#and COMPETE RADIO SILENCE

[mortalscience]

been talking and thinking a lot lately about how penelope ends up in relationships with terrible men and she lets herself be treated poorly and it just always makes me think about how the biggest and most significant of these types of relationships was actually derek morgan

[altruisticalastor]

↳˗ˏˋAlastor x Readerˊˎ˗ ↴

☒ Summary: Alastor was on edge from the early reaping approaching. He was in his radio tower every hour of every day. You worried for him. But you didn't dare to disturb his work. You knew better than that.

☒ Warnings: fem!reader, smut, implied established relationship, full demonic form!alastor, power imbalance, (alastor owns reader's soul), size kink, dacryphilia, creampie, begging, tentacle usage

☒ Word Count: 1,654

Selling your soul over to Alastor wasn't all that bad. 

The Radio Demon proved to be cordial. As long as you stayed in line. You hadn't planned on relinquishing your soul. Let alone to the heartless son of a bitch, Alastor. 

But the dapper man presented you with an offer you couldn't deny. Your soul in exchange for protection and power. As a new demon perusing through hell, you knew some help would be needed during the yearly reapings. So, you shook on it. Sealing your fate. 

Over the decades of being chained to Alastor, he began to grow a soft spot for you. It was gradual, but before you knew it, The Radio Demon had you hanging on to every word he said. 

You assumed your little crush for Alastor was one-sided. But one evening, Nifty blabbered to you about Alastor's habit of slaughtering any demon that even looked at you funny. Your heart skipped a beat. From then on, you picked up on all the glances he shot your way. 

Anytime you were in a room together, his crimson gaze was on you. Alastor watched you as if you were his prey. You didn't fail to notice how he only allowed you to touch him without repercussion. The Radio Demon often eased up from your warm embraces, which solidified your suspicions.

It didn't take long after that for Alastor to call you out on your fondness for him. You were more than flustered when he admitted to knowing all along. But The Radio Demon quickly eased your spiraling thoughts. He admitted to the feeling being mutual. 

From that day forward, your relationship only flourished. But Alastor always made it a point to highlight that he was the one in control at all times. 

Alastor was on edge from the early reaping approaching. He was in his radio tower every hour of every day. You worried for him. But you didn't dare to disturb his work. You knew better than that.

Eventually, you had no choice. It had been weeks, and no one had heard from Alastor. The hotel patrons pleaded for you to bring him out of his workspace. You denied it vehemently until those fuckers peer-pressured you into caving. 

You muttered curses as you marched up to Alastor's radio tower. You cleared your throat before calling out to him. Your balled-up fists trembling beside you. "A-Alastor? May I come in?" 

As the seconds of silence flew by, your anxiety increased. A few minutes passed before the door flung open. Revealing an unmistakably irritated Alastor. "What is it?" His sharp tone sent a chill down your spine as he stepped aside. Allowing you to enter his sacred space. 

"E-Everyone's worried about you. So I just wanted to make sure that you were okay," Your voice was timid as you fixed your gaze on the floor. You heard a deep sigh escape Alastor before you felt his hands on you. He grasped your jaw firmly, forcing you to look him in the eyes. 

"You doubt my competence, my dear?" You froze, desperately racking your brain for a response. Alastor's other hand held your hip firmly. His grasp on you was bruising, no doubt. "Of course not! I just- with all the stress you've been under I... I want to help you in any way I can!"

You saw the wheels turning in Alastor's mind from your declaration. His hand at your jaw slithered down. Clutching your other hip as he pushed you backward. You stumbled slightly, and a gasp escaped you as your backside came in contact with his control panel. "Anything, you say?" 

Alastor's voice was low as he hoisted you up. You now sat atop the control panel as The Radio Demon slotted himself between your parted thighs. You nodded fervently in agreement. "Anything, use me how you see fit."

That was all the conformation he needed. Alastor wasted no time hiking your skirt over your thighs. A blunt gasp escaped you as his sharp nails dipped between your legs, tearing your panties to shreds in one swift motion. Your eyes widened as you noticed The Radio Demon begin to morph into something more sinister before your very eyes. 

Alastor's antlers tripled in size, as did his frame. A glowing red X marked the middle of his forehead, and his pupils turned into radio dials. His body completely enveloped yours as Alastor freed himself from his trousers. You bit your lip in anticipation as you admired his length. His antlers weren't the only thing that tripled. 

His cock was an angry red, leaking a copious amount of precum as he bullied himself into your welcoming walls. "A-Alastor!" You whined as the tip of his hard length pushed past the tight ring of your pussy. You outstretched your arms to wrap around his twisted neck. But before you could get that far, Alastor's tendrils came out to play. 

"Don't get ahead of yourself, my dear. I'm the one in control. Do I need to remind you of that?" Alastor's radio static was heavier on his tone than ever. A gasp escaped you as his tentacles tangled around your limbs. Your arms were now bound, and your legs were spread wide, giving Alastor better access to your dripping heat. 

But that wasn't all. Your glowing green choker appeared before your very eyes. Alastor removed one hand from your hip to clutch the chain leash that dangled off your collar. A loud moan escaped you as Alastor plowed the rest of his cock deep inside your pussy. 

"You speak when I say you can speak." He groaned, thrusting into you deep and tugging you closer by the blunt green chain.

"You touch me when I say you can touch me." Alastor pulled back, leaving only the tip of his ruddy cock nestled inside you.

"And you come when I say you can come." His hips snapped sharply, prodding your g-spot faultlessly. "Understood?" Alastor's smile took up nearly half his face as he peered down at you. 

You scored your bottom lip with your teeth, waiting for the green light to speak. Alastor granted you another quick thrust. "Look's like someone was paying attention, good girl. You may speak now, darling."

Your lips trembled as Alastor began fucking into you wildly. "Y-Yes! I understand, I'll be good!" You babbled as one of his tendrils dipped between your thighs. The slippery tentacle flicked teasingly over your clit. You couldn't help the way your pussy clenched around Alastor's cock from the delicious sensation. 

Alastor grunted from the feeling, but his hips never eased up. The Radio Demon fucked himself into you with reckless abandon. Chasing his own high above all else. The prodding at your sweet spot and the slippery tendril swiping at your clit was nearly too much to bear. You knew the coil within your tummy was merely moments from unraveling. 

"Alastor! P-Please, I'm so close... please can I-" You babbled, giving him a pleading look as his sharp claws dug deep into your hip. Your vision blurred as tears spilled past your lash line. Your neck ached from the collar chafing your delicate skin, and your arms went numb from how long they were bound for. 

His tongue darted out to lick the tears that ran down your cheek. You felt him throb deep within you from how you cowered beneath him. "Hmm... not good enough. You need to try harder than that, my dear." His pace was ungodly at this point. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room.

Your mind was fuzzy as you tried to form a coherent thought. Alastor chuckled wickedly above you as his tentacles tightened around your limbs. His grip on your leash was unwavering. "Please, Alastor! Please may I come? I'll be so good I-I promise... I beg you!'

Your pleading voice was hoarse as more tears slipped past your waterline. Bottom lip quivering as you peered up at him desperately. Alastor's pace faltered for a moment. Your pitiful plea riled him up more than he cared to admit. His release was near, it was only a matter of time. 

"Much better. Go on, come for me!" The moment Alastor uttered those words, you were gone. Your eyes rolled back into your skull, legs trembling wildly as your white hot release overtook your senses. Your pussy gushed around Alastor's cock as he fucked you through your high. 

Alastor groaned loudly above you as he slammed himself to the hilt inside you before stilling. A whine was pulled from your throat the second you felt Alastor's cum painting your walls white. His grip on your leash eased up, the green collar dissipating before your eyes. The Radio Demon slowly began to shrink in size as the last of his load filled you up. 

You took a shaky breath as the tendrils slithered away from your limbs, finally allowing you to stretch them out. Alastor took on his normal appearance now as he slowly pulled himself out of your spent pussy. Embarrassment flooded your body from the aftershocks of what transpired. "Well, that was effective copulation, my dear! I feel as right as rain now!"

All you could do was stare at him dumbfounded as you pulled your skirt over your thighs. Alastor was back to his somewhat usual self. Who knew all he needed was to fuck you to get him out of his stressed state of mind. He offered you a hand as you slumped off the control panel, trying to stand on shaky legs. 

"Glad you're better, Al. Now that we settled that- can we talk about how you never told me you could do that with your coc-" Alastor's finger pressed against your lips, silencing you.

"Now, now. No need for such vulgar talk! What my body can do is for me to know and for you to find out."

tags; @danveration @jyoongim @stygianoir @polytheatrix@littlebullofblythe @cxrsedwxrlds @lillithhearts @nogiggleonlybitter @chewbrry @nonetheartist @zombiesnips-blog @stargirlplanet @twistedkisses

leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist!

please have your age in your bio or i cannot add you.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! CoD Headcanons: König x Reader x Ghost

Featuring two men, one mission, and a female reader that caught their interest more than they’d like to admit. TW: Obsessive behavior, violence, dubious consent, mildly NSFW

[Part II]

It really shouldn’t be that fucking difficult. You go, you complete the mission, you return. Repeat. That’s what they’ve been doing for years. So much, in fact, that most of it is really just a sequence of mechanical actions, done so often they’ve become part of the subconscious. Crushing the throat under an armlock, stalking the target, mounting the suppressor before a sneak shot. Like driving a car, it becomes a learned routine.

Naturally there are elements of novelty to each mission. New teammates, new places, new requirements. It’s all part of the job. People come and go, comrades stay in your heart. What happens, however, when that latter part isn’t enough? Both Ghost and König have become accustomed to the classic rule: don’t get attached. Yet this time, for whatever reason, the nagging anxiety in the back of their heads just won’t go away. A pitiful need is clawing the walls of their pride, like a stray dog whimpering after the first sign of shelter. People come and go, but (Y/N) stays. Somehow this statement has materialized in their hearts and no other truth can be accepted.

They cannot pinpoint the exact moment this insidious feeling has nestled its way in. It started rather innocently. The first brief greetings were done on the loud, bumpy ride towards the temporary base. ‘Greetings’ is a generous word for it. Ghost had nodded at you in acknowledgement, and König merely glanced at you before staring into the distance.

You scarcely interacted with each other on the field, although that’s probably where their respect for you had gradually built up. You’re swift and efficient, nearly competing in ruthlessness. For König, the most memorable affair was you quietly twisting the neck of an enemy he failed to detect in time. His eyes widened upon seeing the barrel pointed at him, but just as speedily your form emerged from the shadows and you lunged at the assailant. Once the deed had been done, you merely lifted your hand in a thumbs up gesture and you went on. He remained there for a good minute, staring at the massive man you took down without hesitation. Similarly, Lt. Riley felt the cold beads of sweat forming on his forehead as his teammate shouted into the radio, demanding reinforcements. He wouldn’t make it in time and the anticipating guilt begun knotting in his stomach. He was searching for a solution when a prolonged round of bullets jolted him back to the radio. Moments of static silence, before you spoke in your headset: “Targets down. Out.” And just like that, you had vanished.

The realization hadn’t truly hit until they encountered you out of battle. They were going over the map when a small, dainty hand pointed to a random location. For a second they were startled, wondering if a civilian somehow entered their base. They hadn’t even registered your presence. Standing next to König’s enormous frame, you almost faded into the background as one of the furniture pieces. You were still in uniform, sure, but the heavy combat accessories and the dust of the bloodied fields seemed to have added more inches to your posture, at least in their imagination. You glared incredulously and inquired if it’s dementia or misogyny stopping them from recognizing (Y/N) (L/N). Ghost cleared his throat and curtly apologized for his reaction and König mumbled a continuation to it, suddenly and unexplainably awkward.

Such a faux pas would normally be swept under the rug. Had tactfulness and diplomacy been their key strengths, they wouldn’t be out here shooting people. But whatever embarrassment struck them on that particular day continued to linger, tugging their focus in a restless reminiscence. Until it finally occurred to them it wasn’t embarrassment persistently occupying their minds. Rather, and it should’ve been obvious, they have since become helplessly infatuated with you. The elephant in the room had gotten a name. But this particular elephant came with thick tendrils of obsession, spreading out relentlessly and asphyxiating any attempts to subdue it.

It really shouldn’t be that fucking difficult. Except it is. It’s hard for Ghost to look you in the eyes and give you the orders without clenching his fists and desperately trying to bury the avalanching thoughts of pushing you against that very wall, railing you until you forget his name. König can barely peek in your direction without being plagued by indecent images of your flushed, drooling face as he slams into your frail body.

Even worse is when the men become aware of each other’s intentions. Ghost had meant to check up on you after the latest expedition, but he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of König inspecting your wounds, his large hand resting innocently on your thigh as he squatted before you. You were in too much discomfort to notice, but it was clear to him. This bastard had a death wish. Days later it was König’s turn to taste the bitter betrayal when he heard your vibrant laugh approaching. You were thanking your companion for the entertaining workout and Ghost took advantage of your relaxed, distracted mood to place a hand against your arched back. That’s when he looked over with a predatory, malicious glint in his eye, as if marking his territory. You smiled, blissfully unaware of the suffocating tension within the room.

It’s no longer a matter of you accepting them or not. It’s who gets his hands on you first. You really must try to see it from their perspective, (Y/N). Put aside their love for you for a moment, and think about it. They’re only doing what’s best for you. Someone like you will never be satisfied with just any other man out there. You need a fitting partner, one that can protect you with imperishable, incessant loyalty. That’s truly the logical conclusion to it: there’s no one else for you. Just like nobody will ever compare to you in their eyes. And lamentably, you can’t afford to doubt their argument. The clock is ticking, and before they know it, the mission will be over and you’ll all be shipped to the next task. They can’t have that. They must act now.

“Isn’t it kind of early?” You ask, stretching up to check the ammunition shelves. Ghost asked you to help him gather some supplies from one of the storage closets, yet no one else is currently preoccupied with it. The hallways are empty and the only sound is your own shuffle between the cramped walls, emphasized especially by the tall man next to you. “I like to plan ahead” is all he answers. He bites his lower lip underneath the mask, contemplating his next step. How the fuck do you casually tell someone they’ve been your wet dream for months and you’d like to make it official, with or without their input? He should probably leave out the first part. Yeah. You don’t need the details of his nightly activities. Nonetheless, he has to make it clear who you belong to now. Afterwards he’ll deal with the pest that’s been wagging his tail around you.

“Oh, fuck this.” He eventually huffs out, exasperated. You jump slightly at the sudden outburst and turn to him, confused. He approaches you until your back hits the shelves, at which point he slams a hand above your head and effectively traps you between his sinewy arms. Perfect fucking spot. No, he shouldn’t get sidetracked. Plenty of time for that later. “What the hell?” Is the only thing that comes out of your mouth. His eyes are hollow, yet determined. A cold shiver runs down your spine and your eyes dart around the room, looking for an escape. At this distance you wouldn’t be able to tackle him down. He’s too big. Goddamnit. You grip his forearm, hoping to find some switch that pulls him out of this bizarre behavior. Ghost opens his mouth to speak, but the words dissolve into the explosive noise of the door ripping from its hinges. You yell at the sudden commotion.

König walks in, bending under the small doorframe. He seems to have just returned from the battlegrounds, vest splattered with fresh blood and sleeves scratched and torn. Despite the usual cloth draped over the head, you can discern a feral expression plastered on his face. “Du Landschlampe.” He growls and extends a hand towards Ghost. He clicks his tongue, annoyed, and is forced to release his hold on you to block the incoming blow. This is your chance. You nod at the Austrian man, grateful for his help, and proceed to sprint for the exit. Contrary to your expectations, he swiftly blocks your path and you slam into his body as the air is abruptly expelled from your lungs. You fall to the ground from the powerful momentum.

“You’re not leaving until we settle this”, König states in a low voice. Ghost reaches for one of his pockets and pulls out his hunting knife with a parading twirl. “That, I agree with. Let me show you exactly what happens to the fucker that messes with my woman.” König lets out a chuckle. “I was going to say the same thing.” You can only stare in terror.

What on Earth is going on?

[my-mind-mansion]

❤️Alastor takes you on a date for valentines day❤️

(And makes whoopee with you afterwards lol) {Alastor x reader/ sex with meaning/ mild vanilla missionary sex/ fem receiving/ romance/ romantic sex/ slow burn/ Valentine’s special.}

This year was no different than every year previous. You had no plans for valentines day and had already gotten ready for bed (it was 5 pm). Once you settled on the couch in your pajamas, Alastor came bursting through the door with a huge grin on his face. He was up to something, you could tell. He stood directly in front of the tv and demanded you give him your full attention. You smiled and put your phone down. “My dear, I have something important I’d like to say to you.” He said, hardly containing his excitement.

You sat up straight and leaned forward. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together lately and.. well, this connection I have with you.. I’ve never had it with anyone else.. so, I was hoping you’d be my valentine! And let me spoil you with a romantic outing!” He got down on one knee as he pulled out the traditional bouquet of red roses from behind his back. You gasped and blushed. This was the last thing you were expecting of Alastor. It was true that the two of you had spent a lot of time together and you were more than well-acquainted. Alastor was quite the dreamboat, especially on his knees, practically courting you like this.

Your heart and mind competed in speed over who was racing faster. You sat there, stunned and in silence. Your non-response stung like rejection in Alastor’s chest. “Oh please say yes! I’ve made reservations for places I just KNOW you’ll love!” He said, as you slowly grabbed the bouquet. You were unsure. “You’re.. not messing with me, right?” You asked. While this is what you dreamed of at night, it was extremely out of character for him. “Of course not!” He stood up and snapped his fingers, instantly changing his daily suit into a fancier tailcoat. You blushed even deeper red. Wow he was handsome. “Now, I want you ready in an hour! I’ll be waiting right here.” He said, sitting on the couch and turning the tv off.

Without another word, you made your way to your bedroom to get ready. You were nervous. You quickly did your makeup, hair, and picked out your outfit and accessories in silence. You were still uneasy. While you wanted this to be true, Alastor was a trickster and a deal maker. You sprayed perfume and grabbed your phone. You headed back to the living room and met Alastor’s gaze. You saw him physically react to seeing you all dolled up. His hungry eyes were feeding on you as his cheeks flushed pink.

You met him halfway in the room. His hands were immediately on your body, feeling you up. He leaned into your hair and inhaled your scent. He sighed lustfully. Your skin was burning up. He casually kissed your neck. Your knees became weak as you nearly collapsed in his arms. You looked up at him with big eyes. His smile softened. “You look beautiful, dear.” He said. You swooned and giggled before collecting yourself and pulling away. “Alastor.. are you sure you’re serious?” You asked, insecurity present in your voice. He pulled you back in. “Yes.” He kissed your lips. You were speechless as he pulled away. “I want you. And I’m going to give you a valentines date to remember.” You stared up at him. That was the first kiss the two of you shared.

“Now come on, I know you’re hungry. First up is your favorite restaurant!” He offered his arm, which you immediately accepted and held onto. You leaned into him with a dazed smile as the two of you strolled the sidewalks of hell. He walked with pride, puffing out his chest; as you clung to his arm and followed along without a care. You knew he would protect you, because nobody wanted to mess with the Radio Demon. It felt nice to be able to basically turn your brain off and follow him blindly. He seemed proud to have you on his arm as he greeted his fellow overlords when they passed by.

The dinner you shared was damn perfect. He held every door for you, pulled out your chair, and ordered you dessert. While your favorite restaurant’s food was always good, Alastor is what made the experience perfect. “So sweetheart, I hear the local theater is doing a production of Phantom of the Opera.” You perked up in excitement. His smile grew softer as he pulled out two tickets from his pocket. You blushed and batted your eyelashes at him as he tucked them back into his pocket. “I just wanted to let you know, I do pay attention..” you listened. “..and there’s good reason for you to not give me your complete trust.”

You watched as he snapped his fingers and summoned a demonic document. “But I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I want you to have a good time tonight, and you have my genuine word that my intentions are pure.” He said, signing the paper. “Did you just make a deal with yourself?” You asked him. “No. This deal states that if I’m lying, you gain full access to whatever punishment for me that you see fit.” He said, snapping it away again. You were speechless. He had really made the effort to reassure you in his own twisted way.“Anyway, I’m excited to see Phantom. I’ve actually never seen it live, have you?” He casually went on with the conversation.

You viewed him in a different light the rest of the evening. Little things that he would do meant the world to you. He constantly checked up on your mood by making quiet observations. Not once did he put you in a stressful or uncomfortable situation. The entire evening, he handled the conversations when anyone dared to question what the two of you were doing out together. There was also no way he was letting any man disrespect you. “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll leave us the hell alone.” He said dangerously to the drunk man in the restaurant who would’ve followed you home, if you were out on your own.

Once the two of you were back outside after your meal, you hummed girlishly and clung to his arm again, without a care in the world. He chuckled under his breath. “You seem to be enjoying yourself, dear.” He observed. You blushed and smiled up at him. “I am.” He brushed the lint off of your back and fixed your hair. You felt seen. Maybe he was serious about this. “Well, our next stop is the theater!”

The show went as expected and you lip synced nearly every word. Alastor held your hand during All I Ask of You. After the show, he led you out of the theater. You shivered. It had gotten chilly during the musical. The Radio Demon immediately draped his coat over your shoulders and wrapped his arm around you as you walked with him. “Alastor.. I’ve never felt this taken care of before..” you said, showing him an ounce of vulnerability. He stopped and picked a wild flower. “I promise that you’ll never feel neglected again.” He said, handing you the singular small flower. You took it and tucked it behind your ear. You would surely press it into a book later.

The two of you walked through the nicer side of hell- the park. The bushes and trees were illuminated by the brightly lit full moon above. You swore you heard ragtime radio in the air. Alastor smirked, noticing your reaction. The atmosphere was perfect for a midnight stroll and a romantic moment. He knew this. He had planned this for weeks. Your attention was caught on the dimly lit gazebo off the trail. “Since when does the city decorate for valentines day?” You asked him. He smirked. “They don’t.” He responded, slyly. Your eyes widened.

He pulled back the semi-see-through tule curtain, revealing the setting inside. “After you, sweetheart.” He said, motioning for you to enter first. It was straight out of a fairy tale book. The curtains provided privacy, but also let in the fresh breeze. There were dim lights strung through the ceiling and a rainbow of different flowers up the sides and the walls. You took it all in. There was a tray of multiple different alcohol choices in the corner. Next to it, his radio. The ragtime smoothly transitioned into a jazzier song.

He joined you inside and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in. “What would you like to drink, my love?” You were over the moon. “Oh- I- well-“ you hugged him and smiled. “Whatever you pour is fine.” He gave a soft laugh and poured two half glasses of the same wine. “Why don’t you try my favorite first and tell me what you think?” He handed you your glass. You sipped it once and quickly sipped it again. It was sweet, but smooth. “I definitely like it!” You said, finishing the first glass within seconds. “Well, I’ll say you do!” He chuckled and poured you a different drink. “How about this one?” You tasted it. “Mmm…” You learned very quickly that Alastor had great taste in fine wines.

The two of you were 5 or 6 drinks deep. You leaned into his chest, blinking up at him. It was getting warm- what with the combination of the wine, the curtains, and the tension between you two. He casually removed his coat from your shoulders and tossed it to the side. The jazz had turned into a hint of a slow waltz, exactly as planned. He took your hand in his and smiled down at you, drunkenly. His other hand was on your waist, swaying you to the beat of the music. You blushed. You could tell that he put effort into this entire date.

You wrapped your free hand around his shoulder, only clothed with his fancy fitted button up. You looked at the charming man in front of you. His perfectly dapper appearance was becoming slightly disheveled, due to the alcohol. You loved his silly old-timey accessories- his monocle- his pocket watch- his bowtie. His eyes were on yours and you couldn’t look away. You had never seen this side of Alastor before and it was better than you could’ve ever imagined. Soon, your eyes started to wander.

The wine gave you the confidence to run your fingertips down his back and explore every part of his backside, basically feeling him up. You weren’t even hiding the fact that you were checking him out, biting your lip as you took in how well-dressed he was. His shirt, tucked into his flattering fitted slacks, was an even more enticing view now that you were drunk. You grabbed his hips and ran your hands over his backside, groping him. He gasped, but allowed it. His bowtie, in desperate need of tightening, was simply begging you to pull it untied. You did. You couldn’t stop yourself from unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, either. He allowed it, but was taken aback. You leaned in and kissed his neck, that was taunting you all night. You got the desired response. He let out a breathy, weak gasp and moan that you felt deep to your core. You hugged him and he hugged you back, holding each other and giggling. “Alastor.. take me home~” you sweet talked him as you played with his hair. He instantly teleported the both of you back to the hallway of the hotel.

The two of you definitely had way too much to drink as you stumbled into his bedroom. He locked the door behind him and eyed you up and down as you got on his bed. You bit your lip lustfully and signaled him over with your finger. He couldn’t hold himself back from immediately pinning you to his bed and getting on top of you. You, in return, pulled him in close by wrapping your arms and legs around him. You smiled up at him.

The heat between your thighs was unbearable as he pressed his throbbing erection against it. You had only fantasized about him on top of you like this, and now it was your reality. He kissed you as he gently rubbed the huge bulge in his pants against the thin fabric of your underwear. You continued to hold him tight against you, pulling him in even closer. It was obvious you wanted him. The Radio Demon never broke eye contact with you as he slid your underwear off and unzipped his pants.

You felt his warm shaft introduce itself to the drenched folds between your legs. The Radio Demon rubbed himself up and down your soaked slit, not entering yet. You recalled the conversations the two of you had throughout the night and ran your fingers through his hair. You shivered when his pre-cum soaked head met your aroused clit. You couldn’t help the moan that escaped your lips as he gave your clit the attention it needed. You threw your head back and smiled.

He couldn’t help but slide his hand between your thighs and go right for the sensitive bundle of nerves at your core. Alastor lovingly rubbed it left and right with his finger. The waves of pleasure were washing over your body as your fluids multiplied and dripped down. “A-Alastor.. fuck me..” you begged him, running your hands over his broad shoulders. He didn’t need to be told twice. He smirked down at you and pressed the head of his cock against your entrance.

The two of you never broke eye contact as he slid his shaft into your slick sheath, painfully slow. You enjoyed every second as he nestled himself inside of you. He was soon balls deep, head pressing impatiently against the entrance to your womb, and face contorting in pleasure. You both gasped uncontrollably. You were united in the most intimate way. You cupped his face with both of your hands and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. The mumbles of ecstasy that he made against your lips were causing your walls to pulse and squeeze him tighter.

He began his thrusting, still going painfully slow. He wanted to make sure he treated you like the most fragile glass figurine. He had a secret fear of harming you, and did everything in his power to prevent it. He knew that he was powerful, strong, scary even. He took his time running his hands over your body and grabbing your hips, using them as leverage to push himself into you. He treated you with the utmost care and consideration, even though he was drunk. You clung to his shoulders, writhing underneath him as you curled your toes behind his back.

Your first time with the Radio Demon was an out-worldly experience. It was warm, romantic, and you felt every single inch of him. His name was under your breath at every thrust. Alastor was very vocal when he was in pleasure, not holding back a single moan. You looked up at the beautiful man on top of you. His tailcoat was long gone, thrown to the side somewhere; his slacks were somewhere nearby. His bowtie was untied and hanging from his neck, moving with him at every thrust. His fitted dress shirt had turned into a wrinkled sweaty mess, the top 4 buttons undone.

His eyes were on your face, his radio dials starting to become present. You could tell he was holding back, and you appreciated him being so gentle with you the first time. The next time though, you would make sure that you requested the sadistic, unfiltered, overlord demon to fuck you. You noticed he was even having a hard time holding back now, his tentacles and antlers peaking through. The radio on his nightstand emitted crackling static and the lights throughout the hotel flickered. “I- I’m close..” he whimpered in your ear. It felt incredible seeing this vulnerable side of Alastor.

Your ankles locked behind his back and your arms pulled his body flush against yours. “Cum inside of me~” you begged. There was no way he had the strength to pull out now. Not like he was planning to in the first place. His tentacles grew and wrapped around your waist as you heard eldritch wendigo squeals. You held him tight against you as he nearly transformed into his full demon form. He took one final deep thrust and spilled his seed into you. Your pussy throbbed as it got filled to the brim with his cum. Getting bred by Alastor was something you’ve only dreamed of. The two of you enjoyed the realm of pleasure that you created together as he stayed inside of you for a moment.

You were both out of breath as he rolled over by your side and scooped you up into his embrace. “Put your head on my chest, sweetheart.” You did. You wrapped your arms around him and nuzzled your face into him. You were mentally in outer space as you got to cuddle with your fluffy deer man. You giggled in his arms. He smiled down at you. “You are so incredible.” He praised, playing with your hair. “..and beautiful.” He kissed your forehead. His face was nuzzled into your hair as he held you against his chest. “You mean so much to me.” He spoke softly, rubbing your back. You continued to cling onto him, fully processing what had just happened. You thought back to the deal he made over dinner, how reassured you had felt then. You feel even more cared for now, after his passionate love-making. You looked up at him, nearly half asleep, but wanting to kiss him again. You puckered your lips. He held you close and lazily brushed his lips against yours. You both fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s embraces; your faces inches away from each other.

{First NSFW post!!}

[keferon]

Blurr's public presences is spotless -- held aloft as a pinnacle of humanity, unreachable by anyone else. But, outside the public eye...he's still human.

----------------------------------

It's only when Blurr is sure he's alone in the office that he allows himself to relax.  He turns off the TV broadcast spouting out statistics about how fact his mech can go and how many new recruits have signed up for the program under their latest drive.  He silences the radio, that was giving an update about how the mecha program benefits communities too – how just the other day, Blurr had stopped to help a family get their kitten out of a tree and still been speedy enough to save the day afterwards.

Blurr sighs and slumps into his office desk chair, casual grin sliding off his face.  He stretches out one arm to sweep away the pile of newspapers neatly stacked in the center of the desk.  The action papers the office floor with headlines and photos – his own name and face staring back at him.

Blurr.  Blurr.  Blurr.  Blurr. Blurr…blurr…blurr….

At least he's never in danger of forgetting his own name, he thinks sardonically.  Not with someone saying it every few seconds he's not alone.

Not that it matters really.  Publicity stunts.  All of it.  Meaningless.

There've been countless attacks in recent weeks Blurr knows, even if he can't hold on to the exact number.  Countless actual mech pilots on the front lines. 

Blurr knows because he watches them hurrying through the hangars each day, grim looks on their faces.  He feels a twinge of guilt that he doesn't know any of their names.  Doesn't even know for sure that they're the same people, though he's fairly certain they must be.

Not that it really matters.  He's not really one of them.  Never has been.

And it's not like he's alone in not knowing their names.  The media doesn't seem to know or care who's actually saving everyone's lives.  The boss doesn't seem to care either, so long as the world isn't ending and money is still flowing into his pockets.

Blurr should care.  He should.  They're the ones actually fighting for humanity – the real heroes.  Not Blurr.

But some days, some days it's all just a bit too much.  Because if he cares, he has to admit the truth.  And if he admits the truth, then he's no longer the shining, perfect icon of humanity everyone expects him to be.  So the façade remains unbroken, even as Blurr chafes underneath it.

He wants to be more.  Misses the thrill of the actual race.  Not just the stunts the boss schedules him for, where he runs a set distance through a controlled environment under spotlights and cameras.  Give him the wind whipping through his hair.  Give him the intensity of competing against the best of the best – human ingenuity and improvisation put to the test as they were pitted against an equally intelligent opponent in a lightning-fast test of skills.  He misses the adrenaline rush of the race.  Misses knowing that each time he finished he had done something few others could – and that it was something that mattered.

The boss assures him that what he does does matter.  That the program wouldn't – couldn't exist without him. 

Because they need that good publicity. (Blurr still feels like he should be doing more.) 

They need the money he brings in from donors.   (The boss at least, definitely wants the money.  Though whether he needs the money, Blurr finds questionable every time he watches him keep a check for himself that's substantially larger than the one Blurr walks away with.)

But at the end of the day Blurr can't argue that the boss and the money don't keep the program running.  And if he has no regrets that he still hasn't learned his bosses name, well….  The man acts understanding every time he's around Blurr, but Blurr can tell that that's all it is – an act (and he would know).  And if Blurr himself lets his confidence cross the line into arrogance and acts just a little bit more dismissive than he has to around the man, he doubts many would blame him.  The less time he has to spend with the boss the better.

Even if the boss seems to think the opposite of him.  He'd given Blurr a private radio the day Blurr first signed on to his contract, all in the name of being helpful.  Anything Blurr needed, anything at all.  Blurr has gotten the feeling though that it's as much so that the boss can keep track of Blurr as his investment.  He uses it more to call on Blurr – for anything and everything any time of day or night that might get a boost from a little extra star power.

Speaking of…Blurr's radio crackles to life.  "You have an appointment in engineering in five.  Be there.  Find someone else to assist you, I'm busy.  Over and out."  The radio dies as suddenly as it came to life.

Blurr sighs again, picks up his coffee cup from the desk and downs it in one gulp.  He kicks the newspapers into a corner of the office and shrugs on his coat.  The smile slides easily back onto his face as though it had never been out of place as he steps forward, opens his office door, and wanders out to find someone who might be able to help him find engineering.

“He misses the adrenaline rush of the race.  Misses knowing that each time he finished he had done something few others could – and that it was something that mattered.” ANON YOU ARE KILLING ME. BRUTALLY MURDERING WITHOUT ANY MERCY AND IM NOT COMPLAINING EVEN IN THE SLIGHTEST /POS

[cringefailvox]

underrated hazbin hotel fic recs

hi! for the purposes of this list, my understanding of "underrated" is likely arbitrary, but i'm roughly judging by the metric of fics that either have under 100 kudos, or have an egregiously skewed kudos to comment ratio (i.e. 10 comments to 250 kudos, etc, bc wtf?) enjoy and please show these fics some love!!

blue light dreams by @morningsofgold - velvette-centric polyvees with a masterfully crafted atmosphere and fantastic character voices; spins such a rich and complex web of dynamics between all three of them that is just perfect. their other velvette-centric oneshot is delightful as well!

The Greedy Lack More by @hua-liansimp - radiostatic college au with eldritch horror alastor and a wonderfully toxic situationship where vox blackmails alastor into being his friend in exchange for vox's silence, but by no means is alastor going to make it easy for him

Paved With Good Intentions by ItsClydeBitches - platonic charlie & alastor character study where alastor learns that razzle & dazzle can sense malicious intentions towards charlie, and would've killed him when he first arrived if he'd actually wanted to hurt her. he has a mild crisis about it. their other genfic, A Wacky Wager, is also hilarious - husk and alastor make petty deals to entertain themselves, charlie disapproves

pivot by fiveandnocents - staticmoth smut with background polyvees where vox is the hinge, val is extremely jealous, and they are all really bad at this polyamory thing. really good inner narration from vox and val’s character voice is spot-on

Because I Love You by tellyvision - another platonic radiobelle fic, with genuinely gorgeous prose and very well-crafted character studies for both charlie and alastor’s worldviews. all of their other fics, which are mostly gen ensemble, i highly recommend as well

Bag of Bones by Candydollcurly - angel runs into vox at one of val’s shitty house parties and predictably, they hate each other. really snappy & clever dialogue, with one of my favorite angel characterizations ever. the rest of their fics are similarly fantastic, and a couple especially underrated ones are Eyes Up There (platonic valvel) and What You Came Here to Do (more deliciously toxic voxvalangel dynamics)

*explodes pancakes with mind* by nambi - extremely charming genfic with dashes of angsty introspection, set to a backdrop of alastor pulling increasingly irritating pranks on lucifer at breakfast until lucifer finally decides to retaliate

happy birthday mr voxtek president by @mwestbelle - dubiously consensual voxvalangel threesome, with a lot of vox and val being terrible to each other, to angel, and frankly to every unfortunate person who has ever entered their hundred mile vicinity. my other fav by them is love me cancerously (even more voxval nastiness)

The Good Old Days by @bloopdydooooo - really funny fic about vox and lucifer getting drunk at an overlord party and competing over who can get alastor to dance with them first. spoilers: they both fail miserably, and the only person who gets a radio demon dance that night is rosie :]

she who lies in his shadow by @bloodsbane - radiobelle pwp with touch/sex averse alastor, really fantastic stuff and honestly some of the only charlie/alastor porn i’ve actually enjoyed in terms of quality characterization AND gorgeous writing

kiss and swallow series by @issushaim - GENUINELY a travesty that this series doesn’t get more attention. intense, vivid, and delicious staticdust porn + character studies with exceptional dialogue and prose, and in general some of my favorite angel characterization of all time. really really fantastic stuff, i can’t recommend it enough

heard and heeded by @tarmairons - husk character study where he comes to alastor to barter for angel’s soul, but might have bitten off more than he can chew. dark, achingly visceral prose, still gives me a lingering ache in my chest every time i read it. ugh so good

what a waste of a lovely night by @valscigarette - vox takes angel on a dry run date in an attempt to figure out how to rekindle the magic with val. very fun and engaging dialogue, vox being a piece of shit as per usual while angel suffers along for the ride, and delightfully toxic4toxic staticmoth

The Radio Demon is Back in Town by @take-the-unknow-road-now - very cute and funny radiostatic where after the overlord meeting, alastor baits vox into having a drink with him. banter, dancing, food fights, and a rekindling of a kismesissitude for the ages ensues. filled to the brim with hysterical lines such as “one day i'll pop you open like a crab and feast on your insides” and “may you crash sideways into a vat of nuclear waste”

Red Skies and Valentino by alternatedoom - i really think this one isn’t as well known only because the author dropped all 25 chapters in one day and the summary tells you functionally nothing, but guys. it’s so fucking good. 86k of voxval being monsters in love, with hefty doses of angel & velvette, bg polyvees, and smatterings of radiosilence, telling the entire history of vox and val’s partnership in excruciating, lurid, and violent detail. i was mesmerized all the way through. you have to give it a shot if you’re a staticmoth fan because it is a masterpiece

SOS by @arahusk - a surreal, dark, and macabre husk/lilith/alastor fic where husk follows alastor’s distress signal to his home and gets roped against his will into whatever fucked up game lilith is playing with alastor. the radiohusk here is delightfully complicated and possessive from both ends, and lilith is a captivating figure. really excellent writing. i’m also a big fan of literally every other fic they’ve ever written

Between the Wings by nettle (stinging_nettle) - vaggie/lute dubiously consensual hatesex with homophobic overtones, my beloved. she’s written some delicious valangel and staticmoth too

all of his questions, such a mournful sound by @valleyghosts - angel character study and ensemble fic with a sprinkling of huskerdust. very sweet and charming, practically everybody gets a bonding moment and the characterization is airtight

Harlem Sunrise by Caelanmiriel - absolutely CRIMINAL that this fic only has six non-reply comments. this is one of The radiostatic fics for me, a 21k oneshot of vox fixing alastor up after the finale despite alastor’s best attempts to die out of spite, complete with vox’s unhinged rambling narration, alastor being utterly incapable of telling anyone the truth, least of all himself, and the two of them trying their hardest to hate each other and failing miserably. spectacular. go read it immediately

living in sin is the new thing series by @superkitten-poison - fantastic polyvees series, terrible people in love with perfect character voices and very funny dialogue

[daryltwdixon]

Daryl Dixon x Reader

tp!daryl x young reader, young Daryl Dixon, pre apocalypse, fluff

warnings: none except Daryl is kind of an ass at first

The night air hung thick and humid, clinging to the inside of Daryl’s truck. Crickets chirped faintly in the distance, their rhythm competing with the faint rattle of the truck’s idling engine. He leaned his chin on his hand, fingers scratching idly at his scruff as he stared at the empty stretch of road ahead.

“Goodnight,” the girl said, her voice pitched just a little too sweet, teetering on the edge of something expectant. Hopeful.

Her name was… Tessa? No, Tanya. Maybe. Wait, Tina? Hell, he couldn’t remember anymore. Not that it mattered.

“Night,” he muttered, the word coming out low, almost like an afterthought.

Still waiting. Still expectant.

Daryl’s jaw tightened, but his gaze didn’t waver from the road. He let the silence stretch between them, filling the cab like the humid summer air, heavy and suffocating. Daryl exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. Why wasn’t she leaving?

She adjusted her purse on her lap, the clink of the metal clasp annoyingly loud in the quiet cab. He didn’t look at her, didn’t give her the satisfaction of meeting her eyes. Maybe if he stayed still long enough, she’d take the hint.

“You sure you don’t wanna come in?” she asked, her voice soft, but with an edge of insistence that grated against his nerves.

His eyes flicked to her, just briefly, before settling back on the road. “Nah,” he said, voice flat, as though the single syllable could put an end to the conversation.

She stayed there, unmoving, her nails tapping against her purse now, a nervous little rhythm that set his teeth on edge.

“Alright,” she said finally, though her tone carried more disappointment than acceptance. She shifted, one hand reaching for the door handle, but she didn’t open it. Instead, she paused, turning back to him. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

Daryl huffed, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Ain’t got much to say.”

That clearly wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Her face fell, the sweetness in her expression fading into something colder.

“Well, thanks for the ride, I guess,” she said, her words clipped now. She shoved the door open, stepping out onto the gravel driveway with a sharp click of her heels.

“Yeah,” he grunted, already reaching to shift the truck into gear. He didn't let her get another word in, already backing out of her driveway onto the road, eager to get away.

The road stretched ahead of him, endless and empty, the faint glow of the late night store's neon signs flashing by him through town. He turned the radio on, letting the static fill the cab before switching it off again. He was on edge.

It was late—closer to midnight than not—and he wasn’t sure where he was headed. He just knew he couldn’t go back to the trailer yet, not with Merle’s drunken yelling waiting for him. He needed space, air, something to quiet the restless energy clawing at his chest.

Before he realized it, his truck was pulling onto your street.

---

The sound of tires crunching over gravel pulled your attention from the book in your lap. You glanced up from the porch steps, squinting as headlights washed over you, the faint rumble of an old truck engine breaking the quiet of the night.

You didn’t have to see who it was to know.

The truck rolled to a stop, the engine idling as the driver’s side door creaked open. Daryl climbed out, his boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he looked at you.

“What’re you doin’ out here?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough.

You shrugged, closing the book and setting it aside. “Couldn’t sleep. What about you?”

His lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Figured you might wanna get outta here for a bit.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head at him. “What, and ride around in that death trap of yours?”

He snorted, shaking his head as he turned back toward the truck. “C’mon. Ain’t gonna ask twice.”

You didn’t hesitate, grabbing your jacket from the porch and jogging down the steps. The cab smelled faintly of gasoline and old leather as you slid into the passenger seat, the bench warm from where someone might've been sitting earlier.

“Where we goin’?” you asked, buckling your seatbelt as he shifted into gear.

“Dunno. wanna stop at Sevs?” he muttered, his eyes on the road as the truck rattled to life.

--

The neon lights of the 7-Eleven cast a hazy glow over the parking lot, the hum of the buzzing sign filling the quiet as the two of you pushed open the glass door.

You bee-lined for the slurpees, the bright red syrup swirling into a cup as you filled it to the brim. Daryl followed behind, snagging a pack of jerky and a bag of chips before nodding toward the counter.

“Let’s go,” he said, jerking his chin toward the door.

The truck cab was quiet as you climbed back inside, the faint crinkle of the jerky bag filling the space as Daryl tore it open. You leaned back against the seat, sipping your slurpee as the engine purred beneath you.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was an edge to it—like something unsaid was lingering in the air. You drove for awhile like that, listening to music, aimlessly turning down different roads in the quiet night. The truck rolled to a stop at a red light, its glow casting the cab in deep crimson. The roads were empty, no one else around this late. The hum of the engine filled the silence, and you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye.

“How was your date?” you asked finally, your voice casual as you stared out the windshield. The question had been boggling your mind since you got in the truck with him earlier.

Daryl froze for half a second, his fingers tightening around the jerky bag before he scoffed. “Pfft...Borin’.”

A flicker of something you couldn’t name stirred in your chest, but you kept your expression neutral, snuffing the feeling out and taking another sip of your slurpee.

“Did you talk to her, or did you just grunt the whole time?” you teased, turning to glance at him.

His eyes rolled, the movement slow and deliberate, the red light casting his dark blue irises in shadow. “’Course I talked to ‘er.”

“Hi and bye don’t count,” you said, a small laugh escaping despite yourself.

His lips twitched again, the faintest hint of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “I talked to ‘er, alright?” he repeated, the words low, rough, almost playful.

You leaned back against the seat, the slurpee cup cool against your hands as you studied him. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the traffic light ahead like it held some kind of answer.

“Guess she wasn’t your type,” you said softly, the words barely above a murmur.

Daryl’s hand stilled, his fingers curling against the wheel as he finally turned to look at you. His expression was unreadable at first, but there was something simmering beneath the surface—something that made your heart stutter.

“Nah,” he said, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “She wasn’t.”

The air between you shifted, thickened, and you suddenly became hyper-aware of how close you were in the cramped cab. The light remained red, casting its glow over his face, highlighting the faint scruff along his jaw and the way his lips pressed together like he was holding something back.

Your pulse quickened as his eyes lingered on yours, the weight of his gaze making it hard to breathe. “What?” you asked, your voice softer, unsure.

---

The moment your eyes flicked toward him, framed by the crimson glow of the light, Daryl felt like his chest might cave in. He’d been fighting it for too long—the way you got under his skin, the way every word you said felt like it meant something, even when it shouldn’t.

But now, sitting in the truck, roads empty around him, it was like the world had narrowed to just you. The way you were looking at him, quiet, expectant—he couldn’t take it. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t desperate, but it hit him all at once. If he didn’t do something now, he might never get the chance.

His throat felt tight, his hands itching where they gripped the wheel. He wasn’t sure what was going through his head—if it was bold or just plain stupid—but it didn’t matter. Not now. Not when you were this close.

His hand moved first, almost of its own accord, coming up to cup your cheek. Rough and calloused, his thumb brushed over your skin, and the softness of it nearly undid him. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t flinch. You just… stayed. Watching him. Waiting for him.

Now or never.

His lips met yours, soft at first, just barely there, like he was trying to figure out if he was even allowed to do this. Every nerve in his body screamed to hold back, to keep it slow, but it was impossible—not when you leaned into him, not when your lips parted against his like you’d been waiting just as long as he had.

This was what he wanted.

The thought hit him hard, rattling around his head like a loose screw. It wasn’t just the kiss—not the heat of your lips against his or the way your hand found his shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt like you couldn’t let go. It was all of it. You. The way you fit here beside him, the way you always knew what to say, even when it pissed him off. The way you made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t some broken-down mess of a kid.

His grip tightened as the kiss deepened, his other hand finding your jaw, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. He’d waited too long for this, longer than he wanted to admit, and now that it was happening, he didn’t know how to stop.

He pulled back for a breath, his eyes scanning you. He couldn’t look away, not now, not ever. His heart slammed against his ribs, and his voice came out low, rough, as he whispered, “Ain’t no one like ya.”

The words weren’t planned, but they felt right, felt true in a way that made his chest ache. His thumb traced the corner of your lips, lingering, memorizing. He was certain now.

Before he could say anything else, you surged forward, your hands threading into his hair and pulling him closer. The heat of you pressed against him, the way your lips moved against his—like you’d been holding back too, like this was something you needed as much as he did.

He groaned softly, the sound low and guttural, and it only made you pull him closer. His hands moved to your waist, gripping firmly, grounding himself in the feel of you. It was frantic now, messy, but he couldn’t care less. You were here, in his arms, and nothing else mattered.

The kiss deepened again, hungrier now, more desperate. His hand slipped under the edge of your jacket, his fingers pressing into the small of your back like he was trying to pull you even closer. He couldn’t get enough—didn’t know if he ever would.

And then the horn blared.

The sharp, jarring sound ripped him out of the moment, and he jerked back, panting, his mind struggling to catch up. The light had turned green, and the car behind him was blaring their horn like their life depended on it.

“Shit,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff as he turned back to the wheel. He slammed his hand against it, leaning out the window to yell, “I’m goin’, alright?!” His middle finger shot up for good measure, and he hit the gas, the truck lurching forward.

His chest still heaved as he gripped the wheel tightly, the tension in the cab almost unbearable. You laughed softly, the sound breathless and light, and it made his ears burn. He glanced at you, his lips quirking just slightly, though his grip on the wheel remained firm.

The road stretched out ahead, but something between you had changed. He could feel it in the air, in the way his heart refused to settle, in the way he could still taste you on his lips.

[minimomoe]

Killing Me Softly

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x Female Reader

Summary: It's hard to compete with a ghost. Especially when that ghost was Toji Fushiguro's wife.

Wrd Ct: 20k

tags: angstyyy, established relationship, complicated relationships, non curse au, vaginal sex, missionary, wall sex (?), oral sex (f receiving), breeding kink, DILF Toji, grief/mourning, Toji is trying to be a good dad to Megumi, Toji has a praise kink, mentions of mamagumi, open ending

Part One, Part Two

Part Two

You managed to speak a grand total of five words from the time you got into bed with Toji to the moment you all sat in the car to watch Megumi board the train. Good night, good morning, and thanks. He wasn’t going to take more than he was given, but the way you even avoided his gaze was really getting under his skin. Both of his hands were glued to the steering wheel as he drove, and the music playing from the radio was the only thing to break the heavy silence in the car. 

When you all arrived at the station, you held Megumi in your arms, giving him a tight hug. “Don’t be a stranger, alright? Please take care of yourself. And take your vitamins!”

Megumi laughed. “I’m still going to visit on the weekends.”

“I guess that’s true. I’m impressed that you go to a top school but it sucks that you have to live there. I was hoping to push off this experience until you got to college,” you sniffed. Megumi gave you one of his signature soft smiles.

“I’ll call you, I promise.”

“Thanks, Megs, but also, have fun. I’m not trying to smother you.” 

Behind you and Megumi was Toji who watched you talk. Megumi caught his gaze over your shoulder. Toji gave you both enough space that you weren’t within earshot so Megumi could speak freely. 

“I know it’s not really my place to talk about it…. but my dad really likes you. And I like having you around too. Please don’t give up on him yet.” 

Megumi eyed his father again who was fiddling with the handle of his suitcase, trying his best to look unbothered. Toji has a lot of faults, yes, but Megumi could tell that he was trying. Megumi hated to think that a good thing for his dad was going to end so soon.

“I’m trying to be more understanding,” you said honestly. You turned your head to the side, looking at Toji out of the corner of your eye. “And I love your dad. You don’t have to worry about us, okay?” 

You patted Megumi’s head and Toji finally came up behind you, giving his son an awkward pat down that was supposed to be a hug.

“Study hard. Remember how I taught you how to hold a knife and how to use it. Don’t stay out too late.” 

“Thanks, Dad.” 

You snorted at the short exchange, and you and Toji both watched Megumi get on board. You waved until the boy was too small to see through the window, then stood quietly together. 

“I need to visit my friend later today. I’ll probably stay over there tonight.” 

Toji raised his brow at you. You were really determined to stay away from him. 

“This is the first time you mentioned this.”

You shrugged your shoulders and started to make your way back to the car. “I can’t predict when her ain’t-shit boyfriend is going to break her heart.” 

Toji frowned. It didn’t have to be a double meaning, but he felt like it was. “Do you want me to drop you off?”

“Hmm, no thanks. If anything happens while I’m over there I’d like to have my own car.”

“Right… Anything else?”

You stood in front of the car door he opened for you. With your eyebrows drawn together you shook your head. “Are you expecting anything else?”

“No. Let’s go.”

Halfway back home you took Toji’s hand just to hold. You didn’t say anything, and he didn’t ask any questions, but when you laced each of your fingers in between his heart calmed down. He brought the back of your hand up to give it a kiss. Toji was getting into his own head. Maybe you weren’t trying to avoid him. He still had the chance to fix this. 

When you got home you went right to packing your bag for your overnight stay. Toji watched you at the doorway, his arms crossed and his frown deepening. Not that he didn’t care for your friend but fuck did she have the worst timing. You folded over one of his hoodies to put in a duffle bag and he walked up behind you, carefully holding your waist to not break the delicate beads that you wore, and rested his head on your shoulder. You took a shower in the morning but he could still smell the shea butter scents on your skin. He took a deep breath in and sighed. You continued to fold clothes into your bag, trying to ignore his wandering hands that had your breath catching. 

“What am I going to do with you gone?”

“I’m sure you’ll find some home project that needs improving,” you snorted.

“I’ll miss you. I mean it.” 

You turned around to meet Toji’s eyes and wrapped your arms behind his neck. He gripped you even tighter, your back curving to his touch. He wondered if you could hear how fast his heart was beating in his chest. The idea of you staying mad at him before you left was eating him up and he needed the reassurance that you two were okay. 

“Want me to cook something for you before I leave? I can make your favorite.”

Instead of answering, Toji hovered his mouth over yours. The tip of his nose brushed your cheeks, deciding on which side he should tilt his head. With parted lips you both shared the same air, silently waiting for the other to take the first step. 

“Can I kiss you?”

You released a breathy laugh. “Since when did you start asking?” He held your chin with his thumb, and he dipped your head back to cover your lips with his. With a familiar hunger he gently pushed you on the bed, fumbling to get your bag on the floor without spilling all the contents inside. 

“Toji–” you mumbled into his mouth, trying to clear the fog that was in your head. You weren’t mad, not as much as you were in the morning at least, but this still wasn’t the best idea. Not without having a serious conversation. 

However, talking could wait after he was done working his tongue on you. 

Toji left red hot trails down your body, littering your neck and chest until he got disrupted by your clothes. He took off your top with ease, taking time to admire your bronzy skin before resuming his worship. He lapped at one nipple and rolled the other with his thumb and forefinger until you were squirming beneath him, just to switch off and continue the tortuous process. Toji didn’t stop until you were panting. You grabbed a handful of his hair to pull him off your breast to smash your lips on his mouth. 

You directed his hand to cup your sex, grinding shamelessly to get him to move on. Toji grinned in the middle of the kiss. He loved it when you dropped your reservations and started to want him in the same fashion. Your fingers scraped his scalp and he groaned, resuming his path down the hills and valleys of your body, stopping once he reached your navel to slowly slip off your shorts. He swirled his tongue over your belly button while removing your shorts and it sent a shock up your spine. 

“You’re always into weird shit,” you groaned. Toji couldn’t do anything other than chuckle. He’s still on the tip of the iceberg of all the things he wanted to do to you, but he would get you there someday. With your legs bared he could finally see how you were dripping wet for him. Ever the tease he sucked on his two middle fingers, taking them out with an obnoxious pop to drag them over your folds. You arched your back to his touch, breathlessly urging him to give you more. 

“I thought you always say that I rush it,” he smirked. His fingers glided over your sex, rubbing circles on your clit before dipping inside of your heat. You mewled, twisting underneath him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “You could always stay home so it could last longer.”

“Je- ah! -Jess needs me,” you whimpered when his fingers curled against your spot that brought tears to your eyes while putting his thumb on your clit. Tears brimmed your eyes, a look that Toji enjoyed looking at and he climbed up again to kiss them away. He licked the salty liquid off of his lips, straying from your eyes so he could reach the junction of your neck. Toji continued to stimulate both spots, his fingers reaching deep inside of you and his thumb drawing out moans from you until you were kicking the sheets on the bed. 

“I need you,” Toji murmured in your skin. He was unsure if you heard him. You gazed at him with watery eyes but you were too overcome with your speeding climax to catch what he said. He dropped to his knees, dragging you to the edge of the bed and threw your legs over his shoulders. He left butterfly soft kisses on the inside of your thighs, his fingers grazing over your quivering thighs until you gripped his hair.

“Don’t you wanna make it up to me?” You asked in a husky voice. The edges of your sentence trembled with anticipation and a challenge. His eyes widened then darkened at your words. He couldn’t really tell what you were thinking. He hated that; being left in the dark and completely at your mercy. This was his chance to have you only focus on him and how good he could make you feel. 

Toji buried himself nose deep in between your legs, lapping up your arousal and you thrashed around in his tight grip, drenching his tongue with your come. Your thighs threatened to crush his head between your thighs. Toji didn’t mind it, only continuing his onslaught against your sanity. Your hips drew back away from him, looking for a break only for his mouth to follow incessantly. It wasn’t until you dragged his head out from your cunt that you got relief, but as soon as you did you still wanted more. 

You could taste yourself on his tongue when you pulled him up, the remnants of your orgasm evident, shiny on his lips and down his chin. You were on your knees on the bed, making you the same height as him, and with your mouths welded together you worked your hands to get him out of his pants. Toji stood painfully hard. The moment you started to stroke his hot length a guttural groan escaped his lips. You kissed his jaw and neck until you got to his shirt. 

“Take this off,” you ordered in a thick voice, and within the next second his shirt was flung to some obscure corner of the room. You harshly bit his shoulder  once you had access to his pale skin, then ran your tongue over the area to soothe it. 

“You know how to take care of me, baby,” you whispered in his ear, telling him exactly what he needed to hear. Over time you learned that Toji enjoyed the praise that fell from your lips, craved for it. His ears would take a fiery shade when you complimented him outside of the bedroom, so naturally it carried on inside of it as well. You took only a moment to break away to spit in your hand, mixing the saliva and precum that gathered to glide over him. You bumped noses with Toji to get him to focus on your face. He looked at you through his dark lashes and you focused more on his frenulum, making a tight circle right below his tip and his eyes rolled back into his head. His hand that rested on your hip had nails that dug into your skin. You thumbed his slit and spoke in his ear again. 

“You’ve always been good to me,” you murmured. “Just take me like you mean it.”

You were on your back once again, pressed deep in the sheets with Toji deep in you. Every attempt to say his name was lost by his movements. Toji fucked you just as you asked, leaving no room for you to doubt him. He was rough, pushing you into different positions that made his length reach the end of you, his mouth sloppily covering yours until you were gasping for air. When he flipped you on your stomach, Toji’s unabashed moans went directly in your ear, fucking you through another orgasm out of you with his hand squeezing the front of your neck. He twisted, bit, and sucked your nipples so much prior that the collapsed position on the bed made them hypersensitive against the sheets. The tears rolling down your face attested to it. Your hands were clawing at the sheets from the overwhelming sensations. 

Toji wondered if you could feel the desperation coursing through him. The apologies he wasn’t good at, the sincerity, the need he has for you, his love. He hoped it all translated well with every touch even if it was rough around the edges. It wasn’t until you were shaking again, your cunt messy from another climax that his strokes shortened. Toji threaded his fingers through your hand that was outstretched above your head, and you latched onto him like a lifeline. You cried out when he slammed into you one last time, painting your insides white. 

He was resting in you, barely holding himself up to keep from crushing your frame completely. You shook off his hand that was holding him to snake it up to the back of his neck, pulling him down to your side for one last kiss. It was salty from sweat and tears yet sweet, clumsy, and reassuring. You were clearly tired, and he was still inside of you, but you were no longer in a rush to leave. You deflated back into the bed and Toji got up to get a wet cloth to wipe you down. Once you were clean he laid beside you and you gave him a sleepy smile, your eyelids half open. 

“You win, for now. I’m too tired to go anywhere right now. Wake me up in an hour,” you murmured, already falling asleep by the end of your sentence. You looked so peaceful when sleeping, like all was well and there were no problems between the two of you. Toji wished that he could sleep untroubled in the same manner, but all he could do was watch you drift away with his arms around you.

~*~

Toji stared at his empty phone after he got off of a call with you. You had just let him know that you were at your friend’s house, and Megumi was away doing school stuff, so he was alone on a weekend, something that hasn’t happened in a very long time.

He poked at the device, his mind wandering. There were things to do, he would find something to do, but instead he typed in “therapists near me” in the search engine. It couldn’t be that bad. You were right, he never officially went through a grieving process, whatever the hell that meant. His wife died and the next ten years were a blur. He happened to run into his son and Megumi didn’t even know who he was. He never knew how much he looked like his mother and it snapped something back into place in Toji’s brain. All he knew is that he had to fix what he ruined all those years ago.

The fixing was still in process, and Megumi lets him off the hook way more than he fucking should, but maybe that’s why the mistakes and dreams were happening so often. Toji got his son back, he found you, and his life was… normal. It was something that he wanted since he was a child, but it came only after her death. His stormy life has finally become calm and now he has to sift through the broken pieces left behind. 

Toji turned off his phone after reading reviews of a counselor. They all seemed full of shit. Clients talked about their feelings for a month and suddenly they were doing a lot better? Right. The feelings he had will pass, they always do. He didn’t need someone to tell him that what happened all those years ago fucked with his mind. The gap in his memory was a clear indicator already. He didn’t want to go poking around there either. 

After long deliberation Toji decided to go to a bar he used to frequent in the beginning of the relationship. The both of you became homebodies the longer you dated, but after he brought you there the first time it was the one place he found that the two of you could agree on going first and letting the night play out after when you weren’t to sure on what else do to for date nights but wanted to get out of the house. Upon entering and taking his section on the counter the familiar face of one of the bartenders came to serve him. With a smile without words she immediately started to prepare a cosmo for him out of habit, because it was something you ordered. Toji had to stop the bartender once he realized what she was doing. 

“She’s not with me tonight.”

Her eyes went wide with surprise. The only woman Toji continually had around him was suddenly no longer here. Toji could see the stories building up in her head and immediately put a stop to it. 

“She’s out with her friend. Girl’s night.”

“Ah, that makes sense. I was worried there for a second,” the bartender giggled. “Just water for you still?” 

“Actually, I’ll have a glass of whisky. Neat.”

Once again the eyebrows on the bartender almost touched her hairline. He has never taken a sip of alcohol no matter how many times he stepped foot inside of the bar, no matter what sugary concoction you ordered, so she never thought she’d see the day. She snapped out of her astonishment when Toji gave her an annoyed stare and quickly made his glass. She slid it over to him and he drank it in a flash. 

“Another one,” he ordered, and gingerly she took the glass. 

Toji eyed the TV overhead, half listening to the program playing when he heard a familiar voice come from beside him. The bartender handed him his second glass when the guest guffawed at Toji. 

“I didn’t think I would ever see you again.” A sharply dressed Korean man slipped into the seat next to Toji at the bar and it made him gawk for a second. As always, a cigarette hung from the other man’s lips, unlit and carefully balanced. His tie that he usually wore was nowhere around his neck, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone.

“Well you did say the only time you ever want to see me again is in hell,” Toji remarked after the moment of unexpectedness passed. 

“That I did say. Almost thought I died for a second.” Toji gave the man a side eye, then they both let out wry laughs. 

“What are you doing here, Shiu?” 

“Nothing you’re interested in. I heard you retired.”

“Heard right,” Toji grunted. He stared down his glass and downed the rest of the ambery liquid. It stung on the way down, but he was on the third glass and still didn’t feel any buzz like he had hoped. Drinking never did much for Toji. He didn’t know why he thought tonight would be any different.

“Never thought I’d live to see the day.” Shiu shook his head in disbelief. He worked with Toji when he was at his lowest for years doing unsavory business. He knew that he was dealing with a broken man, someone who would take anything that was given to him because it would be better than working with his blood relatives, so when the news finally got around to him he couldn’t believe that Toji finally decided to stop working underground. He had a hard time imagining what Toji could do anywhere else. Seeing him in the flesh, alive and relatively well was a sight to behold. 

“Usually I wouldn’t pry because it’s none of my goddamn business, but I’m feeling a little loose tonight. What made you leave? What do you do now?”

Toji waved down the bartender to fill his glass once again, and he gulped the drink down with a sigh before answering. “I got my kid back and I teach other spineless fuckers how to defend themselves for a living.” 

Shiu gave him an incredulous look. “Megumi lives with you? And you just help people now?”

“Yeah. Why do you look like that’s impossible for me to do or something?”

“The last time I asked you about your kid you didn’t even remember his name and you used to blow people’s brains out for cash. Sorry if I find it hard to believe,” Shiu chuckled. 

“Better believe it.”

“So what’s the problem? I find you here after all this time, drinking when you told me before that it has no effect on you. The only other thing that made you this way was lady issues.” 

Toji ran his finger over the edge of his glass silently. If Shiu wasn’t being annoying before, he was now. 

“Seriously? You? You married again? Third time’s the charm,” Shiu winked.

“I’m not married.”

“If she’s not your wife then why the hell are you moping around like this?”

“Fucking hell, Shiu. I like you better when you don’t talk.” 

“Suck it up. You’ve piqued my interest.” 

Shiu finally lit the cigarette that he held in his lips and called the bartender over for his drink. After a long drag, Shiu released the smoke. It billowed up in front of both of the men, its tendrils grazing Toji’s face that made his nose itch. 

“So you got a woman. She’s not your wife but what, you’re thinking about marrying her? Being nervous about that kind of thing is not something I believe would bother you so no, that’s not it. But maybe it is. Maybe marriage isn’t the problem right now, but it will be pretty soon. And seeing how you suddenly got soft, a fight that you guys had is shaking you up. You’ve always been pretty attentive to the few women in your life that you actually liked outside of a place to sleep.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Toji gritted. 

 “Right on the money,” Shiu smirked. “I happen to like you more when you don’t take yourself as seriously. So what is it? She must be terrible and won’t let you do anything or you guys are fighting all the time and you’re starting to think it’s not worth it.” 

“Neither. Believe it or not, I’m the problem.” 

“I figured. I was just trying to be on your side for a little bit.”

Toji stared down at the empty cup as he spoke. The words were moving faster than the ability he had to actually process what he was admitting to. It seems like all the drinks were finally catching up to him. He confessed everything before he could bring himself to shut up. 

“We’ll be doing great, her and I, and then Megumi’s mom starts showing up again. She lurks in my mind, haunts my dreams, creeps into our lives. I'm calling my late wife’s name instead of her and it’s breaking her down. She doesn’t even want to be around me right now.” 

It was so silent between them that Toji had to look up to Shiu. He had the stick between his fingers, the ember smoldering and Shiu’s eyebrows were raised for the umpteenth time. 

“Of all the things you could have said, I wasn’t expecting that. Could you blame the girl?” “Why do you think I’m here?”

“Give her some time to cool off but you fucked up.”

Toji tried to wave the bartender over once again but Shiu stopped him. Toji gave him a hard stare, one that could kill a man if the man wasn’t Shiu. 

“I know you don’t do this often but you will be shit faced if you keep that up. Leave now while you can still walk in a straight line.”

“Yeah right.” Toji shrugged him off. He didn’t feel that much different, but he took Shiu’s advice. He left a hefty tip in his place and left the bar, getting in his car and driving on autopilot until he suddenly was in front of a graveyard. Toji hasn’t been here before, even the day that they buried her. He was just told the location and avoided it at all costs. 

Your voice rings in his ear again, telling him that he could talk to you about his wife if it made it easier. It still baffled him how he managed to find someone as understanding as you when he didn’t even have the balls to attend the funeral. Her grave was, as expected, large, gray, and cold. He stood in front of it, not saying anything, dusting off the leaves that piled on the top of the stone. 

“I met someone new,” he started, shocking himself but he kept going. “I think you’d like her. She’s like you in some things, completely different in others.” 

Wind blew through Toji’s hair and he realized that he left his jacket in the car. Or maybe at the bar. He hoped that wherever you were you had a jacket. You got cold so easily, your fingers turning to icicles at the slightest temperature drop. 

“I’m taking care of Megumi the best way I can. I fucked up in the beginning, almost ruined everything, but he’s a great kid. All his best qualities are from you.” Toji sighed and looked up at the starless sky. There was no moon either, just an expanse of darkness that stretched in all directions. A helicopter with blinking lights passed through his vision, breaking the sea of black.

“I love her. You’d probably say some shit like you want me to be happy, and I’m trying to be. It’s harder than it looks,” Toji huffed out a dry laugh. He looked back at the grave.

“Thank you.”

~*~

When you showed up to Jess' place she was exactly how you expected her to be; angry. She had heavy metal music blaring through her speaker so loud you worried for her neighbors. She was actually in a much better mood than you expected. Before when she had first broken up with her boyfriend (along with the second and third time), you were welcomed to big, soppy tears running down her face and a handful of tissues clenched tight in her fist. You guessed that with each breakup Jess hardened her heart more until there were no more tears left to give and only anger remained.

You let her get her emotions out, tidying up the place while she told you every shitty thing her boyfriend did, things that you had said that he was going to do because you already knew that he was bad news, until she was out of breath from screaming and talking and finally sat down on the couch with you. 

“Feeling better now, babe?”

Jess held a pillow in front of her and her face was obscured by it, her answer coming out muffled. “No.” 

“But you will be. He was only holding you back,” you reassured. 

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. I hope he falls in a ditch somewhere.”

“Me too,” you said, handing her a wine glass and you both sat in silence for a few beats. You were lost in your thoughts full of Toji when Jess called out your name. 

“Your boyfriend– his last name is Fushiguro, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I was talking to a client today. More like listening in on his conversation. Real sick fucker, kept calling all the girls sluts and whores, and not in a cute way. Unfortunately, he wanted me to dance for him in the booth, and I heard him talk about Toji. I mean, I don't know about you, but I don’t think that there’s that many Toji's out there. Anyway, this blond motherfucker keeps talking about trying to find a way to bring Toji back into the family. Whether he means that literally or it’s some yakuza shit, I don’t know. What I do know is that he said that he wished he knew if Toji was with anybody so that they can use them to bring him in. Obviously your Toji’s girlfriend now, and you mentioned that he used to have a wife. I just thought it was strange. This guy’s last name was Zen’in though. He mentioned it like, 50 times. I think he’s supposed to be important.”

“It’s gotta be some type of coincidence.”

“Yeah, I fucking hope so. Do you really know Toji? I mean blondie was a bitchboy but the other guys he was surrounded with… I don’t know. If it is your Toji, he’s dangerous.”

“… Toji isn’t like that.”

Jess gave you a hard stare. Neither of you believed the lie you were trying to convince yourself of. You knew that Toji must be a lot more dangerous than he let on, but it seemed to be in the past. 

“Anymore! Whatever he did before he met me is none of my concern. He has a kid that he’s very devoted to and he’s been… well he says that he loves me. I just have to trust him.”

“Right, until he gets you killed.”

“Jess!”

“Don’t shoot the messenger! I’m not wishing any harm on you, just be careful.” 

“Oh wow thanks for putting that thought in my head,” you sarcastically grumbled. You huddled yourself in a small ball on her couch and didn’t notice Jess studying you intensely. 

“So what’s up with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you barely talked about Toji since you came in.”

You gave you a pointed look. “You called me on the phone crying that you're finally over your boyfriend and I’m supposed to talk about mine?”

“True… but this feels different. You didn’t even bring him up in passing. You’ve said nothing about Toji.”

“Right now it is about you, love.” It was a dodgy answer, both you and Jess knew it, and she stared you down until you cracked and told her what had happened the night before and everything preceding it. She winced at the mention of Toji’s late wife the same time you did and went into deep thought. 

“So how are you feeling?”

“Like an asshole. I know it’s really not his fault.”

“You have been dating for how long now?”

“Gonna be six months pretty soon.”

“Six months? You’re better than me,” Jess side-eyed you. 

“He was married. That’s a big deal.” You didn’t even know why you were getting defense for Toji. It’s been bothering you too, a lot more than you let out to him. Now you felt like you actually had a reason to pull back instead of it all being in your head. 

“Married yeah, but been with you for a while now. You’d think he’d try not to mix you up. What if… what if you’re a replacement? Like he doesn’t actually see you. ”

The thought has crossed your mind before and you fell into a deep silence. If you had been asked this just a few weeks ago you would’ve confidently been able to say no. However, now… now it seemed totally plausible. 

“You could remind him of his wife so much and that’s why he likes you.”

“Stop,” you muttered, but Jess didn’t hear you. 

“I know you don’t know anybody who was close to her but what if you two look alike? What if—“

“Shut up! What is wrong with you?” 

“I was just saying—“

“It’s his late wife, and I’m not anything like her.” Your voice was cold and heavy, settling in the air with a deadly finality. Jess was stunned, but then she gave you a saddened smile. 

“You don’t know that, but you’re right, I'm meddling again. You know what we should do? Go out. I’m tired of being the entertainer, I want to be entertained.” 

You were grateful for the change of sec energy after the conversation, even if you had to get ready in a whirlwind. Jess put you in one of her dresses and you were glad that you two were similar sizes and styles. You choses a simple silk dress that went down just past your knees with a high collar but an open back. Jess, who never gave up the chance to show off her legs, donned a plum dress with a halter neck and a skirt that flared and stopped mid thigh . Low yet stylish black heels were clad to both of your feet, as you decided that you would take a taxi and walk to the club instead of trying to find parking with your car. To your surprise Jess chose a jazz club, and music poured from the open door down the street, soothing and flowing like honey that calmed your soul. Immediately you thought of how you would love to go here again with Toji and you shook the thought out of your head. 

“I'm here with Jess,” you muttered to yourself. 

 Jess turned around and cocked her head to the side. “Did you say something?”

“No. Nothing. Let’s head inside.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

The night was supposed to be about Jess, and you weren’t going to let her focus on you like this. You dragged her inside of the establishment, your eyes adjusting to the dimly lit space covered in a thin veil of smoke. You couldn’t hear it from the sidewalk, but now inside here was a woman singing on the stage. The embodiment of old Hollywood, a silver sequined dress glittered on her smooth, caramel skin as she sang romantically into the mic. Her body swayed side to side, getting lost in the music, drowning in it, and you wished that you could be absorbed by the melody like she was. 

It was Jess’s turn to drag you around since you fell into the trance of the singer, and she chose a booth tucked away on the wall. You still had a great view of the stage, but close enough to the bar.

Jess went to do her thing, standing at the bar and sitting pretty and batting her eyes to the people around her. It didn’t take long for a drink to be offered to her, and it worked like a charm every single time. You had thought that was the case for you as well when a strawberry margarita was brought to you at the table by a waiter, but when they pointed in a direction opposite of Jess you were more inclined to search for the sender. 

A familiar face, or rather faces, gazed back at you. White tufts of icy hair, crystalline blue eyes peering about black circular shaded, and a million watt smile flashed at you while the other face had dark pupils and sharper eyes, but a comforting grin you knew well. 

You waved for Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto to come over to your section with a wide smile. 

“Satoru? Suguru? What are you guys doing here?”

You stood up to hug the both of them and inspected their faces. It has only been a few years since you last saw them in college. Gojo’s hands remained on your back while Surugu gave you a recap of the last few years without you. Just then, Jess came back with two drinks in her hand and a confused look. You quickly introduced her to your old friends. 

“Jess! This is Suguru and Satoru… I met them back in college,” you explained. As soon as Suguru’s name left your mouth Jess zeroed in on him with a seductive stare. 

“So you're one of her friends. I was afraid that I was the only one she got,” Jess purred. She didn't even bother with Satoru, only giving him a quick nod of acknowledgement before giving her undivided attention back to Suguru. 

“It looks like you’ve been taking good care of her,” Suguru praised, returning the interest with his own heavy gaze. When he took Jess’s hand you couldn’t believe your eyes. You lost your friend to Suguru the moment he opened his mouth. Turning to Toru instead, you pulled him down to sit next to you. 

“While they do that over there,” you said, “Tell me what’s been going on with you! Are you still drinking straight sugar for the hell of it?” “Ha-ha,” Satoru laughed dryly. A bright smile was still plastered on his face. You took him in full, his casual black t-shirt and thighs clad with dark washed jeans, and his signature black frames pushing up his hair and framing his face. He wore a fresh and sweet smelling cologne that even you would get. On the outside, Satoru seemed great. However, you’ve known him for a long time, managed to become someone who he cared enough about to call a friend and you took the title seriously. You knew how well he hides his emotions because he’d rather keep things light. He did it extremely well that sometimes it was hard to tell what exactly could be wrong. 

“Stop psychoanalyzing me before you burn holes through my head. 

“That’s my line, high beams.” you shoved him with your shoulder. “I just feel like we never talk anymore. I’ve missed you.”

A sly smile crept over his face. “Told you that America wasn’t all that. You just had to learn it the hard way.” “Yeah, you’re right there.” You took large gulps of your drink until it was finished and sighed. Gojo raised his brow.

“What’s that about?”

“Ask me after my third drink,” you said, calling the waiter over. 

“Drinking away your woes has never worked for you. In fact, I remember when you drank so much you got confused and said that I was kidnapping you.” 

You threw your head in your hands. “That was one time!” Heat started to creep up your face as Gojo recounted all your embarrassing drinking moments. 

“One time? Maybe the kidnapper thing, sure, but then there was the time that you broke down sobbing, and I mean big fat tears rolling down your face, at a deer just crossing the road. You tried to take it home with you.”

You groaned but there was humor in it. You’ve seen the videos of how you act around animals, and Gojo was never too far, oftentimes scooping you up to take you home since you could barely walk. He kept good care of you whenever you went out. 

“Suddenly you think that every animal is the most beautiful creature in the world and you get sad that they don’t know that.” “It’s true. There’s only eight species that can identify themselves in the mirror.” “Of course you know that. Nerd.”

“Shut up,” you laugh. “I’m the nerd while you have an electrical engineering degree?”

“Would geek fit better? You’re the one who becomes a hyper vigilant Snow White when you get drunk, spewing animal and space facts just cause.” 

“I’m not gonna stop drinking and I'm not apologizing. I give you valuable information whether you know it or not,” you shrug. Your next drink was brought to you, and you tried to drink it a little slower through the straw. It didn’t work, as you were suckling on it faster than expected as Gojo caught you up on his personal life. He always amazed you with all the projects he had going on simultaneously. It made your head spin, but you held deep respect for him. For the care free act he put on he was incredibly considerate of those who were younger than him, and always ready to challenge those above him if he thought they were out of line. You envied Satoru’s assertiveness, and when you finally got to your third drink, he asked you what was wrong once again. 

“Just silly relationship stuff. I’ll get over myself soon enough,” you tried to wave him off. Your tolerance was nothing like it was during college, and your words were starting to slow and crash into each other. You nursed the drink close to your chest and Satoru sighed. He pulled it out of your hand, resting the glass on the table while you whined. 

“Toruuuu, stop.”

“Tell me what’s really wrong. You get everybody to talk about their feelings and shit but you want people to overlook yours.” 

“It’s nothing to worry about,” you mumbled.  “I came out tonight to forget about the whole thing.”

On the floor Suguru and Jess swayed in each other’s arms, whispering in each other’s ear and giggling. He looked at her with such adoring eyes, something much deeper than the lust you first saw. Jess was a bubbly mess in his arms but she was enjoying herself. When his back was facing you she gave you an ecstatic look, mouthing a “thank you” that made you smirk. 

You could never get Toji to dance with you. Said it wasn't his thing, and after a couple times of asking and being rejected you dropped the matter altogether. It didn’t make you want to dance any less, it hurts all the same. Gojo saw you looking at all the couples circling around and slid out of the booth. He offered you his hand, and you raised your brow suspiciously. 

“What? You don’t like dancing anymore?”

Gojo wasn’t Toji, and you have never compared them in your mind ever before, but in that moment you had wished that Toji would be a little bit like him. You took Toru’s hand and he took you to the small dance floor, twirling you around to the song. You barely caught the lyrics, but it was a sweet melody about first love. You rested your cheek on Gojo’s chest and he carried the tempo of your dance. 

“Thank you, Satoru,” you muttered, sure that he didn’t hear you. But he did, and he leaned back to look down at you with concerned eyes. 

“I haven't done anything yet. What did your boyfriend do to you?”

Your bottom lip wavered to answer, ready to spill your troubled heart’s concerns when the slow song ended and an upbeat instrumental song started to play. Trumpets were introduced, charging the air with electricity and everybody on the floor started to dance more vigorously. Your face lit up, already forgetting what you were about to say and you twisted and spun around with Gojo, matching the beat, flowing to the rhythm, laughing just as happily as the music sounded. You only went back once to finish off your drink, and you danced until your feet were throbbing. Before Jess left the dancefloor she winked at you and told you that she would be leaving with Surguru, giving you a sly smile. Gojo offered to take you home, and drunkenly you agreed. 

You sang badly to the radio on the drive back to your place, basically yelling songs into Satoru’s ear but he joined in with you, singing right back to you. He matched your energy until you were dissolving into a fit of giggles from singing lyrics entirely backwards. When reached your home Gojo held your heels and bag in his hands while you tiptoed across the stones to get to the front door. 

“Bag please!” 

“Still have manners even when you're drunk,” Gojo laughed. He held your purse open for you to rummage through. You were both looming over the purse and accidentally bumped heads. Gojo’s hand immediately went to rub your forehead instead of his own and you nervously giggled. 

“Careful. You could’ve given me a concussion with that hard head of yours,” he teased.

“Oh fuck you,” you laughed. Your eyes were trapped by his until his lips became the prettier picture. Always pink and plush, you started to drift closer to his face until you finally got some sense. 

 “God Satoru, why did you have to come back now?” You tore your eyes away from his lips and shoved your face in his shoulder. Gojo wasn’t going to stop you from kissing him. He should have if he was a better man. However, he has always wanted to be with you, and you never gave him the chance, so he would’ve taken anything you gave him. Now that he has settled down, he would have been your boyfriend. 

He spoke first to break the silence. “Do you have a headache?” 

“No… I should get my keys now. I’m cold,” you mumbled. 

You couldn’t find your keys in the bag, and you patted yourself down as if you had them in your pockets but you were wearing a very pocketless dress. He could already see the tears forming on your lash line and wanted to soothe you. 

“What if they're at Jess’ place?” Satoru said to calm you down. 

“Why would Jess steal my keys? I thought we were friends?” You were about to start crying. Just then, the front door opened, and Gojo was greeted by a face he never thought he’d see again. 

“Fushiguro?”

“Toji!” 

You jumped in Toji’s arms and he caught you with ease. He came to the front door because of all the noise he was hearing. Never would he had thought that it was Sataru fucking Gojo and his woman bickering outside. 

“Toji I missed you so much. I sent pictures. Did you see them?”

“Yeah. I saw them. You’re gorgeous.” Each word came out with daggers thrown in Gojo's direction.

Toji’s grip on your waist got tighter as you peppered his face with kisses, his stare unbroken from Gojo’s. The first and last target that he wasn’t able to kill all those years ago came back to bite him in the ass. Of course you of all people knew who Gojo was. Gojo looked at the scene like he walked into an alternate universe. You were with Toji. Toji was with you. This was the man that had you moping at the club. 

“Thank you, Sa–Satoru,” you hiccuped. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“You do the same. And let me know if you have any other relationship issues you want to talk about,” he smirked to Toji, and the other man scowled. 

“I told you, it’s nothing,” you said in a sing-song voice. “I’m really sleepy now.”

“I bet you are,” Toji said in your ear. Toji gave Gojo one last look. There was no real emotion on his face anymore. Satoru was only able to thinly veil the annoyance in his voice when Toji dismissed him. “Let’s go to bed.” 

Once inside you led Toji to the bathroom, stripping down naked and stepping straight into the shower. You beckoned him to join you, and he grabbed your shower cap that you forgot so you don’t get your hair wet. Toji took the washcloth from your hands, wanting to wash you himself. This was routine to him, something that made him feel calm. You had the faint smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke lingering on your skin, yet there was still your natural scent of you underneath. He kissed your shoulder, turning you back into the spray of the water, and you peered up at him. You brushed his hair out of his forehead to see him clearly. 

“Did I mention how I missed you?” You giggled. 

“I missed you too, doll.” 

Toji lifted your chin up to look at him. His thumb rubbed the flat surface right below your lip and he kissed you softly once. It wasn’t even a whole day since you were gone and he had missed this feeling more than you could know. The touch of your lips was enough to get him hard, and it was starting to show. 

“I’m never gonna drink again,” you groaned, dropping your head into his chest. “Thank god I don’t have work tomorrow.” “You’re really lucky,” he mumbled. “How do you… who was that guy?” 

You took your washcloth out of his hand and grabbed his own. After lathering it with soap you started to scrub him down, admiring his body in the lowlight.“What guy?” 

“That guy that brought you home,” Toji said through clenched teeth. 

“Toru? He’s just a friend.” 

You even had a nickname for him. 

“Just friends? Since when?” Toji hated the way he sounded. It was needy, prying, totally unlike him. He shouldn’t give a damn, you were back in his arms, going to sleep in his bed. Why couldn’t he just let it go?

“Since uni. We weren’t in the same college but our friend groups overlapped.” 

“That’s it?”

You slowed the way you washed him. The questions started to feel more loaded, and you were sobering up. Your eyebrows were drawn together when you answered. 

“I mean, yeah? I never dated him, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.” 

“I thought you went out with Jess.” Not a question this time, yet the air felt heavier. You were aware of how cold the water was when you usually like to take hot showers. 

“I was with her. She wanted to go to this jazz club and we met up with friends. Jess left with a guy and Toru took me home.” 

“Isn’t he such a great guy,” Toji said through clenched teeth. “So instead of calling me you climbed into some bastard’s car, drunk , at one in the morning.” 

“He’s not just some guy, Toji. I’m sorry, I should’ve called you but I know him.” 

“That’s what you think,” Toji scoffed. 

You scoffed right back at him, now crossing your arms over your chest. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

Toji was getting too emotional. He tried to grab the washcloth out of your hand but you stopped him. You both gave each other hard stares with anger seeping into both of your expressions. Toji already spoke too much, ready to let it go, but you were just getting started. 

“You can’t just move past that. What’s the problem this time?”

Toji rolled his eyes. “You make it sound like I always have a problem.” 

“I wouldn’t know, you never tell me anything,” you fired back. 

“There’s no problem. We’re wasting water.” 

You turned the faucet so the shower stopped then stood your ground. This was a side of you that Toji didn’t see often. The stubborn one, the immovable object against his usually unstoppable force. He would be on the sidelines when this happened, watching you deal with family members or other people outside with this unwavering spirit that wouldn’t back down, but now it was turned on him. 

“There. Water’s not wasting. You want to get something off your chest? Say it.” 

“I just didn’t think I’d have to tell you to call for me if you wanted to come home. I know your phone wasn’t broken because you sent me pictures. I expect you to tell me where you’re going and call me when you want to leave. I think that’s the least you can fucking do,” he said through gritted teeth.

You pinched your eyebrows together. “I was drunk Toji, and it was a quick decision that really doesn’t mean anything.” In the back of your head you knew that you sounded like a hypocrite. What he was asking wasn’t a hard request. In fact, it was the very same thing you had asked of Toji when you first started to date. Toji would just up and disappear for hours. Granted, you could always find him at his dojo or in his garage, but he never told you that. You didn’t want to know every little thing that he was doing but a general “I’m okay” would suffice. You knew this, yet you still couldn’t stop the malice crawling up your throat.

“The least you could do is call me by the right name but I guess we’re both having problems with simple tasks.”

Your words rang in the air for a long while. You wanted to regret them coming out of your mouth but you didn’t. It’s been eating you up since you heard her name. She must’ve been a gorgeous lady with a name like that. You couldn’t find any information on her, and it’s not like Toji kept pictures around, yet Toji’s late wife haunted you. Somebody that you have never met had permanent residence in your head. It made you sick. 

You took things to hell and Toji didn’t push back. He didn’t know how else to comfort you, to convince you that he was in love with you, now, and always has been. Flashes of Toji going to see her grave earlier popped into his mind. Even though he was there, all he could think about was you. Toji thought he couldn’t explain himself that well, so he settled for something else.

“You’re not her and I don’t want you to be .” 

Hot tears ran down your face before you even knew that they were there. Toji cupped your face and used his thumb to wipe away your tears. “I thought I could let go of this. I thought I would be mature enough about this whole situation but I’m not. I can see it in your eyes, Toji,” you sobbed. “It only happened one time but if another slip up like that happened I won’t be able to handle it. I think– I think I need a break.” 

Toji froze. You held his wrists and pried them off of his face, putting them back to his side and wiped your nose with the back of your hands. The cold was starting to settle in his bone, a chill that he was familiar with but alway unprepared for. He waited for you to explain yourself and you sucked in a deep breath. 

“We did this whole thing pretty fast, don’t you think? I mean– it’s just–”

“A break. You want to leave.” 

You tried to clear up the confusion. “I want to have some time to think. That’s all. Stay at my place for a little while. I need to think everything through.” 

“Think what through? So what, I’ve been keeping you hostage? Forcing you to be with me the whole time? Fine, go ahead.” 

Blood was rushing in Toji’s ears; he could barely hear his own voice. He left you behind in the shower stumbling over your own words to calm him down. Take a break. What a stupid fucking concept. If you want to leave, just say that. Why would he hold hope for you to come back to him? 

“Toji, wait. Listen to me!” You hastily wrapped a towel around your body, calling behind him but he was not stopping. 

“You already said everything. Go pack your stuff already. I won’t be holding you back anymore.”

“I didn’t mean it like that–”

“What the hell could you have meant?” He growled. He regretted it the second you shrank away from him. It was never Toji’s intention to make you feel small. He sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. 

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you whispered. The glassiness in your eyes was not lost to him. You stomped back into the bathroom, coming out with your toiletries in a basket and putting them on the floor. From the closet you brought out your suitcase you had bought the time you had flown to Malaysia with Toji. You started to open the dressers, throwing your  clothes haphazardly inside. You put on your clothes to ditch the towel and grabbed everything that was yours on top of the dresser. 

“Stop,” Toji said in a low voice. If you genuinely didn’t hear him or ignored him, he couldn’t tell. You continued to move like a whirlwind around the room. 

“Stop. Just stop,” he repeated, grabbing your arm and you reeled away like he was a red hot iron rod. 

“I just wanted you to be better, Toji. That’s all I ever wanted. You’re not the only one who’s dealt with loss, you know? There are steps you can take and you refused them all and I am tired . I love you but clearly that’s not enough anymore. If you love me, let me go.” 

The white in your eyes and the tip of your nose was tinged red. The tiredness that you spoke of physically manifested itself, and Toji saw just how much of a toll it was taking on your body. He didn’t want to hurt you anymore.

“It’s not safe to leave right now. Wait until the morning. Please.”

The “please” was your undoing. Not only was he right, but you also didn’t have your keys. They were still at Jess’ place and getting a ride this early in the morning would be impossible. You gave him a curt nod. 

“You sleep here. I’ll sleep in the living room.” 

You didn’t say anything to him when he left the room. Toji sat on the couch plunged in darkness, listening to you shuffle around in the shared bedroom until the light went out. He sat there until the sun rose from the horizon and he didn’t remember when he actually fell asleep. He didn’t dream of anything. All he knew is that when he finally came to you were gone, your stuff cleared out as much as it could be with a note to throw everything else out.

~*~

Toji’s finger hovered over your name on his phone. He shouldn’t call you. He’s the one who pushed you away, told you to leave if that’s what you wanted to do. But after seeing you tonight for the first time in weeks, at the bar that you used to go to together, with with that white haired fucker you looked happy. You were as gorgeous as always, and Toji could almost taste the lip gloss that you were wearing, knew the exact shade it was as it left a mark on the glass you drank. You hung off Gojo’s body, hooking your arms with his, resting your head on his shoulder, giggling and holding his face the whole night. Toji was sure that neither of you saw him, and watching the both of you felt like he was intruding. Jealousy reared its nasty head on Toji, making his chest tight. He wondered how long you’ve known him for. You never brought Gojo up before, not once, but his past always had a funny way of sneaking up on him. Toji left before he did something reckless. 

He couldn’t be mad at anyone other than himself. Now he sat in his car after spending hours driving around the city to clear his head, time slipping through his fingers. Toji’s phone dimmed, a sign of inactivity from his inability to make a decision. He hasn’t been able to reach you in weeks. Every call went to voicemail, but lately they’ve been ringing through with no answer. You must’ve blocked him, but he’s unblocked now, right? The worst that could happen is that you don’t pick up, again, or he could call and call like he’s been doing and you do pick up, but only to tell him to never speak to you again. It would be deserved, but at least he’ll get to hear your voice one last time. 

“Fuck it,” he muttered, pressing the call button and waits. The first ring goes though, then the second, then the third. “Come on,” he urged. You always have your phone on you. He imagined you sitting down somewhere, just watching his call vibrate your phone. Finally, on the last ring the screen changed, the time starting to show that you had picked up. 

“Hello?” It didn’t sound like you were in the middle of anything, but it was hard to tell. You could’ve been laid right up underneath Gojo for all Toji knows. You didn’t sound angry either. There was surprise in your voice, but nothing else. 

“Hello? Toji, are you alright?” 

He spent so much time analyzing your voice he forgot to actually respond. He cleared his voice before answering. “I’m good. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Tired.”  You shifted, the sound of sheets settling around you and Toji tried to imagine where you were. Hopefully in your own bed with no one else in it. “Is– Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened. Megumi’s okay too,” he said before you could ask. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

 It was a truthful admission, even if it stirred from jealousy. Nothing could be heard from your line besides your soft breathing. Toji’s finger impatiently tapped on the steering wheel. Usually when he says that he likes the sound of your voice you would turn your face away from him to hide the lopsided grin that would grow on your face. He wondered if you were fighting back the same reaction now. 

“Oh,” is all you said. Oh . Oh well? Oh no? Oh what?  

“I’m going to come over. Is that alright?” 

“Right now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“Why?” 

Toji already started to drive in your direction. He needed to have more than just your voice. He didn’t want to end things with you like this. He didn’t want it to end at all. 

“What, are you busy or something? Got somebody over there?”

“No. I just wasn’t expecting a visit so soon. And I’m surprised that you even asked. Usually you just show up at my place like it's yours too,” you laughed. Music to his ears, that what your laugh was to him. 

“I thought I would use those manners you’re always talking about. I’ll be there in twenty.” 

You sighed heavily. “Bab– Toji. I don’t think this is a good–”

“I just want to talk.” 

“Just talk?” 

“If that’s what you want.” 

“Don’t flip this on me. I tried talking to you and that didn’t work. It never does. I’m not sure if I should even let you in.” There it was. The hardness in your voice that had finality like you were truly done with him. 

“I’m not gonna force you to.” There was nothing left he could say that he thought would convince you. You hated being told what to do, so this was Toji’s last chance to give you the final say. If you told him no, he would turn his car around and lick his wounds later. Explaining to Megumi what happened between the two of you would be a pain in the ass, and getting used to you not being by his side would be hard to get over, but he could do it… at least he thought so. He would try his hardest to avoid that outcome. 

“Fine. See you in twenty minutes. To talk ,” you acquiesced. 

“Right. See you.”

 He was one lucky son of a bitch. 

Toji might’ve been speeding since he made it to your apartment in 10 minutes instead. It’s been months since he’s been in there, the last time being when he helped you pack up a few boxes to put in his house. When he climbed up to your floor and knocked on your door, you cracked the entrance open to look at him. You didn’t open the door all the way, instead using your body to block the rest of your space. 

“Aren’t you going to let me in? You said that I could come,” he said. 

You rubbed your forehead. “Yeah, I guess I did.” 

You looked exactly how he imagined. A satin bonnet covering your head, a big, loose t-shirt from an old rock band, bare legs, and fuzzy socks. It was your nighttime uniform that he’s seen a thousand times before. He just wished it was his shirt instead. “Want anything to drink?” 

You . “No,” Toji grunted, following into your space and closing the door. 

Your apartment looked like you had never left. It’s like he didn’t even make a dent in your life like you did his. You walked over to the kitchen, pulling out some health drink you were obsessed with. He bought that exact flavor when he saw it at the store just to see if it had grown on him. It didn’t, but he drank it down. He stared at your fingers and hands, then your neck as the liquid moved through you. His favorite place to leave a mark on your skin was bare. 

“Aren’t you gonna say something?” You questioned after licking your lips clean. Toji cleared his throat. 

“I’m going to therapy now,” he announced with no preamble. Your eyebrows raised up in an instant. You had no idea what he was going to say, but it definitely wasn’t this.

“Th–that’s good. Really good, Toji. How is it going?”

 “It’s not the condescending bullshit I thought it was going to be.”

You gave him a small smile. “So it's not that bad. I’m really proud of you. I could’ve recommended it till I was blue in the face but actually going and being consistent is where all the hard work lies.” 

“It’s not that hard. Should’ve gone sooner.” Toji cuffed the back of his neck that was heating up from your praise. He couldn’t even look at your face, instead focusing on your fuzzy socks moving around. “I didn’t know how much I was bottling up.” 

You reached for his hand to hold it. It was a simple gesture, something that you have done a million times before, yet Toji’s heart hammered in his chest like it wanted to jump out. “I’m glad you're having a great experience. I mean it. I also went back to therapy myself to work some things out internally.” 

You tried to return your hand back to your side but Toji wrapped around your wrist, pulling you till you laid flush on his body and you used your other hand to prop yourself up on his chest. Your legs slotted between his and he trapped you there, holding you tighter. 

“Toji,” you gasped. Your nose was full of him, you were so close you could count his lashes. He was too close, too soon, but you didn’t push him away. 

“You’ve always been better when it comes to voicing your emotions. You’re perfect.”

“You are the only person in the world that thinks that,” you laughed. “I was a major hothead before we met.” Your giggles died out when Toji’s lips ghosted over yours. It made your lips twitch with how near he was with no contact. 

“Toji… You came to just talk, remember?”

“Tell me how proud you of me are again, ” he stated unashamedly. You sucked a sharp breath in when his free hand slipped under your t-shirt, starting at the middle of your thigh, grazing up to your waist. Warm hands that could lull you to sleep now set your body ablaze. You should’ve told him to stop when  his fingers went south, brushing past your pubic hair before dipping into your sex. You should’ve told him to stop when he used two fingers to stretch you out, hissing at how tight you because you haven't done it in a while. Hell, you should’ve told him no when he called you to come over because you knew how it would end up. Instead you locked lips with him, hiking your leg up to his waist so he had better access, giving him the praise he wanted to hear. 

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered in his ear before licking the shell of it. You combed his nape and started to grind into his hand, using his palm to rub on your swollen clit while he curled around the spot that made you bend to him. 

“You’re doing so well Toji, just like that.” 

“Fuck,” he groaned. He wanted to taste you, he wanted to fuck you. You already had that glazed look in your eyes, about to reach your climax soon. Tonight you were extremely sensitive, shivering to every touch, gripping him like a vice. His fingers were drenched, and when he put his thumb over the silky mess covering your clit you tipped over the edge, your legs shaking so hard he held you up under your knee to keep you from falling over. 

You only caught your breath for a moment before you went to his pants, fumbling over his belt and pulling him out of pants. Toji pressed you up against the nearest wall, giving you just enough time to throw your shirt off before he smashed his lips on yours. You cupped his face, afraid that he would pull away as he lined himself up with your entrance. Breathy moans filled the quiet apartment when he finally fit himself inside of you. Toji has missed this feeling of you around him more than he had thought. No amount of jerking off with a clothing article of yours that you left behind would have satisfied him. The sounds that you made, the soft gasps and mewling couldn’t be replicated. He fucked you up the wall, holding one of your legs up so he could snap into you over and over again, the toes of your second leg barely touching the floor anymore. 

“Faster, faster,” you begged. You hugged around his neck tightly, and when you pulled away to look at him you were met with his pupils dilated. There was a rosy flush on his cheeks that was lovely to see. You were worried that if you saw Toji again he would not be interested in you anymore. It has never felt so good to be so wrong. You brushed his hair out of his eyes to look at him more clearly and traced his lips with your thumb. Pushing your thumb past his lips, you ran it over his bottom teeth and he held it gently with the top one. You pulled your thumb out, then used your index and middle finger to push down on his tongue, watching the pink muscle move around in his mouth. He did well without gagging, and for that you murmured a “good boy” to him. All the blood in Toji’s body went straight to his dick after hearing those words. If he went any harder he would’ve broken through the wall. 

“Open your mouth,” you ordered. You really didn’t need to, as your fingers were still down his throat but you took them out slightly so he could widen his lips. You spat in his mouth and closed it immediately with a harsh kiss, your teeth bumping each other. You hugged him tightly once once, wrapping your arms around the top of his shoulders and tried your best to match his strokes in the position. Never have you been fucked on a vertical surface, and for a fleeting moment you felt bad for your next door neighbor. Toji’s teeth teasing the skin on your collarbone quickly made it a secondary thought. 

“I’m gonna come,” you warned. “Come with me?” 

Toji nodded, his nose bumping yours. The place where you were connected was a mess, your essence staining the front of his pants. The tinkle of his belt loop added a musical quality to the claps of your bodies meeting each other. 

Just like you had hoped you came at the same time. Soft yet heavy pants replaced the other sounds crescendo you just made. You could feel Toji softening inside of you, and he slowly slid himself out of your cunt with a sigh that you second. There was no way for him or you to comfortably stay connected while standing up, fucking was already hard enough. You cupped your sex, catching the come that was starting to drip out of you when Toji brought damp paper towels to clean you up. You wanted to collapse on the floor at the end of it. 

Toji carried you to your couch per your request. You admitted that you still had some of his clothes, and there were his sweats in your closet if he wanted to change his pants when he put you down. You laid on your stomach, stretching your legs as far out as you can, praying that you wouldn’t catch a cramp. When you gained some feeling in your legs that wasn’t static you took a peek at Toji when he walked back in. He was staring down at you, waiting for your reaction. He wasn’t a fool that would believe that sex would fix everything, but it wouldn’t hurt if it reconciled something between the two of you. 

“I want to preface this by saying I do not regret what we did,” you started. You wanted to address the elephant in the room before it crushed you. Toji got down on one knee to be at your level when you spoke and you smiled. Unknowingly he was such a gentleman but he didn’t see himself that way. 

“I don’t regret it either,” Toji agreed. If it was up to him he’d fuck you again and stay the night. He knew that would be asking for too much but a man can dream. 

“Right… but I don’t think we should get back together. Not yet.” You nervously bit your lip. You dared a glance at him and his face was unreadable. 

“We’re working on ourselves, trying to get better. I really do think we’re benefitting from the intimate time apart. I swear I’m not trying to be an asshole when I say this, but I think we should be friends first.”

Toji was silent for a few minutes. You were so worried that you poked his arm to get some kind of response. “I still get to see you?”

“Yes,” said slowly, as if you were afraid he would change his mind suddenly.

“And we can eat meals together?”

“I don’t see why not.” 

“Are you still going to drag me to see movies during the daytime?”

You scoffed. “It’s cheaper and has less people!” 

Toji gave you a shy grin. It slowly melted off of his face, making you ask what’s wrong. 

“You’re not in love with me anymore.” 

You sat up from the couch, putting your hand over Toji’s that rested on the brown leather. It wasn’t a simple answer. The love you had for Toji could not be given to anybody else. You only had room for him in your heart. Trying to pretend that you didn’t, moving on before you were ready backfired, and Gojo got the worst of it. Not that Toji needed to know, but when Toru kissed you, you realized that you never had romantic feelings for him. All you could think about was what Toji was doing, but you were the one who left. It was unfair to Gojo. 

“I still love you, and I do think we can make this work if we do it the right way. We are in fragile states right now, and if we mix a relationship in it we might blow up like we did before. What I'm saying is; let’s take this slow. There’s no rush, right?”

“You’re right.” You were asking for a fresh start and Toji could do that. You were trying so hard for him, and he was willing to do the same. He would earn you back eventually. However long it takes.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! Any interactions are appreciated!!

Part One

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[ronearoundblindly]

Your Dog, His Tricks

a Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader tale set a little over a year after losing their virginity together and based on this ask.

Summary: Injured on a mission and MIA for days, you return to a very high-strung boyfriend who can't express what he's feeling until it boils to the surface.

Warnings: arguments and smut. MINORS DNI. WC 5.4k

You don’t know when it started, this sort of competition with your boyfriend, but at some point you and Steve became a packaged deal. Unfortunately, that package was labeled: Steve Rogers and his girl. You feel nameless sometimes, and you know you are better than that; maybe you aren’t super like he is, but you are (and were since before dating) a whole-ass Avenger in your own right. You are a stellar agent. You can bring home the top prize. You can finish this shit-show of a mission all on your own.

No help.

None.

You noticed a problem after months and months of fighting with Steve—no, that sounds wrong—beside Steve. 

Okay, maybe it’s not wrong-wrong to say fighting with him because you two do have the occasional argument. Just one argument, really. One argument over and over again about you fighting beside him, why it’s fine, why he should let it go. You are as safe fighting beside him now as you were before the two of you became this set, this lop-sided partnership. He still wants to protect you from shit you are trained to protect yourself from, shit you survived just fine without him, shit like the last three days.

He’s stubborn, and so are you.

You’ve had trouble getting him to back off. The Team is a team, and Steve does great, delegating all sorts of jobs when you are one among many. As soon as it’s you and him alone? He’s…overly helpful, over-protective, and generally over-the-top fussy. He is adoring and caring and competent. Apparently, those things make him feel capable of doing everything for you. It’s sweet until it’s not. Every time you start a project—laundry, cooking, organizing shelves, or leading an actual mission—Steve waltzes in and has to finish it for you.

Because he loves you. Because he’s trying to help. Because he can.

It makes you feel as if you can’t, or, at least, as if he thinks you can’t.

“Well, buddy, you can’t have this one,” you mutter outside of HQ’s gate, gripping your side and flicking open the phone you stole a few states back.

You’ve been gone for just shy of seventy-three hours.

At first, you truly had no way to contact the Team. You were on your own a thousand miles from home, fried comms and a spent weapon. You missed the rendezvous at the safehouse because it took twenty or so hours to find a vet office with the supplies to patch yourself up, and by the time you could have reached out, that ear worm wouldn’t leave you alone.

He’ll swoop in.

He’ll save you.

You’re his girl, so you need him. You can’t handle this without him. No one will believe you did once he gets anywhere near you.

Call it adrenaline. Call it blood loss. Call it shock. You can’t give up this glory, so you told yourself you needed radio silence to keep the recovered intel secure until back on Avengers campus. You told yourself the risk of interception was too high to chance a phone call.

Now, fifty feet from the infirmary, you need to get past one more obstacle.

You know Steve would jump from a third-story window to get to you, know he would scoop you right up into his arms and carry you over the threshold, know that would mean Steve wins.

No. Not this time. This is yours. You deserve the credit. You are crossing that finish line solo.

You jab the last of the epi-pens into your good leg, letting yet more adrenaline heave through what little of your blood volume is left and call the HQ secure line from the burner.

“Friday,” you start, standing at the bus stop, a blindspot from the Avengers’ surveillance cameras because the city already monitors it, “authorization Gamma-Lima-Four-Whisky. Do not declare connection. I repeat, do not declare this connection.”

The AI welcomes you back onto the grid politely.

“Thank you.” A bubble of pain bursts in your throat. “Give them a different location for this call, ok? Tell them it’s from the nearest functional payphone.”

Friday does as you say because why wouldn’t she? It’s not as if Steve is going to pause to question where the ping is—

—and he’s already out, on the bike, pushing that engine to its acceleration limit and narrowly escaping a shoulder check from the slowly opening gates.

You sneak right past, knowing he won’t look in his rearview, not with his eye on a prize ten blocks away, and you collapse just inside the garage ramp.

You wake prone in the Regeneration Cradle after surgery to a kind, smiling nurse monitoring your progress.

It’s difficult to focus. After a few blinks, you can see her features clearly, then beyond her are just eyes.

His eyes.

Piercing blue doesn’t begin to describe the intensity of Steve’s gaze, and his silence is deafening.

Each quarter-minute he inventories the room, and he exhales. That is the sum total of what he can manage to do right now. He’s attempting to keep it together until you two are alone obviously. Steve fails at very few things in life; this is one of them. You can see the outline of his teeth through his tight cheek.

“Doc wanted me to tell you you did a great job,” the nurse states softly. “If you hadn’t packed those wounds so tight, you’d have died for sure.”

Your mouth is too dry to respond, so you flash a wry smile. No one gets the Cradle without…extensive injuries. You’ve never had the ‘pleasure,’ not even for your through-and-through last year.

Steve huffs in frustration, keeping his huge body out of the nurse’s way even when you can feel him try to astral project himself forward to hand you ice chips. Instead, you swallow cotton.

“Captain Rogers,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes from above, “your motorcycle has been cited for running five red lights with a further two dozen traffic violations. Shall I claim Official Avengers’ business?”

You croak ‘no.’ He says ‘yes.’

There’s a pause. “I will ask again later.”

Who says AIs can’t throw some serious shade?

Silence descends again as the spindling print needle moves on to a different wound. You’re lucid but wobbly trying to think, a combination of the waning anesthesia and pain meds.

If frowns could kill, your boyfriend’s would devastate the entire med bay.

This is what you hoped beyond hope to avoid, but it’s also why your endgame involved going solo.

“You’re making my point for me,” you sigh, your chest hurting more after surgery than it has in the past twenty-four hours. Clearly, your nerves are back online.

“And what point was that?“ he asks sarcastically, waiting in your own stubborn silence. “You gave me a heart attack.”

“Really?” You’re playfully shocked.

“No, not really! God.” He rushes closer. “What the hell were you thinking? If you had time to send me on a wild goose chase, you could damn well have called to tell me you were alive!”

The cradle’s lights shut off, job complete.

“Language, Steve.” 

He looks incredulous, engrossingly livid, anxious outrage contained by his one frayed thread of control left. 

“We found the intel,” he grits through a clenched jaw. “After power-washing your blood off it, everything was on the drive.”

You can’t sit up on your elbows yet, so you bite back, “good. It all worked out fine then.”

Wafting off him in thick clouds, Steve’s anger is near-flammable in the small room.

The nurse offers to step out for a second.

You say ‘yes.’ Steve barks ‘no.’

This isn’t the nurse’s first rodeo. “Alright, surgery went well. All debris and fragments removed. Your tissue is all intact now, too, but remember, this treatment doesn’t train new muscle fiber or nerve-endings.” She ignores Steve and pushes past to the other end of the table. “Rest up. Tomorrow, you can report to PT. They’ll work with you until you’re field-approved again.”

“She is not—“

“Both of you are ordered to rest,” the nurse snaps, nodding in Steve’s direction “—and make yourself useful by changing her drip when it runs out. If you can’t manage that, Captain, I will find a separate apartment or keep her here overnight.”

“No,” Steve breathes, visibly deflating. Like a scolded puppy, your boyfriend tucks his chin down, rings of grey settling beneath his dark sea eyes. It’s plain as day he hasn’t slept either.

The nurse calls for a wheelchair, and Steve dutifully helps you scoot off the table when it arrives. While he positions the IV to move in tandem, you attempt to push yourself by the huge rubber wheels and fail. Doc was not kidding about muscle weakness.

Steve says nothing.

You’re rolled back to your shared room by the grumpiest Captain America. 

He helps you dress in baggy, comfy clothes and silently reattaches the line of your drip. Not one touch is in a sexual, sensual, or even intimate way even though you are naked at some point.

You can’t remember what you expected; you’ve been so focused on completing the mission for so long. Did you want a desperate homecoming? Did you want him to grovel or worship at your feet? You think, at some point, you knew he’d push back, but you thought…maybe…he’d want you more.

Steve seems to turn his interest on and off so easily, which is great professionally but hard to read personally…or maybe you’re just struggling under the distracting hum of medication. It’s a white noise you can’t ignore, lulling you unconscious, so you can’t analyze the situation anymore. Maybe, you think, you try…but the thoughts don’t come.

He situates you on his side of the bed—to accommodate the cord and stand—and tucks himself quietly into the smallest corner of mattress that his bulk can fit on.

He falls asleep holding your hand. It’s the only place you two are connected. After nearly eighty-five hours apart, that’s still worth it. Maybe.

At some point, his hand goes limp and falls away.

Finally clear of mind, you keep watching Steve the next day. He doesn’t necessarily seem angry, and he doesn’t necessarily seem relieved either. He’s so robotic in his interactions. He won’t talk to you just at you. 

You understand why he was so standoffish last night, but you thought Steve would surely want you after that. You thought he’d start touching you again. 

You two waited so long for your first time, but after that, sex was relatively easy. Steve is an affectionate man when he’s allowed, when he’s in love, and you know he loves you.

Like the nurse said: all your tissue is fully healed. The only restrictions you have are in regards to field work, and the phantom jolts of pain—when you reach into a cabinet or take down a clothes hanger—aren’t real. 

Steve’s always an arm’s length away, just in case, meaning he is there to help you.

Always an arm’s length away.

No closer. No farther.

That afternoon you attempt to start talking about your mission, but that’s when he moves.

Steve practically sprints out the door with a half-baked excuse, so you go to physical therapy alone. You can go alone. That’s not the problem.

If you thought talking to Steve was difficult, you weren’t ready for how hard touching Steve would be.

You try to initiate even a cuddle that second night, and he jumps up claiming to have forgotten something somewhere else that he promised someone. Your boyfriend can’t lie worth beans. You don’t know why he tries.

You’re asleep before he returns.

The next night is exactly the opposite. You spend longer at the gym, slowly and painstakingly repeating every single exercise you know in order to streamline these new muscles. It’s an unholy pain in the ass, but you do it because you can—and will—get back in the field.

Even though the workout was mild, you’re awash with that runner’s high when you return to find Steve passed out already. He looks so peaceful, brow relaxed and lips gently parted. He also looks, well, good enough to eat, but you’ll start slow.

There was one time early on, before you two went all the way, that you woke him up by grinding on him in your sleep. You think now, perhaps, you can recreate that, catch him off-guard and dissipate some of this tension between you. This would be a good release. You don’t normally go this long. Obviously, Steve wouldn’t have masturbated while you were MIA and possibly dead, and every other second since has been accounted for.

He practically can’t have sex anywhere else except naked in a bed. He’s even told you, point blank, that he feels no need to touch himself since he has you. You are what he wants. That’s what he said.

Except he doesn’t wake up to your advances. He just rolls over like you’re disturbing him and softly snores.

For the first time, you wonder if you’ve really broken the two of you. How long will he be mad at you for doing your job? 

Steve rolls back over in his sleep, holding you close like nothing’s happened. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but it’s enough and so, so wonderful to imagine all is well.

About a week into your ‘recovery’ (which is sorta bullshit since you can do everything the same by now just with an occasional, faint twinge, no more than the strain of every workout, ever), Steve takes Sam Wilson up on his offer of 1-on-1 basketball for a while. The Team—minus you—has a raid planned in the morning, and there’s always nervous energy to burn off in anticipation.

Your boyfriend has been a nightmare grump, but no one wants to take on the hassle of convincing Steve that he’s being too Steve to Steve properly. He still won’t talk to you about anything other than the weather, food, or daily schedules.

You’re even considering taking a break from field work because this all has become too much. If Steve is gonna shut down after every dangerous mission—which is, in fact, all of them—then maybe it’s not worth the risk. You’re good, you’re great, but you aren’t super.

“Taste of his own medicine, I say,” Bucky mutters, sitting beside you on the bleachers between courts.

“Huh?” You were distracted, watching Steve and Sam squeak across the floor.

Steve sinks a perfect layup and doesn’t gloat. Do-gooder.

“He used to get so mad when I’d find him in an alley all beaten up,” Buck continues. “Thought I was being too protective. I trusted him, but he was puny and he did get sick all the time. He could take a punch, sure, but every mark took weeks to heal. Half the time, they were still yellow when some idiot landed fresh ones.”

Steve claps beneath the net, encouraging Sam, focused on not outshining anyone.

He’s been the same with everyone else but you, and the whole Team can see it. You shouldn’t be surprised someone is finally talking about it; you simply wonder how Buck drew the short straw.

“Didn’t wanna be babied,” Bucky snorts, fondly glowering at his century-long bestie, “while low and behold, he pulls that stunt with everybody, every day.” 

“Yup,” you pop, looking at the matte metal beneath your feet, knowing there’s a line between the ‘caring’ version and the ‘coddling’ version. Steve nose-dived right over that line this time.

“What he appreciated, though, was consistency.” Bucky swivels his hair around into a bun and ties it. “Punk is dedicated, and even if it was just him--the hund’ed pound soaking-wet guy whose only real talent at that point was getting back on his feet--he knew he’d fight anyway.

“Bit hypocritical to be mad at his girl for doing the same, don’t ya think?” Bucky muses, clucking his tongue.

The brunette watches you bristle slightly at the moniker. His girl. Not only is it what got you into this mess, it feels untrue based on that big, broad, cold shoulder you’ve received from the man racing back and forth in front of you.

Smiling, Bucky nudges you with his elbow. “I’m excited for you to get back on your feet,” he adds.

You’re stuck thinking about that long after Bucky jumps into the game.

It’s no surprise then that when the doctor gives you the all-clear the very next morning, you’re over the moon and ready to strike. You don’t hesitate for a second when the alarm sounds less than an hour later.

The Team needs reinforcements. Your Team needs you.

You hustle into the back of a quinjet with a dozen agents. While the others file out to where the main conflict is raging, you sneak around the perimeter to suss out the mission goal, a treasure trove of enemy tech hidden somewhere in what was thought to be an abandoned village.

Not so abandoned if it’s lighting up like the pyrotechnics show on an action film set...

The explosions rattle the ground, yet you know the Team have breached the main chamber. Those enemy forces still fighting are distracting from a retreat. The other agents can catch them just fine. Your mission is intel recovery.

To keep your approach stealthy, you don’t announce your movements over comms, and Nat doesn’t scan back down the dark hallway you wedge into as she carries out an asset. If you weren’t so far back, you never would have seen him.

An enemy agent slinks out from behind a floor-to-ceiling tapestry right in front of you. His silhouette is short and thin; he’s built for stealth, too.

Your heart thumps loud in your ears as you follow, and that bastard gets close—so close—to Steve’s turned back that the pistol’s muzzle nearly touches.

Not this time. Not a chance. None.

You land a roundhouse kick to the exposed neck above his kevlar, and that sucker goes down like a sack of potatoes.

Steve turns around at the ready, stunned silent in the middle of his instructions to Bucky who is not visible from the other side heaped boxes. The papers still smoke where evidence was burned.

You salute at big, blue eyes. 

“On your six, Cap.” 

Steve looks at you, looks down at the man, and looks back up at you…pissed. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

What the fuck indeed…

All you did was help your team. All you did was stop Captain America from getting his head blown off. In no small fashion, all you did was save your boyfriend’s life.

“Uh, you’re welcome.”

His grip on your arm is painful as he leads you all the way back to the jet himself, shoving you into the jump seat between other returned agents and shouting for you to 'stay right there.'

Bucky announces over comms that the rest is clean up. All but the specialized document interpretation and perimeter teams are moving out. 

Steve huffs, contemplates staying on a battlefield instead of going back with you, but decides to sit across the ship in silence again, fuming, making fists over and over in his fingerless leather gloves, bitterly sniffing as loud as possible the entire flight home. He refuses to answer a single person until the jet touches down at HQ. 

“Everyone off,” he bellows, “everyone except you.” 

You can’t stop it. Your hands fly up in exaggerated annoyance automatically.

“What do you want, Steve? I got the go-ahead this morning. I’m allowed to be here.”

“Stop doing that.” He rounds on you.

“Doing what? My job?!”

Chest puffed out, feathers ruffled, cheeks hot and red, Steve peels off his cowl. “Being insubordinate.”

“You’re not my superior officer,” you hiss, “we are equals, and if you think for one second I did anything wrong out there, go ahead and report me. From where I’m standing, I did the work, got cleared for duty, helped out the team, and stopped you from being shot.”

You poke a finger to his chest for each achievement listed.

“Fine," Steve shouts, crossing his arms, "but quit acting like a selfish coward.”

Them be fightin’ words. “A what?”

“You heard me,” he all but whispers.

It’s laughable, truly laughable how bad Steve is at hiding some of those wheels from turning in his head. This isn’t about today. This is the thing he buried the past week.

You roll your eyes. “If you’re gonna throw a hissy fit every time I get a scratch—“

“THREE BULLETS IS NOT A SCRATCH.” He tries—he visibly, painfully tries—to keep his cool one last time. “You weren’t ready,” he concludes, judge, jury, and executioner all poured into one star-spangled package.

“Say’s who?” You’re stepping closer, getting in his face because this is bullshit and unfair. “Last time I checked you’re not a doctor, and you should be thanking me for saving your ass—“

“It’s not your job to save me.”

“We have the same job, Steve! We are both perfectly capable of—“

“I know that,” he barks, hot breath mingling with yours.

“Do you? Because you don’t seem to think I can handle myself.” You push weakly at his chest, taunting, like it's a game. “Maybe you need to walk it off, buddy.”

His face cracks, an avalanche unmoored from a stable mountain.

Oh shit. You’ve done it now.

“Walk it off?! WALK IT OFF?!”

Steve charges like a bull seeing red, crowding you against the far wall, his own derisive finger pointed at your heart.

“You were injured. You didn’t make contact. You went dark for days, and you could have died. Alone. In the middle of nowhere. Who knows how long it would have taken us to find you. No—“ he cups your chin in a tight pinch “—you want to talk about the job? It’s protocol to check in. It’s common courtesy to let me know you’re alive, and it’s goddamn rude to ignore your own safety.”

A dark, hazy sheen layers over his sharp gaze. “Don’t make me keep you home.”

There’s a deep line of frustration carved between his brows. His nostrils flair as he waits, daring you to refute him.

“Well—” you purse your lips in defiance “—isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black.”

Steve lets go of you, smacked away by your cutting tone.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, whatever, Rogers,” you dismiss. “We both know you don’t have the authority to bench me.”

“Like hell I don’t,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and throwing your arms above your head, He weaves your hands through the cargo net behind you. The loops are tight and complicated in seconds, he’s so fast.

You can’t wriggle away.

“Let’s see how you like it.”

Steve roughly throws the zipper of your uniform down, letting the jacket hang open to show nothing but your sports bra.

“Feeling paralyzed—“ he dexterously undoes your belt “—exposed—“ your pants and underwear are yanked down to your ankles “—and afraid.” His last word thickens the air on the jet. 

How can this man launch you into unbridled lust in the space of two syllables?

Who. Fucking. Cares. How.

Steve’s fingertips teasingly glide over the swell of your breasts, brush down your belly, and tick their way in a casual walk between your legs. He retracts his touch the instant you let out a longing sigh, unable to restrain how needy you are. His fingers wander to perfectly clean and unmarked flesh…on your thigh, along one side, and a few inches below that. He’s tracing the bullet wounds he watched heal so quickly.

“Maybe I should leave you wondering how it’ll all play out?” he says absently, lost in thought, his thumb shifting to notch into the dip of your hip. “Maybe I should leave you wondering if we’ll ever—”

“Yes,” you whimper, no real idea what you’re saying. That’s not what answer you meant.

“How would you like three whole days of this feeling, huh? You think you’d fare any better than I did? Think you’d make it even five minutes?”

“Uh-uh.” Again, with no clue what you’re truly responding to, you buck your hips forward onto his long fingers.

The cords around your wrists get tighter while you struggle to set a pace. Behind you, the metal rings of the netting hit the hull with a soft clinking noise. 

“Not so fast.” Steve pulls his hand away just far enough to remove all friction. “Because three days, sweetheart, it was torture. Felt like an eternity right on the edge.”

“Please,” you beg.

One deliberate swipe of his fingers through your slick is enough to make you mewl.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Steve. Please, I need you.”

“Need me? You have an odd way of showing it, doll. You have to promise me—“ he thrusts his fingers in “—promise me you’ll never leave me.”

“I’ll never leave you,” you cry, convinced that it’s true for the sole reason: you never want to experience anything other than this Steve for as long as you live.

“You are so brave, and so…capable, and I know you can do anything, but you…can’t survive anything.” He takes excruciating pleasure in slow thrusts and teasing circles. “Promise me you won’t be so reckless. Promise, say it.”

“I promise.” Your weight sags into his ministrations, called to focus on nothing but where his hand disappears between you. “I promise I won’t be reckless.”

“That’s my girl.”

Your head falls limp against your tied arms. It sounds so good from his lips. Why did you ever doubt?

“I promise I’ll come back to you,” you manage out like a prayer.

“Yeah? That’s it. Is that what you want?”

“I promise. I promise, Steve.” You time your movements sloppily with his measured tempo. “Please, I need more.”

“I know. I know.” He’s strung out, too, listening to your pathetic whimpers after less than five minutes, exactly like he predicted.

You’re so over-wrought with desperation you can’t coordinate with his manhandling your legs apart—your knees, really, since your ankles are still caught in your pants. Instead of taking off your boots, Steve simply unzips himself and dives right into your wet, warm, and welcoming pussy.

Knowing he has a thing against anything naughty in his suits makes it sexier. You want his intensity—you’ve always been curious—and finally you have it: unhinged, untethered, super Steve Rogers. Your body makes room out of sheer joy.

“I know,” Steve coos, his face pressed to your chest as he adjusts. “Fuck, I know, honey.”

“Move, Steve.”

“No,” he says with a gentle kiss to your sternum. “You wanna come? Go ahead. You can do it all on your own. You can do anything you want, can’t ya?”

You groan in frustration.

You wanted this, an annoying voice in the muddled depths of your mind calls. You’re independent.

With a sob of both excitement and fury, your thighs weld onto that sturdy, I-beam beast. You brace your bent arms over your angled and hovering body, leveraging the cargo straps to hoist you up and down.

Your muscles burn, strained more than they were on your lone journey back to HQ.

Steve grunts and moans, the ghost of his wide spread palms beneath your back as a safety net.

“That’s it. That’s it, good girl.” 

Amidst your own noises, you can barely hear him. You’re not building to a climax, you’re falling into one at terminal velocity, flailing. Struggling to hang on and let go all at once, you do come, but it’s more of a plateau than a full release.

Steve’s unhappy and takes your ass in a bruising grip, finally pumping his thick length in and out, dragging the head of his cock across that perfect spot over and over.

“You can do better than that,” he snarls, hair wrecked and falling in his face.

Wave, undertow, and wave again, pleasures simply blend into the next. He gets handsy, keyed up and out of control, muttering “don’t you ever fucking leave me.”

You’d scold him for cursing if the air weren’t being punched from your lungs.

“Come on, sweetheart. Three for three.”

You’re almost disappointed he only wants you to come three times in payment for his days of torture. Even as a tear escapes the corner of your eye and your throat breaks in a hoarse “please,” you know you would give him more. You'd give him anything.

When you finally reach that shattering end, Steve is almost incoherently feral, one hand clamped at the back of your neck, the other anchored to the small of your back, slamming your ass to his leather-covered thighs like you are his mission.

“I promise,” you try to repeat, but you aren’t sure they sound like words.

Whether in response to you or as an errant thought, Steve’s own broken voice rattles at your sweaty neck. “You can take it,” he whispers gruffly. “You can take it.”

You’re floating by the time he comes, his hips stilling slowly. The buzz of your body now outdoes anything anesthesia or pain meds concocted.

Steve peppers your skin with lazy, light kisses until you remind him of your bound wrists, but then he’s overly apologetic and scrambling to free them.

He keeps himself inside you and maneuvers to sit with you on his lap.

You stay there for a while, your numb and sore arms folded between your chests. Steve only stops petting your shoulders to cradle your face, soft blue eyes roaming, adoring. He whispers concern that you’re okay, how are your legs, are you warm enough, you feeling good?

Yes, you think, you’ve taken care of your girl.

“I love seeing you like this,” he mumbles long after the pins and needles have abandoned their assault on your tired legs.

You tuck some silky hair behind his ear. “Like what? Fucked out?”

He’s floating too because he doesn’t chastise.

“Happy, healthy—“ he lets out a deep sigh “—home.”

“Speaking of home,” you say, inching ever so slightly higher to let him slide out of you, “wanna cuddle in bed all night and not get up until someone tries to break in the door?”

That knocks some of the glow off him. He drags a hand down his face. “Oh god, the poor people who have to clean this thing…”

“Let’s be honest,” you snort. “This isn’t the worst thing that’s been on you, but if it’s that big of a deal, we could go hose you down before handing our equipment in.”

He smiles, shaking his head in dismissal.

With his help, you climb off his lap and slowly shimmy up your bottoms, realizing he did truly make a mess of you both.

Steve looks down at his own lap, horrified. “Do I need to burn this?”

“That sounds like a challenge to make you filthier,” you consider, but maybe you should change into your civies before exiting the jet…

“Ya know,” Steve muses, passing over to the small locker of clothing overhead and grabbing a t-shirt and sweats, “I almost got shot in the head today, and you had three bullets fished outta you a week ago. I’m thinking we’ve earned a vacation.”

Workaholic Steve? Actively applying for time off? You’ll be damned.

“My my my, Captain Rogers…the real dirty talk begins.”

He huffs out a laugh and blushes.

“Well, I know we didn’t do anything more special than dinner for our anniversary, so…” He pulls you to his chest again, smelling of slightly musty laundry and pungent sex. “Let’s go on a fucking vacation.”

Your neck cranes to his height to see a soft smile. Oof, he’s good.

 “I missed you,” he adds like a prayer, “and you’re the badass who saved me.”

He giggles at your scrunched nose and watches you bask in that glory.

“Like I said, you’re welcome—“ you hug Steve, letting his warmth radiate through you, moving in time with his rising and falling chest “—and I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He kisses the crown of your head.

When you open the bombay doors, there’s a thermos left at the base of the ramp, a folded paper tucked beneath it. 

We should talk about how to better soundproof the jets. Brought you some refreshments. It’s hazelnut. ~Bucky

Tags: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jamneuromain @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @brandycranby

A/N: I sincerely give up on editing this anymore, so I hope it turned out okay 🙇🏻‍♀️

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[thesharktanksdriver]

Okay, hear me out, if Determination!reader goes back to wano, how does king react? Because I kinda get the feeling he is probably one of the most worried about them, and also how would he reach to Reader's being part of the strawhats? Love ya!

(Sorry for not posting a lot lately I’ve been really busy with school. Next week I have two essays due one day after the other with one being 50% if my grade and two days later after the last essay a test worth like 20%. As apology and because I love king I went full analysis mode)

Worried is the understatement of the century, king is in a perpetual state of panic and paranoia from the worry. It’s the type of worry and fear that leaves you on hyper surveillance and makes you sick to your stomach kinda worried. The shot that starts actually affecting your mental and physical health (I know from Experience lol, was not a fun couple of months and I think it gave me trust issues irl oof)

None of the beast pirates are particularly happy about y/n joining a different pirate crew, let alone the strawhats. For a while the Beast pirates have no idea what, who or where y/n went so they were all left in perpetual worrying. Because there’s a possibility they ended up with the marines, vegapunk, or gods forbid in the hands of the world government or Mary geoise (again). But eventually they hear rumours through the grapevine that y/n joined a pirates crew, none of them are sure who but it’s a rumour that only mildly mitigates the stress on most their shoulders except for king.

While kaido stews in a mixture of depression and alcohol, king remains long hours in the night trying to talk with all the contacts that Kaido has into getting more information. What’s the Jolly Roger? What sea could this crew be in? Do they have bounty posters? And most importantly are they competent and a threat?. The number one thing he’s worried about is the world government and by extension marines getting their hands on y/n, so he firstly needs to know if this crew for the time being is competent in protecting them whilst he’s trying to track them down and secondly if they’ll be a hassle in tacking down when the time arrives for retrieval.

He’s coldly calculated in his efforts mostly because fear consumes him down to his very being. It reminds of him being Alber again, not being in control and at the mercy of others and fate.

He so desperately wants to take control of the situation and find y/n because he cares. He cares too much about them and the risk it is with them having their freedom. He will tear their wings and lock them in a birdcage if it means they’ll be safe, and whilst it’s hypocritical he doesn’t really care anymore when he’s been subjected to the hands of the worst of mankind.

You won’t be poked and prodded at like he was, you’ll be safe. Won’t be strapped to a lab table but instead held with care as ash coloured feathers hide you from the world, never mind the smell of burning flesh of those who threaten you.

For a long while his efforts are fruitless (Luffy’s chaotic nature realllly makes it hard for people to track, even highly paid bounty hunters lol) but king starts to get word after one of the Whitebeard commanders is captured by the marines. He wouldn’t take note of it if not for the fact that immediately in response for this reports of something happening on sabaody with doflamingo’s auction house and quote “3 members of the first generation fighting over a child”. What’s more worrying though is the fact that an admiral and pacifista was sent in response.

For a few days tops there’s radio silence and he thinks maybe it’s just a coincidence even if it sounds wayyyy to much like y/n. And then news comes out that some lunatic broke into impel down with a kid and both then proceeded to break out with the help of the now ex-warlords sun of the sea Jimbei and mother fucking crocodile.

At that point king had the unfortunate realization that yep, that’s you and you joined the strawhats of all fucking crews. The crew that quite recklessly went to crocodiles home turf, defeated him and his whole baroque works system, defeated gecko Moria and his island ship, declared war on the world government for Nico Robin and now was headed head on into Marineford to save one of whitebeards commanders. God hates him-

By this point he knows there’s no getting there in time to stop you nor that lunatic you apparently called a captain from getting to Marineford but that doesn’t mean he nor the others would waste this opportunity. But as kaido rallies the other beast pirates king is left to stew in his own thoughts of fear, anger and a bit of envy.

Fear because of how your quite literally sailing straight out of the fire and into the inferno, fear that they make take you and they, no, he wouldn’t be able to save you from the fate of the world government getting their hands on you. Anger at the fact that your apparent captain, Strawhat Luffy, had dragged you through various dangerous situations carelessly. All those stupid decisions could’ve easily ended up with you dead or worse once more and yet this smiling idiot did it anyways knowing you’d follow along, knowing you’d follow him to the ends of the earth because he was your captain. Quite honestly it pisses him off astronomically how careless this kid is, and it makes him deeply envious that you trust him of all people to be your captain. Something that Kaido deserves

Because Kaido unlike this bumbling teen could protect you.

Kaido would raize islands and king would burn cities to ash to prove that

Did you not know that?

Did you not know how much you mean to either of them? To the rest of the upper ranks?

What could this captain do to deserve your kindness in the wake of this cruel desolate world? More than him and Kaido?

It makes him more jealous than he would like to admit, alongside more volatile and easy to anger as the question festers. He wonders if he did anything wrong, if it was all his fault. That maybe if he did something else, if he was faster and didn’t flinch at the moment the hairpin stabbed past the leather and into his flesh that maybe you’d still be here and not with that captain.

What ends up worrying him more though is what happens at Marineford and after. The fact you reveal yourself to the world and so many other questions that can’t be answered on the fact that you escape and disappear for 2 whole years. They couldn’t even make it in time because big mom intercepted them on the way and both crews ended up locked into a battle of sabotaging the other.

But that now leads to wano (sorry for the big build up I like reveling into character analysis lol and I love king)

Within wano due to king, Kaido and Maria’s insistence there are a lotttt of wanted posters for y/n. Considered y/n can’t have photos taken of them due to their devil fruit (they look like a person made of light rather than a person) hand drawn posters are made and distributed. So it’s safe to say y/n is screwed when they show up and the rest of the strawhats are shaking their heads when in their respective new identities they also find these bounty poosters nailed to every board and post in wano lol

( somewhere in wano nami states at the poster of your smiling face painted on the sheet. She can’t help but grumble under her breath and scrunch the picture into a ball that she then kicked away. This batshit plan was already bonkers enough, but of course you had to understate the fact you somehow tamed the god damn beast pirates)

Yeahhhhh so king through Orochi had the posters put up and no matter how small of a tip (typically it was a rumour or some random kid that had maybe the slightest resemblance to you) he showed up regardless of how small of a chance it was.

And eventually it pays out when he found you, someone called in a tip and there you were. Clad in a brown kimono, sticks stuck in your hair and dirt covered hands digging through the trash seemingly looking for food.

Tanuki, you looked like one of those raccoon creatures the people of wano talked about.

Joyful little tricksters and that’s a pretty good description of you right now as he grabbed you by the back of the kimono and lifted you up. Not letting you finish your sentence of trying to talk your way out of this.

He can’t help but frown beneath his mask of the various scratches and bruises littering your arms and face. Not to mention he can already see that the material of the kimono is poor, probably scratchy and irritating. Your scrawny and considering the fact you were elbow deep in the trash behind a small restaurant tells him of why.

He’d fix this though.

Though the tanuki look was fitting he can’t help but think something else is a better look. Maria would fuss over him taking role of caretaker over her but first come first serve. Kaido likely wouldn’t be swayed even with her “affections” towards him because he’d be more than happy with king bringing you back.

There was another myth in wano that he thinks would fit better.

A black winged being of the wind, the tengu.

Yes, perhaps that would also warn others that you were under his protection.

For the first time in years all feels fine at least in the moment, because for as much as you argue with him he can’t help but see that even with the annoyance and slightest bit of fear that internally rips him apart…he also sees that some part of you was happy to see him.

Even with the shit situation and context, within that moment there was still a small silver lining to you seeing that he was ok

He was still alive

Your friend was still alive

“Wait king why is your flame all weird?”

“We’ll talk about that later. For now just…just let me hold you”

There’s a small moment of silence as his star shaped flame created crackles in the alley

“They missed you, I missed you”

“They?”

“The crows”

“Ah”

“….theres still time for you to let me go. To pretend-“

“I won’t do that”

“…I know. Doesn’t hurt to try though, kaido’s orders and all huh?”

His wings extend around from his back to cover you

“You think I’m doing this just because of Kaido? If you truly believe that then I’d suggest you rethink. I’m not letting you go just because of an order, I’m not letting you go because I’m not letting you go back to those who don’t deserve you. Who don’t protect you as they should”

“King…there’s a difference between protection and possession” it leaves you shakily, his wings trapping your further as your fingers dig into the leather of his jacket

“I know. But when you have nothing but pain and suffering but then find something irreplaceable you don’t let go. If a star fell into your hands healing your pain, making you feel less like a husk wouldn’t you not let go?”

“But I’m not a star, I’m a person”

“You’re a lot more than that and you know it…Kaido will be happy. A feast will be thrown and I will be at your side the entire time, your bodyguard”

“My jailer”

“I’m not sorry for that, not when you chose to constantly and deliberately put yourself in harms way. The only thing I’m sorry for is the fact that I may not be able to save you from the sight of Kaido killing your crew”

[yoursinisforgiven]

IT’S GETTING STICKYYY ! ──

pairing: elias x reader (barista/non listener)

cw: spiderman!elias, college au, reader is implied to be older than elias, reader is a barista but not ideally the one from the original storyline, takes place in new york instead of cali for obvious reasons, violence, blood, distress, mentions of death/loss, consumption of alcohol, injury, multiple sexual jokes, (. . .) is a timeskip less then 5 hours.

credits to @skrunklebink for this post & @bernardsbendystraws for dividers.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

‘Good morning, New Yorkers. Looking for another beautiful day here in the city. Clouds to start us off, songbirds still fighting for the mic. Temperatures steady in the high 40s, so grab that scarf on the way out—’

The radio murmured through the café like the voice of a ghost—an old-timey, slightly tinny tune that wove itself into the dusty silence of the room. It barely competed with the humming refrigerator and the faint clink of the drip tray filling under the espresso machine. The voice was smooth and unconcerned, like it hadn’t known exhaustion a day in its life.

You, however, were a monument to sleep deprivation.

Your body was slouched behind the counter, legs half-giving out, arms folded into a clumsy makeshift pillow against the still-warm surface. The apron string dug faintly into your lower back like a gentle accusation. It was early. Unforgivably early. The kind of hour that made you question every decision you’d ever made that had led you here, including—especially—that one time you told your manager you were a “morning person” just to sound reliable.

You'd now learned that being reliable only made people use you more.

The linoleum beneath your feet felt colder than it had any right to be, the chill sinking through the soles of your sneakers like spite. You had your elbow propped on the counter, forehead pressing against the crook of your arm, the heat from the stainless steel surface warming your cheek in a way that was both comforting and utterly humiliating. If you passed out right there, nobody would know for a good ninety minutes. Not until Denise came in for her 9 a.m. shift smelling like vanilla perfume and passive-aggression.

Your eyes slipped shut again. Just for a second.

Maybe one hour and thirty minutes of sleep could be salvaged. Maybe, if the universe was kind and just, it would grant you a full REM cycle tucked up against the espresso machine like a raccoon in the attic of a bakery.

But the universe had jokes.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

The bell above the door chirped its bright, dainty warning like it didn’t just commit an act of psychological warfare. You let out a noise that could only be described as a groan filtered through a curse word, your head rolling to the side with the slow agony of someone facing death—or worse, customer interaction.

Your eyelids peeled open.

Standing in the doorway like the poster child for “accidentally attractive in a disaster movie,” was Elias.

The door hadn’t even fully closed behind him before he stumbled a few paces in, sucking in sharp lungfuls of air like he’d outrun a pack of wolves. His curls—thick, black, and usually a soft halo of carefully disheveled fluff—were now stuck to his forehead in damp ringlets, sweat glistening at his temples. His signature star-print shirt clung to his chest like it, too, was regretting his choices.

Had he been running? Again?

You blinked. He caught your eye and immediately dropped the hand braced against his knee, trying to pretend he hadn't just looked like he narrowly escaped a building fire.

Your eyebrow arched in slow judgment.

“Cardio. Again?” you asked, deadpan and already regretting the fact that your voice sounded just the right amount of hoarse and sleepy to be attractive.

He paused, blinking owlishly. Confused—like he’d forgotten his own script. Then the memory hit him in the face. You watched the realization light up behind his eyes in real time.

“Oh! Yeah—Yeah!” he huffed, recovering too fast. “Have you been stealing peeks at me during class long enough to notice?” His grin bloomed—boyish, breathless, annoyingly winsome.

You gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “In your dreams, Elias.”

“Oh, every night,” he said cheerfully, tossing himself into one of the barstools at the counter. “In at least three of them, you fall for me. Hard.” He winked—actually winked, the little menace.

You turned away, mostly to hide the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. He didn’t need that kind of encouragement. Not when you were still half-dead and still annoyed and—let’s be honest—vulnerable to flattery when it came from people with eyelashes like his.

You reached for a clean cup, because of course you were going to make him something. Even if you hated him in theory. Even if he interrupted your hibernation like a caffeine-hungry gremlin every other morning.

The espresso machine hissed to life, steam unfurling into the air like breath on glass. Familiar, meditative. Your hands moved on instinct, pulling a shot, frothing milk, tapping the metal tin against the counter. You didn’t ask what he wanted. You already knew.

He slid into one of the stools at the counter like he lived there, arms draped casually on the bar, still panting softly. You glanced at him.

He was flushed from the cold and the running, his cheeks tinted pink under the golden undertones of his skin. That same godawful star shirt, stretched slightly at the collar, seemed like it had been washed a thousand times but refused to give up the ghost. You kind of respected it. It was just like him—loud, persistent, and somehow still charming.

You handed over the cappuccino without a word.

He looked at it with exaggerated reverence. A small foam heart sat nestled in the creamy swirl.

His eyes lifted to yours, dark and shining with mischief. “You like me.”

You gave him the flattest look you could muster on three hours of sleep. “I’m sleep-deprived. It’s basically the same thing as being drunk. I have no control over my actions.”

He grinned, cradling the cup like it was spun gold. “You’re gonna break my heart, you know that?”

“I’m hoping to do it before 8 a.m. so I can move on with my life,” you replied, spraying the counter a little too aggressively with the sanitizing bottle.

He took a sip, closed his eyes, and let out a blissful sigh like he’d just been spiritually reborn. Then he looked at you from over the rim, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“You should let me take you out sometime,” he said, suddenly softer. Not a joke this time. Not a line. Just him—casual, hopeful, warm.

You paused. Turned. Raised an eyebrow.

“Are you asking me out while you’re sweaty, panting, and looking like you lost a fight with a treadmill?”

He leaned in, smile widening. “You have to admire the commitment.”

“Have to is a strong word.”

“And yet, here I am,” he gestured around, “braving the elements, the streets, the danger of early-morning traffic—all for the chance to see you half-conscious behind a counter.”

You stared. He stared back, unblinking.

You lifted the spray bottle and spritzed him in the forehead.

“Hey!” he gasped, jerking back and nearly tipping off the stool. A few drops of water glistened on his skin like holy retribution.

“That’s for interrupting my sacred nap window,” you said flatly, placing the bottle down with finality.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, dabbing his forehead with a napkin, but laughing anyway.

“You’re the one showing up here like it’s your job to be annoying before dawn.”

“Can’t help it,” he shrugged. “Something about you brings out the worst in me.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was heat creeping into your face that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. He caught it. Of course he did.

He grinned. “One of these days, you’re going to say yes, and it’s gonna be my turn to tease you for a change.”

You leaned across the counter, nose nearly brushing his over the space of your shared silence.

“One of these days,” you whispered like a threat, “I’m going to put decaf in your drink and watch your soul leave your body.”

Elias grinned, eyes lighting up. “Hot.”

“Any questions?”

You very nearly groaned aloud when a hand lifted toward the ceiling. It wasn’t the question itself that irritated you—nor the student asking it. No, the real problem was that the lecture had been teetering on the brink of conclusion, the finish line in sight, and now someone had hit the brakes.

Still, you didn’t blame them. Not really.

It certainly wasn’t that you disliked Professor Marston either. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Professor Marston was, unfortunately, eye candy—all chiseled cheekbones, thick lashes, and a voice like worn-in leather. If he’d taught a subject you actually cared about, something with weight or soul or anything remotely poetic, you might’ve even worked up the nerve to flirt with him. As it stood, he lectured on dry texts and colder syntax, which made admiring him from a distance the only tolerable pastime.

He adjusted his glasses as he responded to the question—those dark, almost too-perfect frames—and the student nodded, seemingly satisfied. Marston glanced toward the clock without moving his head, then addressed the room once more.

“Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Okay, that’s it for today. The first full text is already uploaded, so give it a read and we’ll discuss it tomorrow. Failing to do so results in falling behind. You should study hard.”

His words, though plainly delivered, carried the weight of inevitability. The class began to stir as students collected their things in a symphony of zippers, chair legs, and rustling paper. The person in front of you dropped their pencil, and you stepped around it without offering to help.

You were on your feet in a single motion, slipping your bag over your shoulder and retrieving your phone from the tabletop without ceremony. You had brought no papers, no laptop, no pastel sticky notes or highlighters like the girl beside you who had prepared for class as though going to war. You didn’t bother with notes—writing them always felt performative. You trusted your memory to sort things out later. Or not. Either way, it wasn’t your concern now.

You made your way toward the back of the lecture hall, already angling for the door, but not before making a detour.

Your hand came down firmly on the desk where Elias had fallen asleep some fifteen minutes ago, causing the entire surface to quake beneath the impact.

He jolted upright with a choked gasp, his limbs twitching like a marionette with tangled strings. His face was flushed, mouth open slightly, hair sticking up on one side like a child’s failed attempt at styling.

You didn’t say a word.

You didn’t need to.

One look from you, one neatly arched brow, and he sighed in defeat, slinging his backpack over one shoulder with the slouch of someone resigned to their fate. Without further comment, he followed you out of the room, still rubbing sleep from one eye.

The hallway was cooler than the lecture hall, quiet in the way all institutional spaces become after dusk—humming fluorescent lights overhead, the faint scuff of shoes on linoleum echoing too clearly. You didn’t look at him as he fell into step beside you. You simply kept walking, your pace steady, your expression unreadable.

Still, you slowed—barely. A fraction of a second. Just enough to keep him at your side.

You didn’t know why. It wasn’t like you liked him or anything.

Elias let out a wide, theatrical yawn, the kind that involved every bone in his body. You didn’t flinch, but your eyes narrowed.

“You’d think the free venti I give you every day would at least keep you awake until our two a.m. class.”

“Venti?” he echoed, looking genuinely puzzled.

You turned to glance at him, your tone dry. “A large, dimwit.”

His brows furrowed. “Oh. I always thought that meant, like… twenty.”

“It does. It’s also a size. On the menu. The one you order. Every day. For free.”

“I thought that was just the name.”

You stared at him.

“What did you think ‘grande’ meant?”

He gave a sheepish shrug. “A suggestion?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the silence stretch between you like a slow exhale. When you opened them again, Elias was grinning, his boyish expression utterly unrepentant.

“You’re hopeless,” you muttered.

“And yet,” he replied, nudging your shoulder with his, “you wait for me after class.”

“I slammed a desk. That’s hardly affection.”

He tilted his head, faux-thoughtful. “In my love language, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”

You didn’t smile. But your eyes flicked to him, just briefly, just enough to feel the warmth creep up your neck. The air was sharp outside the glass doors—late fall wind slipping through cracks, rustling the leaves that had made their home against the edges of the building.

“You’re imagining things,” you said quietly.

Elias chuckled, unbothered, falling into step again as the door groaned open ahead of him. You would’ve followed, had it not been for the strange flicker of color—just a corner of it—peeking out from the half-zipped edge of his bag.

It was the kind of blue you didn’t see often—something oddly rich and deliberate in shade, not denim, not some wrinkled notebook cover. Fabric. Clothing. But more than that, it was the way it looked like it had been shoved in carelessly, crammed down and zipped just enough to be forgotten… or hidden.

You slowed to a stop, eyes narrowing, drawn toward it like heat-seeking instinct. He didn’t notice at first. He kept walking. But as if he could feel the shift in the air—your presence no longer beside him, the pull of your gaze—he stopped too.

When he turned, your hand was already halfway to the exposed scrap of cloth.

“Don’t—” he said, a half-step too late.

Your fingers barely brushed the edge before his hand caught your wrist.

It wasn’t harsh. But it was quick.

The contact startled the breath out of you for a moment—warm skin, the faint pressure of his fingers on the thin bones of your wrist, not demanding, just—there. Just immediate.

And then it was gone.

He released you without looking directly at you, instead hastily pushing the piece of cloth back down into his bag and yanking the zipper shut in one smooth, practiced motion. Like it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Like it wasn’t meant to be seen.

There was a moment of silence between you, charged and brittle, the kind that belonged to narrow stairwells and unspoken things. You raised a brow, letting the look speak for itself.

Elias glanced up at you, a flicker of sheepishness crossing his face before he quickly masked it with that familiar crooked grin. It was a boyish thing—half charm, half deflection.

“Handsy, huh?” he said, voice a little too light, like he was trying to douse the spark before it became a flame. “I like that.”

The grin widened, lazy and confident, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not entirely.

You blinked, once, slow. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head slightly, a mock-innocent look dancing in his expression as he leaned back on his heels. “You know. Grabby.” He mimed your motion just barely, lifting a hand and fluttering his fingers. “Didn’t even ask my name before trying to strip me in the hallway.”

“I was going for the cloth, Elias,” you said dryly, lips pressed together to keep from smiling. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” he said, shifting his bag higher onto his shoulder with exaggerated effort. “I already told my future therapist.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose, not quite a laugh. “Right. Because you’re the victim here.”

“I am!” he insisted, feigning a wounded look. “Violated. On campus. In public.”

You rolled your eyes but kept walking, this time without waiting for him. “Your zipper was halfway down.”

“That’s never stopped anyone before.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, but your silence had weight. Not disapproval exactly. Just the kind that made him glance over, as if checking whether he’d gone too far.

He hadn’t. Not really. But he’d definitely stepped close.

When you spoke again, your voice was cool but amused. “I didn’t know you were shy.”

“I’m not shy,” he said quickly.

You shot him a sideways glance. “Then what’s the big secret?”

“It’s not a secret.”

“You stopped me.”

“I redirected.”

“You grabbed me.”

“I saved you.”

“From what?”

He hesitated, grin faltering just enough to expose something beneath it—uncertainty? Embarrassment? Or maybe it was just the echo of something private, tucked away like the fabric in his bag.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he muttered.

You shrugged, gaze already sliding forward again. “You give a lot of answers.”

That hung there for a moment.

Neither of you spoke as the stairwell swallowed your footsteps. The hum of the building had quieted now, most students long gone. Outside, the last threads of blue had begun to pull away from the sky, stained purple at the edges, streetlamps flickering on like blinking eyes.

Behind you, Elias shifted his weight again. “Hey.”

You stopped just before the door.

He was standing a step below you now, which meant he had to tilt his head slightly to meet your eyes. “You’re not… mad, are you?”

The question was genuine. Small.

You studied him for a moment. Then:

“No,” you said. “Just curious.”

He exhaled, relieved.

“Besides,” you added, already pushing the door open with a creak, “if I really wanted to strip you in the hallway… I wouldn’t have stopped.”

Elias stared at you for a beat too long.

Then he laughed—loud and delighted, his voice bouncing off the stairwell walls like a spark let loose.

“I’ll make sure to wear something nice next time.”

“Make sure it’s zipped up.”

“No promises.”

You didn’t say anything else, but you didn’t need to.

“Good morning, New Yorkers—breaking news! All bystanders from the building on 46th Street are confirmed alive with only minor injuries—all thanks to Spider-Man!”

The newscaster’s voice was electric, sharp and a little breathless, even through the fuzzy speaker of the countertop radio. You could hear applause behind him—distant, uneven, the clapping of people who had been holding their breath for far too long.

You’d passed the building on your way in.

Or what was left of it.

Twisted scaffolding, smoldering beams, smoke that clawed upward like it was trying to climb back into the sky. Glass had bloomed outward from the windows like jagged flowers. The streets were slick with water and soot, and the air had tasted like static. You remembered slowing down just a little to take it in, the way people did when they weren’t sure if they should look away or keep watching—like witnessing something sacred and terrible in equal measure.

Then you’d walked the rest of the way to the café in silence.

It was early. The kind of early where the sun still felt like it was clearing its throat behind the clouds, pale gold bleeding through gray. The shop was quiet, warm, smelling of baked bread, coffee grounds, and lemon cleaner. You’d been in the middle of wiping down the counter, absentmindedly, not out of necessity but habit—half-listening to the radio, half-drifting in thought.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

The bell above the door shrieked to life like a fire alarm, and you jumped—actually jumped, your whole body jerking upright as your spine stiffened and your shoulders snapped up like a cat hearing a vacuum. The rag dropped from your hand with a damp thwack against the counter.

It wasn’t unheard of for someone to come in this early on a weekend, but it was rare. It was unbelievable that it would be Elias.

Elias, who never showed up on Saturdays. Who slept in like it was his religion. Who once claimed that rising before noon on a weekend was “a crime against youth.”

But there he was.

Standing in the doorway of the café.

Panting.

Dripping.

Wearing absolutely nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs and a plastic bodega bag clutched in one hand like it was the Holy Grail.

Your brain short-circuited.

For a second you forgot how breathing worked.

Elias was leaning against the doorframe as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. His chest was rising and falling in heavy, uneven bursts, hair flattened and damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in erratic curls. There was a smudge of dirt—no, ash?—along his collarbone, and a bright red scrape running diagonally across his knee. The bag in his hand looked like it had been tied in a hurry, sagging slightly at the bottom. You couldn’t tell what was inside. Your eyes refused to cooperate with your brain, refusing to leave him.

A million questions tripped over themselves trying to reach your mouth.

None of them made it.

He blinked at you, chest still heaving slightly. “Hey.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then—so casual it bordered on absurd—he stepped inside, the bell dinging again as the door swung shut behind him. His skin was damp and cold-looking under the fluorescent lights, and there was a clear squelch when one of his bare feet met the linoleum.

“You…” you managed. “You’re—”

“Yeah,” he said, gesturing to his own body with a vague, sweeping motion. “It’s been… a morning.”

“A morning?” you repeated, incredulous. “You’re—half-naked. You’re soaking wet. What—did you get mugged? Fall in a river? Explode?”

“Technically none of the above,” he said. Then paused. “I think.”

You blinked again, slowly. Your eyes slid down to the bag. “What’s in there?”

He lifted it, triumphant. “Croissants.”

“…What.”

“Two butter, one chocolate. And a napkin.”

You stared at him. Hard. “You ran through the city. In your underwear. Covered in soot. For pastries?”

“No,” Elias said, walking over to the counter and carefully placing the bag down as if it were sacred cargo. “I ran for you.”

That shut you up.

He smiled, something softer now, teasing but not sharp. “Well—and pastries.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand down your face.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “I need… I need a minute. I think my fight-or-flight response is still active”

“Understandable. You were just ambushed by peak male form.”

“Elias.”

He held up his hands. “I’m just saying—I probably saved someone on my way here.”

“You definitely traumatized someone.”

“Depends on who you ask.”

You sighed and looked away, trying not to let your eyes trace the line of his abdomen, still slick with rain or sweat or whatever chaos he’d waded through. Your fingers itched toward the espresso machine, desperate for a distraction.

“So,” you said eventually, “do I even want to know what happened?”

He scratched the back of his head. “Honestly? I’m not even sure. There was a cat, a ladder, some guy yelling about propane, a sudden gust of wind, and then… here I am.”

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

Then both of you burst into laughter—unfiltered, bright, echoing through the empty café in a way that felt warmer than the lights and stronger than the coffee.

“You’re insane,” you said between wheezes.

He grinned. “Maybe. But I brought croissants.”

At closer inspection, there’d been something else in the bag—some sharp edge of a box, maybe, or folded paper hidden beneath the telltale brown of a bakery bag. You hadn’t even finished forming the thought before Elias subtly shifted the bag behind him, like a magician protecting his final card. He laughed—nervously, poorly—and the grin faltered for a fraction of a second.

You cocked a brow. “What is it, Elias?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again, as if the words might form on their own if he gave them enough air to live in.

“Would you…” He hesitated. “Would you accompany me to my aunt’s house?”

. . .

It was such a stupidly formal word—accompany. Like he was inviting you to a gala instead of dragging you into whatever brand of chaos he was fermenting now. You didn’t know why you said yes. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was something far more dangerous and subtle, something that tugged at your spine whenever Elias looked at you too long and you didn’t look away.

And now, here you were, standing stiffly on a porch that smelled like wealth, surrounded by flowerbeds that probably cost more than your month’s rent, outside a house that had columns, columns, like something out of a romantic tragedy.

The kind of house that wasn’t just expensive—it was confidently expensive. White brick, high arched windows, planters with roses trained up a trellis and not a speck of dirt on the welcome mat. You half expected a butler to answer the door. Or a ghost.

It was the kind of house you imagined belonged to girls who ordered grande caramel macchiatos with three extra pumps of syrup and called it “just a little treat,” or guys who drank pitch-black coffee and glared at the barista when it was served in a pink cup during Valentine’s season because pink was apparently an affront to masculinity.

You tugged your sleeves down just a little, suddenly feeling underdressed.

The doorbell was a soft chime, not a ding. The kind of sound money made when it didn’t want to be loud about itself.

And then the door creaked open.

The woman who answered looked… surreal.

She couldn’t have been older than twenty-eight, yet she wore a silk robe and a pair of fuzzy slippers with all the poise of a monarch. Her hair was caught in a crown of pink curlers, framing a face that looked like it belonged on a perfume billboard. A steaming mug sat in one hand, nails curled around the porcelain like she was painting a commercial. Her other hand rested lazily on the doorframe. She was very much not dressed for guests, and very much didn’t care.

But what truly struck you was that her eyes didn’t dart to Elias first, despite the fact that he was standing there in nothing but his boxers. Not even socks. He hadn’t even tried to throw on a hoodie. Just stood there like he’d gotten halfway dressed and then lost the thread of reality.

Her gaze, instead, landed squarely on you.

“Why,” she asked slowly, her tone light but edged, “have you introduced me to your partner while half-naked, Elias?”

You blinked.

Elias spluttered, his arms twitching like he couldn’t figure out where to hide. “They’re not—I didn’t—we’re not—”

You cleared your throat, trying to steady the absurd flutter that had taken root in your chest. “I’m not his partner.”

She gave you a slow, amused once-over. “Mm-hmm.”

“I’m not,” you said again, firmer this time, though your voice still carried a hitch of disbelief. “I was dragged here under false pretenses.”

“That’s exactly what I said about my ex,” she replied, stepping aside with a practiced sigh. “He’s now my husband. Come in.”

The house interior was what you’d expected—no, worse. Wide open and modern, sunlight pouring in from skylights like it had been invited. Pale hardwood floors that gave a little under your step, and a hallway lined with expensive-looking abstract art, the kind you could pretend to understand if you stared long enough.

A long-haired cat lounged on a velvet chair like it paid the mortgage. A diffuser quietly breathed eucalyptus into the air. You suddenly felt like a gremlin tracking mud into a museum.

Elias followed behind you, still not saying much. His bare legs were just… there, walking beside you like it was completely normal. You made a mental note to never, ever let him plan anything again.

She walked ahead of you both, her robe swinging with each step. “James isn’t here,” she called back over her shoulder. “Got a call this morning, something about a shipment delay. He’s in Chicago until Sunday.”

You didn’t know who James was. Not really. But from the way Elias flinched when she said it, you figured that he meant something to Elias. Which meant whatever you were here for—whatever Elias was carrying in that bag—it had to do with him.

Before you could ask, she turned around at the mouth of a hallway and clapped her hands together softly. “I’ll grab you two something to drink; and Elias some clothes. Don’t touch anything glass, and don’t let the cat sit on your lap. She’ll never leave.”

And then she disappeared, the swish of silk and perfume vanishing into the kitchen.

You turned to Elias slowly, arms crossed.

“You wanna tell me what this is yet?” you asked.

He looked like a deer caught in a philosophical crisis.

“Still deciding,” he muttered, then scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry. For… the, uh. The everything.”

You gestured at him. “You’re in boxers, Elias.”

He looked down at himself, as if realizing for the first time. “Right.”

“And you dragged me here. Unprepared. With pastries.”

“Croissants,” he corrected weakly.

You stared.

He wilted.

A pause.

Then you sighed, settling into the arm of a velvet couch that looked too expensive to be comfortable. The cat watched you from its throne with unconcealed judgment.

Your eyes wander, as they tend to do when the silence gets too loud.

The room is draped in taste—everything curated and plush, the kind of place that smells like old perfume and lemon polish. But it’s the photo on the far wall that catches your attention. Framed in weathered wood, the image is sun-washed and slightly tilted, as though someone had bumped into it once and never quite bothered to fix it.

A couple sits in lawn chairs, skin sun-kissed and smiling wide enough to feel it in your own cheeks. There’s a careless kind of joy in the picture, the kind not posed or primped for. Behind them—caught mid-laughter—is a younger version of Elias’s aunt, her curls tied up, a hand pressed to her mouth as if trying to stifle her own giggles.

But it’s the kid that hits you.

A smaller, chubbier Elias, maybe six or seven, grinning devilishly with two oversized buckets of water in his hands, clearly just about to drench the couple. One bucket’s already midair. The whole scene hums with a kind of frozen joy, the kind you don’t even realize is golden until it's gone.

You furrow your brows slightly, lips parting with a breath you don’t quite realize you’ve taken.

You don’t need to ask. You don’t need a label or a story told in past tense.

There’s a hollow in the image. A sweetness and a silence around it that says everything. A queasy kind of knowing settles in your chest—not sharp or dramatic, just… quiet. Still. The kind of sadness that lingers like a smell.

And for just a moment, everything was quiet—the sunlight, the cat, the bag still slung over Elias’s shoulder like a ticking bomb.

You can feel his gaze on you—hot, flickering, skittering across your profile like a guilty thought—but you don’t meet it. You stay perfectly still, slouched into the crook of the overstuffed velvet couch, arms folded across your chest like armor, eyes fixed on some expensive-looking painting across the room that probably cost more than your car.

You faux an anger that isn’t really there. It's not fury running in your blood. It’s confusion. Frustration laced with something else—something more brittle, more uncomfortable to name.

Confusion over why he’s always out of breath when he stumbles into the café each morning, as though he’s been running from something—or toward it. Confusion over what he’s hiding in that stupid, overstuffed bag, the one he won’t let you touch, the one he guards like a secret pressed to his chest. Confusion over why he’s now half-naked, legs bare and knees awkwardly pressed together, sitting on his aunt’s ludicrously expensive couch like it’s just another Tuesday.

But most of all, confusion over why you don’t mind. Why you’re still here. Why your pulse jumps a little every time he moves beside you. Why the quiet between you feels less like silence and more like static.

His gaze lingers.

“So, uh,” Elias says finally, his voice light, careful, like he's toeing the edge of something. “I was thinking.”

You don’t look at him. You raise an eyebrow instead, sharp and automatic. “You think?”

“Ha ha,” he mutters, not quite wounded, not quite laughing. You can hear the smile trying to make its way to his lips. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to a party with me on Friday?”

That makes your head turn. Just slightly. Just enough that your gaze meets his, and sure enough—there it is. The boyish little grin playing at the corner of his mouth like he already knows you’re going to say no, but he’s asking anyway. The curve of it does something traitorous to your chest.

“A party?” you repeat, wary. “Like, the sweaty kind? With music so loud you can’t hear your own thoughts and red solo cups full of backwash and regret?”

He shrugs, adjusting the throw pillow behind his back. “I mean, yeah, but there’s a bonfire too. And fairy lights. And I heard someone might bring a guitar.”

“Are you trying to sell this to me or scare me off?”

“Depends,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head with the sort of lazy confidence that should be illegal in someone wearing only boxers. “Is it working?”

You blink.

Your mouth opens—then closes again.

He grins, just a little too pleased with himself.

You exhale through your nose, a slow breath, carefully calibrated. You don’t know what he’s playing at. Whether this is a joke, or if he’s serious, or if you’re being dared by the universe to say yes.

You look at him again, really look—at the curls falling into his eyes, at the half-smile that always makes him look younger, softer, the shift of light across his bare shoulders, at the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize something.

“Fine,” you say, already regretting it. “But if it ends up being some weird frat house with a stolen fog machine and EDM remixes of Taylor Swift, I’m walking into traffic.”

He lights up like you just handed him front-row tickets to his own funeral.

“Deal,” he says brightly, tossing you one of the croissants he had brought as a bribe you didn’t even realize you wanted. “But, uh—also, you might have to pretend to be my girlfriend. Just a little.”

You pause mid-catch, staring at him. “What?”

“Just a little,” he insists, holding his hands up. “Not the full girlfriend experience. Just enough to keep this one guy off my back.”

You glare. “Define ‘a little.’”

“Like… minimal hand-holding. A few shared looks. Maybe a forehead kiss.”

You make a face. “Absolutely not.”

“We can negotiate,” he says, with a sly smile. “You’ve already met my family. That’s like three relationship milestones down already.”

“I met your aunt. Who called me your partner. While you were wearing underwear. You don’t get to spin this like it was romantic.”

Elias only shrugs, lounging deeper into the couch like he owns the place. “Can’t help it. We’ve got chemistry.”

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you think about Friday—and the party—and the terrible idea of letting yourself get tangled up in this mess of a boy with his half-lies and half-smiles and mystery bags. With a roll of your eyes that doesn't truly hold any annoyance you mumble out your address and phone number to him, part of you wonders if he’ll truly remember the street name let alone to pick you up.

And yet you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear.

You were going to have to take a shot before you walked into that party—let alone see Elias again.

The nerves weren’t logical. You’d been around him countless times, suffered his bad jokes, tolerated his shirtless lounging, even accidentally brushed pinkies once while reaching for the same lemonade glass. But tonight was different. It was lit up with an invisible pressure, the kind that folds over your ribs and makes your lungs forget how to do their job.

Your closet looked like a war zone. Six days of hypothetical outfits had gone from hanging neatly to lying defeated across the bed and floor. After pacing for thirty solid minutes in your towel, weighing the merits of confidence versus comfort, you’d reluctantly settled on the second-choice outfit—the one you didn’t entirely hate but didn’t exactly love either.

You smoothed your palms down your sides and gave the mirror a half-hearted nod, trying to convince yourself you looked decent. Maybe even good. Passable, at the very least. That gnawing knot in your stomach didn’t agree.

Ding.

Your phone lit up on the vanity table. With the sheer amount of messages you’d been receiving from Elias—half of which were cosmic facts you never asked for (“Did you know Saturn’s moon Enceladus has an ocean beneath its ice crust?”) and the other half shamelessly flirty (“If I had a galaxy for every time I thought of you, I’d beat NASA to the stars”)—you didn’t even hesitate to smile as you reached for it.

But instead of another space pun or a tragically charming compliment, it was a breaking news alert:

“BREAKING NEWS: Threats being sent to police stations across New York. NYPD debating whether to investigate what they’re calling a ‘likely harmless prank.’”

Your smile fades.

You stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over it like the act of touching it might make the headline real. You shake your head, sigh through your nose, and toss the phone onto the bed with a soft thud, trying to bury the unease it stirred.

Back to the mirror. You fluff your hair, adjust your collar, tug at your shirt, tilt your head a little to the left. The air feels weird tonight, thick with anticipation. You don’t know if it’s the party or something else. Your stomach folds in on itself again.

Then—

VROOM!

The guttural roar of an engine rips through the quiet like a firecracker, too loud, too close.

You gasp, heart rocketing into your throat, and sprint to the window, practically tripping over a pair of heels you decided not to wear. You fumble with the curtain and shove it aside.

There he is.

Elias, with his stupid, smug little grin, straddling a motorcycle that looked far too cool for someone who once tripped on a broom handle at the café. The night wraps around him in a glossy hush, the orange streetlights gilding his dark hair and turning the lazy smirk on his lips into something almost criminal.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he lifts his head and meets your gaze dead-on—those dumb, sparkling eyes catching yours like a secret you didn’t mean to say out loud.

Your heart does something it has no right to do. You ignore it.

You unlock the window and push it open. The night air is brisk, laced with city sounds and just a little too much cologne. You lean out, arms braced against the sill.

“You know that’s illegal, right?” you call down to him, raising your fingers to tap your temple meaningfully. “Helmet, Einstein.”

He lifts one brow, pretending to look confused, then casually reaches behind him and pulls out a helmet—sleek, black, and clearly too small for his head.

“That’s why I got one for you,” he calls back, voice slightly raised over the gentle purr of the idling engine.

Your mouth opens—then closes. You blink. He grins wider.

“You’re insane,” you say, but the words catch on a smile you’re already trying to hide.

“Clinically, probably.”

You duck back into the room, grab your coat, and snatch your phone off the bed, suddenly aware of how fast your heart’s beating. Your hands feel clammy. This is stupid. It’s a party, not an elopement.

Still, as you take one last look in the mirror, there’s something electric in your chest that wasn’t there before.

. . .

The bike ride is loud and reckless.

You’ve never clung to anyone quite so tightly. Your arms wrap around his middle, half in terror and half in disbelief that this is your night now. Elias weaves through traffic like he’s done it a hundred times—which you suppose he probably has—and you scream once, maybe twice, but only in that breathless way that makes him laugh over his shoulder and yell, “You okay back there?”

“No!” you yell back, even though you are.

The city blurs around you. Neon signs, blinking taillights, the sound of someone blasting a sad girl playlist from an open window. Elias makes a sharp turn and your whole body leans into him, the wind curling through your hair like it belongs there.

By the time he pulls up to the curb outside the party, your legs feel like jelly and your face is flushed with something dangerously close to excitement.

He glances over his shoulder and takes off his helmet, raking his hand through his wild, wind-tossed hair. “Well?” he asks, cocky. “Still alive?”

“Barely.”

“I’ll take it.”

He holds the smaller helmet out to you like an offering. You ignore the way his fingers brush yours again. You swing off the bike as gracefully as possible, which isn’t saying much, and try to pull your dignity back on like your jacket.

The house is pulsing with bass and colored lights. You can already hear the crowd inside, laughter spilling out in waves through the open windows.

Elias adjusts the strap of his bag—you still don’t know what’s in it—and jerks his chin toward the house.

“You ready?”

You look at him for a moment. Really look. The messy hair, the stupid grin, the fact that he picked you up like this in the middle of the night like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Not even a little,” you say honestly.

“Perfect.”

And with that, he takes a step ahead, into the blur of lights and music. And you follow.

. . .

You barely make it past the threshold before your skull starts to throb.

It’s like stepping into a war zone disguised as a celebration. The music isn’t just loud—it’s deafening, a relentless bass that punches through your ribs like a second heartbeat. The lights strobe in seizure-inducing flashes: violet, red, green, white, over and over again like some technicolor alarm system. People are pressed shoulder to shoulder, yelling over the music, sweating through thin layers of sequins and faux leather and expensive cologne that doesn’t quite mask the scent of spilled drinks and hormones.

Your body stiffens automatically. Your eyes narrow against the whiplash of colors. It smells like heat and desperation in here.

You think I’m going to kill Elias.

And as if summoned, a hand reaches through the crowd, latching onto yours. He tugs gently, parting bodies like water, until you’re drawn to him by gravity or force of will or something far more dangerous than either. His mouth is close to your ear, his breath warm against your cheek as he leans in just enough to speak without shouting.

“You’re furrowing,” he says, almost teasing. “Already? You’ve been here, like, forty seconds.”

Then his thumb brushes between your brows—the exact center of your frustration—and smooths the crease there. The touch is light, careful, like he’s done it before. Like he wants to do it again.

“Let’s get you something to drink before you get wrinkles.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare, but it’s wasted when your lips twitch upward anyway. He barks out a laugh and leads you through the mess of limbs and flashing lights, weaving with that same irritating ease he does everything—like the crowd parted for him. Like even chaos respected Elias.

You finally reach the kitchen, which is marginally quieter and smells like citrus soda and melted ice cubes. Someone’s raided the host’s liquor cabinet, and the countertop is a disaster: beer cans, half-empty bottles of something neon blue, cocktail napkins soaked through, one lonely lime wedge on a plate like it’s given up.

Elias snatches two cups, pouring without asking. It’s red, whatever it is. It probably tastes like gasoline and regret.

“Cheers,” he says, lifting his.

You raise yours hesitantly and sniff it first. “Are you trying to poison me?”

He grins, takes a sip of his own drink, then gestures to yours. “If I were trying to poison you, it’d be in something a lot less disgusting than jungle juice.”

You roll your eyes but take a sip. It’s horrendous. It burns all the way down and somehow makes your tongue feel fuzzy. You’re pretty sure your soul tried to leave your body just to avoid another gulp.

Elias watches your reaction with a sick kind of delight, eyes dancing.

“Aw, come on, don’t look so betrayed,” he says. “It’s tradition.”

“I hope tradition tastes like bleach in your mouth too,” you mutter, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

But something about the drink—the ridiculousness of it, maybe—melts the edge of your nerves. You exhale and let yourself lean a little against the counter, watching the blurry outline of the party through the kitchen doorway.

And then the music shifts.

The pounding house track transitions into something smoother, slower, heavier with bass and dripping with tension. It's sultry, low and thumping, a rhythm meant to drag bodies close and blur the spaces between them.

You feel Elias shift beside you.

You glance at him just in time to see that glint in his eye again—the dangerous, stupid one. He leans in like he’s telling you a secret. “Come dance with me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You’re going to, though.”

You hesitate. There’s too many people. Too much noise. You’ve never been the type to lose yourself in a crowd—but then again, Elias is already walking backward, into the living room-turned-dancefloor, and he’s holding out his hand for you like it’s already yours.

You’re going to regret this.

You put your cup down and follow him.

The lights blur and the room pulses around you. Bodies press in from every direction—hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder—heat radiating from every surface, and for a moment, it feels like you're suspended inside someone else's heartbeat. The music doesn't just play; it breathes. Heavy. Throbbing. Intimate. A rhythm that doesn’t ask to be followed—it demands it.

Elias’s hands find your waist with a certainty that makes your stomach twist. He doesn't pull, doesn’t rush. He just reststhem there, like he’s claiming something already his. He waits—coolly, patiently—like he knows something you don’t. Like he can feel the tiny tremble in your frame despite the wall of noise and movement.

And then, like gravity isn’t optional, you step closer.

The space between your bodies disappears like it was never meant to exist. His chest brushes yours, slow and purposeful, and then he moves.

Not fast. Not flashy. Just deliberate—his hips swaying into yours with a confidence that burns low and steady. It’s not grinding in the sloppy, desperate way everyone else on the dance floor seems to be doing—it’s smoother, more restrained, and somehow worse for it. More dangerous. Like he’s letting you feel every inch of tension between you, bit by bit, breath by breath.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Elias leans in.

You can feel the heat of him—every part of him—so close now, his chest against yours, the side of his face brushing yours as he brings his lips beside your ear. His breath fans across your skin, hot and humid, and it sends a shiver down your spine so sharp it borders on pain.

“You really gonna let me dance on you like this and still pretend you don’t like me?” he murmurs.

It’s not cocky—it’s low and careful, like he’s afraid of what happens if you answer honestly.

You should shove him away. Say something sarcastic. Laugh it off.

But instead, your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding him just slightly tighter, grounding yourself on something—someone—you don’t want to admit feels safe.

The tempo of the music slows, but Elias doesn’t. He keeps moving, his hips rolling in time with yours, one hand sliding from your waist to your hip, anchoring you there. You feel everything. The curve of his mouth near your jaw. The brush of his thigh between yours when you shift. The dizzying rise of your own pulse, too fast, too loud, too real.

You hate this. You hate how your skin lights up at his touch. You hate how the world vanishes every time he moves like that. You hate that you don’t hate it at all.

And then—close, too close—he whispers again, voice rasping, barely audible:

“Can we… go somewhere quieter?”

He’s not even looking at you now. His eyes are fixed on your mouth.

You nod.

But he doesn't move right away. Instead, he stays exactly where he is—like he wants to remember the way you feel in this moment. Like he wants to burn it into memory before he lets it go.

When he finally does pull away, it’s just enough to take your hand.

And this time, you follow him without a word.

. . . 

Elias practically dragged you up the stairs with a grip that was urgent but not rough, like he wasn’t sure if this night was about to get better or worse but couldn’t bear to let the moment evaporate. His fingers were wrapped tight around yours, the thudding bass from the party below growing distant behind the hush of walls and closed doors. The hallway was dark, lit only by the flickering glow of a motion-sensor light that clicked on above as you passed beneath it. He chose the first door on the right and yanked it open without a second glance.

The bedroom was unfamiliar—neither of yours—and clearly belonged to someone who wasn’t expecting guests. A string of half-dead fairy lights clung to the top of the headboard, casting pale, flickering gold across the bed’s messy sheets. It smelled like a stranger’s lotion, faint vanilla and something powdery beneath the usual party scent of beer and too many people in a tight space. Elias didn’t seem to care. The door clicked shut behind you, and the soft latch of it felt louder than it should’ve.

He turned to you slowly, and for a second he didn’t say anything. His boyish smirk was already forming, the kind of sheepish grin he gave when he was trying to charm his way out of a bad idea or make light of something heavier than he wanted to deal with. But there was a flicker in his eyes—something hesitant, something unsure, like he was stepping out on a wire and had no idea if you’d catch him if he fell.

You stood directly in front of him, not quite close enough to touch but close enough to feel the pull—whatever magnetic thread that had been building between you since the second he walked into the café barefoot, or dropped off croissants with that half-crumpled bag and too many secrets behind his smile.

Your eyes stayed on his for a second too long. Then, like gravity, your gaze dipped—trailing from his eyes to his mouth. His lips were parted just slightly, like he was about to speak again but thought better of it. You watched the way his chest rose and fell, just a little faster now.

He said your name—just your name—but it felt like it echoed in the space between you. You looked back up at him slowly, and when your eyes met his again, they were wider. More raw.

“Please,” he said.

The word was nearly a whimper. It came out thin, barely formed, like it had escaped before he could decide if he really wanted to say it. There was something desperate in the way it landed. Like he’d been holding it back for too long.

You nearly laughed. Nearly said, If you asked to be my boyfriend, you could just do it, but something about the look on his face made the words catch behind your teeth.

“Please what?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt.

He let out a breathy laugh, the kind that was meant to cover up nerves and came out as static instead. “Could I please kiss you?” he asked, low and hopeful and stupidly sweet, like he thought the answer still might be no.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped forward—just one step—and now you were close enough that you could feel his warmth under the thin layer of clothing between you. Your hand twitched at your side before finding the hem of his shirt, curling into it just slightly. You leaned up slowly, deliberately, your breath brushing his chin as you hovered. You could hear his heartbeat. You could feel it.

Your lips brushed.

Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the ghost of one.

And the second your mouth pressed fully against his, your world tilted.

He kissed you back like he’d been holding his breath for weeks, like he didn’t know how long he’d have you and didn’t want to waste a second of it. His hand found the side of your face, thumb grazing the curve of your jaw as his other arm slipped low around your waist and pulled you flush against him. His mouth was soft, eager, his breath hot against your cheek as he broke the kiss only to kiss you again—deeper this time, like a question he couldn’t stop asking.

And then—

BZZZT.

His phone rang.

The sharp buzz of it sliced through the quiet like a blade. A second later, your own phone dinged with a notification.

You both froze.

Your lips still touched, barely, the heat of his breath against your mouth like a held secret. He pulled back just an inch, forehead still brushing yours, eyes still half-lidded and wide.

“Shit,” he muttered, blinking like he was just now waking up.

His hand slipped from your waist as he fished his phone from his pocket, and his expression twisted into something panicked the second he looked at the screen.

“What is it?” you asked, trying to keep your voice calm. “I’m kind of—” he paused, glancing at you again, and the way he said it was half-apology, half-regret, “—busy.”

But as he listened to whoever was on the other end, something in his face changed. It was like watching a light flicker out behind his eyes. Whatever warmth or tension had filled the air between you was gone, replaced by the ghost of something colder.

“What is it?” you asked again, sharper now, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore.

“I—I'll be right there,” he said suddenly, and the phone clicked off.

The room went quiet again, but it was the wrong kind of quiet now.

He was breathing harder, like he’d just run a sprint. His eyes darted around the room, frantic and full of a fear he wasn’t doing a good job hiding. He moved too fast, too jerky, pulling back the curtains like he expected a fire behind them. The metal curtain rod groaned loudly under the sudden force, nearly coming off in his hand.

“I—I’m sorry!” he said, backing toward the open window now, one leg already halfway out. “I’ll make it up to you! Promise!”

“Elias—what the hell are you—”

But it was too late. His body disappeared through the frame.

You rushed to the window in disbelief, heart hammering against your ribs.

He hit the ground in a graceless roll, staggered upright, and took off running into the night—no shoes, no coat, no explanation. Just gone.

Your breath caught in your throat. You blinked.

He actually jumped.

From the second story.

For a full second you just stood there, stunned. A hollow ringing filled your ears. Your fingers curled tight against the window frame.

Your blood boiled.

This was worse than being stood up. Worse than being ghosted. He had ditched you in real time—face to face—mid-kiss—and jumped out a fucking window.

The fury rose first, hot and loud in your chest.

But then something colder crept in beneath it.

You grabbed your phone, almost shaking as you opened the notification that had popped up alongside his.

‘BREAKING NEWS: Second Threat Sent to NYPD—Anonymous Group Claims Involvement in Prior Bomb Threats. Police Still Debating Level of Credibility.’

. . .

After the thirty-fourth failed call, your thumb hovered over the redial button one more time. You stared down at your phone like maybe—maybe—this time it would go through. But instead, it rang once. Then twice. Then a third time before cutting straight to voicemail. You didn’t even bother to listen to the mechanical tone again. You’d heard it too many times already, that robotic woman’s voice telling you to leave a message that he clearly wasn’t going to answer.

You tried texting next, your thumbs fumbling over the screen with frustration as you typed messages you didn’t even remember writing. Some angry, some worried, some just fragments of thoughts—“What the hell, Elias?” “Are you okay?” “Please just text me. Anything.”

But eventually, the texts stopped sending too. The little bubble with the exclamation mark mocked you each time you hit resend. It was like shouting into the void and expecting it to answer back.

So you gave up.

Not with a sigh. Not with some quiet acceptance. You gave up the way a door slams in a storm—loud, sharp, and full of something bitter that refused to settle.

You pushed his damn motorcycle all the way to the nearest parking lot, feet dragging through the pavement, the bike’s weight making your arms ache with every step. You didn’t even bother to lock it to anything. Let someone steal it. Let him deal with that too. You hoped the tires got slashed. You hoped the mirror cracked. You hoped it rusted.

He left you.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Mid-kiss. Mid-moment. He said please. He kissed you like he meant it. And then he jumped out a goddamn window.

By the time you got home, the adrenaline was gone. What was left behind was something quieter and heavier, like your bones had been replaced with wet concrete. You unlocked the front door with shaky fingers, the key jammed slightly before the lock finally clicked open. Once inside, you slammed them—your keys—onto the narrow table by the entryway. The clatter echoed through the quiet house like a scream in a church.

You wanted to scream too.

But instead, you just cursed.

“Stupid,” you muttered under your breath. “Stupid, stupid, fucking—” The word caught on the lump in your throat before it could fully form.

You stood in the hallway for a moment, just breathing. The silence around you was too much—too loud, too empty, too different from the way his voice sounded close to your ear when he whispered your name like it was something sacred. You clenched your fists until your nails dug into your palms. No tears. You refused to cry over this. Over him.

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath your feet as you walked in, kicking the door shut behind you. You didn’t bother to undress neatly. Your clothes ended up in a small trail on the floor as you twisted the knobs on the faucet, letting the shower burst to life with a hiss and a groan. You stepped in without waiting for it to warm up.

It was like shock therapy.

The water hit your skin like glass—cold and relentless—and you stood there anyway, letting it wash over your face, your shoulders, your chest. You pressed your palms to the tiled wall in front of you and let the water pound down until you could almost convince yourself it was rinsing him off.

The way his hand felt on your waist. The way he held you like he didn’t want to let go. The way he looked at you before he asked, “Please.”

You scrubbed at your skin hard enough to turn it red. You shampooed your hair twice. You stayed until the water ran lukewarm and your fingers began to prune. And still, it didn’t feel like enough.

Eventually, you stepped out, shivering. You wrapped yourself in a towel and wiped the fog from the mirror. You stared at your own reflection. Your eyes were red, not from crying but from exhaustion, from frustration, from the stupid sting of something that felt too much like heartbreak even if you refused to name it that.

You padded into the hallway, passing the living room in the dark. The silence still hadn’t gone away. If anything, it followed you like a shadow.

You stopped in the kitchen before heading to your room. The fridge hummed softly as you opened it. You didn’t even glance at anything else—just grabbed the carton of ice cream you’d tucked into the back days ago for a future bad day. Apparently, this counted.

You didn’t bother with a bowl. You just grabbed a spoon, peeled the lid off, and trudged down the hall wrapped in your towel like a defeated Roman emperor.

Back in your room, you dropped onto your bed with a soft thump, pulling the blanket over your legs as you shoved a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth.

Vanilla. With cookie dough chunks.

The sweetness didn’t help. The cold didn’t help either.

4:37 PM Saturday, the 5th.

Thud!

Your phone screen still glowed beside you, The Office paused at some half-frozen frame of Michael Scott mid-rant. The soft hum of your room—the low whirr of your fan, the faint buzz from the fridge down the hall—was abruptly cut by that sound. You blinked up at the ceiling from where you’d been curled beneath a heap of blankets, the empty tub of ice cream still half-clutched in your lap.

You rubbed your face, assuming it had just been the creak of the house settling. Old buildings make weird noises, you reasoned—right up until it happened again.

Thud. Again. Louder.

You froze.

The sound hadn’t come from the hallway or the apartment above. It came from the window. Your window. Which, last time you checked, was three floors above solid pavement. There was no fire escape. No balcony. No goddamn reason why there should be footsteps on the other side of that glass.

Thud. The third landed with weight, not like knocking, but like something—or someone—had landed.

Panic bloomed so fast it had no time to unfurl gently. You were on your feet before your brain had fully caught up, fingers flying to your purse on instinct, yanking out your keychain and gripping the tiny pepper spray bottle so hard your knuckles whitened. Your heart was hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free of your chest, faster and louder than it had any right to be.

Your gaze swept the room like it was a battlefield—no weapon, no bat, no sense of logic. You were still in your sleep clothes, your hair flattened on one side, a smear of ice cream on your wrist, and none of that mattered because someone was at your window.

A creak.

The unmistakable groan of a window being slid open. Slowly. Carefully.

You spun on instinct and fired.

The pepper spray hissed violently through the air, cutting a fog between you and the figure ducking through the frame—blurry, fast-moving, limbs covered in—

Wait. Not clothes. Not black like a burglar. Not dark like a hoodie or ski mask.

Red. Blue.

Your hand faltered for half a second as the fog of spray began to settle, your eyes struggling to make sense of the silhouette. The figure coughed—hacked, really—stumbling halfway into your bedroom and nearly crashing into your nightstand as they flailed blindly.

“Jesus—fucking—ow! Okay! Okay, I get it—stop!” the voice rasped out, nasal, but unmistakable.

You froze in place, pepper spray still raised, and watched in horror and disbelief as the figure fell forward and tore off his mask.

And there he was.

Elias.

Your Elias.

His curls were damp with sweat, his cheeks streaked red from the sting of the spray. He was blinking furiously, squinting up at you from one knee on your carpet, chest still heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

You were speechless.

He was wearing a Spider-Man suit.

Not a knock-off. Not one of those Halloween-costume, Party City, badly stitched replicas with puff paint muscles and too-short arms. No—this one was real. Sleek and contoured, with reinforced seams and thin tech panels glinting like micro-circuitry under the suit's texture. His gloves were fingerless at the tips, showing pale crescents of his real skin. One boot was scuffed. The suit clung to his frame like second skin.

And you were still pointing a weapon at him.

“I—what the fuck?” was the best you could manage, your voice strangled by panic, confusion, and a cocktail of so many other emotions that you couldn’t even begin to name them.

He coughed again, eyes watering, trying to fan the air between you. “Cool welcome,” he rasped. “Glad to know you’d mace a guy before asking questions.”

You didn’t move. “You came through my window.”

“You sprayed me in the face.”

“You’re dressed like Spider-Man!”

He looked up at you, squinting hard, and said quietly, “Because I am.”

The room went silent.

The wind from the open window lifted the curtains slightly, as if the whole world paused to let that sentence land.

You felt the air change. It was no longer fear buzzing in your veins—it was disbelief. Wonder. A sick lurch of realization that clicked the puzzle pieces of the past few weeks into sudden, painful place.

The late arrivals. The bruises. The secret glances. The adrenaline and deflections. The fucking fabric you saw in his bag.

You took a breath, shaky and shallow, and before your voice could betray you, he moved.

Fast.

Too fast for your eyes to fully follow.

He didn’t leap out the window—he launched himself from your rug to the frame, flipped backward, and—stuck—to the roof just outside your room, hanging upside-down with a fluidity that defied logic.

You gasped.

He wasn’t holding on. He was clinging. To the brick wall. Like it was nothing.

One hand released, and from his wrist—

Thwip.

A thread of web shot upward, catching against a vent on the roof, anchoring him in a single line. The tension in the air stretched with it, vibrating with the weight of the impossible. His body shifted until he dangled upside down, swaying slightly in the night air, the lines of his suit shimmering in the glow from your desk lamp behind you.

He didn’t say anything.

Just… waited.

You moved before you could think better of it.

Your feet carried you to the open window, bare toes cold against the floor. You reached out slowly, breath caught in your throat, and placed your fingers against the fabric of his suit—right where his ribs would be.

Warm. Real.

He blinked up at you, upside-down and grinning nervously. “Hi.”

The smallest laugh escaped you. Shaky. Unbelieving. “You—are an idiot.”

“True,” he said softly. “But I’m your idiot.”

Your eyes flicked from his to his mouth—soft, parted slightly, waiting.

Your hand found the base of the web he was hanging from, just behind his neck. It trembled.

“Why now?” you whispered. “Why tonight?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because I couldn’t stand one more second of lying to you. And because I think—I know—I’m in love with you.”

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You didn’t kiss him right away. You stared.

At the boy who’d been in your life as a joke, a flirt, a chaos magnet, a mystery—and now, a fucking superhero.

And still, underneath it all—he was Elias.

So you leaned in.

And kissed him.

Upside down. Hands cradling his face. Soft at first, like a test. A brush of lips.

But then—deeper.

He let out a small sound in the back of his throat like he’d been waiting to exhale for months. His hand moved to your cheek, fingers brushing your skin with a reverence that felt holy. Your lips moved against his, slow and certain, matching the rhythm of something that had been inevitable from the start.

Outside, the city breathed. Wind curled around the building’s edges, sirens whispered in the distance, and the streetlight painted gold across his jawline where your thumb now rested.

When you finally pulled back, you didn’t step away.

His eyes opened slowly, lashes fluttering, lips parted and swollen from the kiss. He looked breathless. Real. Yours.

“…Holy shit,” he breathed, voice low and reverent, like he wasn’t entirely convinced you were real. Like this wasn’t a dream he was about to wake from face-first in a dumpster.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, the word catching on a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Holy shit.”

The wind tugged softly at the web above him, making it creak where it connected to the edge of the roof. He swayed gently in place, the movement subtle, but enough to bring him inches closer—close enough that your breath mingled in the space between you, warm against the night air.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, wide and still trying to catch up with everything that had just happened.

Then he blinked, smile curling slowly at the corner of his mouth. “So, um…” he murmured, a little sheepish, a little dazed. “Does this mean I’m allowed back in? Maybe this time without getting maced like a home intruder?”

A laugh escaped your chest—soft, breathless, still shaky from everything—but it felt real.

“Yeah,” you said, your fingers brushing lightly over his jaw, wiping away a tear track left by the pepper spray. “But next time, I swear to god, use the front door. Or, I don’t know… text me like a normal person?”

He grinned, upside-down and stupidly handsome. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Not thinking my apartment’s being broken into is pretty fun.”

He rocked in the web again, chin tipping just slightly with the movement. “So there’s gonna be a next time?”

You tilted your head, expression softening. “That depends.”

He blinked, the grin faltering just slightly as something more serious slid into his gaze. “On what?”

You leaned out the window, hand sliding behind his neck as you pressed your forehead gently to his, eyes closing for just a beat.

“On whether or not you make me regret this.”

There was no challenge in your voice. Just quiet truth.

A breath passed between you. He swallowed hard.

“You won’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I swear, you won’t.”

His voice was different now—no bravado, no flirting, no cocky tilt to the words. Just him. Honest and raw and maybe a little scared. But steady. Present.

You looked at him—really looked. At the cuts along his cheekbone, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he still trembled just slightly from the adrenaline, and you felt something shift in your chest. Not pity. Not fear. Just understanding. Something ancient and wordless.

You kissed him again—slower this time.

Longer.

His hand found your cheek, thumb sweeping along your skin like he was memorizing the shape of your face from the outside in. He kissed you like gravity didn’t exist, like if he let go now, he’d float away into the sky.

The room around you fell away. The thrum of the city below dimmed into white noise.

There was only the warmth of his lips, the anchoring press of his palm, and the tiny creaks of the web as it shifted above your heads—holding him steady in the quiet, suspended like a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since the morning you met him.

SNAP.

The web snapped like a rubber band.

Elias dropped out of frame with a startled, “Oh sh—!”

There was a loud thud and a less loud curse as he crashed back-first onto your bedroom floor, limbs flailing midair before gracelessly landing like a bug under a cup. One leg kicked the nightstand. Your phone charger launched into orbit. A pile of laundry absorbed most of his dignity.

You gasped and whipped around, peering over the edge of the window frame.

He blinked up at you, flat on his back, a sock draped across his face like a funeral shroud. His voice came muffled.

“…I’m good.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, but the laugh punched through anyway.

“Oh my God.”

“I meant to do that,” he groaned, peeling the sock off and tossing it aside like it had offended him. “Classic superhero exit. Very stealth. Very graceful.”

You snorted and stepped over him to shut the window.

“Next time,” you said, trying not to smile, “maybe aim for a kiss that doesn’t end in blunt force trauma.”

He gave you a thumbs up from the floor. “No promises.”

author's note: do we want a series orrr?

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[chiyobot]

♱⠀hallucinate your holiness⠀⎯⎯⠀ jackieshauna serial killer college au.

they learn to become notorious serial killers that murder and eat people. need i say more? romcom + their morbid penchant for slaughter.

🚩 gore, blood & violence/injury, murder, cannibalism, themes of mental illness, nsfw (bloody sex, violent sex, knifeplay, etc).

two incredibly fucked-up women, reunited by a series of very stupid events, dead bodies, and questionable choices that somehow make them surprisingly good at killing people.

they start liking the thrill of it—the pulse under a knife, the rush of blood, the quiet satisfaction of a life snuffed out.

they start liking murder.

after a year of radio silence, shauna shows up at jackie’s dorm at rutgers—because, honestly, where else would she go to confront the mess she made when she decided to not tell jackie she was transferring from brown? she thought the awkward reunion would be a mess of words and maybe an angry hug, but it’s jackie’s boyfriend that answers the door instead.

shauna does what any reasonable person would do in that situation: kills him with a glass bottle.

now they’re stuck together in jackie’s very pink dorm room with a dead body, figuring out how to clean up their mess, cover their tracks, and not get caught—while rehashing their complicated, toxic friendship and growing murder competency.

oh, and jackie is still falling for shauna. again. because of course she is.

[cornmayor]

Sorry for the radio silence. I missed semifinals but here's the finale info!

Cross and Error made it till the end and they have two days to compete!

[replaycamera2]

What Your Fave Redacted Character Says About You

Davey - You value a lot of things in a man: the most important being his ability to snap you in half.

Asher - You are the annoying younger sibling who is completely aware of exactly how much they can get away with via years of experience.

Milo - When people ask you what your hobbies are you say “reading” but the silent part of that answer is “fanfiction”

Vincent - I could go on for hours about all the parasocial relationships you’ve had in your life.

Sam - You’re rapidly running out of things other than yourself to blame for your problems, and honestly, it’s just a cry for help at this point.

Lasko - The people in your life have learned not to use the turn of phrase, “What’s the worst that could happen?” Because you will immediately launch into a 20 minute PowerPoint presentation with cited sources on exactly everything that could possibly go wrong.

Damien - Your parents were PTA terrorists. They were planning your bid for student council president while you were still in the womb.

Hux - For the people who think other people are always flirting with them or buttering them up, but they’re honestly just being nice and you never really learned how appropriately reciprocate that because life has taught you that everyone is always after something.

Gavin - God gave you depression and anxiety because if he didn’t, you’d be competing for his job

Avior - You’re either a burned out “gifted kid” or you only just got diagnosed with ADHD in your mid 20s. No in between.

Vega - Dear god do you love to be stepped on

Blake - You can not fix him. YOU CAN NOT FIX HIM.

Elliott - The ultimate fantasy of every demi-sexual out there.

Aaron - Depends: if you’re a straight woman, this is just everyone’s daddy fantasy. Otherwise, you’re a white gay guy. Only they would see a 1-to-1 recreation of their bully and go, “That is my husband.”

Ivan - I’m not saying you’re scary when you’re mad, I’m just saying the Venn diagram of people who have crossed you and the people you never hear from again is a circle

James - Admit it, you find degradation just a little bit hot. Just give in and go for it, it’ll be cathartic, trust me.

Anton - Literally that meme of “Thank you for changing my life.” “I’m literally a white man from Arizona mumbling and mouth-breathing into a mic.”

Geordi - “Patience of a saint” and “persistence of a rock” do not even begin to describe you. We have had nothing but radio silence from this man for 7 months.

Regulus - You just want someone to end your existence without actually killing you and honestly, valid take.

Guy - Your insecurities might scream at every person you meet, but not if you scream louder

Ollie - Your life moves from one disaster to the next and you are desperate for a shred of stability, which is probably why you’re listening to boyfriend role-play.

Morgan - There are two kinds of people in this fandom: Those who know what “19 months” means, and those who don’t.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Naked Truths (John Price x Escort!Reader)

Part of the Purchase Your Time series

Summary: It's a late night call that brings you to John's house, and you can tell by his appearance - and his payments - that tonight might just be the time he starts to cross that line of his.

Content warnings: Smut (18+ only, Minors DNI!), blowjobs (male receiving), penetrative sex, oral sex (reader receiving), Reader is gender neutral (genitals vaguely described, no specifics)

Masterlist

Calling you on a random Thursday after two months of radio silence initially thrilled in your stomach and sent earthquakes through your hands as you answered your phone.

“When can I see you?”

“When do you want to?”

“Now.”

After confirming that you only needed a change of comfortable clothes before you’d be able to head over, John hung up first - another indicator that he hadn’t the energy to act like a normal person. Perhaps that should’ve set off alarm bells louder than your curiosity, but this was bringing you real insight to who he was, not what he acted like in front of you. The man who yearned for domesticity but hid behind charm and competence unless you dared to offer that kind of interaction in an open palm.

Within a minute of hanging up, you received your payment straight into your bank account. An overnight stay was indicated by the number of digits.

His house again was the location and it was just as you remembered, except all the lights were off and his truck was not perfectly parked. Before you could exit to investigate, the driver cleared her throat before she handed you a key. No keychain or ring to indicate it had ever been attached to a set before. You accepted and thanked her before closing the car door behind you. The slam and fading of the engine as the car sped away left you in noticeable silence, no greeting, no enticement, nothing but intrigue to bring you to the front door, which you knocked out of habit before trying the key. No surprise was felt when it let you in.

“John?” You called out, taking your shoes off and placing them beside a pair of worn, caked in crap laced boots.

A gruff “In here” led you into the kitchen. At the breakfast bar, John’s back appeared in your vision.“Hi.” You slid the house key across the bar, scraping the marble but not marring it.

John’s hand stopped yours in place, “It’s for you.” As you made a mental note to add that to your John inventory, give it its own identifier so you wouldn’t mix it with any others, John raised his short glass and revealed the heavy amber liquid that sloshed about the bottom of it.“Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you.” And only then was your hand released to tuck that key away into your pocket. “How are you doing?”

Pressing the glass against his forehead, John sighed, “Been a day.”

“What can I do for you?”

John sniffed then abandoned the drink on the counter. The breakfast bar stool spun as he stood from it. The ice cubes filled the silence with their tune like a wind chime in a breeze.

In one smooth motion, John’s hands – cool from condensation – tilted your head and swept you close by the small of your back so that he could kiss you. The oiled bristle of his moustache paired like a fine wine with his lips cushioned on yours. Yet this switch-up from all previous dates had you hyper aware and certainly to the fact that he was walking you backwards, his palm cradling the back of your head so that you didn’t feel the brunt of the wall when he pressed you against it. Your own hands had latched onto his neck and midriff in the crossfire, tickled by this absence of restraint and annoyed when John drew away with a sigh and an apology. You calmly demanded for an reason behind his quiet “sorry”.

“Grabbing you like that,” was his explanation.

“I’m fine. You wanted to, I wanted to,” You replied, “It’s quite literally my job. I’m like a therapist you can fuck.”

Unfortunately, your humour resulted in John letting out an empty laugh and freeing you from his hold. But you were determined to get a real reaction out of him, so you pressed on his bruise a little more. “I’m serious. I’m hear for whatever you need: hearing out your problems, talking about things you can’t tell anyone else, whatever you want.”

Knocking back the rest of his drink, ice cubes clashing into his teeth, John swallowed then scoffed, “Is that how you see me? Just like any other client?”

“I see you wanting something, and you wanted that with me, which is why you called me. But you can’t bring yourself to ask for it.”

“Maybe you should be a therapist,” John tipped his glass over in the sink, letting it flip and fall an inch from his grip onto the draining board. Even though you’d made the connection, you wished he’d stop telling you to be in other professions, as if that would solve his hang-up over not having a real relationship.

“Couldn’t stand the paperwork,” You approached him, rubbing up and down between his shoulder blades whilst knowing you could never sneak up on him. “What’s got you feeling like this?”

“I can’t talk about it.” And his head hung as he pressed into the sideboard.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

This man with all his padlocks and precautions, preventing you from knowing anything he didn’t want you to – and there was so much left for you to learn about him. But it seemed there was still some learning on his part too. His mental hurdle, with the reminders that you were willing and funded for his delight, was one you would not trip or turn from.

So you hooked his chin and made him face you, “Then don’t.”

When you kissed him again, you let him pull you between him and the sink. Fists in your clothes, desperate to free your skin, John barely drew away from breath – enoughthat his lips still graced over yours when he spoke:

“I’m not in a patient mood.”

You held back a smile, “You know the limits and I know the safe word. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Gecko.”

“There’s nothing more to it then.”

Grappling with your clothes, You knew he’d take you right there on the counter if you let him No, he wanted a domestic paradise spiked with homespun thrills.

A risk worth taking, to get him to recognise how much he wanted this, you tore yourself from him to race your heartrate up the stairs to his room, the thudding of John skipping steps to capture you shooting adrenaline through your chest. Fear, manufactured fear that felt just like the real thing, trapped your breath and giggles in your constricted throat, growing tighter with every step climbed.

All air was snatched from your lungs as he grabbed you in the doorway, slamming you up against a chest of drawers, knocking over whatever knick-knacks or trinkets he had out. His mouth was hot on your chest from the second he pulled your shirt off. You found yourself fisting his hair to keep his mouth on you, his spit leaving paths of where he’d given you attention. Fingers dug his nails in like he burying to be beneath your skin. Crescent moons were left behind amongst his scars through his tight shirt as you matched his vigour.

“Say you want this,” John whispered into your neck.

“I want this,” You whined as his teeth threatened to make a meal of you.

“Again.”

“I want this, John. Please. I want it now.”

But still, he stopped, panting and squeezing your cheeks, your chin caught in the V of his finger and thumb. He pulled his forehead to yours.

“Tell me you want this,” He repeated.

Keening into him, your nose dragged you close to breathe him in. You licked your lips, like a wolf lavishing in the blood that dripped from them, cleaning of the kill in preparation for the next.

“John, I want you.”

The same absence of any personal touches in his bedroom would’ve caught your attention more, at all, if it weren’t for how viciously John ripped at your trousers, whipping them from your legs like a bedsheet fresh of a washing line. The ripple effect through your body sealed you close to him, seeking out a solution to the wet problem growing between your legs.

The slowest he’d acted was when he carried you to his bed. Legs around his waist, hoisting you and pressing you into the wall, stabilising himself, he left a bitemark on your neck before he moved you. His hands squeezed tight on your thighs before releasing you to fall onto the duvet.

For a moment, barely a second, John grabbed at his side. A wrinkle ironed itself free from his brow as soon as it appeared. You could hear him supress the hiss through his teeth, hiding the sound somewhere in his chest. Once his shirt was gone with the wind, you saw why: scar tissue on his mid torso, red with recency so not from this last work trip, at least. It did absolutely nothing in terms of inhibiting his desires, his teeth latching onto the skin of your collarbones again. You decided to curb his enthusiasm a little, though not to dispel the swelling in his jeans that was being rubbed up against your thigh.

Your knees were grateful for the pillow beneath them as you knelt on the floor and kissed his belly, your teeth threatening to pluck at the ridges. You could feel how John stared down at you. It pleased you when he cupped your chin as you undid his belt, and you smiled at him while he did his best not to pant at how smoothly yet hungrily you freed him from his underwear.

You sucked on your bottom lip for a second before repeating: “I want to.”

And you did.Scruffing the back of John’s neck, you pulled him down for a kiss, dipping into his mouth to stun him before you pulled away and spat on his cock with a concoction of yours and his. Your tongue lapped at the head of his cock and spread across his sensitive skin, following down the vein like a road on a map.

John’s sharpened breath kept you fuelled, both savouring this appetizer that was hefty on your tongue and his mood. His eyes were creased shut like the bedsheets he gripped in both fists, the adorable slope in his eyebrows peaked in the centre as he began to surrender to you. You continued to seek out his pleasure, feeling him fill your mouth deeper and deeper with each return.

At last, he needed no encouragement from you. His paw-like hand coaxed you from the back of your head, insisting that your nose be tickled by his curled pubic hairs. Droopy eyelids and a softened throat let him take the lead like he wanted to. Your thumb was throttled in your fist to hide your gag reflex, the other hand teasing his . Still, tears began brewing as he stuffed himself into your mouth. Deep breaths flooded your lungs with sweat and salt condensation.  

When John brought you back up and pressed his mouth to yours, his tongue stroked in your mouth like he’s searching for something you haven’t said. You didn’t know why that made you nervous; you had nothing to hide, right?

The pads of his fingers traced down to you, smearing your arousal across your sex. He honed in on it like a beacon and tenderly petted you. His deliberate pace riled you up at an alarming rate, nails digging through his hairy forearm, to stop or hasten him. Either way, delightful as he drew control from you, eyes drooping and mouth agape to free the gasps. Somewhere, seemingly far away, you heard yourself ask for more as you felt yourself building up and up.

“Later,” and John licked his fingers clean, “I need to be inside of you now.”

You remembered, then, that he was the client. So you put your disappointment aside and opened your legs wider for him.

However, as he was positioning himself, John’s fingers dug in and he let out a different type of grunt, more strained than a release.You opened your eyes to find him grabbing at the back of his left thigh, squeezing in an attempt to soothe the cramp that had ruined his stamina. Before you could stop him, he planted his hands either side of you and went to lean. Swiftly he was cut off by a wince with his nose and eyes crinkled. His hand found his thigh again.

“Sit back,” You instructed, and he knew what you were getting at. Let me.

The manoeuvre wasn’t smooth but it got you over him. Whilst you settled into his lap, he had retrieved a condom and a bottle of lube from his bedside drawer. Delight swirled in your stomach at the thought of John buying it in anticipation for a meeting with you, or even just to ease his nights alone. It combined nicely with the shivers sent through his calloused fingertips as he massaged the lube around your hole, finishing the work to open you up to him. Within the minute, he was pulling you down on him, resting your forehead to his, John matching your breathing’s pace.

When he asked, you affirmed: “I’m ready, I want this.”

Controlling your pace, John took things slow to start. All that effort towards your orgasm that was lost began building up, even if it got distracted by John’s hand awkwardly trying to rub your sex whilst you grinded on top of him.

“Not there,” You tapped his wrist to make him move, gripping around it when he met your demands, “There. That’s it.”

A contrived head roll helped you avoid his stare and all its intensity. It wasn’t all an act; you were definitely enjoying yourself. But you had to pad the role a little to make sure he knew that too. You were doing a fantastic job, you thought, until John pinched your chin and forced you to stare him down.

“Tell me I’m a good man,” He huffed.

You did as you were told: “You’re so good for me.”

“Again.”

“You’re a good man, John. You’re my good man.”

He had you repeat it a few more times, his movements getting sloppier but nevertheless determined to get you both across the finish line. His teeth graced your shoulder as he rocked into you. His arms locked you in and you groaned at the prickle of his bite and his beard.

At last, you made it to release. Breathing slowly through it, a smile broke onto your face as it rippled through you. It was amplified by the harmonising noises John made, the feeling of him filling that condom up, his body up against yours in ridges and curves. When he slumped against you, you squeezed around him a few more times – just to be sure.

You leant against his head, kissing the sweaty cowlick whilst enjoying him knead your ass in a slow rhythm of clasp and release – like a stress toy. He was keeping you in the afterglow.

“You ok?”

“Hmm.” His hand found the back of your neck to make you look at him once he raised his head back up, “Are you?”

“You took such good care of me,” and you nuzzled your nose to his, “No ropes though?”

“Told you, I’m in no mood for patience.”

“That strikes me as out of character for you.”

John gave a one note hum again, “Next time, I’ll take all the time I need.”

“Sure you can handle that?”

Confidence returned, John’s slitted eyes sparkled as he smiled, kissing you with his arms pulling you in close, no air between your skin and his and only allowing a gasp in that vacuum when he needed to remove the condom. He delivered on your aftercare clause with the affection he sought himself, you combing your nails through his beard and kissing the flattened hairs whilst he cleaned you with a cloth and kisses. After, he curled up beside you, keeping you close. You’d known you would be staying as soon as you’d seen how much he was paying you, so this was no surprise. You made yourself content rising and falling on this furnace of a man’s chest.Of course, you’d have to roll over once he was out if you wanted any chance to get some rest, but this was fine for now. Until-

“One of the times we were together,” John whispered, his thumb tracing the same arc of skin on your back, “Before I left, I told you about my day plans. You asked me if you could help, instead of if I wanted you to stick around.” He took in and appreciated a deep breath, his grip on you tightening for a second. “Felt nice.”

Raising your head, you couldn’t stop your brow from creasing at his words: “What are you worrying about?”

“Not worried, but not foolin’ myself either.”

But this was what he wanted to be told. He made it clear when you first met: he wanted some sense of a reality he was prohibited from. He wanted to hear you say this, and who were you to refuse a paying customer?

You made sure he was looking at you before you spoke, resting in his chest with your nose brushing against his, “I want to be here, John. I want to be here with you.”

You slid off John’s chest as he shifted onto his side, taking your wrists into his hands and all the while keeping you locked in a stare with him. Intensity darkened his eyes and sent a chill through your back that locked up. Goosebumps pulled you back against John.

“Say it again,” He said hoarsely, “Please.”

You swallowed before speaking, “I want to be here with you.”

His lips lunged onto yours, his tongue yearning for more of your taste and only freeing you from his intoxicating kisses to demand another: “Again.”

“I want to be with you.”

The way his leg notched between yours rushed your heartrate; his hands were guiding your hips to grind upon it.

“I want you too,” He grunted against your gasps.

“I know.”

Next thing you knew, you were pinned back into the mattress and your whined efforts were ignored whilst John parted your thighs and feasted upon you. Any woes about professionality and separating truth from work were forgotten. All that mattered was his tongue and the way his lines by his eyes formed, as pleased to see you undone as you had been for him.

-----------

AN: There's a dark!version of this in my drafts that I'll post later, but also the brain worms are wriggling around putting Price through a Gone Girl situation still sooooo we'll see when that happens. Soon hopefully!

[dontsh0vethesun]

a storm and a kiss

part three of home for christmas

natasha romanoff x reader

The hallmark movie inspired Christmas story that nobody asked for.

Natasha Romanoff fell out of love with Christmas, but perhaps a certain someone could help her find the festive magic once again.

Coming home to her small hometown from her life in New York City, the children’s author is reunited with the people of her past; some are happier to see her than others.

But, will rekindled relationships inspire the Christmas story she’s struggling to write? Or will she go home empty handed?

awkward silences, fluff, wanda meddling again, still cringey, snowed in trope kinda, mentions of alcohol

wc: 2.1k | part one | part two | part four

“Wow, this town still goes all out for Christmas, huh?” Natasha spoke, attempting to cut through the uncomfortable quiet between you as you walked.

The layer of snow along the ground and the greyish-white clouds above you only added to the winter feel of the town. The lights strung along each and every building were on most of the time, biting through the dark of winter in Ohio and various festive decorations stood on every street corner. The oversized tree in the town square was your favourite, the one in the heart of the town, surrounded by the goings on of the month-long fair that was always busy.

She used to love it here, how the community always came together at this time of year. Everybody was always included and she felt as much a part of it as anybody. It makes you both wonder back on those years before, when the magic of the season lost its touch on the woman when the warmth that sparked within her turned to something cool and dismissive.

“You’d know that if you came back here, rather than having your family schlep to New York instead.”

“I guess so,” she sighed.

“They always talk about you - how you don’t decorate your apartment, how you don’t make Yelena that hot chocolate you always used to bring us all.”

“I get too busy for all this Christmas stuff,” she shrugged, internalising the frown her lips desperately wished to fall into. “I don’t have time for the ‘Christmas cheer’ anymore, I guess.”

“You used to,” you returned, sparing a look at the side of the face. She peered downwards at her feet, her eyebrows knitted into the thoughtful expression they always had done when you knew she was in quiet contemplation. “Natasha Romanoff was never ‘too busy’ for it all.”

“People change,” she mumbled. You saw the clenching of her jaw poke through her skin and you knew there was more to it. Still, whether you sympathised with the redhead’s clearly deep-rooted dislike for this time of year, her dismissal of the conversation left you with a stinging in your belly that even the chill of the air couldn’t compete with. An explanation is all you want, she owes you that much at least.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “They do.”

Even when you reached her car you were still hoping somebody would take over for you. It’s a certainty that Melina and Wanda - and perhaps various other interfering ‘allies’ - had something to do with this. After all, sending two people to a remote cabin over thirty minutes away is a perfectly reasonable ask. Tasking two people, who have a physically observable discontent between them, with fetching unnecessary Christmas tree ornaments is not strange at all.

You’d tried to get out of it, of course, but with Melina’s irresistible way of charming you into doing just about anything, you found yourself caving into her demands rather quickly. ‘It’ll only be a couple of hours’ you repeated in your head over and over.

–

The car journey couldn’t have been much more awkward if you’d tried. It was clear that both of you had words on the tip of your tongues that you fought away by drowning them out with the radio’s music. You wanted to ask her ‘why?’. You wanted to give her a piece of your mind yet, also, tell her how much you think about her. Positive and negative. You wanted to be honest to somebody about the way she plagues your mind at night with ponderings both wholesome and unsavoury, hot and cold, loving and loathsome.

She wanted to say sorry. She wanted to tell you her love for you was still there - it always had been. But times change, things change, and things that once brought her joy had melted away and taken a part of her with them. She wanted to explain why.

So, it was merely two people with words aching to be set free, sitting in a silence that felt less dangerous. You climbed out of the car as soon as the hum of the engine slowed.

The house brought back memories of all those times before; the wooden roof clothed in snow, a frosted cobweb weaved against the window in the centre of the old front door. The crack in the porch decking, just to the left of the doorstep, was still there and you both smiled to yourselves at the sight. You remember the time that Kate tried to keep up with Carol, carrying the same amount of logs into the house for the fire. She smirked with hubris and you all laughed when she stumbled, dropping it all with a snap beneath their weight. You all decided to use the gaudy gnome Alexei had bought, much to Melina’s distaste, to hide it for as long as possible. It worked until it didn’t, and you all still feign oblivious to the damage.

“Alright, I’ll look down here, you look upstairs?” Natasha asked once you’d walked in.

“Sounds like a plan.”

You made your way upstairs, eyeing the dent in the papered wall where Wanda had playfully pushed you one tipsy evening. She’d been teasing you about the way you’d apparently been ogling Natasha and she only retaliated to the shove you’d given her, chuckling when you almost fell down the staircase.

There were still photos hung in frames along the walls when you reached the top, memories of your group of friends cemented into shots. Smiling faces framed with wood, the glass shielding them gathering dust. You wiped one clean with your sleeve just to be met with Natasha’s smile, her arm draped over your shoulder whilst you grinned all the same. The rosy hue to the apples of her cheeks only served as a reminder of what made her so easy to love.

The drawers you searched through turned up nothing, and the cupboards were just as unsuccessful. Apart from the trips down memory lane, you found nothing, and you only sighed as you descended the stairs once more. It was becoming more clear why you were sent on this excursion - the decorations didn’t exist. You suppose you should have figured it out sooner.

“Anything?”

“No,” you shook your head. “We should probably get on the road - it’s already getting dark.”

“The snow’s pretty bad, I think we’re gonna have to wait it out.”

“Okay, I’m just gonna call Wanda to let her know I’ll be late back.”

You stepped out into the kitchen and grumbled at the obvious smile in her mischievously toned voice when she picked up.

“I hate you,” you groaned.

“How’s it going? You found the ornaments?”

“Wanda,” you sighed. “We all know they don’t exist. You and Melina must despise me, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she returned, clearly holding back a laugh at your annoyance.

“This isn’t gonna change anything, Wands. My life isn’t some fairytale you can turn into some true love thing.”

“Nobody said anything about ‘true love’,” she answered. “Apart from you.”

“Oh my God-”

“No, you’ve said it now. It’s been spoken into the universe. I can still see it between you, y’know? It’s a bit much if you ask me,” she teased.

“Well, I didn’t ask you,” you mumbled.

“You’re not denying anything, though,” Wanda spoke, her tone softening just as it does when she wants you to know she’s being earnest. “You know I’ve always been on your side with all of this - I am always on your side. So you have to trust me when I tell you that you need to trust your heart with this.”

“I loved her, Wanda. I did. But, things change. It’s a lot to make sense of.”

“Then take your time - I’ll be here. But I can see it in both of you. Sure, things change - people change - but maybe, sometimes, that’s the best thing that can happen.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Yes. You will,” she returned. “And we’ll talk about it later. One more thing, there’s a storm coming tonight so I think you might have to stay there,” Wanda hurried out, clearly hoping to hang up before you could say anything else.

“Oh my God, Wanda.”

“Sorry,” she laughed - clearly not meaning it - before ending the call as quickly as possible.

Natasha was sitting on the sofa when you walked back out, holding up a bottle of vodka she’d found with a smile and gesturing to the space beside her for you to take a seat.

“My mom texted me,” she spoke. “We’re gonna have to wait the storm out here tonight. We should be able to head out first thing in the morning.”

“I’m gonna need a drink then.”

–

You didn’t speak much at first but the uncomfortable silences between you had become such a regular thing that it hardly felt unusual. Natasha had found two shot glasses and filled them rather liberally as the evening drew in, you winced less and less at the sting of liquor in your throat. It seemed the alcohol wore away that tall wall of glass between the pair of you because, as time passed, scatters of conversation turned into recalls of childhood memories. And then you felt comfortable asking her what your mind had begged you to.

“Why’d you leave, Nat?”

“I had to,” she shrugged, taking a sip that emptied her glass. “I got into college, moved to New York.”

“You know what I mean, Natalia,” you breathed. You were leaning close enough to her to see the twitch at the corner of her lips at the use of the name only you are allowed to use. “Why’d you leave me?”

“I didn’t mean for it to all happen like that,” she sighed. “Things changed. The way I wanted things to go didn’t seem possible anymore so I left it all behind.”

“You left me behind, too.”

“I didn’t mean to, sweetheart,” she spoke the pet name for the first time in years and it tasted just as sweet on her tongue, you felt it wash over you like the stroke of a tender hand. “Anyway, I’m here now and we’re having a good night. Reminds me of old times.”

“We had fun, didn’t we?” you smiled, letting your shoulder rest against hers as though the space between you had never been there.

“We did.” Her grin was contagious, it always has been. She let her hand rest on your leg as though it was the most normal thing in the world and you accepted it because you agreed. “Do you remember that time, just like tonight, when we just sat and talked for hours? The others were all asleep-”

“We could hear Yelena’s snoring from down here,” you laughed and Natasha chuckled at the memory, you felt the laugh move her body from where you leaned against her.

“And it was like we were the only people who existed.”

Neither of you mentioned the way you desperately wanted to kiss the other that night - nor the other nights you’d felt the same. But, right now, as though making up for missed opportunities, she cupped her hand around your cheek and swiped a musing thumb against your bottom lip. The skin left your lips tingling and wanting more, you felt a shiver run through your spine as her face drew nearer.

The gap between you vanished with a slow touch of her lips to yours, the bitter taste of vodka lingering on the tongue that pushed past your teeth. It was all you’d wanted since you were young and, at first, it left you dizzied with nothing else on your mind apart from the woman who held your waist.

But, as the saying goes, good things must come to an end. When the haze of Natasha Romanoff’s mouth dancing with yours had settled, you thought back to the unresolved issue you held with her. You still don’t know why she left you, you still don’t know why all of your calls wouldn’t even ring out on her mobile. You don’t know if this is just a drunken thing she’d forget about by morning.

You pulled away as though her kiss had left you burnt and her flushed cheeks stared back at you.

“I can’t do this right now,” you stumbled out. “I still don’t understand what’s happened between us but I can’t just move past it all so quickly.”

“I’m-”

“No, it’s fine,” you sighed, pushing a hand through your hair in an attempt to unravel your mind just the slightest inch. “I’m gonna sleep upstairs. I’ll see you in the morning.”

If you’d found the drive to the cabin uncomfortable, the car ride back home was incomparable.