you, Wanda, and a movie. That was your simple request.

As you made your way into the bedroom, Wanda lay sprawled on the bed, a steaming cup of tea cradled in her hands, her crimson-painted nails tapping idly against the ceramic. A book rested open in her lap, though she seemed more focused on the warmth seeping through her fingers than on the words before her. The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathed her in warm light, making her look almost ethereal.

"Hi, my love," she murmured, her voice like a gentle caress.

Just hearing those words made something in your chest loosen. The tension that had gripped you all day dissipated, if only for a moment. You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding and walked over to the bed, practically collapsing onto it.

Wanda shut her book, setting it aside as she turned toward you, concern flickering in her eyes.

"Long day?"

You groaned, pressing your face into the pillows. "The longest. I don’t want to think, don’t want to talk about assignments, and definitely don’t want to see another professor’s face for at least a week." You rolled onto your side, gazing up at her.

"I just need to watch a movie. I need to turn my brain off, cuddle under the blankets, and just exist for a while. That’s all I want."

Understanding flashed across her face, and without hesitation, she nodded. "Okay, baby. That sounds perfect."

She reached for the remote, shifting closer to you. "What do you want to watch?"

Your lips curved into a small smile as you answered without hesitation. "Rom-com."

Wanda chuckled, shaking her head fondly. "I should've guessed."

"You should've," you teased, nudging her arm. "They're the best. They’re funny, they’re sweet, and they make everything feel a little bit lighter."

With an amused sigh, Wanda scrolled through Netflix, already knowing you wouldn’t settle for anything else. "Alright, one predictable, overly romantic, cliché-filled movie coming right up."

"Masterpiece," you corrected, grinning as you reached for her.

Before you could say anything else, Wanda set the remote down and gently pulled you into her arms, shifting you so you rested against her front, nestled between her legs. The warmth of her body instantly soothed you as she wrapped her arms around your waist, holding you close.

"Are you comfortable?" she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. You hummed in response, melting further into her embrace. The movie played on and she continued to caress you, her hands slowly making their way under your shirt.

"Wanda" you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, baby?" she asked, before nipping at your neck, her teeth grazing your skin.

“We’re supposed to be relaxing,” you mumbled. She chuckled softly, her breath warm against your ear.

“This is relaxing, no?” You let out a shaky breath, nodding as you surrendered to her touch, letting the movie fade into the background. She continued to explore your body, her fingers trailing along your stomach and then up your ribs, teasing the underside of your breasts. You let out a quiet whimper, arching into her touch.

"So responsive for me," Wanda whispered, her voice low and husky. her slender fingers eventually made their way into your shorts, slowly dipping into your folds. She let out a groan at the wetness she found there, her fingers parting your folds and sliding into your entrance.

"Fuck, baby," she breathed, her voice thick with arousal. "You’re so wet."

She began pumping her fingers slowly, eliciting a moan from you. Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction. But then suddenly, it stopped, and a whimper escaped your lips. You opened your eyes to see her smirking at you, a playful glint in her eyes.

"What happened to relaxing?" she teased as she removed her hand from your shorts and brought her fingers up to her mouth, sucking them clean. The sight made you shudder, and you could feel the heat building between your legs.

"I- I am relaxed," you managed to stutter out.

"Mmhmm," Wanda hummed, her lips curving into a smirk. "Let's see if we can help you relax a little more, shall we?" her cock pressed against your back and she ground herself into you, making sure that you could feel how hard she was.

"Yes please," you breathed, squirming slightly as she continued to tease you.

"but we need to focus on the movie" she reminded you as she trailed her hands up and down your body.

"It's hard to focus on the movie when you're touching me like that," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wanda's chuckle was playful, "Maybe we can multitask," she suggested, her breath hot against your ear. "We can watch the movie, and I can... help you relax at the same time."

"I think that can be arranged," you breathed

"Shhh” she murmured as she pulled your shorts down as well as her own.

"warm up my cock, hm?" A groan escaped your lips as she guided her tip to your cunt, your wet folds allowing her to push right in. The feeling of her stretching you open was almost too much, and you felt yourself trembling against her. She wrapped her arms around you and pulled you flush against her chest as the movie continued to play in the background.

Wanda made sure to keep a steady pace of small, shallow thrusts, just enough to tease you without being too distracting. Every so often, she would buck her hips, eliciting a soft moan from you as her cock hit that perfect spot inside you.

"You're doing such a good job, keeping mommy's cock nice and warm." Your response was immediate, a whimper escaping your lips as your hips rocked back into hers, driven by a primal need to be closer, to be filled completely.

"Please, Mommy," you whispered, your voice a faint, desperate plea that lingered in the air as you rested your head back against her shoulder.

"I want you to breed me." As soon as the words left your lips, Wanda's entire demeanor changed. Her eyes, which had been gleaming with a mixture of desire and playfulness, suddenly burned with an intense urgency. She pulled you closer, her arms wrapping tightly around you as she deepened her thrusts.

Her movements became more frantic, more desperate, as if she was driven by a singular focus to give you what you wanted. The air was filled with the sound of her ragged breathing, her gasps and moans mingling with the creaks and groans of the bed as she pushed up against you with increasing intensity.

The movie, which had been playing in the background, was forgotten, the sounds and images on the screen fading into insignificance as Wanda's actions became the sole focus of your attention. You felt yourself getting lost in the sensation of her body moving against yours, the friction and heat building as she drove herself deeper and deeper into you.

Wanda's hands were everywhere, grasping and clutching at your skin as if she was trying to pull you closer, to merge your bodies into one. Her lips were on your neck, your shoulder, your ear, her breath hot and urgent.

As her movements continued, you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps.

"That's it, baby," she whispered. "Take mommy's cock. Take it all." Her hands reached up and cupped your breasts, her thumbs brushing over your nipples. Her fingers lightly pinched, sending a spark of pleasure through your body. You moaned, a soft, breathy sound, as your hips instinctively bucked back into hers.

You were on the verge of losing control, and you knew it.

"I'm going to—" you whispered, your voice barely audible as the sensations overwhelmed you. The words trailed off, lost in the tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to consume you.

"Cum, baby," Wanda grunted. "Cum all over my cock. I'm going to fill you up." As she spoke, her body tensed, and you felt her release inside you, a warm, gentle flood that seemed to never end. She didn’t stop her movements, instead increasing them to ensure you took every drop of her seed.

You cried out, your body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. Wanda held you close, her thrusts slowing as you came down from your high and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the two of you panting, struggling to catch your breath.

"Ohh, my love, you were perfect," she whispered, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck as she pressed soft, gentle kisses. With a gentle movement, she shifted your body, turning you around to face her, her cock still nestled deep within you— exactly where you both loved it to be. As she held you, you whimpered a little, your body squirming subtly to press against hers more intimately.

Wanda's arms tightened around you, holding you close, the steady rise and fall of her breath soothed you. Your body felt heavy with exhaustion, a weariness settling in as you melted against her.

“Sleepy, baby?” Wanda murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead.

A small hum left your lips as you shifted slightly, seeking more of her comfort.

“Mama…” you breathed, half-asleep but still aware enough to know what you wanted.

“I’m here, my love,” she reassured you, tucking you even closer. “What do you need?”

Your fingers curled against her skin as you whispered,

“Milky.”

Wanda’s chest rose with a quiet chuckle, her amusement laced with tenderness.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” she murmured, adjusting her position so she could take off her shirt. She bared the soft curves of her breasts to you, her warmth and scent enveloping you in familiar safety. Her hands guided your head back to her chest, where the sweet aroma of her milk mingled with the lingering notes of vanilla that were uniquely hers.

As you latched on, the steady, pulsing rhythm of her heartbeat filled your ears, lulling you further into the depths of relaxation. Wanda’s fingers twisted through your hair, scratching your head absentmindedly.

“That’s it, baby,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Just relax, I’ve got you.”

The gentle pull of warmth, the rhythmic rise and fall of her breath, the way her arms held you so securely—it was all you needed.

The weight of the day faded, the last remnants of tension melting away as your body sank fully into her embrace. She shifted slightly, her fingers gently brushing against the corner of your mouth to wipe away a stray drop of milk that had lingered there. And with a gentle motion, she wrapped the blankets more securely around you both. Even as she started to drift off, she was aware of your tight walls still wrapped around her cock.

"Sweet dreams, my love," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, as the warmth of her heartbeat pressed against your cheek. You felt her hold you just a little tighter.

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bernardsbendystraws · 1 year ago

Text

𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 — 𝐌.𝐒.

synopsis: Matt hates himself for hurting you.

warnings: ANGST , crying, and more.

ʚ with love and big tits, Rose ɞ

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Your chest ached hearing his dry and rushed responses every time you tried to ask him about his day. The pores on your skin had begun to feel sore from being so touch starved.

You had decided that today was the day. There was no energy left to be sucked out of your body anymore—you needed him to understand how you were feeling.

But, you hadn’t expected this.

Matt had come home late, a tired sag of his eyes tugging at your sympathy for him. You had made dinner fresh, later than usual so you’d be able to eat with him. However, his phone sat in front of his plate as he scrolled through TikToks. The short audios filled the room along with light scratches of silver forks on the ceramic dishes.

You had lost your appetite to say the least. Grabbing your plate still heavy with the plucked food, you took Matt’s empty one, setting them by the sink to deal with in the morning. Your shoulders sagged heavily with a depressed sigh.

“Matt, can we talk?” you ask.

He hums, not shifting his gaze from his phone. But, you could tell he didn’t even listen to the question as a new audio sounds through his phone with the swipe of his thumb.

You love him—-you really fucking love him. You can’t let him go, you just need him back. The heavy devastation in your chest was weighing you down harder and harder each day—-each time his eyes stayed glued to emails instead of you.

“Matt.” you huff out, your throat already feeling slimy and constricted.

His gaze shifts up to you finally, but somehow it gets worse.

He rolls his eyes, noticing your angry eyebrows laced with a serious look. Tossing his phone down gently on the table, he shakes his head.

“What? Why are you fuckin’ looking at me like that? Do you know the day I’ve had—”

You let out a hurt breath of air sharply. Not one word of your feelings had escaped and he already shoved your heart further down with gravity.

“I…can we just talk? I know the day you’ve had, I—”

His chair screeches as he pushes back to stand up. Running a flustered hand through his hair, he waves his hands in the air before letting them slap onto his thighs.

“Great, my lovely girlfriend know I’ve been running around meetings all day and still wants to fuckin’ lecture me. You—” he stalks beside you. You hear the plates you had just sat down shuffle against the counter. “---you don’t even eat the food I work for us to buy. What the fuck is your—”

Your hand slaps down on the counter. Shooting him a pointed glare, you see his jaw click as his piercing eyes scowl into yours. The anger makes you soften as hot tears brim at your eyes.

“My problem? Matt, I get that you’re busy. Trust me, I’ve tried holding this in,” you huff, clicking your tongue in your mouth as you shake your head. “--I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. I…I just need you to—”

“Need me to what, huh?” His voice is louder, harsher as he closes the distance. He stares down at you as his nose scrunches with disgust. “You can’t do it anymore? You're done the second I can’t drop everything for you, huh? Fuck you—”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” you screech.

Anger covers your sadness, but the tears fountain down your cheek out of pure frustration. Heavy breaths leave your mouth as you see his eyes widen with furry.

“Get your finger out of my fucking face. I swear to god,”

You don’t let him finish. Instead, you whip towards the bedroom. Marching forward, you ignore his yells. You can’t hear him through the seething anger buzzing in your ears. “---you’re not even listening, Matt! I’m not doing this right now if you’re not gonna—”

His hand grasps on your shoulder, whipping you back around to face him. The pure rage in his eyes makes your anger burn into sadness. You pound on his chest, pushing away from him, but his grip stays firm.

Latching his hands around yours, he quickly whips them down.

“Fuck!” you screech.

While aggressively yanking your hand down, he had brutally hammered it into the side of the counter. You can feel the skin and muscles starting the swell. The stinging pain makes your chest squeeze.

Time stops. Furry shifts into a static noise.

Dropping your hand as if he had burned you, he pulls his hands up to his chests. “I—”

“No! Fuck you!” you shout, cradling your injured hand into your chest. His sympathetic gaze and concerned expression leave nothing but a puddle of sadness as you choke on your words. “You can’t, you can’t treat me like this. You—-you hurt me. I…” you shake your head in disbelief and disappointment.

Turning back around, he doesn’t stop you as you march into the bedroom, slamming the door shut. You launch yourself into the bed. The safe haven once created by the memories of his body intertwined with yours is tainted by your tears soaking in the pillow.

He hurt you.

He had been hurting you—but, now—-he really hurt you.

You can’t tell what hurts worse. Your hand is limp with a sore pain as you feel a bruise start to swell, but your heart throbs achingly in your chest.

Cries and sobs left you dazed and falling into a sleep with one thought crossing your mind;

You can’t do this anymore. The thought of losing him hurt beyond belief, but this? This hurt so bad—and what if it just got worse?

Crusted tears in the corner of your eyes made Matt’s lip sting from his teeth digging into the soft flesh. He couldn’t let himself cry—-he didn’t deserve to cry. Everything had been so overwhelming, the world had felt like it had beaten him to the ground—-but, he had forced that pain onto you somehow. And that…that hurt worse than anything.

Looking at your soft and sad face, he held his breath. Air felt too refreshing. He couldn’t breathe knowing he might’ve just lost you—-he couldn’t even think of anything other than the fact that it was all his fault too.

He decides it’s time to wake you as he pets the side of your head, easing you awake. Your peaceful expression shifts as your eyes flutter open, peeling against the crusted skin which reminds you of the ache in your heart and your hand.

Matt’s stomach dropped watching your body repulse from his touch. His hand falls limply onto the mattress as you stare at him with sad eyes.

“What do you want, Matt.” you say with a blank tone.

Staring at the sheets of the bed where his hand lays barren from your skin, he shakes his head while shutting his eyes tightly.

Why couldn’t it all just be a bad dream?

“I…I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you—-”

“But you did.” you spit, hurt reeking from your shuttered voice.

Matt huffs, looking up at you with his head tilted.

“I know, I….I am so sorry, sweetheart.” He reaches out, clasping your uninjured hand in his. As he recoils from his touch, he clears his throat, trying to pull his attention away from his tearful eyes.

“You have to believe me. I never meant to hurt you at all. I see how awful…how awful I’ve been to you. You…” his eyes shift to your hand then back to your eyes. “---you don’t think I’d ever hurt you on purpose like that, do you? I swear—”

“I never thought you’d hurt me at all, Matt.”

His mouth parts as he freezes. Neither of you breathe, the air is too thick and the gravity seems to get heavier and heavier.

At all.

Those words ring in Matt’s head as his face shifts from saddened to fearful.

At all.

He was never supposed to hurt you at all.

But he had.

Your heart was wounded, your soul was damaged. On top of that, your hand was swollen and bruised from his actions—his doing.

“I…Fuck—I’m sorry, just give me a minute.”

Matt rushes out of the room. You stare blankly as he storms out, listening as you hear the front door shut.

He’s gone, but it didn’t feel much different than when he was here.

Clutching your hand further, you debate getting up to get ice. The thought fades as your body protests and sinks further into the bed.

You felt useless.

You felt defeated.

Matt wasn’t always the type to ask for help. Especially when he made a mistake—a dumb one at that.

You were aware of this. Surprise and shock had rushed through your depressed body as Chris walked into the bedroom with an ice pack.

He knew. Matt had told him everything. Chris had always had a gift for being able to comfort people through tough times. He had demonstrated this a multitude of times. Even when you had most recently struggled with a hard situation at work.

Matt wasn’t aware—or maybe he just didn’t care. It was about a month ago. On top of your depleting energy surrounding your boyfriend, HR had ignored you about a creepy coworker. Just like Matt—you felt as if you didn’t matter to anyone.

Nick was always good at distracting people to cheer them up, not so much sympathizing. Chris had no issue with this. In fact, he read you like a book. You had turned down his offer to play video games, something you always wanted to try and do to get better at playing with Matt.

He just knew.

He knew you weren’t okay and he knew how to help you. You needed someone to listen and he was there. You need someone to care—he was there. Chris had always felt like family to you and so had Nick, but something about his arms made you feel like a child again.

His arms replicated the same comfort you had gotten from your close family. No blood was shared between you and Chris, but something in your souls allowed your heart to be raw to him.

“Talk to me,” he said.

And you did. You told him about the past couple months as he held the ice pack to your hand, simultaneously holding the limb comfortingly as you choked up on endless tears.

Raw emotions crumbled into his lap. He clenched his jaw, failing at blinking back two drops puddling from his eyes.

He knew Matt too. He knew Matt didn’t ask for help. He knew that was why Mat had been so overcome by everything.

He knew that Matt was losing you. Selfishly, he worried about losing you too. But, his top concern made his heart pulsate painfully.

The thought of you and Matt breaking ties was heavy—especially for him.

He couldn’t fathom a lot of your relationship, but he knew it was true love. Something about your presence made Matt more himself—and as his brother, he would be heartbroken to see that disappear.

Chris noticed how Matt practically galloped on his own happiness if he was successful at making you laugh. The brother saw how his loved one felt completely at ease when you would run your fingers through Matt’s scalp. He had worshiped your relationship—promising himself to never settle for less than what you had shown him.

How was he supposed to believe in true love if this was it for you two? If it was over—what was the point? Why was love good if it hurt two of the people he most cared about?

He left the room with a heavy heart as Matt texted him he was ready to come in and talk with you.

He hoped it wasn’t the end.

He also prayed you didn’t hope it was the end too.

Stumbling into the room with a tight jaw, Matt sat on the edge of the bed with his hands in his lap. He tried looking over at you, but as his heart clenched—he just couldn't.

“I…I’m so sorry. There is no excuse, I can’t even—-” he swallows thickly as his stomach churns. “--can’t even begin to explain how sorry I am. You’ve deserved none of this. You…I haven’t been asking for help. I let everything pile up and I—I took it all out on you and I’m…fuck,” his eyes shift over to you. The pale overhead light shines on his glistening eyes as he blinks furiously. “I’m so sorry. I…”

His mouth falls open silently. Shifting his gaze back towards his lap, he huffs out. Your ears perk at the shakiness of his breath.

“Please. Please say something.” he pleads quietly.

Fighting back against your quivering lip, you twiddle your hands in your lap. You flinch as the bruise contracts sorely.

He hurt you.

He hurt you so bad.

Your mind and your heart bicker for your conscious thoughts, both failing as you puddle your thoughts into a jumbled mess.

“I don’t know what to say, Matt. You were never—-I never thought you’d be able to hurt me like this. I….it hurts so bad. I just—I can’t take this anymore. My body hurts, my heart hurts, everything hurts. I just….you can’t treat me like this.” you let out a shaky breath, inhaling sharply as you fight against the lurch of nausea in your throat.

Matt’s shoulder freeze. His whole body seems to stop any functions of living.

He never imagined losing you until he rushed out the door. But, even then—he couldn’t have even imagined the feeling ripping through his chest right now.

“I…I want to forgive you, I just can’t. Not—not now at least.” you say.

The ripping halts to a slow tear.

A glimpse of hope turns his head as he glues his eyes to your face.

“I…I hate myself for hurting you.” he says, breaking completely as a rush of tears fall down his face.

You go to reach forward, your heart lurching to comfort him. As your arms wrap around him, he goes stiff, letting out a loud trail of sobs. Each break in his cries leaves your heart wrenching as he sobs again after a harsh breath.

“I…don’t hug me, I don’t deserve it. Please, just—”

“I need this too, Matt. Please. I—I need this.” you express.

He turns towards you, enveloping his arms around your shoulders as his body racks against yours.

Hope is found through his cries. The distress melts with a challenge of reason.

He still cares.

“Please don’t hurt me again. I….I can’t, Matt.”

His sobs choke louder as he clutches onto you tighter.

“I’m—never. Fuck, never again, I’m so sorry. I—I’ll make it up to you the rest of my life—-I—I—” he stutters in his cries.

Tears soak into both of your clothing. Your body feels hot as you shove your face into the crook of his neck. However, you let a thin layer of sweat build on your forehead, unable to detach yourself from him.

He starts to calm down as your own tears roll to a stop. You’re both spent emotionally.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Never again—never.”

“I love you so much.”

His affirmations cure a soothing coolness of your burning heart wounds. Snot and mucus along with the worn clothes makes you shift uncomfortably.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, his hand delicately moving to clutch onto the back of your head.

“I…yeah. Just—feel gross.” you say.

Matt pulls away, wiping your tear stains away softly from under your eyes.

“Can I….can I run a bath for you?” he asks.

You nod, following as he grabs ahold of your hand and guides you to the bathroom. He drops your hand as he bends down the plug the tub and runs the water, grabbing it as soon as he stands back up.

“Bubbles? Salts? What sounds good, sweetheart?” he questions, knowing your typical use of bath products.

You shrug, unable to even think about the question. Matt tugs his lips to the side.

“Hold on, I’ll get everything ready, okay? Just give me your clothes and I’ll put them in the hamper.” he softly says, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

As he pulls away, you start to strip off the clothes on your body. You hear him shuffle around, seeing glimpses of him dumping products into the bath water. Shivering, you step closer to the bath steam.

“Candle okay?” he asks.

Nodding you watch as he lights the candle. The smoke aroma wanders to your nose as he sets it on the counter. He flicks off the light switch, allowing the flickering flame to dimly light up the room.

“It’s all ready, get in and I’ll throw your clothes in the hamper.” he says, collecting the pile of your worn outfit in his hands as he quickly walks out of the bathroom.

Stepping in, your skin immediately relaxes from the warm water. You rest your head on your propped up knees, letting your hands dance over the surface of the water and admire the bubbles.

It all smells so good—-it all feels so relaxing.

But, you can’t help but feel needy. You need the reassurance of his skin.

Matt walks back into the bathroom, frowning as he sees your pouted lips.

“What’s wrong, baby?�� he asks, walking over.

He sits on the edge of the tub and caresses his hand over your shoulder. You lean your head onto his hand, focusing on the warmth of his skin.

“Hey,” he soothes. “--talk to me.”

You look up at him with sad eyes. He tries to analyze your face for an explanation. Your lips and voice are unwilling as you try to think of any sort of words to express what you want.

Reaching out, you tug on his shirt. Matt follows the gesture, his eyebrows furrowing before he looks up at you with a plundering look.

“Do you want me to come in? Is that it?” he asks.

You nod. He pats over your hand. Standing up, he quickly strips off his clothes. He steps in the bath water behind you, lowering himself to sit with his legs caging around you.

“Ugh,” your mind finally silences from rushing thoughts as you lean against his chest.

“Better?” he questions.

Nodding your head and letting it fall to the side, you curl tighter against him as his lips litter soft kisses on your neck. His arms swarm around you, pulling you closer as he leans his chin to rest on your shoulder.

“I love you. I…I’m never letting anyone hurt you ever again—not even me.” he says sadly.

The claim eases your heart into a calm pace. Dull soreness of your hand and your chest fade from your mind as you listen to his delicate words.

“Never.” he repeats, leaning the side of his head further onto yours.

#retired roses #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #the sturniolo triplets #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo angst #sturniolo fluff #sturniolo imagine #⋅˚₊‧𐙚‧₊˚ ⋅ Rose Toy Old Works

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teddybeartoji · 1 year ago

Text

彡 LOVE BY THE OPEN WINDOW

☆. contains: toji fushiguro x gn!reader; established relationship, fluff, a bit bittersweet in the beginning... very sappy very cute, reader calls him "my baby" wc: 1.9k

toji doesn't understand why you love the rain so much.

he doesn't see the appeal. at all.

everything gets wet, gloomy and dark – he hates the way soaked clothes feel on his body; how heavy they are, how they cling to him. he hates the puddles, he hates having to go around them. and he hates when a car passing by splashes him. it's fucking ridiculous.

he doesn't understand why your eyes are glued to the street below as you sit by the open window. a brisk breeze cards your hair, cradles your jaw; he can see the goosebumps on your skin but you refuse to move. you're holding onto a cup of something (he knows it's tea) and he can see the warmth of it. he watches you raise the ceramic to your lips, he watches you swallow, he watches you take in the heat with a faint smile. droplets of rain litter your bare legs and arms and he thinks about chiding you about catching a cold... but he just can't seem to actually do it.

fresh out of the shower, he stands in the dim living room with a towel in his hand - the only light in the room is coming from the outside and it's not a lot. the sky is painted a hazy, pale gray shade; he can't even see the clouds the water is pouring from - everything above has mixed into one big melancholy blob. the rain thrashes so loudly that it muffles every other sound in the world. it's overwhelming. he hates it.

images of a kicked, sad dog sitting under a sky just like this flood his mind. licking his wounds as the water tried to wash him away; the drops felt like daggers, like sharp little blades, trailing all over his skin. the clothes on his back burned as the cold took over, nothing ever made sense to him. the dog hated how bright it was – why weren't the clouds darker, why wasn't it storming, why wasn't the weather worse? he wanted to hide in the shadows, hide from the stupid rain and the hurt and the shame, to hide from the light.

(memories, not images.)

"toji?"

warm, like the sun. another kind of light. your lips curl around the letters of his name like they're meant to do so and he doesn't know... he doesn't understand why. the rain – ever so gloomy and sad and cold and dark and irrelevant and upsetting and useless and—

"baby?"

a switch goes off in his head and the rain changes into a simple background noise. he hears you loud and clear.

an extended hand, reaching for his – you're as patient as ever, your hand doesn't shake as you wait for him. it never does. toji shakes his head to rid of the images because he wants to see you instead. you're here and that's all that matters. his shoulders relax and he let's out the breath he didn't even know he was holding. you're smiling. you're beautiful.

the background doesn't muddle in his eyes – it's you and the rain. coexisting; the flood won't wash you away like he fears and you won't make it disappear either. and that's okay. he watches you place down your mug and his heart does a little flip when you reach out to him with two arms now. your grin stretches wider, your shine – you want him there, no matter how unbelievable it sounds or seems.

throwing the towel over his shoulders, he sneaks forward. he's not as sour as he was mere seconds ago and you're glad. you've noticed that he doesn't like this type of weather and you understand why.

his mossy green eyes bore into yours as you dig your fingers into his still damp skin. he smells good, he feels anew. while he still feels quite warm from the shower, he sees more goosebumps raise from your skin and he's decided to try and lecture you now, he's gonna tease you about the dangerous breeze, the risk of getting sick. the corners of his scarred lips tug upward and—

"stupid, your hair is still wet. you're gonna catch a cold."

...

you're not really looking at him; fully focused on his unruly, wet strands of hair, eyebrows furrowed as you push them away from his eyes. your tone is caring, albeit a little teasing. he loves it.

he loves you.

he's about to bite back but you're just not letting have his moment today.

a surprisingly warm hand slithers up his chest and around his neck while another hold onto his soft cheek. an unstoppable object meets an immovable force. toji doesn't even have a chance.

you tug him down with the most gentle pull and before he can even question what you're doing – your lips press against his forehead. adoration blooms from the touch; it travels to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, his own lips, his neck, his chest, his lower stomach, the tips of his fingers, his thighs and knees, his fucking toes. it's everywhere. you are everywhere.

the loud "mwaaaaaaah!" that spills from you makes him chuckle; his chest rumbles with warmth and you take the moment to fully cradle his face in your hands. he leans into it, nuzzling into you like a big cat.

"my baby..."

toji hates how much he loves it when you call him that. him – a baby? how ridiculous, how childish, how foolish and naive; he is not a—

"myy baabyy..."

his insides fill with butterflies and his skin burns. the desire to pull away, to look away, to hide, is immense but your hold on him is stronger. he let's you tug him down a bit further, until his head bonks against his – you're looking at him from an incredibly silly angle and he's never felt more at home.

"'m a grown man, stop callin' me 'baby'." he grumbles. like a child.

"i can literally hear your heart racing right now, stop lying tough guy."

you know his act better than he'd ever like to admit. it's scary how clearly you see him. he really doesn't have a chance against you. you're something that grows between the cracks of concrete, slowly but surely growing your roots underneath before sprouting up and reaching for the sky. you hold him together.

in order to distract you from your unnervingly accurate comment, toji pinches your side before pulling you into his embrace. still sat on the windowsill, you let him snake his strong arms around you and wait for him to take his rightful place behind your back. he holds onto you as if you're about to slip away from him but you aren't. and you never will.

more droplets of rain fall onto your thighs and his arms and it feels refreshing. you feel him rest his heavy head on your shoulder and you know that this is the perfect time to introduce him to your favourite type of weather.

hand on top of his, you use the other to grab the lonely, almost forgotten cup of tea and bring it to your lips. it's still warm. after a quiet 'ahhh!', you raise it to his – he drinks it without a word. you know it's too sweet for him and you laugh when he doesn't say anything, just letting his eyes fall shut at the taste with a low grumble. your big baby.

the sound of the rain isn't as overwhelming anymore, it's not deafening. he feels you breathe and he feels the brisk air; the tiniest drops find his face with the help of the wind but they don't sting like they used to.

"look..."

toji gives you a 'hm?' before peeling open his eyes. he looks at you, only to find you staring at the street below again with a pretty smile. he follows your gaze and his hearts stammers. three kids, jumping around in a puddle, laughing so hard that they're almost crying – he didn't even hear them. they're wearing the most colorful clothes toji has ever seen in his whole entire life and they're laughing.

"so fucking cute."

you nuzzle your nose against his cheek while he's still looking at the kids splashing each other. "c'mon, when are we doing that, hm?"

the corners of his lips tug up despite his best efforts to stop them from doing so. he gives your body a aqueeze before murmuring. "y'really are something, huh..."

a toothy grin and another laugh – he doesn't know what he'd do without you.

toji lunges forward, pretending to bite your nose and he revels in the sounds that bubble from your throat. damp hair tickles your face as you try to push him off and the tea in your hand threatens to spill as you squirm in his hold, but he doesn't budge. he nips at your skin and he swallows your laughter like it's the last meal he'll ever have.

"y'wanna go and play in the rain?" kiss. "wanna play in the puddles?" kiss. "y'wanna catch a cold like those kids out there, hm?" kiss.

whatever thoughts plagued his mind before are long forgotten now. the memories are actively being replaced my newer, happier ones and he's glad to let the old ones go. he's fucking elated to do so.

with one final bite-kiss, he steadies his arms around you once more and let's you catch your breath.

"tell me more."

your eyebrows raise and you tear your eyes from the dancing trees outside. "about what?"

"what ya wanna do... why ya like the rain s'much..."

he's just a little hesitant to ask, though he himself isn't sure what he's so afraid of.

(he's scared he won't be able to give you what you want.)

"oh. hmm..." toji feels like a blanket around you and you can't help but melt into him as you answer his question. "i love the sound of it, i think it's very calming."

a hum.

"i love just watching it too, i love watching the puddles grow. i love to watch it soak everything."

another hum.

"i love the fact that it helps the flowers bloom, the grass and the trees. i like how it smells, during and after. i love how the sun peeks from the clouds when it's all done."

toji's eyes fall shut as he listens to your smooth voice. he pictures you instead of a weeping dog – he thinks about you sitting outside, in the rain. he knows you'd welcome it with a bright smile and open arms.

(like you welcome him.)

"i wanna feel it on my skin, and my hair. it's so refreshing. and i really do wanna play in the puddles, toji..."

he hears the pout in your voice and his insides feel warm. it's easy to forget about his past when he's with you; his every single thought involves you, they circle around you and he couldn't be more grateful.

"'n i wanna kiss in the rain. you know, like they do in the movies?"

his voice is smooth, comforting. he's not making fun of you, he's genuinely invested in your wish. "mm, yeah? wanna kiss like yer in a movie?"

"i do."

the rain. it pours and pours. the kids laugh and cheer. you sip on your tea and he hears you swallow. he feels your heartbeat.

"okay."

determination.

a promise.

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azen13 · 10 months ago

Text

CW: Yandere Themes, Kidnapping, Drugging

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Yandere!Alhaitham x Reader, but Reader had a former crush on Alhaitham in their Akademiya years.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

It's just a meeting. That's what you tell yourself, at least. Just a meeting between colleagues; just a meeting between what never was and what could have been; just a meeting between the sun and the moon, the sea and the stars.

That's all it is, but there's still a small, painful part of you that can't seem to stop ruminating on what might happen in the next hour. The still-searing brand of love that had been etched on your heart still aches. You hoped that this meeting would lay it to rest.

Knocking on the plain wooden door, his muffled voice responds a second later.

"Come in."

With one final moment to collect yourself, you push open the door. His office is unsurprisingly, very plain and orderly. There's a shelf of books behind him, a few manila files on his desk as well as a hefty stack of paperwork. Glancing over your shoulder, you spy a small ceramic pot resting on the windowsill, a single Sumeru Rose planted inside.

Its flourishing beauty makes you wilt. Years ago, when you were soon to embark to Fontaine to conduct some field research for your thesis, you had confessed to Alhaitham with a Sumeru Rose.

"Are you alright?" Alhaitham's voice snaps you back to the present.

You nod, shuffling over to the chair, its wooden legs scraping across the floor. You're so close to Alhaitham now, that you can see a stray hair on his shoulder. The sight of it makes you wonder what would happen if you were to pluck it off.

No, you remind yourself. You're not in love with him anymore, and he never loved you anyways.

If Alhaitham notices that your eyes are searing a hole into his shoulder, he doesn't say anything. "I'm assuming you understand why I asked to see you, correct?"

"The position of Acting Sage of Rtawahist, correct?"

The room feels humid, likely due to both your anxiety and the warm weather. Looking around, you notice two glasses and a pitcher of water resting off to the side of the desk. As Alhaitham lectures about the position, you reach for the pitcher and fill up a glass of water.

"...position will likely not be necessary after around two weeks," Alhaitham finishes, eyes still boring into yours. You take a sip of water.

It's bitter.

You can't help but furrow your eyebrows. Alhaitham picks up on your expression quickly. "The Akademiya has been testing out new water filtration methods. It produces cleaner water, though some say that it may taste slightly strange," he explains.

The two of you launch back into discussing the details of your new position, but as time begins to pass, you feel off. Not just the kind of off where you need a break, but the kind of off where you feel like you're about to pass out.

"A-ah...haitham," you slur. You don't feel any pain, just tingles running through your veins, spreading throughout your body before rendering your muscles limp.

The man stands up calmly and walks around the desk, supporting your shoulders. "You're okay, just breathe."

You try to, but find yourself unable to do anything.

Everything is blanketed in blackness soon after.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You wake up to the morning sun's long, lovely fingers caressing the curve of your jaw, as well as the sweet hymns of birds and the breeze echoing through trees. It's almost picturesque, really.

Everything feels so right, that for a moment, you're prepared to close your eyes and go back to bed. But then you notice the walls are a lighter green than your bedroom, the sheets you're curled up in are not your own, and the furniture arrangement is completely different from that of your home's.

Oh, and then there's the person sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the room, staring at you unblinkingly.

It takes a moment for you to realize that the figure is Alhaitham, whose analytical eyes are reading you like you're a textbook on some convoluted subject only smart alecks like him would bother to study.

The look in his eyes almost scares you for a moment. You try to move your arms to push yourself up, but find that your wrists have been bound together.

"Alhaitham, what are you doing?"

The man takes a moment to stand and walk towards your bedside, gaze focused and unreadable. "I'm correcting a grave mistake," he says, a hand reaching out to clasp yours, gently stroking your palm with his thumb. "I was foolish to reject your love, but now I understand. I want you."

His words nearly make you pass out again. "That's not how it works, Alhaitham," you protest, "I don't...I don't love you any-"

"Why did you hesitate?"

"Because I just woke up. I'm not exactly thinking straight."

"Or maybe it's because you know you're lying." Alhaitham's words are tinged with condescension, his stare cold and unyielding. "Given enough time, you'll learn to love me again," he says. His hand leaves yours and moves up to your face, brushing up against your jaw. His touch should be warm, but you only feel cold.

You glare. "I doubt it."

For a moment, the corners of Alhaitham's lips quirk up in a semi-smile. It amuses him that you think you have a choice—a chance, really. After all, nothing's coming to save you.

He's got all the time in the world to make you fall in love with him.

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m1stm3 · 6 months ago

Text

now playing…

stay soft by mitski

↺ |◁ II ▷| ♡

cw’s!!: some angst and fem! reader (reader is referred to as a woman and uses she/her pronouns) :]

wc: 916 (my longest posted yet!!!)

imagining shigaraki who announces to the league that he found a temporary place to stay a few weeks after the base gets destroyed, answering zero questions as to how exactly he found a place for a group of villains to stay after they had seemingly exhausted all of their options (“someone owed me a favor” was all he had said. none of them believed him).

they’re all confused when they arrive at a relatively residential neighborhood. they’re even more confused when their boss walks up to the front door of a random house as if he’s done it a thousand times before (he has. he’d always crawl back to this doorstep, always looking a little small and wounded).

and — not to be repetitive — but imagine their shock when the sweetest looking woman opens the door. you. you’re all smiles and sugar, giving their boss a wide smile before greeting the rest of them and inviting them inside. they’re practically gawking at the way you dote on them as if they’re normal houseguests and not a group of strangely dressed villains.

the blonde girl and the two men in masks are the only ones that introduce themselves (himiko, jin, and ‘compress’. you recognized them from tomuras previous explanations. he thought they were all pains in their own right, you couldn’t bring yourself to agree). the others stay close by tomura, allowing him to guide them through the new environment (as if they had much of a choice). he hadn’t said a word since the nice woman opened the door, even ignoring spinners insistent, whispered questions.

tomura suddenly stops, gesturing to three doors. “we’re taking up these two rooms, the garage, and the living room.” he points to the last door in the hallway. “that’s the bathroom. figure it out amongst yourselves.” he explained flatly, making his way back to the main area of the house with nothing else said. they were left with more questions than when they had initially gotten there.

their boss had settled into a couch by the time they wandered back into the main area, slouched against an armrest with that blank look he wore whenever he was lost in thought. you had taken to the more talkative three, smiling softly as you answered their questions while offering them mugs of something warm (you couldn’t help the softened look in your eyes when you saw the brief shock in their expressions at the gesture).

it was quiet for a while after that. peaceful, even… until you dropped a mug while trying to tidy up your kitchen. it had been a while since the league had seen their boss suddenly so alert, no hesitation in his movements when he briskly made his way into the kitchen. they had braced themselves to hear yelling or some form of harshness. anything to express his displeasure towards the sudden interruption to his thoughts. only, that’s not what happened. at all, actually.

you were a little more frantic, murmuring soft apologies while crouched down and picking up the larger shards of ceramic. only the three at the table could see what was going on, but the quiet way everything was handled was enough for everyone to connect some dots. tomura hadn’t said anything, simply moving down to your level to help you pick up the bigger shards.

when he finally spoke, it was like witnessing a different person. ‘soft’ was an adjective the league wasn’t familiar with. they didn’t have the privilege of really knowing what that word meant… they understood it better now though, with the way their boss was reassuring you in a quiet voice. his words were scolding as per usual, (even you weren’t immune to his small lectures urging you to ‘be more careful’) but he said them with a lightness none of them had heard before.

and then you touched him and suddenly they understood (those who witnessed it, of course). the contact was brief, just a small, grateful squeeze to his shoulder. something so easily overlooked by the general population… but they knew their boss well. they knew the weight of the small gesture. it was so painfully normal, he didn’t even blink an eye at the small touch.

the three at the table — who usually had had so much to say — could only spare each other small, knowing glances. the others that had settled on the couch still looked expectant, as if waiting for the storm that was soon to come pouring down (they could’ve waited years, it was never going to happen).

the league stood at your house for two weeks after that, the interactions between you and the members short but sweet. tomura had bunked in the garage, walking into the house throughout the night with the weak excuse of having to use the bathroom.

they decided not to call him out on his lie.

you remained kind even as they were leaving, wishing them well and softly urging them to stay safe. only himiko noticed the look you and tomura shared as he walked past you. a secret something she was sure only the two of you knew the meaning of. she found herself foolishly hoping that the pretty lady who had taken care of them would be okay.

you found yourself foolishly hoping to see them again (in another life, maybe. things would be better then.)

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morteraphan · 1 month ago

Note

Do you have any tips on how to design clothes and fashion? Or what references do you use? Everything you make is so personal and intricate and I love it, like it shows the personality of a character without even seeing the character!

Thank you! Uh, I'll try to give some tips but I'm not sure how helpful it will be!

I think references and your visual library are very important. My studies at the institute as a ceramics specialist helped me a lot with this, because we had 9 different historical disciplines (history of ceramics, history of costume, history of ornament, history of architecture, etc.). I myself very bad at history due to my memory, but these lectures taught me that inspiration can be drawn from anywhere. Usually my main references are historical costumes, decorative arts, street fashion (photos from internet or my own) and actually everything I see around me. And a combination of all this. Example: I can take the style of a shirt that I saw in the mall, add an ornament inspired by some 14th century vase, make the colors that I saw in the evening sky and add buttons inspired by random jewelry. I do the same with all my designs. Some come to mind by themselves (because the brain starts generating new ideas all the time), some designs require multiple revisions until I catch "that very feeling".

In general, my main advice - don't take only one source as a reference. If I see some beautiful outfit on Pinterest, even if I really like its combination of shapes and colors, I never copy it, because it's someone else's design. My task in design is to create something new, not to take someone else's. And of course, look for inspiration around you! I highly recommend looking for some books on ornaments or costumes that will inspire you personally. Unfortunately, there is so much AI crap on the internet now and finding good references is becoming increasingly difficult. :(

(Also this was an example of references/designs when I first started working on them as commissions)

(Or my majolica dragons. I know it's no fashion/clothes, but I think you got my point!)

#artists on tumblr #ask

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meadowfics · 25 days ago

Text

kang siblings

kang sae-byeok x kang dae-ho x kang no-eul x kang cheol

headcannons about these chaotic siblings <3

warnings: no traumatic squid games. one mention of parent death. the rest is fluff while trying to stick with the characters personalities

the kang household, a small house outside of busan in gyeongju, is full of clatter from the heavy ceramic dishes no-eul owns and the hum of evening life.

the small dining room was lit by a single overhead bulb casting a warm, golden glow over the table.

no-eul, the eldest sibling, stood at the stove, stirring a pot of kimchi jjigae with a practiced hand.

the woman's sharp eyes darted to the clock on the wall.

19:15 pm.

sae-byeok was late again.

no-eul sighed, her lips pressing into a thin line.

all of the responsibility weighed on her like a second skin. she keeps reminding her little sister about being on time for their weekly dinners, but it seemed like no use.

“cheol, sit up straight,” no-eul said, her voice firm but not unkind.

she glanced at her youngest brother, ten years old and squirming in his chair, his chopsticks dangling loosely in his small hand.

cheol’s dark hair fell into his eyes as he poked at the plate of banchan in front of him, clearly avoiding the steamed greens no-eul had piled onto his plate.

“why do i have to eat these?”

cheol whined, his voice soft but carrying that familiar stubborn streak that all the kang siblings shared.

it must be genetic.

the little boy pushed a piece of spinach around with his chopstick, his nose wrinkling.

“they taste like dirt.”

no-eul set the ladle down and turned, one hand on her hip. her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her expression was all business.

“because greens are good for you, cheol. they’ve got vitamins. you want to grow up strong for soccer, don’t you? you can’t score goals if you’re fainting from malnutrition.”

cheol pouted, his round cheeks puffing out, “i’m not gonna faint. i’m fine. i had kimbap at school.”

“kimbap isn’t enough,” no-eul shot back, her tone leaving no room for argument. she crossed her arms, leaning against the counter.

“you need vegetables to stay healthy. you want to be like dae-ho, all big and strong, right?”

at the mention of his name, dae-ho looked up from the other side of the table, where he was meticulously arranging his own plate. the man's broad shoulders hunched slightly. unfortunately it is a habit from his days in the marines, but his face softened into a goofy grin.

“hey, don’t drag me into this,” dae-ho said, his voice light despite the faint shadow in his eyes.

dae-ho was no-eul’s fraternal twin, younger by four hours...a fact she never let him forget.

the man's time in the military had left him with a muscular build and a lingering unease that sometimes crept into his silences, but he masked it with humor.

“cheol, just eat the greens, man. no-eul’s gonna lecture you all night if you don’t.”

cheol groaned dramatically, flopping back in his chair.

“you’re supposed to be on my side, hyung.”

“i am on your side,” dae-ho said, chuckling.

he reached over and ruffled cheol’s hair, earning a half-hearted swat from the boy.

“but no-eul’s scary when she’s right.... and she’s always right.”

no-eul rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smirk tugging at her lips. she turned back to the stove, ladling the jjigae into bowls. the savory aroma of fermented cabbage and pork filled the room, mingling with the scent of rice steaming in the cooker. it was a familiar routine, one that grounded her.

the oldest sister had always been the rock of the family, the one who made sure bills were paid, homework was done, and everyone was fed.

it wasn’t easy. especially with sae-byeok’s constant troublemaking, cheol's busy schedule with school and sports, and dae-ho’s mental struggles with ptsd, but she managed.

she always did.

out of no where, the front door slammed open with a noise that was louder than needed.

sae-byeok strode in, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder.

the younger woman was six years younger than her older twin siblings. the first thing everyone noticed about her was those angular cheekbones, her piercing eyes, and a scowl that seemed permanently etched into her face.

sae-byeok's dark hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling into her eyes as she kicked off her muddy boots.

“what’s for dinner?” she asked, her voice rough, like she’d just come from a fight.

knowing sae-byeok, she probably had.

“you’re late,” no-eul said without turning around, her tone clipped.

“again.”

sae-byeok shrugged, dropping into a chair with a careless grace.

“got held up. stuff to do.”

“stuff,” no-eul repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. she set a bowl of jjigae in front of sae-byeok, her eyes narrowing.

“what kind of stuff? you better not be stealing again.”

sae-byeok’s lips twitched into a smirk, but there was a defensive glint in her eyes.

“relax, unnie. i was just… handling stuff.”

“stuff,” no-eul muttered, shaking her head. she sat down at the table, her posture rigid.

“one of these days, sae-byeok, you’re gonna get beat up or jailed, and i’m not bailing you out.”

“you’d bail me out,” sae-byeok said confidently but calmly, grabbing her chopsticks.

“you love me too much.”

no-eul snorted but didn’t deny it.

she couldn’t.

for all her toughness, sae-byeok was still her sister, and no-eul would move mountains for any of them, even if it meant scolding them into oblivion first.

dae-ho, ever the peacemaker, leaned forward, his eyes bright with mischief.

“okay, okay, let’s not fight before we eat. sae-byeok, you gotta try no-eul’s jjigae. it’s, like, next-level today. i swear she put magic in it.”

“magic,” sae-byeok said dryly, but she took a spoonful, her expression softening slightly as the flavor hit her tongue, “not terrible.”

“not terrible?” no-eul said, raising an eyebrow, “i slaved over that stove for an hour.”

“yeah, and you’re gonna make us clean the dishes for it,” sae-byeok shot back, but there was a teasing edge to her voice now.

the tension eased, just a little, as the siblings settled into their usual rhythm.

cheol, still poking at his greens, looked up at sae-byeok with wide, curious eyes.

“noona, did you get in a fight again? your knuckles look red and the middle one is busted open.”

sae-byeok froze for a split second, her hand curling instinctively to hide the bruised knuckles.

the attempted at covering her knuckled with her jacket must've failed, since a blood stain now appears where her knuckle laid.

the third sibling leaned back, her tiny smirk returning.

“maybe. next time I'll show you how it happens.”

“sae-byeok,” no-eul snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the room, “don’t encourage him.”

“what? he asked,” sae-byeok said, raising her hands in mock surrender.

“besides, cheol’s tough. he can handle it. right, kid?”

cheol grinned, his chest puffing out a little, “yeah! i’m tough. i scored two goals at practice today.”

“two goals?” dae-ho said, his face lighting up. he reached over to high-five cheol, who slapped his hand enthusiastically.

“that’s my boy. you’re gonna be a pro someday and be like son heung-min, i swear.”

“if he eats his greens,” no-eul added pointedly, shooting cheol a look.

cheol groaned again, but he finally picked up a piece of spinach and popped it into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated disgust.

“happy now?” he mumbled.

“thrilled,” no-eul said, her voice dry but her eyes soft.

she reached over and squeezed cheol’s shoulder, a rare moment of affection that made him squirm but smile.

the meal continued, the table filled with the sounds of chopsticks clinking against bowls and the siblings’ banter.

dae-ho got the urge to tell a ridiculous story about a time he got lost on a training exercise in the marines, exaggerating wildly to make cheol laugh.

sae-byeok, listened quietly with her eyes flicking to her siblings with a protectiveness she’d never admit to.

no-eul kept the conversation on track, steering it away from sae-byeok’s “business” and toward safer topics, like cheol’s upcoming school project.

beneath the surface, there was a weight they all carried.

dae-ho’s laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes, and every so often, he’d pause, his gaze distant, like he was somewhere else entirely. no-eul noticed, she always did but she didn’t push.

not yet.

sae-byeok’s defiance was a shield, one she’d built over years of getting into trouble and clawing her way out after helping all of them deal with the death of their parents.

cheol, sweet and sensitive, was growing up too fast, caught in the orbit of his older siblings’ struggles.

“you okay, hyung?” cheol asked suddenly, his voice small.

he was looking at dae-ho, who had gone quiet, his spoon hovering over his bowl.

dae-ho blinked, then flashed a quick smile.

“yeah, buddy. just thinking about how i’m gonna beat you in that 1v1 this weekend.”

“you wish,” cheol said, his grin returning.

he scooted his chair a little closer to dae-ho, like he could sense the storm inside his brother.

no-eul watched the exchange, her heart tightening. she reached for her own bowl, her movements deliberate.

sae-byeok rolled her eyes, but she didn’t say anything to her brothers bickering.

instead, she reached over and stole a piece of kimchi from dae-ho’s plate, ignoring his protest.

“what? you weren’t eating it.”

“you’re the worst,” dae-ho said, but he was laughing now, the shadows in his eyes receding.

cheol laughed while taking a bite of pork off of dae-ho's plate too.

“eat your greens, cheol,” no-eul said one last time, her voice softer now.

cheol sighed but obeyed.

afterwards the family ate on, together.

masterlist

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