#I don’t want to lock my fics but I think I will

[twola]

The Fine Art of Riding

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

AN: This was from my call for ridiculous smuts - dearest @pinescent-and-gingerbread hit me with one I just had to do.

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The late afternoon sun drips through the canopy above, warm and golden, flickering across the trail ahead as Arthur guides his mare at a slow walk. You’re tucked up in front of him in the saddle, pressed snug against his chest, the back of your thighs straddling his hips. His arms are loosely looped around you, one hand lazily holding the reins, the other resting low on your belly.

“You’re wigglin’ awful much for a quiet ride,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

You shift deliberately. “Maybe your saddle’s just uncomfortable.”

He hums. “Ain’t the saddle that’s the problem—it’s what’s sittin’ in it.”

You grin, twisting a little in his arms. “So now I’m the problem?”

He chuckles dark and low. “You’re a whole damn mess. The kind a man’s lucky to drown in.”

The trail winds deeper into the trees, the shadows growing longer, and his hand doesn’t move from your belly. If anything, it starts to drift, fingers playing with the fabric of your skirt.

“You keep squirming like that,” he says, voice roughening, “and I’m liable to forget where we’re even goin’.”

“Maybe I want you to forget.”

His grip tightens for a heartbeat. Then his free hand leaves the reins and starts hiking the front of your skirt up. You gasp softly as the cool air hits your thighs, and Arthur doesn’t stop there—his hand slides down, slipping under the waistband of your drawers.

His fingers find you soaked, and he groans deep in his chest.

“Christ,” he mutters. “Sittin’ here all sweet and warm, actin’ like you didn’t want this.”

“I do want it,” you breathe, tilting your hips and leaning back on him to give him better access. “Don’t stop.”

Arthur obliges, thick fingers pushing inside you with a slow, practiced slide that makes your whole body jolt forward in the saddle. His other hand steadies you while the horse walks on, oblivious to the depravity happening on its back.

“You hear that?” he rasps, voice right against your ear. “That wet little sound you’re makin’? That’s all for me.”

You groan, hips moving now in a helpless rhythm with the horse’s stride. He matches it, pumping his fingers deeper, grinding his palm against your clit.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, kissing behind your ear. “Ruttin’ against my hand like you ain’t got a care in the goddamn world. Like you want me to ruin you right here.”

“Arthur—fuck—I’m close—”

“I know. I can feel it.” He thrusts his fingers harder. “You gonna come for me right here in the woods, in the saddle, soakin’ my hand like a needy little—”

A sudden snort breaks through the air.

Neither of you notices.

Not until the horse bucks.

The world turns upside down.

You’re weightless for a second, then you hit the dirt hard, your breath knocked clean out of you. Your skirt is tangled up around your hips, drawers twisted, and you lie there stunned, staring up at the sky, your body still burning and trembling with unfinished need.

A groan from the ground nearby. Arthur, flat on his back, curses under his breath.

“You alright?” he croaks, head turning toward you.

You glare at him. “No. I was about to come.”

He lets out a ragged laugh and winces, hand pressed to his side. “Shit. I think I broke my damn spine.”

You prop yourself up slowly, drawing your skirt down halfway, scowling. “Next time you decide to finger me in a moving saddle, maybe check the horse’s opinion first.”

Arthur is quiet for a beat, then mutters, “Think she was jealous.”

You throw a stick at him.

He groans again, then slowly drags himself up onto his hands and knees. But there’s a dark heat in his eyes now—his gaze locked on you, still flushed and messy and spread just enough to tempt him all over again.

“Can I finish the job?” he asks, voice low and rough, his hand moving to cup the thick bulge in his pants. “’Cause now I’m real uncomfortable right now.”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes. Now.”

You tug your drawers down your thighs and get up onto your hands and knees, arching your back, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Don’t make me wait this time.”

He growls like a man unhinged, fumbling with his belt. “Mouth on you,” he mutters, dragging his cock out—thick, hard, flushed red and already leaking. “You got no damn mercy.”

“You’re still talking,” you breathe. “That’s mercy.”

“Smart girl,” he rasps, grabbing your hips. “Let’s see how smart you sound in a minute.”

He thrusts into you with no warning, deep and hard, and you cry out, hands sinking into the dirt as he immediately sets a brutal rhythm. Every slap of his hips against your ass sends another shockwave through your overstimulated nerves, slick and messy where he drives into you.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” he pants. “So wet—you makin’ a mess all over me, you feel that?”

You nod, moaning uncontrollably now as you meet every thrust with frantic need.

He leans in over your back, breath hot on your neck. “You gonna come for me?”

You can barely get the word out. “Y-yes—Arthur—please—”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he snarls, one hand sliding under to work your clit again. “Soak me. Come all over my cock.”

And you do. You come hard and wet, your whole body spasming, sobbing out a curse as slick gushes around him, thighs trembling violently. You nearly collapse, only held up by the force of his grip.

Arthur grits out your name, thrusts turning sloppy. “Fuck—I wanna come inside you—fill you up…”

Your head spins from the sound of it. Dumb as it is, in your post-orgasm bliss, you want it. “Do it,” you whimper.

But at the last second, he pulls out with a guttural growl, stroking himself fast.

“Shit—fuck—” he chokes, and then you feel it—hot, thick ropes painting your ass and lower back as he spills himself all over you, chest heaving, voice breaking with your name.

He stays there for a long moment, hand still gripping your hip, the other steadying himself in the dirt.

Then he exhales, slow and ragged. He looks around briefly.

His mare is nowhere to be found. 

“…We are never ridin’ double again.”

[buckysprettybaby]

Hii! Can you please write a poly!mauraders × reader ff? 🫶💫

hello lovely!! thank you for your request! i wasn’t sure what direction you wanted me to take it because you didn’t ask for a plot/trope but i hope you like this <3

more than roommates

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: poly!marauders x fem!reader, platonic!lily x reader

word count: 1.4k words

warnings: roommates!au, mild language, miscommunication trope, reader is oblivious, use of pet names (dove, sunshine, love, darling), no use of y/n, idiots in love, roommates to lovers.

summary: you thought you were just roommates, but the marauders were convinced you were all dating, so what happens when they overhear you saying you’re single?

a/n: i originally was gonna write something different but decided to save that for another fic, wrote this on my phone so excuse any mistakes.

requests are open

You wake up to the smell of pancakes and James humming off-key in the kitchen. It’s not unusual.

Neither is finding Sirius in your bed because he “fell asleep watching that documentary you like.” Or the way Remus has already ironed your shirt for work and left a note on top of it — You have a meeting today. Don’t be late. x

They’ve been together for years — in that soft, easy way that doesn’t need explaining. Kisses in the hallway. Shared clothes. Warm limbs tangled on the sofa.

And somehow, you’ve ended up folded into the edges of all that softness. It’s like living with three boyfriends you don’t technically have. Which is fine. Really.

Except for the part where you’re completely in love with all of them. And you’re fairly certain they’re not in love with you… right?

You’re sitting by the fireplace later that afternoon, a warm mug cradled between your hands. Lily stops by for a quick chat, and somehow the conversation turns to relationships. “Oh, I’m still very single,” you say offhandedly.

Behind you, a glass shatters. The room goes dead quiet. You and Lily turn around. James is frozen mid-bend, hand halfway to the shards. Sirius looks like he’s just been hit by a Bludger. And Remus — Remus has gone completely still, his book forgotten, eyes locked on you.

You look at them in confusion. “Are you okay, Jamie?”

“I’m fine, angel,” he says, but it comes out strained.

Lily stands, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. “I think I’m going to head out,” she says with a knowing smirk. “Looks like you’ve got some things to talk about.”

The door clicks softly as Lily leaves and you all just stare at each other for a few minutes. Sirius breaks the silence. “Single, huh?” He tries to come across as lighthearted but there’s a bite to it.

The tension is thick, as Sirius stares at you. You laugh awkwardly. “What? I mean, yeah? I’m not seeing anyone.” But Sirius doesn’t smile. He just raises a brow.

“Could’ve fooled us, darling,” Remus murmurs. “Thought you were.”

Confusion lingers on your face, your eyebrows furrowing as you try make sense of his words. “What are you talking about Remus?” you ask, taking a step back.

“You really didn’t know?” This time James speaks, his voice soft as if not to startle you.

You blink. “Know what?”

The boys all look at each other, realising what’s going on. “Sunshine,” James asks, eyes searching, “what do we mean to you?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you hesitate. “You’re my friends, of course. We’re roommates.”

“Roommates?” Sirius scoffs, and he sounds almost offended by your words. “You can’t be serious, love.” But the look on your face tells him everything he needs to know.

“Oh shit,” he almost whispers. “You’re not joking.”

James steps closer, voice warm and sure.

“We’ve always thought of ourselves as your boyfriends, sunshine. Not just friends or roommates.”

“Boyfriends?” you half shout.

The look on your face is priceless, and if it were any other situation, James would’ve probably laughed. Instead, he just smiles softly, his eyes full of gentle patience.

“Well, yeah,” he says quietly. “We’ve been more than just friends for a long time. We thought you knew.”

“But you guys are already together,” you say, voice quieter now, confused. “I thought we were just friends.”

Remus steps closer, his expression soft but serious. “There’s nothing just friends about us, dove. I mean, come on — Sirius spends most nights in your bed, James cooks for you like it’s his love language, and I know your entire routine by heart.” He tilts his head. “That doesn’t exactly scream casual friendship, does it?”

You look at him, blinking. “I just thought you were being nice,” you mumble, a small huff escaping your lips.

Sirius lets out a sharp laugh. “Nice? I literally punched a guy for flirting with you, love.”

You blink at him. “Yeah, well… he was getting handsy anyway.”

Sirius grins, completely unbothered. “Exactly. And you think that was just me being friendly?”

You’re still trying to wrap your head around it — the teasing, the confessions, the way your whole world seems to have shifted in a matter of minutes.

Then James steps forward, slowly, giving you space to pull away — but you don’t.

His fingers brush yours, tentative at first, and then he gently laces them together.

“We didn’t mean to confuse you, sunshine,” he says softly. “We just… we already felt like yours. I guess we thought you felt like ours, too.”

“I didn’t know,” you say quietly.

James’s grip on your hand tightens, just slightly — grounding, not demanding.

“I know,” he says, just as softly. “But you do now.”

Behind him, Remus gives you a look that feels like warmth itself. “We’re not asking you to decide anything right this second,” he says. “We just… needed you to know.”

“I like you guys too,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I never said anything because I thought… you were already happy together.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not heavy — just full.

Then Remus moves first, stepping forward like the words physically pulled him closer. “We are happy,” he says gently. “But we’ve been happiest with you in it.”

Sirius huffs a soft laugh, something almost like relief in his eyes. “Bloody hell, we thought you were happy just keeping it how it was.”

James lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “We’ve all been in love with you, sunshine. Just waiting for you to catch up.”

“What happens now?” you ask, looking at them — still a little dazed, like you’re waiting to wake up.

Sirius grins, but there’s something softer behind it now. “Well, I guess I can finally do this.”

He steps in, gently tugging you away from James. One arm wraps around your waist, the other tilts your chin up with surprising care.

“Been dying to,” he murmurs, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your lips — slow, sure, and somehow both familiar and entirely new.

He gets carried away, the kiss deepening, his fingers curling in the fabric at your waist like he’s been waiting years for this.

You barely have time to catch your breath before James calls out, “Oi, save some for the rest of us!”

Sirius pulls back with a grin, his breath warm against your lips. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “Got a bit excited.”

James steps in, turning your head toward him, capturing your lips in a kiss. His lips are soft against yours, and they move in a way that’s different — reverent, like he’s trying to tell you something without words.

It’s gentle, but there’s passion beneath it, steady and warm like the sun after a long winter.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes search yours, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Told you we were yours, sunshine.”

Behind him, Remus chuckles softly. “You lot are going to smother her before I even get a turn.”

He holds his arms out for you, and this time, you don’t hesitate.

The moment you’re close enough, he pulls you into his chest, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

And just like that — like it was always meant to happen — the final piece clicks into place.

Just as you settle into the warmth of their arms, Sirius leans in close, his voice dropping into that low, teasing tone.

“Well, now that you’re officially ours,” he murmurs, a sly grin tugging at his lips, “I plan on making sure you never want to leave the bed again.”

You laugh, cheeks flushing, a spark lighting up your eyes.

James clears his throat loudly. “Sirius, could you not?”

Remus shoots him a sharp look. “Behave, Padfoot. She might not be ready for all that just yet.”

Sirius just smirks wider, eyes twinkling. “No promises, Moony.”

You bite your lip, trying to hide the smile tugging at your mouth, but Sirius’s words have already sent a flush creeping up your cheeks.

“I’ll… keep that in mind,” you say softly, leaning into the warmth surrounding you.

James chuckles, pulling you gently closer. “Don’t worry, sunshine — we’re all here. Together.”

Remus nods, his eyes full of quiet promise. And for the first time in a long while, you believe it.

please like, comment and reblog to let me know what you think ♡

© buckysprettybaby; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[camficdiner]

Hi Cam! Can I please order, [1.3] [2.17 Exes forced to share a hotel bed] [3.5] [4.2]? I’m so excited to see what you come up with! Many thanks 💗

☕️ Cams fic diner — order 076

🍒 thank you to the girlies who crave tension so thick you could slice it. exes. hate sex. soft hands after hard words. this one’s yours.

P.S this was the last request on my inbox, so submit more!!

love you, thanks

Cam's Fic Diner

💬 “Fuck You Means I Miss You” 

✨ description & prompts:

character: Luke hughes

prompt: you try to set him up with someone else, but it backfires you

type: jealousy, possessive smut! 

wc ~1.6

additional prompt: exes forced to share a hotel bed

✨🧁🍒🛼

You hadn’t seen Luke Hughes in five months.

Not since you walked out of his apartment, coat soaked in rain, mascara streaked, with his voice echoing down the hallway: “You don’t get to leave and act like it doesn’t fucking hurt.”

You hadn’t answered. You didn’t know how.

Now, five months later, you’re standing in a Bauer PR room in Chicago, smile frozen in place while some rep talks about unity and gender integration and how great it is for the sport to see the WNHL and NHL collaborate for this year’s ad campaign.

And you’re stuck doing it with Luke.

Your ex.

He walks in five minutes late, eyes flicking over the room until they land on you — sharp, unreadable, jaw tight. You feel it instantly. That low, aching pull in your gut. The one you swore you’d erased. He’s tanner now. A little bigger. Same stupid smirk when he finally walks over and mumbles, “Didn’t think you’d show.”

You don’t blink. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

Next to you, Sienna — your mutual friend, the one you invited to make it easier — coughs awkwardly. Luke shoots her a look, curious. Then amused.

“You brought her?” he mutters later, under his breath. “What are we, on Love Island now?”

“She’s a friend,” you snap. “And she’s single. You’re single. Just thought I’d…help.”

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Help? Yeah, right.”

⸻

The shoot is tense. You pose with the stick in hand, Luke passing you a puck. Your hands touch once — you jerk back. His eyes darken.

Sienna keeps trying to flirt. Luke keeps ignoring her.

And you… you keep checking your phone. Because Quinn texted you something earlier.

Quinn [17:42]

Miss you already. Hope you can still walk tomorrow 😉

It was a joke. Something dumb about the spin class you both took before the flight. But when Luke saw it?

He fucking snapped.

“Of course,” he mutters, grabbing your wrist after the shoot, dragging you into the hallway. “Of course you’re still fucking my brother.”

You freeze. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He shows you the text.

You groan. “He’s not flirting. We took a workout class. It’s a joke—”

“You think I’m an idiot?”

You wrench your arm free. “I think you’re a jealous asshole.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” he spits. “The girl who brought a puck bunny to set me up with, just so she didn’t have to deal with the fact she’s still in love with me.”

You slap him. Quietly. In the chest.

He doesn’t move. Just stares down at you with fire in his jaw.

⸻

The storm strands you there.

Flights cancelled. PR team panicking. Hotel overbooked. Only one room left.

Of course it’s yours.

Of course there’s only one bed.

You walk in first. Drop your bag. Breathe deep.

“I’ll take the floor,” you mumble.

But Luke? He just locks the door. Slowly. Loud enough that you turn to look.

And he’s already storming toward you.

“You know what pisses me off the most?” he says, voice low and raw. “You left me. You walked out without even looking back. And now you act like I’m the one who should’ve moved on? You don’t get to set me up with some girl who laughs like a dolphin and smells like glitter.”

You swallow. “Don’t do this.”

“You don’t get to do this,” he snarls. “I’m not Quinn. I don’t play nice. I want what’s mine.”

You back up until you hit the window. “I’m on my period.”

He stops. Looks at you. Breathes in.

Then says, low, hungry, “That doesn’t mean you can’t be used.”

⸻

His mouth is on yours before you can reply. Rough. Unapologetic. Tongue demanding entry. You moan into it, all teeth and want and months of denial cracking open.

His hands slide under your thighs and lift you like you weigh nothing. He lays you on the bed, rips your leggings down.

“You sure?” he mutters, voice trembling. “Tell me now.”

You nod. “Yes. Please, yes.”

He groans. Digs his face into your neck. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You guide his hand between your legs. “Here,” you whisper, breath hitching. “Just fingers.”

He slips two in with ease, thumb circling your clit. “So wet already,” he mutters. “God, I fucking missed this.”

You pant, arching. “Luke…”

But he pulls back.

“Turn over,” he says. “On your knees.”

You blink.

“Please,” he adds, voice cracked. “I just… I need to feel you. I need to ruin you again.”

You do. Slowly. Nervously.

And when his spit-slick finger presses behind you — careful, patient — your gasp echoes across the room.

“I’ve got you,” he promises. “You’re mine. No one else has ever touched you here. Right?”

You shake your head. “No. Only you.”

He groans. Loud. “Fuck.”

He opens you up slow, inch by inch, before guiding himself in — careful at first, then deeper.

“Too much?” he asks, teeth gritted.

“No,” you moan. “More.”

He pounds into you, hands tight on your hips, your name falling from his lips like a prayer and a curse.

“Mine,” he growls. “You’re fucking mine.”

⸻

You lie there, trembling, legs tangled with his, heart pounding.

Luke strokes your back, kisses your shoulder.

“I never wanted anyone else,” he whispers. “Even when you left.”

You blink at the ceiling.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you,” you admit, quietly. “I left because I was scared.”

He pulls you tighter. “Then don’t be scared anymore.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his.

[fru1t4fr0gs]

You and Me - Chapter 10

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You disappeared weeks ago, vanishing off the grid and from his life like a ghost. While giving you space has been torture, Bucky has somehow been able to manage it. When you’re finally reunited, the tension might be enough to break you both.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: PTSD, Mention of nightmares, Swearing, Trauma, Implied Sex, Mention of pregnancy (just a brief misunderstanding), Alcohol consumption, Bucky is down bad, Pining, So much pining, Angst, Reader is Tony Stark's kid but a fully grown adult (we are in charge of the timelines), Tension, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author’s Note: We've finally reached FATWS territory! I figured, to celebrate, I would try out a little dual POV so we can get inside of Bucky’s head. And hoo boy, call this man a tree because Bucky Barnes sure can pine. As always, thank you guys so much for all of your love for this fic! Feedback is always super appreciated!

-

Bucky Barnes sits across from his therapist, and he lies about having nightmares. Again.

He thinks he might be able to handle them better if he hadn’t become so used to you. You, always right there when he jolted awake, soft and warm and comforting, reminding him who he is. He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore. He’s Bucky. He’s loved. And not just by anyone, but by you.

The first time you woke him from a nightmare was years ago, in Romania, but he still remembers it like it was just last night. When he would otherwise have shot upward and sat in the dark for hours, trying to pull himself back to reality, he was instead met with a warm hand on his arm. Gentle. Kind.

And then he’d looked up, shocked and feeling like some kind of wounded animal. At that point, he basically had been.

Your eyes, in that moment, were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. They reflected the moonlight spilling in through the window, shining with concern and understanding in a way that made him ache.

“Hey, Bucky.” You’d said. And you’d used his name. Not Soldat. Not Winter Soldier. He was Bucky, and you were looking at him with such steadiness and kindness that he wondered how he could have ever doubted who he was. His name sounded so good coming from your lips that he nearly asked you to say it again.

“You wanna talk about it?” You’d asked. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just offering.

He shook his head, unable to fathom the idea of ruining this perfect moment with such darkness.

You nodded, understanding, and he never wanted you to stop looking at him. There was no disgust. No fear. Hell, there wasn’t even pity. For the first time in decades, he didn’t feel like a machine. He felt like a person. Like a man.

You didn’t know it, but from that moment on, if you had climbed up to the roof of the building and asked him to jump, he would have done it with a smile on his face.

Now, with you gone, he sleeps on the floor again, unable to stand lying on a bed without you in it.

And when he wakes, the nightmare continues in a different form, because he wakes to emptiness. Absence.

Dr. Raynor is saying something, and his ears finally lock onto her words when he realizes that she’s talking about you.

“You’ve been doing worse. The nightmares have clearly been worse. You haven’t brought her up in our last five sessions. So, James, I’m going to ask again. And answer me honestly.”

He nearly groans with irritation, already knowing where this is going.

“Where is your wife?”

Bucky hesitates before he answers, the words struggling to find their way past his lips.

“…I don’t know.”

-

“I mean, I just don’t know what I’m doing, Alan.” You pace the room, so restless you might just start wringing your hands. “It’s not that I don’t love him. God, I do. I still do. So, so much, you know? But then he died, kind of, right in front of me. He disintegrated. And then my dad died, and Nat died, and then Steve died. And I was supposed to be part of Stark Industries and help Pepper run it but I can’t do that. I just can’t. I don’t know what I’m doing. I barely knew what I was doing before. I don’t have the- hey! Are you even listening to me? Isn’t the point of this whole thing to try to get me to talk?!”

The officer on the other end of the interrogation table looks like you just tased him awake. You glare. He stutters, nervous, and he looks young and scrawny enough that you’re pretty sure he must be brand-spanking-new to this job.

“You, uh, have the right to remain silent-“ he starts, and you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

“You already did that part. Come on, man.” You sigh, run a hand through your hair, and drop your shoulders in defeat. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. You were arrested countless times when you were younger, mostly for stealing parts or making and selling some kind of illegal tech. You’ve never rambled about your problems to an officer in an interrogation room. You’ve always had a little more swagger than that.

Then again, you haven’t had a lot of human interaction in the past few weeks.

“Look, dude. I get it. You’re new. Just tell me when Sam is gonna get here so I can get out of this room. Not that you’re not great company, but I’ve got a lecture waiting for me that I’d like to just get over with.”

“S-Sam?” The kid asks, looking down at the paperwork in front of him.

“Yeah, Sam Wilson. Government employee and all that. Hero Avenger. Kind of a prick, but in a lovable way. I told you guys to call him when you took me in.”

The kid goes pale, re-reading the name on the paper. “I, um… we called next of kin. It’s usually protocol to-“

“I don’t have a next of kin.” You snap, automatic. You swear you used to be more patient. A little nicer. But you don’t exactly love the reminder that you’re an orphan now with no family. Yeah, there’s Pepper and Morgan, but Pepper isn’t your biological family and Morgan is five years old. You can’t imagine either of their names would be on that sheet.

“Well, not in the…biological sense, but when it comes to that we call the…”

“Oh Alan,” you say, already knowing where this is going. “you didn’t.”

“The…spouse.” He says it like a wince. You stare at him in what might just be a good impression of the spouse in question.

He just keeps going, but he doesn’t have to. You can already feel the featherlight touch of a familiar gaze on your back. “Your, uh…husband? Mr. Barnes?”

“Alan,” you say again, “I thought we were friends, man.”

“I don’t…uh. I don’t know you.” He says helplessly, but you’re already ignoring him and turning around.

And there he is, leaning against the doorframe and looking right at you.

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Your heart does a somersault at the mere sight of him. Leather jacket and gloves, burning blue eyes. Fuck, you missed him. You missed him every minute of every day.

You clear your throat, bravado leaving you like a balloon deflating under his gaze.

“Hey, honey.” You say, trying for casual but just sounding painfully awkward.

He’s doing the staring thing. You can feel poor Alan shrink down in his seat like the two of you just opened fire on each other right there in the interrogation room.

“Would you look less angry if I told you this isn’t the worst thing I’ve been arrested for?”

“No.” He says, simply, low voice sounding very loud in the small room. You missed his voice. You feel an embarrassingly overwhelming urge to run into his arms like this is some sort of cheesy movie. You know he would hold you if you did. His arms would wrap around you immediately, pull you close, and you would hear him murmur that he loves you into your hair, in that deep and wonderful voice you haven’t heard in too long.

You don’t move. You can’t.

You just leave with him, fixing Alan with a glare on the way out of the room that has him cringing back in his seat even more.

-

You look terrible. 

He’s seen you try to function on no sleep before, when the bags under your eyes darken and you get grumpy in the way he’s always found so oddly charming. He can usually fix it, whether it’s gently asking you to come home or physically carrying you out of your lab in what you’ve dubbed his ‘King King impression’. He even stopped one of your furious, hyperactive rants once with a simple smile and a kiss to your nose. Your arms had fallen back to your sides, no longer gesturing frantically, and you had stopped pacing to just thunk your head onto his shoulder.

Now, his fingers twitch at his side to do the same thing. He wants to fix it now. Like he used to. Like you used to let him.

But you left. You disappeared. You pulled back, and you’re finally right beside him but he’s terrified that if he tries to reach out to you, you might vanish again.

The bags under your eyes are deeper than he’s ever seen them. You’ve lost weight, like you haven’t been thinking to eat.

The urge to protect you, to fix it, runs through him like a chill down his spine.

Despite it all, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s still surprised by that sometimes, how he can look at you after all this time and be absolutely floored by the fact that you, of all people, can love him. You found him in Romania, that broken war machine holed up and hiding from the world, and you brought back everything he was before. You brought back Bucky, without even trying. Not even that, but you made him a better version of himself. You still do, every day. Even when you’re not there, he can feel your presence like a phantom limb. The past few weeks, he’s caught himself talking to you like you might be behind him, only to turn around to find an empty kitchen. Empty bedroom. Emptiness.

Now that you’re here, even just walking silently beside him, he feels like a part of himself has been reattached. Like he’s finally whole again.

You’re the one who breaks the silence.

“You’ve been using my tech.”

Of course you would know. He never expected anything less. Even so, he feels a thrum of happiness and relief shoot through him at the revelation that you’ve been keeping tabs on him, even while you were hidden away God knows where.

“I have.” He says, glancing over to you. Casually, like he has a thousand times before, his hand moves to your waist, and he guides you so that you’re walking on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the street. That’s another thing that still surprises him - that, whenever he touches you, he feels something like a little bolt of electricity shoot through him. As you grumble something about him being old fashioned, he has to stop himself from reaching out just to touch you again. “I’ve been crossing names off of my list.”

“Oh? How’s that going?”

Memories of knocking a man out cold, of using your device to whip a car around a parking garage, run through his mind faster than a blink. You’re trying for a casual conversation. Avoiding the elephant in the room. If it keeps you here, he can try too.

“You know. Nothing illegal, no one gets hurt.”

“Liar.” You say it affectionately, and his heart skips a beat. What would you do, if he pulled you into that alley over there and kissed you until you were breathless, like he’s been thinking about doing since he saw you in that interrogation room? Would you melt against him, pull him closer? Would you come home with him, and let him show you just how much he’s missed you?

He has to shove his hands into his pockets to keep from doing it. He thinks you might sense his thoughts, too. Whether it’s from the heightened instincts the serum gave you or just the fact that you just know him well enough to read his mind, he doesn’t know. Your cheeks turn a light shade of pink, and you look away. And then he’s really fighting not to do it.

“Bold words from someone I just picked up from jail.” He says, grateful that his voice doesn’t sound as strained as he feels.

Your eyes narrow, and you fix him with a glare that just might intimidate anyone else. He has to bite back his smile.

“I thought that company might be part of a smuggling ring, okay? I just needed to confirm if I was right.”

“Were you?”

“…No. But they did have a much better security system than I expected them to.”

“You need to sleep, doll.”

“I sleep fine.”

“You’re not sleeping.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m sleeping like a damn baby.”

He can’t do it anymore. He can’t do the casual quips. The light jokes. Not when you’re so clearly hurting and refusing to let him help you. His metal arm wraps around your waist, and in one swift movement that lifts you easily off of your feet, he does pull you into the alley.

-

Your body has been humming with energy since the second his eyes fell on you at the precinct. This is not helping.

He’s so close. His blue eyes burn as they look down into yours. You feel that energy crackling between you like an electric current beneath your skin.

“Stop. Stop this.” His voice is low. Firm. Raw with emotion and concern. His face is so close that you can feel his breath against your lips when he speaks. Pine and leather and gunpowder overwhelm your senses and you think you might get weak in the knees like some sort of old-timey damsel. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not taking care of yourself. You left.” You feel his arm twitch around your middle, like he’s fighting the urge to pull you even closer. His voice is more quiet when he speaks again, vulnerability creeping into his tone. “Why did you leave?”

You don’t know what to say. How to say it. He’s too close to think clearly.

“I-“

You sense it first. Your head whips to the side, and you blink the fog away as a familiar voice calls out to you.

“You two. Barneses! Make this man stop throwing his trash into my cans!”

Bucky lets you go, and you have to hold back an embarrassing whimper at the loss of contact.

“We’re not done here.” He says, before turning to diffuse the situation.

-

As Bucky speaks to the man with the trash, Yori focuses his attention on you.

“Haven’t seen you for lunch in a long time.” His tone is accusatory.

“I’ve been…working.”

“You don’t look good. You look tired.”

“Thanks, Yori.”

“You need food.”

You bite back a groan. “I’m fine. I don’t need food.”

“He needs food, then.” Yori says, firmly, gesturing to Bucky. “I need food. I’m hungry. Take the old men to dinner.”

You look at Bucky, who seems to have finished his interaction with Trash Guy. You’re about to lie, make up an excuse and scurry back to your lab to try to lose yourself in another project and forget all about today. But…

Fuck. Bucky. His eyes. They’re open, hopeful, looking at you like he would burn the city to the ground if it meant you would just get a meal with him and your sweet old neighbor like you used to.

“Okay, fine. Dinner. Then I have to get back.” You say with a sigh, already beginning to make your way towards the restaurant near your apartment building.

You sense Bucky’s smile behind you.

-

-

“No one lived past ninety.” Yori says, pushing a newspaper into yours and Bucky’s faces to show you the obituaries.

As much as you’re still trying to bolt out the door, this feels…normal. Nice. Familiar. It’s easy to fall back into old habits, leaning into Bucky in the crowded little restaurant, ordering the same thing at the counter that you always do, cracking jokes with the two of them about their shared ‘grumpy old man’ personality.

“So young. Such a shame.” Bucky says around a mouthful of food, and you snort with laughter that you can’t manage to hold back.

“I think you look great for your old age, Sarge. Not a day over eighty.” You tell him, and he looks at you with amusement sparkling in his gaze.

You look away, unable to meet that look. There’s so much love there. Not just from him, but bubbling up in your own heart like it might overflow and drown you.

“Lots of tension between you two, tonight.” Yori says, blunt as ever. “And I haven’t seen you in a while.” He looks at you with prying eyes. “Are you pregnant?”

You choke on your water.

Hard enough, in fact, that Bucky shoots to his feet and puts his hand on your back, like he’s preparing to give you the fucking Heimlich.

You try to wave him off, eyes watering, but he doesn’t move. Protective as ever.

“You are, aren’t you?” Yori says, enthusiastically patting your shoulder. “Congratulations. It’s about time. You two are crazy. A little one might calm you down.” He looks at you, and you’re too busy trying to catch your breath to cut him off. “Makes sense why you look like you haven’t slept in so long, too. Babies take a lot out of you. I remember when my wife-“

“Three orders of sake, please.” You half shout over the counter, voice sounding a little too high pitched to be anything less than embarrassing. You feel Bucky’s eyes on you, that gentle touch of his gaze feeling like a full-on tug in his direction, and you finally turn to face him.

“Nope. Not pregnant.” You say, unable to look him in the eye as you turn back to grab the drinks.

When you hand Yori his shot, he looks disappointed.

When you turn to hand Bucky his, you could swear that he does too.

And that look makes you take your shot a whole lot faster. Makes you order more.

And then more.

Yori eventually goes home, patting both of you on the back and making a comment about marital relations that you choose to ignore, and then it’s just you and Bucky.

He sits beside you, silently, patiently. You feel the alcohol begin to cloud your mind. You order another round.

-

You’re drunk.

He feels like a complete jackass for letting you get drunk. For watching it happen. For matching you, shot for shot, and being so distracted by the fact that you’re here sitting in front of him again that he completely forgot that, unlike him, you can get drunk.

But every time you ordered another sake, eyes challenging as you handed one to him, he took it with you. Because you were talking to him again. Not about anything serious, not explaining exactly where you’ve been or why you left like you did, but just talking. Like you used to. You tell him about your plans for a new robot, about a weird looking pigeon you saw on the sidewalk the other day, about a smoothie place that sells what you swear is the absolute worst smoothie in New York.

He feels bad for not listening more intently, but he’s too enraptured by you. By the way you gesture with your hands as you speak, by the animation in your eyes. Shit, he even missed the cadence of your voice. He wants to bottle this moment and hold it close to his chest. To look at you for hours.

No, what he wants is to take you home, back to your shared apartment, and trace every inch of your body with his hands and his lips and his teeth until you promise to never disappear again-

“And that’s why I think I should just keep doing crystal meth, you know? It wasn’t so bad when I tried it, and it helps me get a lot of work done.”

He blinks, your words whipping him out of his thoughts, and stares at you now with wide eyes.

“I knew it.” You say proudly, grinning. “You’re not listening. You’re doing the thinking-staring thing, not the listening-staring thing.”

You’re clearly expecting him to smile. He doesn’t. He just looks at you, and the longing he feels must be reflected in his expression because the proud grin falls from your lips and you turn away, clearing your throat and taking another shot. You reach over and take his too, and the moment slips through his fingers.

-

When you step outside, you stumble. You didn’t realize how much you drank until you actually stood up, and you suddenly find yourself trying to blink the dizziness from your vision as the cool air hits your face.

“Shit.” You grumble, frustrated by your sudden lack of clarity, before you feel an arm wrap around your waist.

“C’mon, doll.” You hear, and you instinctively relax. “Let’s get you home.”

Home. Home sounds nice. You don’t really have the words to explain to him that home is the man standing beside you, helping to guide you down the street back to the apartment.

“M’tired.” You finally admit as he opens the door to the building. Despite what you’ve been saying, you really haven’t been sleeping.

“I know.” His voice is so gentle. So warm.

You almost trip on the first step, and in less than a second you’re being lifted into the air. Bucky lifts you with one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, and you don’t have the wherewithal to argue. Your own arm slides around his neck, holding yourself close to him as he ascends the few floors to the apartment you haven’t entered in weeks.

He sets you down once you reach your room, and you let him help you into a pair of his sweatpants and one of his t-shirts before you collapse into bed.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you register that the bed doesn’t feel like it’s been slept in.

But then you feel a familiar weight slide onto the mattress beside you, and a vibranium arm reaches out to tuck you under the covers.

You roll over, twisting your head on the pillow to look at him. And he’s looking right back at you with those lovely blue eyes.

Home.

-

Bucky would do anything, break anything, kill anything in the world to kiss you right now.

But he can see the haziness in your eyes. The exhaustion. And you’re finally back. You’re home, and you’re looking at him in that way you have that makes him feel so unbelievably warm. It took so long for him to believe he might, just maybe, deserve that look.

“You’re doing the staring thing.” You murmur, sleepy and just a little bit slurred.

He can’t help it. His hand reaches up to cradle your cheek. He’s gentle. Careful. That distant part of him is still terrified that he might break you. He spent so long fighting, killing, causing pain. And you are just too precious to hurt.

You turn your face into his hand. Kiss his palm. But it’s what you whisper next that makes his heart ache.

“I love the way you look at me.”

He has to grit his teeth to keep tears from pricking at his eyes. He gives in, then, just a little, moving his hand from your face and wrapping it around you to pull you closer. He tucks you into his chest, and the feeling of your sigh - like you’re relieved by it - makes him hold you tighter.

“You and me.” He whispers into your hair, the words a quiet plea as he listens to your breathing, cherishing every moment he gets to hold you close to him again.

“You and me.” You whisper back.

He falls asleep to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.

He doesn’t dream.

And, when he wakes, you’re gone again.

Previous Chapter

Taglist: @vicmc624, @saucysasha2035, @iyskgd, @intothesoul, @capswife, @otterlycanadian, @phoenix666stuff

[owletstarlet]

tsubaki

Tsubaki: (1) camellia japonica. In confucian tradition, a symbol of devotion and loyalty. In Japanese tradition, a symbol of courage. (2) a bestselling budget haircare line.

[@natsumeweek Day 2-- Domesticity/mending. Vague spoilers for special 23, about tanumom. Not at all necessary to have read for this fic, but I recommend the wonderful @fuanteinasekai's script translation.]

Ao3 Link

Figures, Takashi thinks, mouth twisting, as his fingers catch once more in his own damp hair. He hadn’t thought to check, when he’d slumped against that tree at the little park near the school, the plum tree that had bloomed brilliant red back in February but now made for a cool and leafy place to doze off.

And sticky, apparently.

He’s still tugging at it, absently, as he makes his way back to Tanuma’s room. Tanuma’s in his pajamas already, dark green and slightly threadbare, cross-legged on the bed and squinting down at his phone over the glasses he never wears out of the house. His mouth is taut, and he’s got the phone held sideways in his hands.

“Are you practicing?” Takashi asks, and Tanuma looks up. He smiles faintly, shrugs, and pats the sheets beside him.

“That’s one word for it,” he says, as Takashi drops down onto the bed, their shoulders brushing as Tanuma tilts the phone so he can see. “It keeps opening some selection screen when I try to attack, and when I do manage it I guess I’m not fast enough?” He hums, tapping a menu option. “I think some spells are meant to be quicker to use than others, but…” A bemused smile. “Not sure I’m much use as, ah. What was it?”

“Guild member?” Takashi prompts, honestly surprising himself that he even remembers that much when he’d dropped his phone on his face nodding off.

“Right, that.” He taps another few buttons before his character screen pops up. “I know Nishimura said this looks fine as is for now until I’ve practiced more, but. Even if the character’s meant to mostly be casting spells, shouldn’t he be wearing more than just his regular clothing? I keep dying. Um, really fast. But I guess all the actual armor’s locked.” A little divot forms between his brows. “Not sure how you’re meant to level up in the first place if you can’t protect yourself, but…” he trails off, letting his phone rest between cradled fingers.

“I don’t think I remember how it works either, but we can practice together tomorrow if you want,” Takashi says, the words catching on the edge of a yawn. Tanuma glances down at him, then drops his phone on his knee, scooting closer so he can drop his cheek down onto the top of Takashi’s head. There’s a fluttering in his chest, restless but soft like gossamer moths’ wings behind his ribs, and it’s not so bad. Just, new. Still new. He feels himself smile, even as he says, “My hair’s not dry yet.”

He feels Tanuma’s shrug. “Mine isn’t either.”

“Ah, wait—“ Takashi reaches up, plucking slightly at the matted bits. They’re more on the left side, not near Tanuma’s face, or the parts where their hair overlaps slightly, but it’s enough to make him fidget. Tanuma shifts beside him.

“What’s the matter?” He frowns, taking in Takashi’s hand hovering near his head. “Headache? I know you had a long day—“

“No,” Takashi’s quick to reassure him, but not relishing the idea of offering the required explanation just yet, either. “The bath helped a lot. I’m not all that sore anywhere.”

“Good,” Tanuma says, and he seems to mean it. But he’s also watching Takashi’s face, waiting. Quietly, with no presumption, and Takashi knows Tanuma would drop it completely if he asked. That knowledge alone has Takashi willing to bite the bullet.

It doesn’t mean he can stop the heat that creeps its way into his cheeks when he mutters, “There’s sap in my hair.”

To Tanuma’s credit, he does sort of smush his lips together to try and mitigate the amusement on his face, but his eyes crinkle around the edges when he asks, “How?”

“The plum tree. At the park.” Takashi sighs. “I didn’t think to check. It didn’t wash out.”

“Can I see?” Tanuma turns to face him fully. “I didn’t notice before, so maybe it’s not so bad?”

Takashi gives the offending chunk of hair one last dubious tug before obliging and turning his head. “Hope so.”

Tanuma hums, plucking up the snarled mess and turning it in his fingers. “It’s a…bit bad,” he concedes, after a moment.

Takashi feels the involuntary slump of the shoulders but keeps his voice light as possible when he says, “It’s fine. I’ll just cut it out if I need to.”

Small mercy that Sensei’s not present for this conversation. The temple, he’d long since pointed out, is arguably a safer place for Takashi to be staying the night than his own bedroom, so he has very few qualms about taking off for evenings of inebriated revelry before coming back to hog Tanuma’s bed in the wee hours.

“You don’t need to—” Tanuma starts, then chews his lip a bit as he gives the strands another critical tug. “I mean, let’s see what we can do first. I have something that may help.” He untangles his fingers, gently, and as he starts to stand Takashi feels the loss of warmth alongside the barest of tugs behind his own sternum.

“Did you use conditioner?” Tanuma’s asking now, turned towards the bedroom door.

“A little.” Takashi hadn’t even known to use it, back when Touko-san had first started buying it for him. After she’d shown him how, he’d discovered that a small amount was more than sufficient to get his hair reasonably brushable, and the type currently sitting on the edge of Tanuma’s bathtub has an even richer consistency. But he likes the smell, something adjacent to tart candies, to Tanuma’s pillowcase.

“You can use more if this doesn’t work,” he calls over his shoulder, then ducks out of the room.

Takashi leans forward, elbows on his knees. Everything aches less out of the shower, but all his limbs feel leaden, the core of him soft and yielding as wagashi. It’d been an assessment day for his class in PE, and though he hadn’t embarrassed himself quite so thoroughly as he’d anticipated—Nishimura had loudly bemoaned his own dismal scores in the sprint and distance run categories, and had been just as loudly delighted to learn Takashi had ranked decently, slightly above the class average. They’d both dragged their feet and just barely navigated the rest of their classes in some kind of aching fugue state. But one school bell and two cans of terrible coffee later Nishimura had been the one practically dragging Takashi along by the arm to the park, singlemindedly dedicated to recruiting him, Tanuma and Taki into his and Kitamoto’s current favorite game’s guild. Takashi wishes he’d had it in him to pay better attention; though Nishimura’s been going on about it for the better part of a week at lunch, without looking at his phone Takashi can’t even remember the title of the game.

Tanuma re-emerges with a squat plastic bottle that fits neatly in his palm, a towel slung over his arm and a thin folding comb tucked between his fingers. He returns Takashi’s weary smile with a small one of his own.

“It’s hair oil,” he says, dropping back down beside Takashi, and angling the bottle for him to see. “We’ll see how it does against tree sap, but. My hair’s thicker than yours, and sort of…” He tugs at a strand above his own ear. “Difficult, if I don’t stay on top of it. But this stuff is pretty helpful.”

He passes it to Takashi, who turns it over in his hands. “Camellia,” he reads, trying and failing to determine the color of it through the deep red of the bottle.

“Among other things, probably,” Tanuma says, with a shrug. “It smells more like soap than flowers to me, but. I use it every couple days, and it keeps it from frizzing up or tangling too badly when it dries. So I hope it can at least loosen it up for you.”

Two minutes later finds Takashi sitting cross-legged on the bed, angled half towards the pillow, the towel spread out between them. He’d expected pulling, thought it inevitable when his hair was so thoroughly gunked up, but he can feel that Tanuma’s holding the offending strands away from his scalp with one hand, working the product in with the other. It warms him, the sheer care of it, as much as it makes him glad that Tanuma can’t see whatever his own face is doing right now.

He starts at Tanuma’s voice behind him.

“You can, uh.” He feels a fingers release his hair, a brief touch to the shoulder. “You can relax a little. I’ll warn you if I start having to pull or anything.”

“Ah,” Takashi mutters. “Right. Sorry.” He drops his shoulders, does his best to keep them dropped.

“Did you want to look at the game?” Tanuma offers, after a beat. “I’ll warn you when you need to keep your head upright but it’s fine for now. This can’t be that interesting for you.”

“Or for you,” Takashi counters, with a faint grin.

“You could tell me what you’re doing as you do it,” he says. “Not that I’m going to have any idea what you’re talking about, but. Nishimura did say something about giving you and me both an intensive crash course in the next couple days.”

“We’re that hopeless?”

Tanuma hums. “I guess that’s not a fair assessment, for you at least. You can’t be bad at a game if you weren’t awake to play it in the first place, but. Yeah, safe to say I’m hopeless.”

A good few minutes on and Takashi thinks ‘hopeless’ is a pretty apt descriptor. He’s managed, thus far, to somehow change the color of the character’s entire outfit to a fairly offensive shade of orange, lose about six battles on what’s purported to be the game’s training mode, and somehow spend ¥299 of Tanuma’s actual money on some fancy spell or other that he doesn’t even remember selecting in the first place (a charge which Tanuma vehemently refuses to allow Takashi to refund). Once, the game had glitched out, shutting the app down abruptly just as Takashi’s character was about to suffer another spectacular defeat, and Tanuma’s phone is starting to feel overly warm in his palms.

It might be easier to play, he thinks, if the sensation of endlessly careful fingers and soft snick of the comb’s pointed end teasing out the knot in his hair wasn’t taking up a significant portion of his attention.

Or maybe it wouldn’t. He lets the phone drop onto his knees. It’s at 23%.

“How did you,” Takashi starts, then flounders a little in the silence of the room. Tries again. “How did you know to use hair oil? On yourself, I mean. I don’t think I knew it existed.”

He’s reminded, suddenly, of Touko’s eyes, when Takashi had admitted he didn’t know what conditioner was for. Widening in fleeting surprise, before filling just as quickly with a quiet kindness that Takashi had not yet known not to mistake for pity.

And maybe he shouldn’t have asked.

But then Tanuma says, “My mom showed me.” His voice is quiet, but there’s a thread of warmth strung into the words.

Takashi glances behind him. Tanuma’s gaze has dropped to the bottle in his hand, a soft set to his mouth.

Takashi knows Tanuma won’t elaborate unless pressed. A consideration. A kindness of his own.

So Takashi presses.

“Your mom?”

“Yeah,” he starts, diffident, searching Takashi’s face as Takashi turns to look at him properly. Takashi just waits. The space of a breath, and then he lets out some quiet sound between a huff and a laugh. “I was…I couldn’t have been older than six or seven. Before starting elementary school, my hair was actually pretty short.”

“Really?” Takashi can’t help his own smile He tries to picture it, eyes lingering on the dark tumble of his hair, still damp and a little unruly from a vigorous towel-drying, spiking up a bit around one arm of his glasses and the tip of an ear now flushed pink.

“Yeah,” he says, catching Takashi’s eye, returns the grin with a small one of his own. “Dad’s got the photo evidence. And would sort of stick out all over the place even then.” He plucks absently at it, rich black strands twisted between pale fingertips. “And he used to just cut it for me himself, back then, but. I don’t know. I kept asking him to wait longer and longer between trims, and to take off less, and it’s basically looked like this since.”

“Any particular reason?”

The faint flush of his cheeks deepens, and his expression shifts. “I mean. Maybe not a great reason, but sort of.” He doesn’t look unhappy, just unsure, eyes fixed somewhere near Takashi’s shoulder now. “I remember that elementary school was…a lot, for me, when I started. Not so bad,” he adds, quickly, as though remembering himself, his audience. “But way more people in one place than I was used to. And it sounds odd to say it, but I remember not liking the fact that everyone could see all of my face all of the time.” He shrugs, yanks at that same strand of hair. “Hard to explain.”

“Well it suits you,” Takashi says, a little abruptly, before he loses his nerve or the moment or both. Because now would be the time to say so if ever there was one.

Tanuma’s eyes flick back up to meet his. His lips twitch. “Yeah?”

Takashi nods. They’re both red in the face now. It seems a bit unfair, that they’re both still so easy to fluster; he’d have thought they’d have run the gauntlet of mutual embarrassment by now. But even kissing him is easier than this, when there’s no breath to be spared between them for the exchanging of words, for what should be a casual compliment. No eye contact involved.

But the apple-flush of fair skin across his cheekbones makes Takashi’s mouth dry as sand.

“Well. Thank you,” Tanuma says, swallowing just a little like he’s having the same problem. “Anyways. I may have preferred it that way, but. My hair’s got a texture to it that can make it sort of difficult to manage, it you’re not careful.” He reaches out, catches a strand of Takashi’s own hair not far from the knotted bit, twisting it gently. “Mine’s thicker than yours, and it can dry out pretty easily. It feels like straw, at the worst of times. And it’d get tangled up really easily, back then, especially if I ever slept on it wet. Dad would try to help, but sometimes it got so bad that there wasn’t anything we could really do at that point but cut a chunk of it away and be done with it.”

And Takashi can relate, there. But he doubts it would be constructive, his own hazy recollection of a plastic comb with missing teeth going missing from his box of belongings between one relative’s house and the next. Not when he can picture, even more clearly, a dark-haired little ghost of a boy who wished to sink right through the walls of his own classroom.

“What did you do about it?” he asks, instead.

“Well that’s when Mom stepped in.” Tanuma’s fingers trail over the printed text on the bottle’s front, gentle, near-reverent. He shakes his head a little. “I think Dad must’ve called her. There was a really bad knot right at the back of my head at the time, maybe the worst I’d ever had, and if he’d cut it out it would’ve been really obvious. He suggested I just try wearing it short again, but I said no.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I think I might’ve cried when he said that, actually. He felt awful afterwards.” A pause, a glance towards the soft sleepy dark of the window. “I am…glad Ponta’s not here.”

“I’d have kicked him out,” Takashi mutters.

“I appreciate it.” He taps the bottle. “By the time I showed up for the visit we’d planned that month, she’d already prepared some things for me. Better shampoo and conditioner. Some oil, and a nicer comb. She’s always worn her own hair long, and she says it tangles up if you even look at it the wrong way, so. She sorted the big knot out, and then taught me how to take care of it myself.” He turns the comb over between his fingers, running his thumb along the spine of it like it’s something precious, gilded silver instead of brown plastic. Takashi can see a few shedded strands of his own hair threaded between the teeth, catching the light. “I’ve only had to cut knots out myself maybe twice since then, so I guess I’ve managed well enough.”

“Did she give you these?” Takashi asks, a taut humming sensation behind his ribs that’s somehow both overfull and not unwelcome.

“No.” He grins, flips the comb over. Taps the tiny Daiso label on the handle that Takashi hadn’t seen. “She still sends me things from time to time, especially if she’s found something new that she’s tried for herself, but when I’m buying I tend to just go for the discount versions.” A shrug. “They work fine, I think. She prefers products with camellia, and that’s not so hard to find.”

“I’m glad you’re not having to use up a gift, anyhow,” Takashi says. His hand hovers near the knot behind his own ear. He doesn’t want to touch, doesn’t want to undo Tanuma’s progress.

“I think she’d have been pretty delighted to hear about it if I did,” Tanuma says, fondly. “She might ask if I took before-and-after pictures, though.” He reaches for Takashi’s hair again, this time holding the entirety of the knot in his palm, cradled absurdly like a baby bird, turning it a little to inspect. He offers Takashi a soft moonrise of a smile. “It might be too late to get a before-and-after, but I could still get a progress shot. Not to send her, just. In case we need it. For future reference.”

“….future reference.”

“Yes.”

Takashi feels his nose wrinkle. He holds up Tanuma’s phone. “I’ll hide this.”

“There’s still my film camera,” he counters, peacefully.

 “I’ll hide myself.”

“But then I couldn’t help you.” He sets the comb down between them like a greasy little peace offering, and holds his hands up.

Takashi feels the wobble in the set of his own mouth, but he doesn’t break eye contact until he’s tucked the phone firmly away beneath Tanuma’s pillow.

“I don’t need help,” Takashi informs him. But he his own hands up to meet Tanuma’s still-raised ones, the traitorous grin finally leaking through when Tanuma immediately laces their fingers together, an unwieldy half-hover of hands clasped midair.

“No,” Tanuma agrees, and snorts lightly when Takashi’s forehead bumps against his shoulder. “But you want it, I think.”

“Mm,” is all Takashi can muster in reply, his arms looping themselves around Tanuma’s waist. There’ll be oily spots on Tanuma’s shirt from this, maybe. He should probably move.

But Tanuma just shuffles closer, the warm weight of his arms around his shoulders to draw him in, so Takashi resigns the shirt to its fate. Beneath him, the sharp end of the comb pokes into Takashi’s leg.

“‘Future reference’?” Takashi asks, muffled by the shirt, after a moment. “For what?”

“In case of, you know,” he starts, smile shaping the words pressed into the damp crown of Takashi’s head. “Trees. Spirits. Tree spirits.”

“Tree spirits,” Takashi echoes, drily.

“You never know.”

***

[voxofthevoid]

I got pretty close to having a new WIP to post this week, but I don't think I'll be able to put down so much as a word until Friday, maybe Saturday, so here's Nanaita Chikan Wednesday #2 instead ✨

The fic is complete and a little over 10k in total. I was expecting it to be longer, but I got to a certain part and wrote a certain line, and my mind went "this is it, anything more than this would be superfluous," and that was that!

Anyway, 2k of that 10k is a...very detailed handjob scene, so this week, have a bit of that, featuring Nanami's repression coming back to bite him in the ass while Yuuji cheerfully steamrolls past concepts like "consent."

Kento tears his mouth away from Itadori’s, burning with humiliated heat as spit smears along his lips and jaw.

“You will not,” he rasps, “make a mess in my pants.”

Against all odds, Itadori’s hand stills.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, leaning over Kento’s shoulder to peer unabashedly at where their hands are curved over his crotch. “That’d be pretty uncomfortable for you.”

“As opposed to now?” he asks scathingly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Itadori says with a low laugh, and then his fingers are sinking into the spaces between Kento’s, locking together to peel both their hands away from his pants.

Kento isn’t proud of the sight revealed—the fabric at his crotch bulging into a shape that’s as obscene as it’s unmistakable.

Itadori’s fingers untangle from his, and before Kento can utilize that newfound freedom, Itadori’s hand is back at his hips, this time to fumble with the buckle of his belt.

“Itadori-kun!” Kento snaps. “What do you think you’re—”

A large, warm palm covers his mouth.

The rest of Kento’s futile question comes out as a muffled stream of sound.

“I know I said they won’t care,” Itadori tells him, his voice pitched low and his eyes dark in the glass, “but you still don’t want them to see, right? So you should be quiet, Nanamin.”

Kento makes an incredulous noise that’s smothered by the fingers that slot more firmly over his mouth. Rough skin littered with patches of hardened skin rub over his lips and scrape his skin. Itadori’s hand is large enough to cover his entire jaw. His thumb slots against the side of an eye, brushing the frame of his glasses. The tips of his fingers dig into the other side of Kento’s face, nearly touching his ear.

For the first time since this whole mess started, Kento feels small the way Itadori accused.

His belt comes loose. A moment later, his slacks are pooled around his ankles.

“Oh, nice,” Itadori crows with perverse delight, plucking the waistband of Kento’s underwear. “I didn’t think you’d be a briefs guy.”

For a very brief moment, Kento is grateful for the hand quieting him, lest he blurt out why the hell Itadori’s been thinking at all about what underwear Kento favors. He won’t like the answer. He won’t like any of that’s coming.

Liar, croons that dark voice, and the more it speaks, the more it sounds like Gojou.

Itadori’s hand slipping down his briefs isn’t a welcome distraction, but it’s something, and then Kento’s mind and body are burning red as that round hand slots along his aching cock.

This time, there’s no proxy, no barrier of cloth. Itadori touches him skin to skin, and every one of his calluses is hungry. Kento’s freed hand has also somehow ended up on the door, flattened desperately against the glass just like its twin. On the other side, there’s a tunnel, its darkness dense and seemingly endless.

The darkness under Kento’s lids is threaded through with red, pulsing in time with his cock.

Itadori’s not doing much. Not yet. But he will. It’s there, brimming in the tips of his fingers and the line of his palm, even as they’re currently content to just press themselves against Kento’s cock, flattening it against his own thigh through the briefs. Behind him, Itadori barely seems to be breathing, as if the whole of his lethal focus has narrowed to the heated flesh throbbing against his palm.

Kento tries to ignore it. To feel nothing, know nothing, be nothing. But his entire body is a lesson in betrayal, from the rush of his blood to the shudder of his breath.

Itadori’s hand bends at the wrist, pulling Kento’s waistband away from his skin. An easy tug, and it’s down, cool air kissing the newly revealed skin—except the cock Itadori is guarding so jealously.

Then his fingers start unfurling one by one.

No, Kento thinks, not a sound slipping past the lips still crushed against Itadori’s hand.

The rejection doesn’t seep into his flesh, at least not enough to stop his cock from rising into the air, heavy with blood and showing it. Kento looks, unable to keep his eyes shut a second longer. Regret is immediate and shaped like the obscene jut of flushed flesh.

Itadori’s hand is hovering in the air, the fingers curled toward Kento’s cock.

They make contact a second later, skimming along the side before slotting under it, pressing up against entire length of it like he’s weighing it.

It twitches shamefully.

“Nanamin,” Itadori murmurs, borderline reverent, “you look good here too.”

A thin, trembling noise shatters against Itadori’s quieting palm, and it takes Kento a searing moment to realize that he just moaned.

That’s not—

He isn’t—

When was the last time someone else touched him there? When was the last time someone touched him at all?

He hasn’t taken a lover since he returned to sorcery, but there were dalliances here and there. One-time affairs, straightforward and utilitarian. Bodies have needs, but Kento doesn’t have the time or the heart for anything complicated. He would not love anyone he’d leave a widow.

Itadori is no one’s widow.

But he is as hungry as any curse, and the fist that curls around Kento’s cock threatens to swallow him whole.

Itadori strokes it and groans like he’s the one being touched, and his grip is too rough and too tight to feel uncomplicatedly good, but Kento’s needy flesh seems to suck in those drags of pleasure, throbbing and twitching with it, and Itadori seems to take that as encouragement, touching it everywhere and in every way, his fingers dipping low to cup and squeeze the balls before again winding around the base and sliding all the way up to the head, and he uncurls his hand again to graze curious fingers over the exposed head and the sheath below, pausing once to lightly trace the line of a throbbing vein, and when he strokes again, it’s tight and slow and deliberate, like he’s only trying to feel how the foreskin moves over the harder flesh underneath.

“You’re getting wet,” he tells Kento.

Kento would close his eyes again, but it’ll spare him nothing. He can see the clear fluid slicking the dirty red head. He can feel the dirtier pleasure pulsing inside that flesh.

It might still be a kinder sight than whatever he’ll find on Itadori’s face. The voice is warning enough.

Itadori slots a finger against the slit, rubbing at the wetness there. Sharp, scorching pleasure lances through Kento, his hips twitching forward before he can force it still, and Itadori is only too accommodating, pressing three thick fingers over the head and rubbing, the wetness there smearing on his skin only to be spread back over the head, and the hypersensitive skin there sparks electric, like Itadori’s pressing miniscule bards into his flesh with every touch, and when those fingers press closer and rub harder, every single muscle in Kento’s legs seize with a violence that leaves them aching.

He makes a noise. Something quiet, something hurt.

Itadori’s fingers flinch away from his cock. “Too much?”

Kento’s hands clench into fists against the door. He doesn’t mean to look at Itadori, but his eyes flit to him anyway, and with only the darkness of a tunnel beyond the glass, Kento can see him clear as day.

He can see that the number of eyes on that still-youthful face has doubled.

The main pair, Itadori’s real eyes, are fixed faithfully on Kento’s reflection, meeting his eyes through the makeshift mirror, but the lower pair—their irises a deep, dark color that could pass as the same warm brown of the pair above if one were to squint and pretend that this is only just a boy—are focused further south, and Kento’s cock pulses hot as if in answer.

“I could let go,” Itadori says softly, a twitch of the thumb pressed to Kento’s face indicating what he’s talking about, “if you want to tell me how you like it.”

Kento closes his eyes.

Itadori chuckles like it’s all a grand joke. “Guess not. S’alright. I’ll figure it out, Nanamin. I’ll make it good.”

It is not, Kento knows, teenage braggadocio.

He can even venture a guess or two about the body Itadori honed his skills on, and it makes him grit his teeth so hard that his whole skull aches. Itadori responds to the tension in his jaw with a soft squeeze, and knowing the boy, it’s intended to be soothing, but between his size and his hunger, it only feels threatening.

Kento is not easily threatened, but he’s also not easily soothed. The pressure simply sinks into his skin to weigh down his bones.

Below, Itadori’s hand resumes its slow dismantling of Kento’s sanity and dignity.

[felixblindluck]

Beautiful Boy

Plot: Dean wants to be hurt because he doesn't think he deserves love, especially not from Castiel.

Castiel proves him wrong

Word count: 1071

Notes: This is something that i just came up with. In my mind the scene ends with Castiel softly muttering sweet words to Dean and humming Beautiful Boy by John Lennon (hence the name of the fic). As always I want to reiterate I'm not a writer but just love these sad gay men. I am sorry for any spelling/grammar mistakes in it

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67106227

Hurt. That was all Dean wanted, to be hurt, he deserved it, the pain, the hatred, the anger. It was boiling up inside of him, and all he wanted was for someone -anyone-to tell him the truth. That it was all his fault. That the pain in other peoples lives was because of him. That he was a terrible protector.

But he knew you couldn’t just o around asking people to be mad at you. You couldn’t demand they see you as the villain, because that was crazy, and Dean wasn’t crazy… right?

So, instead, he tried something else, he decided to play on Castiel’s nerves, rile him up, annoy him (more than usual). He’d throw out cruel snarky comments, without the hint of sarcasm and jokiness in his voice that he usually possessed. He would be a dick, and maybe, just maybe that would make Castiel snap. Perhaps it would break something inside the angel and cause him to lash out and finally day the words Dean needed to hear, the words that would probably break his heart. Because Dean didn’t deserve love, he didn’t deserve kindness, it was his fate to be alone with no one to blame but himself.

However Cass, the damn perfect angel that he was didn’t fall for it. He didn’t flinch. He never got angry. Instead, would take all the cruel comments Dean threw at him with a shrug and move on with his day with an air of quiet forgiveness. Castiel loved him, Dean knew it Hell, he said it enough. But it didn’t make sense, not like this, he shouldn’t love him this much. He shouldn’t love him when he was mean and pushing away. Castiel should be angry, hurt, his wrath had to be buried deep somewhere.

It reached a pinnacle one Thursday. Cass had tried, once again, to sit with Dean while they watched a movie, and instead of the usual reluctant but tender arm that Dean reaches out around Castles back he walked off, muttering some shit about not being gay under his breath.

That was when Castiel snapped

"Dean Winchester come back this instant, or I swear I will smite you with all the power of Chuck that I can muster."

Dean froze, hearing the authority in Castiel’s voice, the anger that had been absent for so long.

“Finally” Dean muttered under his breath, relief flooding him for a second, as he knew he was finally going to get what he deserved.

"I’ve had enough of this Dean", Castiel said, his tone low and unwavering "This childish tantrum you’ve been throwing… it hurts and I’m not taking anymore."

Dean raised an eyebrow, his mouth tugging into a sharp grin as he replied in a snarky tone ‘What, you gonna punish me Cass."

"Actually, yes", Castiel simply states as he locked eyes with Dean

Dean couldn’t help it, a low laugh escaped him as he muttered "kinky" under his breath, before spreading his arms open and speaking in a tired tone "go on then Cass, hit me. Get angry. I don’t care"

Castiel paused, his look becoming more solemn and questioning, "’I'm not going to hurt you Dean… please, just sit down"

Dean felt a shiver run through him at the way Castiel's voice had changed, there was no anger anymore, instead just a deep sadness.

Reluctantly, Dean took a seat on the opposite side of the sofa, keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but on Casitel.

"Now Dean" Castiel began, his tone steady. "I’m going to sit here and talk, and you are going to listen. Do you understand."

Dean, caught somewhere between amusement and unease nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Sure, I’ll listen.”

Although Dean refused to look at Castiel, the angel's gaze upon him never wavered, as he continued to look at Dean with he same quiet intensity as the first time they met. “You Dean Winchester… are a kind, caring and beautiful man. You deserve love, just by being you.”

Dean’s breath hitched. A flush crept up his neck and onto his face, but it was quickly overshadowed by the immediate rush of disagreement he suddenly possessed. "That’s not true, Cass" he muttered looking down, shaking his head. "I’m not a good person. I’ve done terrible things. People get hurt because of me, I deserve to be alone.”

Castiel’s face softened, the pain in his eyes impossible to hide. “Dean…no. You are not a bad person. You’ve saved countless lives. You’ve fought for people, even when it meant putting yourself in the face of death. You have protected the ones you love since you were a child... You of all people deserve good things. You deserve happiness. You deserve love. You deserve to feel like you’re enough.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, he felt vulnerable and he hated it. He wanted to argue, to deny everything and fight against Castiel's words, but the ache in his chest made it hard to breathe. "You don’t get is Cass, I’m not good enough, I’m not. I keep screwing up. I can’t —.“ He stopped himself, his fists clenched in his lap, at the rawness of the situation. How was he meant to tell Castiel that everyone he loves dies, that his love for Cass would be the end of him.

Castiel leaned forward as he gently placed his hand on Deans leg. "Dean you don’t have to be perfect, you just have to be you. I love you because you’re imperfect. You are enough, you have and will always be enough"

Dean tried to croak out a response but words failed him as he softly shook his head.

"Dean… the care you have for people is beautiful, you need to stop blaming yourself for the hardships of others, every day you do all that you can to save people, and you’ve carried the guilt of not feeling good enough for all that time. You don’t have to carry it all alone anymore. I’m here, we can get through this together.”

Dean’s chest tightened and his breath hitched as he let out a shaky sob, the fight leaving him with each tear. He didn’t know what to say, or how to accept this. The love that Castiel had for him was pure and true.

Dean let himself sink into Castiel’s shoulder, his body relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever.

‘I’ve got you Dean. I’m not going anywhere.’

[pagesinmylife]

I don’t care if this comes off as cruel but you are not entitled to fanfiction. You are not entitled to podfics. You are not entitled to translated works.

Creators are not paid to make fanworks. People spend years of their lives writing fic and getting nothing in return except positive interactions. You can ask to make a translation. You can ask to make a pod fic. But you cannot demand it.

And because the only thing fanfic writers get in return for their work is positive feedback, taking away an authors ability to receive that is disgusting. Authors deserve to have full control and ownership of their works.

Fanfic isn’t a product to consume and then demand more of. Authors and creators deserve better.

[softservesoymilk]

Wow I love asshole gay people (things have ALIGNED in the ASTRAL PLANE and Pav is WATCHING SOMETHING?? 🤯)

[willowfey]

sometimes life is boohoo sad and then ur mom brings u back a creamy mango lemonade freeze with mango boba and hello kitty halloween spa things and suddenly u are woohoo glad

[syluss-littlecrow]

size training with sylus

<slyus x fem!reader>

where you’re size training on Sylus’s dick. ❤️

genre/warnings: smut, pwp, big dick!sylus, size training, size kink, dear god sylus and his fat cock, breeding kink, unprotected sex, pet names, dacryphilia, it’s just sylus brain rot ❤️

w/c: 2K

a/n: I’m on Love & Deepspace fic tumblr! 😮 hope I’ll be welcomed nicely here haha. As a peace offering, this is my present to everyone (and especially the Sylus girlies)!

You shift your body slightly, trying to make yourself comfortable, on top of taking slow breaths, your heart fluttering at Sylus's soft voice coaxing you. 

"That's it. Take it slowly, kitten", his voice slow and deep in your ears. But you don't see the way he's shutting his eyes and biting his inner cheek every time you squeeze around him. He's trying to pace his breathing as well, but it feels so fucking good.

You whine softly against his bare chest, his heat radiating off you, his slender fingers stroking your hair slowly, and his other hand drawing soothing circles on your thighs. 

You don’t remember how it started, but your thoughts start to drift, recalling the times your mind would float whenever Sylus had his lips on yours with you straddling on his thick thighs. He would devour you, painfully slowly because he knows that’s what riles you up, and he definitely enjoys listening to your whimpers, your non-verbal pleas for him to do more to you. He’d make sure your lips are wet and messy once he’s done with you, his touches teasing and light against your skin. Sylus secretly wants you to beg for it, because he knows that he’d give in to you in a heartbeat. His fingers would cup yours that were on his chest, and the look he would give you reset all the butterflies in your stomach. You would feel his thick erection, hidden under the thin silk black bathrobe he’d always wear against your clothed pussy, and dear god, he’s so fucking big. But before you could ask, Sylus would trail his fingers to tease your wet clit and pussy, soaking in your adorable reactions he swears is enough to get him off, erasing the question of wanting him to fuck you off your brain when the pleasure from his fingers tingles through your body. 

Sylus doesn’t pride himself as a generous being, but he thinks he’s always generous enough for you. He realises he enjoys having his face in between your legs, making you squirm, listening to you sob when he overstimulates you with his tongue, making sure his tongue presses and grazes fully on your clit while he listens to you fall apart, his crimson eyes locked onto you while he holds you down to take whatever he’s giving you. 

He’s good at distracting you like that whenever you want to bring up the question of fucking. 

This time though? Through your wet lashes from the overstimulation and hazy thoughts, all you were craving for was just to be fucked stupid by Sylus. Your hand reached out and pushed against his head. Sylus pulled back slightly, confused for a moment. 

“What is it, sweetie?” He paused, his hands trailing up and down your thighs. 

Your mind slowly clears, but your pussy is still pulsing from him tongue fucking you.

“Need you to fuck me, Sylus. Please. I don’t think I can take it any longer.”

Sylus is momentarily taken aback by your demand, but he realises he can’t keep holding it off, mostly because there’s only so much longer he’s able to hold back, especially when you’re begging for him like that. 

“I don’t think-“

“I can take it”, you muttered stubbornly, yanking your partner towards you. You shift yourself above him, straddling his thighs, just shy of his appendage. 

As much as your determination is endearing, Sylus knows your comfort should come first. And he knows very well that his cock isn’t gonna fit into you in one go, so he decides to let you gauge it for yourself—putting your hands into the string of his robe, gesturing you to loosen it. 

And you do, your gaze flickering from his cool expression to his silk robe sliding off his body when you untie the string. 

You swallow hard when his cock comes into view—thick, long and heavy, the tip red with a wet sheen of precum. Yeah, that’s definitely not gonna fit in you in one go. You and him solely being just wet enough wasn’t going to cut it. 

Nonetheless, you’re still determined. Your eyes meet his gaze and an idea pops into his head. 

He intertwines his fingers with yours.

“Tell you what, sweetie. I’ll fit into you slowly. Doesn’t matter how much you can take, I just want to make sure you’re comfortable when you’re doing so.”

“But-“

He presses his lips on the back of your hand. 

“I’ll be fine. You trust me, right?”

You nod, watching the way his eyes soften before you. 

So there you are, lying on your side, facing Sylus, your cunt trying to adjust to his cock as he stretches you open. It’s been a couple of days since you’ve been size training with your partner. It started off with getting his cockhead in, and that was already making you hitch your breath. Then inch by inch he sinks into you from then. He’d let you cock warm him like that and it never failed to leave you so full one session after the next. 

It’d been seven days, and you barely pushed through three-quarters of his girth. Initially, Sylus still could tease you while you tried to take his cock, but as he sunk deeper into you after each session, it started getting harder for him to maintain his composure—every twitch, every squeeze—had him digging his fingers into his palm, clenching against his silk pillow and breathing a little harder. 

He huffs once more when he feels you clench around his cock. 

“If you’re gonna keep clenching around me like that, Kitten, I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.”

You glance up, watching the way Sylus’s platinum hair becoming a tousled mess against the pillow. His crimson eyes cast to meet yours, his lips pulled into a slight frown. 

“I can’t help it”, you reply, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

You hear Sylus hiss slightly once more when he twitches inside you. 

“Do you think you could fit another inch in?” It almost comes off as a beg. 

You inhale shakily, shifting yourself further downwards, taking another inch of his cock. The both of you gasp at the sensation. 

You freeze at the thickness. How far down are you already?

“You’re almost all the way in, Kitten”, Sylus whispers, almost as if he heard your thoughts. His breathing is growing heavier by the second, and he’s forcing himself to hold back from just thrusting the remainder of his cock in. It’s dangling over him like his favourite prey. 

His thumb strokes against yours, trying to distract you from the pressure on top of pressing your forehead with kisses, singing you soft praises.

Your mind is gradually turning more hazy with Sylus’s cock taking up the majority of your thoughts, on top of his body soap that’s been creeping into your olfactory senses. The more Sylus inches his cock into you, the more he’s pressing onto your g-spot, and the more it’s starting to make you see stars whenever you blink. You’re growing so sensitive that you’re feeling every throb Sylus’s cock is giving you. 

Your hand is on his arm, trying to ground yourself from the slight soreness. Another strained whimper when Sylus pushes him deeper into your pussy. Slick leaks from your pussy and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Sylus. 

Another kiss to your temple, another circle drawing session on your thigh.

“Do you want me to go all the way in?” 

Your toes curl.

“I can take it.”

So Sylus inches his cock right to the hilt, knocking the wind out of you. 

Tears are prickling at the corner of your eyes, but oh god you do feel so good. 

“How are you feeling, sweetie?”

You hiccup softly. “So full.”

He chuckles. “Such a good girl.” The vibrations of his light laughter only press his tip further onto your g-spot, and it’s making your thighs shake from the impending orgasm. 

“D-don’t move so much, Sylus. You’re gonna make me—“ you try to bury your head into his chest but he stops you with his fingers in your chin. 

“Make you what?” 

He intentionally shifts, and his cockhead hits your sensitive spots again, sending fireworks into your eyelids, and a strained moan. Sylus seems to enjoy your reactions, because then he flips you to your back, his large frame looming over you, forcing you to look up at him with your legs folded, and still with his cock in you. 

Oh no. 

Sylus looks down at you with the faintest glint of softness in his eyes before it completely disappears, now just hunger seeping through the red. 

“Sylus!-“ you gasp, his fullness penetrating into you again, this time easily, considering the wet and sopping mess you’ve made around his cock. 

He only hums in reply, then pulling out slightly before he pushes into you again. He’s found your sweet spots, and he’s not letting it go that easily. 

The knot in your stomach pulls tight, and it’s making you tear up in sheer pleasure. You’re barely able to meet Sylus’s eyes, not when he’s fucking into you and has your head thrown back while you’re fighting to keep your eyelids open. 

It builds and builds. Sylus probably realises it from how much you’re just pulsing on his cock. His thumb rests at the corner of your lips and you let him slip in, your glazed out eyes meeting his. It makes his heart flutter when you’re completely undone like this for him, but he’ll never admit it, at least, not yet. 

“Gonna cum. Fuck, it’s so much, Sylus-“ you whimper before your mind completely melts away. 

“Release all you want on me, sweetie. That’s my good girl.”

That’s enough to send you over the edge—your orgasm hitting you like waves, tingling through your body like electricity, the pleasure eating you up over and over again. Sylus watches affectionately while you fall apart on his cock—the way you’re writhing and squirming, the way his name leaves your lips after every moan, the way your pussy creams so much on his cock. He thinks he’s doomed because he never gonna get enough. 

“Looks like a little kitten made a mess”, Sylus teases. He watches the way cream pools at the base of his cock when he pulls out slightly, only to thrust back into you again. His eyes flutter shut at the tight warmth eating him up, groans replacing his words. 

“Now, can I make a mess in you?” 

Your watery eyes meet his, and he’s equally about to lose all composure. You cup his cheeks, taking him by surprise, before giving him a quick peck on the corner of his lips, and then you nod. Said corner of his lips lift in satisfaction at your approval.

He’s just ready to ruin you. 

His strokes become more heavy, the overstimulation shutting your brain off. Nothing but pleasure is surging through your nerves now. You’re even holding up your legs so Sylus can fuck you deeper. 

“Now be a good girl and take all of it”, he mutters huskily, burying his face against the crook of your neck, his eyes snapped shut and his eyebrows furrowed. 

Despite the fact that you don’t get to see the way Sylus’s face contorts in pleasure when his orgasm hits him, his groans right in your ears serve you satisfied for now while thick white spurts into your abused pussy, filling you up all the way, some seeping past your plugged hole. 

You don’t realise how much you’ve clawed down Sylus’s back while he was emptying himself into you. 

Well, he doesn’t need to know anyway. 

Sylus stays above you for a moment, the both of you catching your breaths. He still has the energy to plant more bites on your neck while you stroke his hair. 

He pulls back to look at your face properly, and all you can think of is how fucking good he looks post-fuck—messy, sweaty, and so fucking delicious-looking. His fingers brush away your strands of hair, and his thumb caresses your bottom lip. 

“You’re truly gonna be the death of me, sweetie.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

the curious case of satoru gojo

pairing — scientist satoru x housewife reader

synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.

tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything

wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) if u see i typo, no u don’t.

two weeks.

fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.

his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.

now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.

the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.

instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.

his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru

the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.

because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.

the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.

he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.

no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.

this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—

he rings the doorbell.

the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.

the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.

you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.

your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.

you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—

before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.

the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.

and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’

“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”

the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.

“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”

“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”

the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.

“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”

satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.

because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.

“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”

your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.

“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”

“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”

“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”

“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”

each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.

“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”

you go very, very still.

“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”

“but—”

“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”

the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’

“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”

satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.

you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.

and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.

“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”

“that’s it.”

the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.

he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.

through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”

the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.

somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.

he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.

he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.

“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”

each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.

“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”

satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.

“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”

he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.

“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”

the window slams shut.

satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.

he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.

he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.

this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.

the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.

he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.

satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.

he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.

the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.

but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.

he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.

he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.

because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.

science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.

tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.

his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.

night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.

the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.

the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.

he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.

the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.

he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”

procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.

satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.

the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself. 

if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.

he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.

it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.

the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.

guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.

his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—

the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.

“gotcha, you little creep.”

and there you are.

standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.

your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.

satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—

your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.

the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.

because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.

devastatingly, impossibly, catastrophically beautiful.

he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—

it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.

the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.

and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.

his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.

“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”

“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”

“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.

you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.

then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.

satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.

the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.

satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.

even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.

the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.

he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.

for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo

despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.

he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.

the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.

you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.

“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”

there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.

he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”

the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—

“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”

the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.

you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.

he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.

“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.

your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.

“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”

the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.

“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”

“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”

satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.

the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.

“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”

your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.

“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”

the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.

and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.

“but hypothetically—”

“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”

the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.

he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.

the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.

satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.

he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.

note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials. 

assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.

the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.

it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.

satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.

his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.

he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.

the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.

satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.

the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.

which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.

he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.

the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.

satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil. 

the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.

nothing.

either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.

he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.

getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.

his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.

the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.

it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.

everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.

coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.

each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.

his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.

the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.

making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru

breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband

minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru

each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.

no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.

reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.

satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.

the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.

instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.

the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.

the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.

but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.

his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.

the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.

you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.

hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.

the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.

component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.

finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.

satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.

but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.

he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.

the world bends.

reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.

his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.

the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.

when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.

he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.

the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.

he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.

satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.

time to go home.

time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.

the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.

he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.

you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.

the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.

but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—

satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.

he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.

“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”

he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.

“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”

“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”

your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”

“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”

satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.

“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”

the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.

“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”

“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.

“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.

“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”

the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.

“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”

your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”

he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.

your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.

“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”

”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”

“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”

despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”

“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.

“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”

“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.

it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.

and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.

he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.

there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.

his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”

it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.

“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”

your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”

“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”

his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”

he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”

your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”

“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”

it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.

“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.

“i’m your dork.”

his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”

“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”

“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”

his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.

“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”

those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.

“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”

you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.

“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.

his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.

your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—

ding.

the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.

you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.

“the pasta,” you say faintly.

“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

ding. ding. ding.

“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.

he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.

”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.

his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.

his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.

you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.

”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.

he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”

the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.

he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.

when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.

the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.

“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.

”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.

his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.

“but dinner—”

“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”

his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.

his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.

“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”

his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.

“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.

“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”

he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.

his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.

“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”

he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”

“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”

he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.

“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”

he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.

“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.

the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.

“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”

he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.

“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i’m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”

“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”

his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”

“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”

he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”

“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”

“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”

he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.

he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.

“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”

he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.

he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”

his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.

he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”

“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”

his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”

he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.

he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”

“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.

he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”

he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”

his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”

he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.

“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.

his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.

he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.

“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”

“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.

“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”

he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”

your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”

he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”

his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”

“want it…”

his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”

he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.

“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”

he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.

“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”

he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.

“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”

a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.

he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”

his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.

“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”

he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.

“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”

he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.

“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”

his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”

his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.

your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.

his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.

his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”

he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.

the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”

his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.

then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.

“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”

he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.

“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”

his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.

but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.

he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.

“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”

he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.

and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.

“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”

his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.

he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.

he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”

slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.

he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.

his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.

“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”

he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.

your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.

his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.

his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.

“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”

his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.

you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.

his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.

“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.

“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”

your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.

he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.

when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.

his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.

“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.

his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.

“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”

you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.

he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.

when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.

he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.

“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.

you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.

neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.

“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”

his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.

[dollgxtz]

When Pleasure Calls

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: In the middle of sex, Sylus gets a business call...only he decides he doesn't want to stop ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Tags: sylus x fem!reader, penetration, unprotected sex, creampie, teasing, humiliation, use of evol, use of petnames like kitten, oneshot

AN: Okay so this is loosely based on a tweet I saw and it literally wouldn't leave my brain until I wrote it....so here we are. I figured the best way to end my break and start being more active again was to start writing all the fics that won't leave my head. Enjoy!

Sylus was balls deep inside you, each thrust a raw, primal connection that left you both breathless. The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, your moans mixing with his low groans, creating a rhythm that was all your own. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements, keeping you both locked in the moment, lost to everything but each other.

It had been an entire week since you’d spent any real time together—a week that felt more like a year. Sylus didn’t waste a second making up for the lost time. What started as an innocent cuddle on his bed, his arm lazily slung over your waist, quickly shifted into something else entirely. One minute, he was tracing slow circles on your back, murmuring something about how much he’d missed you, and the next, the air between you thickened, charged with unspoken need.

Somehow, without either of you meaning to, that easy closeness morphed into a full-blown, heated mess of tangled limbs and stolen breaths. His lips found yours, first soft and teasing, then hungry and demanding, as if he needed to make up for every second you’d been apart. Before long, the room was filled with the sound of muffled laughter, whispered names, and the quiet creak of the mattress as you lost yourselves in each other.

His hands roamed over you with a possessive tenderness, fingers tracing the curves of your body, memorizing the lines anew with every pass. The weight of him above you was a comforting pressure, a grounding force as you surrendered to the tide of sensation, every thrust a wave that built the pleasure higher and higher, threatening to crash over you.

"Nghn, right there! Don't stop, please..." you pleaded, your voice hoarse with desire, your fingers digging into his muscular frame as if your life depended on it. Sylus, attuned to your every need, knew he had found that sweet spot within you, that spongy, pleasure-laden tissue that sent sparks of delight through your body.

Just as he increased the pace, his thrusts becoming faster and harder, driving you closer to the edge of ecstasy, the sharp ring of his phone cut through the air like a knife, slicing through the intimate atmosphere. You froze, your eyes widening as you glanced at the illuminated screen, the unfamiliar contact name confirming your suspicion—one of Sylus's business associates.

Sylus sighed, his brow furrowing as he eyed the screen with a mix of annoyance and detachment. "I can call them back later. I’m busy right now."

That’s when it hit you—the mission. The Hunters Association’s urgent directive to recover the stolen protocore, traded away through shady backchannels. You had completely forgotten about it until now. The urgency surged through you like a jolt of electricity. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm. "Didn’t you say you were expecting a call about the protocore? This could be it. I need that lead for the Association. Answer it," you urged, your voice firm despite the sharp look Sylus threw your way.

He blinked, then smirked, the kind that was equal parts amused and incredulous. "I don’t think I’ll ever get used to my kitten barking orders at me," he said, his tone dripping with lazy charm. But to your relief, he reached for the phone anyway. "Alright, boss. Consider it a favor."

He pressed the screen and lifted it to his ear. His voice dropped into that cool, no-nonsense register you’d heard a dozen times before.

"Speak."

The man on the other end began to speak and you realized Sylus was still halfway inside you. Thinking the fun was over for now, you started to move out from under him, ready to let the moment pass. But Sylus wasn't done. His hand pressed you back down against the bed, and before you knew it, he was thrusting into you again, impossibly deeper this time, his cock filling you completely.

You struggled, caught between surprise and arousal, your body pinned beneath his, his cock completely filling you with each powerful thrust. You tried to silently plead for him to stop, embarrassed by the situation, but your words were lost in the quiet moans that escaped your lips as he pounded into you, his pace relentless. You quickly covered your mouth with your hands, trying to will yourself to quiet down.

"I'll only meet tomorrow. That's firm" he said into the phone, his voice steady despite fiercely pounding and stretching your pussy. As if this took zero amount of effort from him. You tried to keep quiet, biting your lip and keeping your hands pressed to your mouth to stop the sounds from escaping, but it was hard. Each thrust sent ripples of pleasure through you, making it nearly impossible to maintain your composure.

You attempted to scoot back against the bed, seeking respite from the pleasure Sylus was delivering, but your efforts were in vain. With a swift and possessive motion, he wrapped his powerful Evol around your waist, pulling you back onto his cock, sealing your body to his, ensuring you couldn't escape the sensations he was about to unleash.

"Ah...ah..." you panted, your breath coming in short gasps as he thrust deeper, his cock seeking out that sensitive spot within you once more, very determined to bring you right to the edge.

Sylus kept talking, his voice smooth and calm, even as he moved inside you with a fierce rhythm. The phone call was just background noise to you, but you caught snippets of his conversation, the professional tone at odds with what was happening.

"Yes, I understand," he murmured between thrusts, his voice a soothing contrast to the pounding of his cock against your sensitive walls. "No tricks, or foul play. You should know how this goes by now."

You were struggling, trying to focus on anything but the way he was driving you closer to the edge. Each thrust felt like it was pushing you further into a world where nothing else mattered but the heat and friction between you.

Minutes ticked by as this humiliation continued. How much longer could you hold on? How much longer would he torture you like this? The question echoed in your mind, a desperate plea for relief as your body teetered on the brink of finishing.

Sylus's eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and desire as he looked down at you, fully aware of the power he held over your pleasure. He knew exactly how close you were, how your body trembled on the precipice of release, and he relished the control he had, maintaining a casual conversation while pushing you to the brink.

A knowing smirk played on his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the game he was playing—testing your limits, seeing how far he could take you while keeping up the pretense of a casual chat. His eyes held a challenge, daring you to surrender, to let go of your control, even as he kept his voice calm and composed, a stark contrast to the raw passion he was eliciting from your body.

He continued his steady thrusts, his movements purposeful, each one designed to drive you further into a world of pleasure, where resistance was futile, and surrender was the only option. Sylus took pleasure in watching you struggle, your body betraying your attempts to hold on, even as he maintained his casual conversation, a master of this sensual game.

"Yes, that will do," Sylus confirmed, his voice steady, his pace merciless as he continued to thrust into you. "I'll have my men prepare the meeting."

Your response was a muffled moan, your body arching against his, unable to form words as the pleasure overwhelmed you. "Mghn... Ah!" you cried out into your hand, your voice a mixture of surrender and ecstasy, your body trembling on the edge of release, the sensations too powerful to hold back.

Sylus, his body slightly glistening with sweat, paused for a moment, his thrusts slowing as he looked down at you with an intense gaze. His eyes, red and smoldering, held a silent command, a silent invitation for you to surrender completely. A slight smirk played on his lips as he watched you, his expression conveying a clear message:

"Go ahead, cum for me."

The tension inside you coiled tighter, every nerve screaming for release as he begun to pick up the pace once more. You bit down on your hand, trying to keep the sounds from escaping, but it was a losing battle. Sylus's thrusts were unrelenting, each one bringing you closer, until finally, with one last, deep push, he let go, pumping his hot and sticky seed deep into your belly just as he wrapped up his call.

The sensation was too much, too intense to resist. Your body tensed around him, shaking with the force of your orgasm, your muffled moans filling the room as you rode the waves of pleasure crashing through you.

"Alright. See you then," Sylus said, finally hanging up the call. He pulled out slowly, leaving you both breathless and spent, the hum of the conversation now just a memory drowned out by the echo of your shared climax.

You lay there, catching your breath, the remnants of your climax still thrumming through your veins. But as the haze of pleasure began to clear, irritation started to bubble up inside you. You propped yourself up on your elbows, shooting Sylus a look that could melt steel.

"Seriously?!"

He caught your gaze and simply chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that only fueled your annoyance. "Oh, don't act like you didn't like it," he said with a grin, clearly amused by your reaction. "How could I ignore a needy kitten in heat for a phone call instead?"

Your glare could have sliced through stone, but he just shrugged, unfazed by your anger. "Besides," he continued, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he chuckled, "I'm great at multitasking. I just secured you that protocore and made you cum while doing so. Shouldn't you be overjoyed right now?"

Despite your best efforts to hold onto your anger, the corners of your mouth betrayed you, tugging upwards into a reluctant smile. The heat rising to your cheeks was undeniable, a flush that had nothing to do with anger. His laughter was infectious, and before you knew it, you were chuckling too, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all.

"Alright, alright," you conceded with a playful roll of your eyes. "I'll forgive you this one time, but don't think this is going to be a regular thing."

Sylus grinned, clearly pleased with your surrender. "Deal," he said, his tone warm and teasing. He moved with that easy confidence of his, leaning down to scoop you up effortlessly, cradling you against his chest.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he murmured, carrying you towards the bathroom with a tenderness that were a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before. His touch was gentle now, a soothing balm to the fire that had raged between you, and you found yourself relaxing into his hold, the last remnants of your irritation melting away as you settled into the comfort of his embrace.

[whokilledsamara]

Hello! I don’t usually make requests but i have one could u pretty please if u have time? 🥺

Anyways the request would be like homocipher boys (especially my bbg Mr Crawling) pussy drunk. Pls.

PUSSY DRUNK

a very short fic for a few of the Homicipher boys. {Mr. Crawling, Mr. Scarletella, Mr. Silvair, Mr. Gap, Mr. Hood}. Homicipher x afab!reader.

warnings! : each are different so a bit of violence, neediness, switch!reader, smut, porn, PORN NO PLOT!!! almost all of them are cunnilingus

{an: if you meant a fic with all of them in a gangbang sense, you can send in another request}

MR. CRAWLING

"Not now Mr. Crawling, im busy." you say softly, gently petting his head as he tugs at your skirt. "Please..", he practically begs, his lips turned into a pout.

he was always so desperate to please you, stopping at nothing as long as it made you happy. his eager face made it so hard to resist, and with a sigh, you gently part your legs before continuing to use your hands with what you were doing.

almost as soon as you do so, his face is shoved as far as it can go, a whine leaving his lips as he has to pull away to remove your underwear. a giggle escapes you while you watch.

...

"mngh.. fuck, please.." the words slipped so effortlessly from your lips, Mr. Crawling's head so deep between those legs of yours that you couldnt think straight.

your hand was fisted in his hair, tugging often. whines left him almost constantly, his hands holding up your thighs on his shoulders and off the chair. "Me want, More" he states softly, his voice muffled as he stares up at you, the lower half of his face still stuffed between your thighs.

as you nod softly, he hums and shoves two of his long and slender fingers inside of you, effortlessly curling them upwards towards your g-spot. "a-ah..!" your voice hits a high peak at the sudden intrusion, legs trembling as yet another orgasm rips through you, despite how many you had previously.

as overstimulated as you were, the man between your legs gives a few more licks to your clit, slowly pulling away. as he sits up, Mr. Crawling stares up at you with a cheeky grin, his chin covered in your juices. "Good." ..... "Big, Good."

MR. SCARLETELLA

as usual, he was feeling needy.

every since you pretty much marked him as your "slave", he has been near you at all times, getting upset whenever you interact with others instead of him.

this time in particular though, you watched tears fall from his eyes as he stared up at you with a desperate expression. despite the cold look on your face, and the amount of times you rejected him, he still pleads. "Please." he whines, his hands trembling against your thighs. "Please what..? not this again." you ask, glaring down at him. his hands grab at your raincoat, face a pleading mess.

"Need, You." he begs. you think for a second, a long exasperated sigh leaving your lips before you finally do what he always dreamed of. you roll your eyes, head tilting to a nod. that was all the conformation he needed.

...

hours had gone by, your unfortunate yet aching cunt so desperately clenched around his tongue, his hands clawing at your thighs.

his skilled tongue circled your clit an uncanny amount of times, his pace never slowing. "A-ah wait.. wait i cant.. fuccckk.." another orgasm ripped through you and then, only then, did his pace falter. "You, Like?" he asked, pulling his face up from your legs with an uncanny glare.

you nod many times, his smile only growing wider. his lips lean in and press against yours, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. as much as you denied your feelings for the man, you couldn't think of anything but how good he felt and tasted. with a thoughtful groan, you wiggle your finger at him, signaling for him to stand. immediately he obeys, face flushed and juices dripping down his chin. your eyes are locked on his for a second before you speak in a demanding tone.

"Take off your pants."

MR. SILVAIR

he was NEVER needy. so why was today different?

one of the other residents had managed to piss him off so much that he couldn't think straight. his usually calm demeanor shifted completely dark, not even a hint of his usual smile on his face.

even Mr. Chopped seemed worried, asking softly if he was okay. Mr. Silvair ignored him, his gaze fixated on your eyes. he nods his head to his "research room", silently instructing you to go. he follows closely behind you, the heavy door slamming shut and locking you both in the room.

...

a huff leaves his lips as his hands angrily lift you up and slam you on his examination table, ass up for him, with little to no way for you to escape.

"W-what are you doing? Whats wrong?.. Mr. Silvair-!" you ask hurriedly, hands scrambling to find something to grab. he ignores your pleas and hikes up your raincoat, forcing off your panties with one quick motion. you couldn't see him as you tried to look behind you, but you felt him sink to his knees. "H-hey- ah..!-" your words are cut off with a moan as his long, snakelike tongue slips between your folds.

Mr. Silvair's strong hands keep you spread with ease, giving him full access as he greedily eats your pussy like its the last meal on earth. "Stop Squirming." his usually calm voice turns dark, his fingers digging a touch deeper into your hips as he keeps you held up for him.

as hard as you can, you attempt to keep your hips still. his tongue reaches as deep as it can reach, making you harshly bite your lip and see stars, juices running down his face as you finally orgasm. "A-ah right there--fuck! please.." your begs go unnoticed as he releases you and stands, walking out of the room without another glance. seemingly, this little outburst would hold him down for a while.

be glad it was only his tongue this time.

MR. GAP

a while after you got used to your residency at the complex, you learned your lesson about walking near the gaps.

the man who always seemed to appear at the worst moments, would mainly only mess with you. usually, it would only be a small poke as your ankle as you walked by, a tug at your hair when you had your back turned, or small scares he would pull off.

eventually you learned to ignore it, or altogether stay away from the walls, but unfortunately for you, today was a day you slipped up. as careless as it seemed, you were walking on your own, tiredness taking over your expression. the day was hectic, having to deal with more than one entity at a time.

a sudden yelp escapes your throat as you are yanked by your arm into a small opening in the wall. your back ends up pressed against the nearest wall, Mr. Gap's face level with yours with that sick, uncanny expression he always has.

you huff and use your hand to push at his face, the ever so sassy man rolling his eyes and grabbing your wrist. "You're No, Fun." he grumbles, hands fumbling with your shorts. "The fuck are you doing?" you mutter as a hushed yell, eyes glaring at his.

the grin on his face grows wider as he shoves off your pants, before suddenly dissolving into nothing. your eyes dart around, confusion evident in your expression until a sudden whine leaves your lips at an unknown feeling hits your core.

looking down, you find Mr. Gap nose deep in between your legs, eyes locked on yours as he smirks into you. your hand shoots down to grab his hair, attempting to pull him away as embarrassment fills your expression. though unluckily for you, or luckily depending on how you take it,, he doesn't move. instead, he groans into your hand, his hands tighten on your thighs as he pushes his face deeper, licking and sucking anything he can manage.

after many failed orgasms, and many tears from his constant edging, finally after everything he lets you cum, sucking hard enough on your clit to have a loud moan escape you, thighs clenching around his head.

though something tells you he isnt done.

MR. HOOD

as mono tuned as the man was, and as little as expressive as he was, he couldn't help his built up tension.

while no, he didn't understand the concept of love, or at-least he wouldn't admit it- he knew and felt the need for touch.

he often would allow you inside of his coat, usually just chilling in there or whatever you called it- but you never saw it as anything more than companionship. or so he figured. the moment he felt you experiment by placing your hand just above his crotch, his views changed.

with little to no effort, Mr. Hood plucked you out of his coat, setting you gently on the nearest table. he stared at you for a second, chest heavy. he could definitely sense your confusion- but as he kept his gaze on you, he reached out to grab your leg, his oddly feeling hand sat calmly on the inside of your thigh. "May, Touch?" Mr. Hood asked, an almost worried tone in his words. quicker than he could get his words out, you were nodding.

his body stilled for a second, almost as if he was debating his life choices, but ultimately decided to continue. gentle fingers reach under your raincoat, tugging down your panties with ease. and while he would never admit it, he quite greatly enjoyed the small sounds you made when his fingers traced your lips.

he hesitates for a second, before pushing a single ghostly finger inside. it was oddly cold, but felt so good inside of you as he worked his way in. a long moan leaves you, your hands reaching out to grab his arms.

one of his tentacles shoots out, replacing his finger that instead opted for your clit, rubbing in tight, hard circles. "Oh fuck.." you breathe out, legs trembling at your embarrassingly close orgasm. "I-im gonna c- mmngh!!" a hushed scream leave you as the tentacle curls, thrusting hard at your G-spot. it sends you over the edge, your juices flowing down your thighs and around the appendage. with a sigh, he pulls out, seemingly pleased.

"Turn Around."

{ made by @whokilledsamara }

[navybrat817]

Back Off, He's Mine

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You put an agent in her place after she flirts with Bucky.

Word Count: Over 2.5k

Warnings: Established relationship, violent threats (not against the reader or Bucky), protective vibes, catty behavior, possessive vibes, implied sexy times, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Inspired by an anon ask asking for Bucky's wife to stick up for him. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky stared at you from across the break room table, his pretty blue eyes not blinking as you looked back at him. The two of you were locked in a lengthy staring contest and you didn’t want to lose. But as the air in the room began to dry your eyes and he flashed you a beautiful smile, you couldn’t stop yourself from blinking. And the moment you did, he struck.

Snatching the last bit of the beloved pastry right from the middle of the table.

“Damn it,” you muttered, crossing your arms when he chuckled. “You cheated.”

“Oh, yeah?” he smirked, making a show of taking a slow bite. Your eyes followed his tongue licking his lips and you pressed your thighs together without thinking. The bastard made eating look sexy and he didn’t even take a full bite. He was taunting you. “How did I do that?”

“You cheated by existing.” You gestured to him, your smoking hot husband in his black t-shirt and tactical pants. To the person who made those clothes, you saluted them. “And you have serum in your veins, so I’m pretty sure you don’t have to blink as much as I do and that’s an unfair advantage.”

He chuckled again, graciously passing over the last small bite of the pastry. Your eyes lit up in thanks, popping it in your mouth with a moan. It was true love to share food like that. “I don’t think that’s how the serum works,” he teased. “And you’re a goddess, so isn’t that cheating, too?”

“Okay, but I’m not actually a goddess,” you countered, though he did make you feel like one.

His eyes softened, leaning across the table and crooking his finger. “Yeah, you are,” he whispered, kissing your lips once you met him halfway.

Before you could deepen the kiss, a shrill voice rang out in the breakroom. “Sergeant Barnes! There you are!”

Bucky’s cheek twitched as he settled back in his seat. The voice echoing in the room would’ve been enough to make anyone wince, but his enhanced hearing made it worse. He worked hard to block out noises so he’d be comfortable, and your eyes instantly narrowed at the person who brought him discomfort.

You recognized her after a moment, a pretty woman who would likely fall out of her top if she sneezed too hard. She hadn't worked there long, but she had her eye on Bucky from the start. She always flirted with him, tried to stand close to him and push her chest close, and he always dropped in the conversation that he was a married man. Apparently she didn’t get the hint that he wasn't interested. Either that or she was into taken men.

“Hi, agent,” Bucky politely said.

“Agent. Always so formal,” she giggled, dragging a chair over from another table and taking a seat without asking. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Barnes. You're a hard man to track down.”

Bubbly agents didn’t bother you in the slightest. You appreciated anyone who could stay upbeat in the line of work you dealt with. It wasn’t the enamored look in her eyes either that bothered you because you understood people wanting Bucky and you were secure in your relationship. No, what bothered you was that he had clearly been kissing his wife and she pointedly avoided looking at you after interrupting. That was just rude.

It also bothered you how uncomfortable Bucky looked when she moved her chair closer to him, his shoulders stiff and smile not reaching his eyes.

“Been spending some time with my wife,” he said proudly, reaching across the table to take your hand. You dipped your head down with a small smile, your heart still doing that funny flip like it had since the moment you met. He even managed to clear out the room so you two could be alone. “We were just finishing up.”

She didn’t spare you a glance as she set a hand on his metal arm. His cheek twitched again, squeezing your hand. It took a lot of effort for you to not knock her back from the table for touching him without his permission. “Excuse me,” you began, your tone even. “I don’t-”

“Do you think you could spar with me later?” she cut you off and either didn’t see or ignored your glare, leaning forward in her seat to make her chest stick out more. Bucky didn’t look. “I’ve been having trouble with a couple of moves and you’re so good at them,” she added, her eyes on him like she wanted to eat him up.

Which wasn’t going to happen.

“I don't think…” he stopped when her fingers trailed higher.

“Please, Sergeant?” she pouted.

Your eyes went back to your husband to get a read on him and make sure he was okay. He wasn't. His smile still didn't look right and his back was ramrod straight. Squeezing his hand seemed to ground him since he breathed a little easier, though your anger was simmering.

“I, um, don’t mind sparring if you really need the help,” Bucky began, gently pulling his arm away. “But you interrupted my time with my wife.”

Her smile faltered while yours widened. Bucky didn't like anyone cutting you off, whether that was your time together or interrupting you speaking. “What?” she asked.

“Hi there. Been sitting here the whole time.” You wiggled your fingers when she finally looked your way. “Excuse us for a second,” you said, avoiding her stare the way she avoided yours. “Bucky, do you think you can wait outside? This agent and I need to have a little chat.”

Your husband looked like he was trying not to laugh and you would take laughter over discomfort any day of the week. “Be nice if you can,” he teased, pressing a featherlight kiss to your hand. “I love you, baby,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” you whispered, something unspoken passing between the two of you.

Defending each other was second nature, always would be.

Bucky didn’t immediately leave the room when he stood up. Instead he rounded the table so he could bend down and kiss your mouth, too. You smiled as it lingered, your heart skipping a beat. “Don’t keep me waiting out there long, Mrs. Barnes,” he whispered.

“I won't, Mr. Barnes,” you teased, tucking some of his hair behind his ear.

Straightening up, he gave a small nod to the agent for her sake. “Come find me later if you still want to talk about sparring. Maybe I can find someone for you.”

“Okay, Sergeant,” she smiled, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. That look wouldn’t last.

You waited until Bucky was gone to face the agent, who stopped smiling the second your husband was out of sight. Leaning back in your seat, you crossed your arms and asked point-blank, “You trying to fuck my husband?”

The wide-eyed expression was priceless when she realized you weren't asking as a joke. “What are you... I just asked him to spar,” she tried to brush it off.

“Please, don't insult my intelligence,” you said. It was beneath both of you to do so. “I get why you want him. Besides being one of the sexiest creatures to ever exist, he’s a good man. Polite, probably treats you with respect. More than most of the men around here.”

She shifted away from you and nodded. “He's a nice guy.”

“He is,” you agreed. They didn't make men like Bucky anymore. “And I’m not going to tell you to stop hitting on my husband, but I highly suggest that you back off. At the very least, don’t throw yourself at him right in front of me. It’s sad.”

“Why?” She had the nerve to smirk. “Worried I’ll steal him away?”

You smirked, too. She had balls and you respected that, but this wasn’t a battle she’d win. “Steal him away? You make it sound like he’s a toy and he isn’t. He’s a man, my man,” you said, holding up your hand so she could get a good look at your wedding ring. “And you are not a threat in the slightest. Our bond is much stronger than that.”

Her smirk went away fast, replaced by something sad. You almost felt sorry for her until she said, “Jealousy isn't a good look on you. It’s kind of… ugly.”

You scoffed. If she wanted to play, you’d play. “Jealous of what? You hitting on a married man who doesn't want you?” you asked, not feeling guilty in the slightest when her face fell. “I’m not telling you to back off because I'm jealous. I told you that because you’re only going to embarrass yourself if you keep trying and you’re going to make my husband more uncomfortable than he already is. I don’t like people making my husband uncomfortable.”

An unspoken threat hung in the air long enough that she swallowed. “And how exactly did I make him uncomfortable?”

“Besides you hitting on him, you touched him without making sure it was okay to do so,” you answered, letting a bit of venom seep into your tone. Bucky went years without autonomy and consent was important to you. He suffered enough and didn’t need to deal with things like this. “I’d hope as an agent you’d be able to pick up on subtle body language cues enough to know that he didn’t want you touching him.”

“And how do you know he doesn’t want me touching him? Are you a mind reader or something?” she sneered, flicking a nonexistent piece of flint from her shirt. “If he really didn't want me touching him, he would've said so. And guess what? He didn't say a word.”

You saw red, your hands curling into fists. For her to ignore the nonverbal cues… “I know my husband. I know Bucky. He doesn’t want you touching him nor does he want to start anything with you because he’s extremely faithful. He won’t throw away a loving, trusting marriage for a quick fuck or doomed affair,” you stated. She bristled, but tried to recover. “If you make a pass at him, he’ll reject you. He’ll do it as respectfully as he can because he’s a good guy, but he will reject you. That’s a promise.”

“Because he loves you so much. Jesus, what makes you so special?” she spat, surprising you both. But the longer you looked at her, the more she deflated under your stare. “I mean… He doesn’t say much to me, but when he does it’s always about you. ‘My wife this’ and ‘my wife that’ and he’s always so… proud.” She shook her head. “Do you know how lucky you are?”

You did feel a little sorry for her now. Crushes hurt, but better that she hurt now and heal than to keep pushing and hurt more later. “I’m not special. We just love each other, that’s all. And, trust me, I’m aware that I’m very lucky to have him. Someone who gets me and will fight for and beside me,” you said, a loving smile touching your lips. You hoped Bucky was listening outside the door. “There’s a guy out there waiting for you, but that guy isn’t Bucky. So don’t lower yourself by trying to go after someone who’s taken.”

She side-eyed you, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “And what if I don’t stop?” she asked.

You giggled humorously, all sympathy gone. The agent actually looked nervous at that sound and you were glad because you weren't going to play nice. “Well, if you don't back off, Bucky could make a complaint about you harassing him or at least request that you’re transferred. Maybe fired since you’re still in your probationary period,” you began, looking at your wedding band when she began to protest. “At the very least, I could have your schedule rearranged so you can spar with me. You see, Bucky taught me a few moves and if a bone or two breaks, well…”

It wasn't an empty threat either. Bucky loved fighting for you, but you could hold your own. It turned him on.

Her eyes darted to the door when you stood up and stretched. “Listen, you don't need to-”

“But do you know what I'm going to do for now?” you asked, cutting her off the way she cut you off. “I'm going to take my husband to one of the interrogation rooms and suck the soul out of his body through his incredible cock,” you smiled sweetly, taking pleasure in the sputtering sound she made. “And after he recovers, he’ll have the choice of bending me over the table and either eating or fucking my pussy. He’ll probably choose both. He’s pretty insatiable.”

She got to her feet, too, and you half expected to see smoke come out of her ears. “I don't need to hear–”

“What? Does hearing that Bucky is going to fuck me and not you make you uncomfortable?” you asked innocently before you got close to her. “Shove your tits in my husband's face again or touch him without his explicit consent, and I won't just make you uncomfortable. I’ll make your life a living hell.”

While you lost the staring contest to Bucky earlier, you very much won against this agent. She stood perfectly still and averted her gaze as you pushed your chair in. “Is that a threat?” she mumbled.

A cliche question, so why not give a cliche answer? “It’s a promise,” you smiled, heading to the door. “Oh, if he does decide to spar with you, I expect you to apologize and behave yourself. I’ll hear about it if you don't.”

Bucky leaned against the wall, waiting for you as you exited the room. He looked over the moon. “We’re going to one of the interrogation rooms, huh?”

You giggled, taking his hand as your cheeks warmed. “Of course, that's what you took from that.”

“How could I not?” he asked, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Thanks, baby. I thought I dropped enough hints that she’d back off.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” you assured him. He deserved to be comfortable at work. If some guy kept hitting on you, he would've stepped in, too.

“You think she’ll back off now?”

“I think so, but you tell me if she doesn't,” you said. You’d keep an eye on her, too, just in case. And if she pushed again, you’d put her back in her place. Maybe you’d make her listen while Bucky fucked you. With his permission, of course. “So, which room should we go to?”

He chuckled, the sound a happy one in the hall. “Room B. We can be as loud as we want,” he replied, tugging you closer. “I’ll show you just how special you are to me.”

Heat filled your body, anticipating how good it would feel to have him fuck your throat and more. “My body is ready, Sergeant,” you teased, shrieking when he picked you up and ignoring the whistles from other agents that walked by.

They were used to the shenanigans of Mr. and Mrs. Barnes by now.

And you couldn't wait for more.

Just like we deserve a loving Bucky, he deserves love, too. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[you-have-a-metal-arm]

JAMES?

pairing : Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count : 1.2k

Warnings : Just general fluff

Summary : When you call Bucky “James”—a name no one else dares to use—he reveals to a stunned Steve and Sam.

Authors Note : Hey y’all i’m back!!! Enjoy this fic 🙈

You stood quietly in the doorway, arms crossed as you watched him. His hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his temples, and his jaw was set in that stubborn way it always was when he refused to admit he was hurting. You let out a soft sigh. You hated seeing him like this—so hard on himself, so weighed down by things he didn’t deserve to carry.

He didn’t notice you at first, too lost in his own storm. But you stepped forward, not hesitating for a second.

“James.”

Your voice cut through the room like a blade, soft yet sharp enough to reach him. The sound made him freeze mid-punch, his metal fist stopping inches from the bag. His head turned slowly, his stormy blue eyes locking onto yours. And in an instant, the tension in his shoulders melted. His gaze softened in a way that made your heart ache, because you knew—you knew—no one else ever got to see him like this.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice rough from exertion but laced with something warmer. Something vulnerable.

Steve, halfway through a set of sit-ups in the corner, dropped to the floor in disbelief. “Wait—what?”

Sam, leaning lazily against the wall with a water bottle in hand, nearly spit out his drink. “Hold the hell up,” he said, straightening. “Did she just call you James?”

Steve sat up fully now, wiping his forehead with his shirt and glaring at Bucky like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “She did. And—” his voice faltered as he pointed a finger at Bucky, “—you’re okay with it?”

Bucky glanced at Steve, then at Sam, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. But when he looked back at you, something in his expression shifted. He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Yeah. So?”

Sam’s jaw practically hit the floor. “So? You nearly ripped my arm off when I tried calling you that one time!”

Steve nodded furiously. “He’s not exaggerating. You said, and I quote, ‘Don’t ever call me that again unless you want to find out how fast I can break your jaw.’”

“Exactly!” Sam threw his hands up. “And now she just waltzes in here, says James like it’s nothing, and you’re—what? Cool with it?”

Bucky’s gaze hardened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “She’s not you.”

“Oh, no, we get that,” Sam said sarcastically. “But why the hell is she the exception?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His hand flexed at his side—flesh and metal both—but his focus stayed on you, his eyes tracing the curve of your face as if grounding himself. Finally, he said, quietly but with conviction, “Because she’s mine.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Steve and Sam exchanged a look—a mixture of shock, disbelief, and maybe even a little amusement—but neither of them dared to speak.

You, however, raised an eyebrow, lips twitching as you fought back a smile. “Yours, huh?”

Bucky’s ears turned a faint shade of pink, but he didn’t back down. His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Yeah. Mine.”

“God,” Sam muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so disgustingly soft, I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Agreed,” Steve said, though there was a small, knowing smile on his face as he stood up. “You two can have your… moment. We’ll leave.”

As the door closed behind them, you turned back to Bucky, who was already watching you like you were the only thing that mattered. His expression had softened completely now, the rough edges smoothed out into something raw, something real.

“James,” you said again, stepping closer, and you saw the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his lips parted slightly like he needed to hear it just one more time.

“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice quieter now.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” you said softly, reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair away from his face. “Come take a break.”

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something. “I just… I didn’t want to bother you. I needed to work it out.”

“James,” you said, firmer this time, and his breath hitched like the sound of his name from your lips alone was enough to shake him. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.”

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath, and his hand—metal and warm and steady—reached up to wrap around yours. He held it there, against his cheek, like he was afraid you might pull away. “It’s not just the name,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “When you say it… it’s different. It feels… good.”

Your heart swelled, and you gave him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s because I love you, James. All of you. Even the parts you don’t think are worth loving.”

His eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them again, they were glassy, like he was fighting to keep the emotions at bay. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Stop it,” you said gently, stepping closer until your foreheads touched. “You deserve everything. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just held you there, close, his arms wrapping around your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world. And maybe, in some ways, you were.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

“James,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

A soft, broken laugh escaped him, and he pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You’re all I’ve got,” he whispered, his voice muffled but full of emotion. “And you’re all I need.”

You held him there, running your fingers through his hair, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself just be. Vulnerable. Loved. Yours.

Thanks for reading 😁