#and like at the end of it trying to let them know that I won't be staying with them regardless of moving somewhere else

[mooningningg]

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (3)

about. you're flunking all your subjects. He’s a virgin. So you strike a deal—he tutors you academically to win a girl he has a crush on, and you tutor him in sex, simple.

parts. chapter 02, chapter 04

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.90k (???)

content. virgin!megumi + experienced!reader, Explicit sexual content – blow job, making out, handjob, semi-public tension, teasing, dirty talk, reader guiding Megumi through his first sexual experience. Power dynamics. Smug, experienced reader. Slight humiliation kink if you squint. Megumi is flushed and wrecked and learning. This is a part of an ongoing tutoring-for-sexual-experience fic. Reader is not kind. She is hot and she knows it. ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP I DON'T WANT NO SMOKE OR SOMEONE BEING A HATER IN MY COMMENTS.

notes. i've been missing for two days, I rlly hope you won't be bored with this long ahh. and please try to not skip some parts since its important for you to understand the thoughts behind the actions.

You were supposed to be past this, supposed to be untouchable, unshaken, unbothered. That was your thing—right?

You didn’t cry over boys. You broke them. You didn’t second-guess yourself. You walked out first. You ended things before they could ever reach the part where you might actually get hurt. But now, you were lying in your bed, legs tangled in your sheets, staring at your ceiling like it held answers, and for the first time in a long time, you felt… small.

You hadn’t cried since the fight with Megumi, not really. But now, everything was creeping in. Quietly. Slowly. Like the kind of pain that doesn't hit you all at once—but chips away at you until suddenly, there's nothing left.

It wasn’t supposed to matter, it was just tutoring, just a deal, just a boy with glasses and too many books and a sharp tongue who should’ve meant nothing. But why—why—was it his voice in your head? Not Noritoshi’s, not the boy who said he loved you.

Not the boy you gave everything to for over a year—the one who knew all the worst parts of you, the one who held every dark thing you never dared show anyone else. The boy who kissed you like possession, who yelled in hotel rooms and made you feel insane for asking to be seen, for asking to be loved properly.

The boy who said you were too much. Who slammed doors and then begged at them the next day, who hurt you and then convinced you it was love. Noritoshi had everything—your trust, your secrets, your body, your pride. And he still made you feel like you weren’t enough.

He knew you, but he never saw you, and now here you were, spiraling over someone who did.

Megumi. Fucking Megumi Fushiguro.

The one you swore you’d never even glance at twice. The one you called boring. The one who annoyed you with his quiet judgement and his folded sleeves and his constant reminders that you could be better—if you wanted.

You hated that.

You hated the way he looked at you like he expected more. Like you weren’t just some pretty, mean girl with fake lashes and perfect skirts and an Instagram full of filters. You hated that he listened.

That he remembered how you hated black tea and liked your pen to have a cap instead of a click. You hated how he looked at you during tutoring—like he was trying to understand you, even when you were being difficult. Even when you didn’t want to be understood.

Noritoshi never asked how your day was, but Megumi always noticed if it was bad.

Noritoshi made you feel crazy for crying. Megumi… made you want to cry just because he was kind when you didn’t know what to do with kindness.

Fuck.

You turned over in your bed, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. Your chest felt tight, like there was something inside it you didn’t want to name. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You didn’t even like Megumi. You couldn’t. That wasn’t the plan. And even if you did, how could you ever trust that feeling again? How could you let yourself get close after what happened with Noritoshi? After all the fights? The screaming? The apologies that meant nothing?

You thought Noritoshi would break you once. But instead, he broke you over and over again, in pieces so small they were impossible to hold. and you were still recovering from that.

So how could you let someone like Megumi in? How could you admit that he made you feel safe when you barely knew what safety looked like? How could you admit that in just a few weeks, he did more than Noritoshi ever did in twelve months?

It terrified you.

So instead, you clenched your jaw. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a weird reaction. A blip. Temporary insanity. You didn’t like Megumi. You couldn’t. You were just tired. You were just lonely. You were just angry, but none of those excuses explained the ache in your chest or the way your body still remembered the warmth of his hands on your waist.

You turned over again, you weren’t going to cry, you weren’t going to want him, you were going to forget it ever happened. Except you wouldn’t. Not really.

Because this feeling—the one clawing its way up your throat right now—it was something you hadn't felt in a long time. And that scared you more than anything else.

You leaned back in your chair, a groan escaping your lips as you stared at the pages in front of you. The words blurred together, a mess of historical dates and political concepts you could hardly care less about. If you were being honest, the only thing running through your head was the last few weeks. Megumi, and the words thrown at each other.

And now here you were, stuck at Nobara’s place, trying to study with her. She had a way of being productive even when she was too loud, her energy bouncing off the walls as she flipped through her notes with casual ease. You couldn’t even focus on the words in front of you.

"Are you even paying attention?" Nobara asked, voice laced with amusement as she glanced at you, catching you mid-eye roll. "You’ve barely looked at your book since we started, and I’m starting to think you’re just here for the snacks."

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. "I am paying attention, okay? I just... I hate civics."

She snorted, clearly unconvinced. "You say that about every subject, Y/N. But civics? Really? You hate it because it’s boring, or are you just avoiding actually trying?"

You threw her a look, already irritated. “I just don’t see the point. Why do I need to know how the government works? The most important thing in life is looking good and having fun.”

Nobara didn’t flinch. “You’ve got a warped view of life, you know that?”

“Hey, I didn’t get the memo about life being about politics and the will of the people,” you said, leaning back and crossing your arms defiantly. “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive just fine without knowing what a civil servant even does.”

"Well," Nobara began, flicking through her notes, "you might want to get it straight if you want to graduate."

You groaned again, ignoring her, but then she dropped the bombshell.

“So, tell me this, since you're so into skipping the whole responsibility thing," she said with a smirk, leaning in slightly. “Do you know what the kenpo means in relation to our government system?”

You stared at her, blinking. "What? What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Civics,” she replied flatly. "You know, the basics of how the government works. Japan’s constitution and all that.”

For a second, you were thrown. The question felt way too real, way too... serious. But more than that, it made you freeze because—shit—you remembered.

You blinked, trying to clear the fog in your brain. The words Nobara had just said echoed in your head, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. You shifted in your seat, leaning back, but then the memory of Megumi popped up—completely uninvited—and your heart stuttered a bit.

“The kenpo is a significant part of Japan’s post-war constitution,” Megumi said, flipping through his textbook. His voice wasn’t just calm—it was smooth, as though he'd memorized everything the night before.

You blinked. “Kenpo? What the hell is that?”

Megumi didn’t look up from his book. “The Constitution of Japan. Article 9, kenpo, which means the renunciation of war. It’s basically what keeps Japan’s military stance neutral.”

You stared at him for a long moment. “Are you on drugs? How the hell did you pull that out of your ass so easily?” You chuckled under your breath. “Like, are you secretly some government nerd who spends his nights reading about laws and shit?”

He didn’t react. Just flipped the page and kept going like it was no big deal. “No, just... you know, I study. Helps me understand shit.”

Now, back in Nobara’s room, you blinked as you realized the memory had pulled you in unexpectedly. You were so lost in thought that you’d almost missed her question.

“Did you hear me?” Nobara’s voice snapped you back to reality.

You looked at her. “Yeah, sorry,” you said, trying to shake off the mental images of Megumi casually schooling you in civics like it was nothing. “So… kenpo, huh?” you repeated, the word awkward on your tongue as it suddenly felt like a stupid joke.

“Exactly,” Nobara said, eyes narrowing a little, as if you should've known. “We’re studying this stuff for our shiken.”

You couldn’t help but wince. The term ‘exam’ had never felt so intimidating. “I think I need to study more than just government,” you muttered under your breath. “Maybe you’re right. I should try harder… and stop being an idiot about it.”

But as your thoughts drifted, you couldn’t help but think back to that tutoring session—how easy it seemed for Megumi to rattle off facts, making you feel completely out of your depth.

You suddenly felt the sting of your own inadequacies again, and it pissed you off. But then, you remembered his impassive face when he’d explained it all to you like it was nothing.

“Maybe I do need to try harder...” you said quietly, more to yourself than to Nobara. But of course, Nobara was quick to pick up on your mood.

“Exactly, don’t just sit there and whine about it,” she shot back, “You got this. You’re not dumb, just need a little focus.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

But as you sat back down, your mind couldn’t let go of how much Megumi had impressed you. No one else could’ve made civics feel like it was worth paying attention to, and yet... he did.

The day had barely begun when Gojo dropped his usual “important announcement” on the class.

It was a Tuesday morning, and as usual, you were walking the fine line between paying attention and planning your next social media post when he suddenly cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the entire class with a smirk that hinted at some ridiculous news.

"Alright, alright," Gojo’s voice boomed, loud enough for the entire class to hear. "Listen up. You’ve got an essay due next week."

You sat up straight, automatically feeling that familiar rush of anxiety that only came with the word essay. Everyone groaned in unison, and the collective energy in the room dropped a few degrees.

"Don't even think about it," Gojo continued, barely suppressing his grin. "It’s on a political topic in Japan. Your job is to research it, write your thoughts, and show me you actually give a damn about your grades."

He paused, looking around the room, gauging everyone’s reactions. "So, get ready to do some actual work. For once."

You felt a familiar knot in your stomach—mixed emotions all at once. The topic was nothing new. You’d been through political essays and assignments about Japanese government structures before, but this one felt different.

You had the tools this time. You had the resources. You had the chance.

It wasn’t like the other times where you’d half-assed everything or relied on cheating your way through. This was an opportunity to show that you could actually do something—for yourself. You had Megumi’s tutoring sessions to thank for that. Even if you hadn’t directly paid attention to every word, something had changed inside you. You were no longer the same lazy, apathetic person you used to be. You couldn’t go back to that version of yourself anymore. You refused to.

You glanced around at the other students, most of whom were still caught up in the collective sigh of dread. Some were already pulling out their phones, others frantically taking notes to pretend they were paying attention. But for once, you didn’t feel that sense of dread. You felt... determined.

This was your shot. You weren’t going to let this be another failure. You were done with disappointing yourself.

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you caught the tail end of what he was saying: “...and the topic? Something like the kenpo, the Constitution, or Japan’s stance on foreign relations. You choose, but you better make it count.”

You didn’t even pause. Your hand shot up without thinking.

"Yes, Y/N?" Gojo raised an eyebrow, amused by your sudden enthusiasm.

“I’ll take the Constitution,” you said with surprising confidence, not caring who heard you.

“Ah, the kenpo,” he mused, clearly impressed by your choice. “Alright. I like it. Maybe you’ll finally do something interesting with that brain of yours.”

You didn’t care for his praise, but his approval made something stir inside you. You didn’t need his validation. This was about you. For the first time in ages, you were doing something for yourself, not for attention, not for anyone else’s approval.

The class continued on, but your mind had already shifted. You had a purpose now.

After school, you couldn’t shake the feeling that today was different. That essay, that political topic—it wasn’t just another assignment. It was the first step toward proving to yourself that you weren’t the lazy, self-destructive person you’d been in the past. This was about growth. Real growth.

You walked through the crowded hallway, determined. As you passed by the lockers, you saw the usual faces—people talking, laughing, their lives unfolding without a care. But for once, you didn’t feel like you needed to be part of that world. You were doing something for yourself, and you could feel the difference already.

You were going to finish this essay. You were going to nail it.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d be one step closer to doing something that really mattered for you.

You stood there in the hallway, clutching your books to your chest like they were some kind of shield. The hallway was buzzing with the usual noise—people chatting, lockers slamming, the clatter of footsteps—but it all felt so far away. Like you were standing outside of it, looking in. You should’ve felt free after making the decision to focus on that essay. You should’ve felt confident, like you finally had something to prove.

But instead, all you could hear were the voices in your head.

You’re doing this for yourself. You’re not weak. You’re strong. You don’t need anyone...

But even as you told yourself that, the insecurity gnawed at you. It clawed at your thoughts like a persistent itch you couldn’t scratch.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you turned the corner, but it certainly wasn’t this.

There, across the hall, Megumi was standing, leaning against the lockers. His usual scowl was in place, though something about it seemed softer today, quieter. His gaze wasn’t on his phone or the floor like usual. No, today it was directed at something—or someone.

Miwa.

She was walking past him, laughing at something with her friends, not even noticing that Megumi was watching. You saw the way his eyes followed her, how his gaze softened just slightly as she passed by. It wasn’t a look of deep affection or anything dramatic, but the way he watched her… it made something twist deep inside you.

It shouldn’t hurt. It really shouldn’t. You weren’t even sure why it felt like it did. You barely knew why you were standing there, frozen, as the pieces of your chest started to break apart, slowly.

You’re just being ridiculous, you told yourself.

But your thoughts didn’t stop.

You didn’t want to feel jealous. You didn’t want to care. But there he was, your Megumi—your Megumi, in some twisted sense, right?—just staring at her from across the hall, like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment. And you hated it.

You’re so different from her, the voice in your head whispered. She’s sweet. She’s easy to love. You? You’re just… a mess. You’re tough. You push people away.

The voice hurt, but you couldn’t stop it. You weren’t soft. You weren’t gentle. You didn’t smile like that, not naturally.

And sure, you could walk away, pretend it didn’t bother you, but it did. It really fucking did.

Megumi had always been this person who kept to himself, never revealing much, never opening up to anyone. But when it came to Miwa, when it came to her effortless charm, his guard was nowhere to be seen. He just stood there, eyes locked on her, and something in you broke a little more.

Why does it matter?

But you couldn’t help but wonder:

Why don’t I matter like that?

He wasn’t even talking to her. Hell, she didn’t even know he was watching. But in that moment, you realized something. He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t looking at anyone but Miwa, and it hurt in a way you couldn’t explain.

You turned, walking away quickly, your heart pounding in your ears.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t hurt. He’s not yours.

But there you were—walking away from it anyway, pretending it didn’t feel like someone had ripped something from your chest. You told yourself you were fine, but deep down, it was all unraveling.

You weren’t supposed to feel vulnerable. You weren’t supposed to let things like this get to you.

But here you were, wondering why you’d never be the one Megumi watched like that.

The clock on your desk read 3:30 AM, but the words on the screen still seemed to blur together. You’d been at this essay for hours—struggling to organize your thoughts, to make sense of it all. Your mind kept drifting back to Megumi. To the way he looked at Miwa. To the disappointment that welled up in your chest every time you thought about how far you’d fallen.

But this? This essay? You had to do it. You had to prove to yourself that you were more than just a pretty face, that you could do something right on your own. Something that mattered.

The tears were just waiting to spill over, but you kept pushing them down. They didn’t fit here. Not with the pressure of your name. Not with the weight of your reputation.

You rubbed your eyes, groaning in frustration when your screen stayed stubbornly blank. Your mind wandered again, this time to your father. He always said the same thing—you have potential. But did you really? Or was it all just a fucking game of appearances?

And then, as if on cue,

your father’s soft knock on your door was the first thing that registered. It took you a moment to process it, and then another to look up from the essay you’d been trying to work on for hours. The blinking cursor on your screen seemed almost mocking in its silence, and you could feel the weight of your thoughts pressing down, suffocating you.

"Daddy?" You didn’t bother trying to hide the crack in your voice, the exhaustion. It wasn’t worth it.

The door creaked open, and there he was, standing in the frame with his usual casual smile, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. Even after all these years, he had that aura about him—the kind that made the world feel like it was all just a little bit lighter. But tonight? You couldn’t pretend to be the girl who had it all together. Not anymore.

"Hey, kiddo," he said gently, stepping into your room without hesitation. He always did this, always came to you when he knew something wasn’t right. "I heard the tap-tap of your keyboard from down the hall. What’s going on in here? You didn’t turn into a zombie, did you?"

You managed a small smile, even if it felt like it was painted on, too thin to be real. "Just a stupid essay, nothing major." Your eyes flickered back to the screen, but the words weren’t making sense. Nothing was making sense. "It’s... whatever."

He didn’t buy it for a second. He never did. He moved closer, leaning against the desk, glancing at the papers you hadn’t touched. "You sure? Looks like someone’s been fighting with a word processor."

You chuckled weakly, shrugging. "Yeah. Me versus an essay. Guess who’s losing."

"Ah, classic. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure essays are just a trap set up by the universe to make us feel like we have to prove we’re smart. Just a conspiracy," he added, trying to lighten the mood, his tone playful. He ruffled your hair a little as if to say it’s okay, even though the unease hung in the air like a storm cloud.

You pulled away from the touch, instinctively, and your stomach churned. The pressure inside you only seemed to build. "I don’t think that’s what it is, Daddy." You could feel the familiar ache in your chest, like everything you had worked so hard to maintain was slipping through your fingers.

He straightened up a little, letting out a small sigh. "Alright, alright, I get it. You’re not in the mood for Dad’s conspiracy theories."

His voice softened, but not with pity—no, he wasn’t the type to give you that. Instead, it was warm, steady, the kind that had always managed to make you feel like things weren’t quite as bad as they seemed. Even now, his presence was a comfort. But it wasn’t enough to silence the growing voices in your head.

"Hey," he said, nudging the chair next to you with his knee, "why don’t we take a break? You’ve been working at this for hours. Your brain’s probably fried by now."

You just stared at the screen. The cursor blinked, waiting for you to move. It wasn’t the essay that was bothering you; it was the constant pressure, the constant need to be more than just what everyone else saw. It was always about appearances. Never letting anyone see the cracks, even though you were the one who had to fill them every single day.

"I don’t know if I can do it," you muttered under your breath, voice small. "I keep fucking up, Daddy. I try, I really try, but it’s never enough."

He didn’t say anything at first, just waited, letting the silence hang in the room. You tried to ignore the tightness in your throat, but it only made it worse. The words came out before you could stop them.

"I thought I had everything figured out. That I could just coast through everything. But now… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’ve let everyone down, including myself."

His face softened, eyes full of understanding, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You cursed under your breath, wiping it away quickly, but it didn’t stop the flood that followed.

"Sweetheart," he began, his voice gentle but firm, "you’ve got to stop holding yourself to these impossible standards. You think you need to be perfect all the time, but no one expects that. Not from you, not from anyone."

You shook your head, the tears blurring your vision. "You don’t get it," you said hoarsely. "You don’t know what it’s like. Everyone’s always expecting something from me, and if I don’t deliver—if I fail—they’ll see me for who I really am. Not the ‘perfect daughter’ they want. And I’ll lose everything. My reputation, my place. I’ll be nothing."

He sat down next to you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "You’re more than just your reputation. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"No," he interrupted softly, "no buts. Listen to me. I don’t care about what other people think. I don’t care about how you’re seen. What matters is you. You have so much more inside you than this... this pressure you're carrying. And I’ll always be here, no matter what you do or how many times you fall down. You don’t have to do it alone."

You choked on a sob, your body shaking as you leaned into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you as if he could protect you from everything, even yourself. His heartbeat was steady beneath you, a rhythm you clung to as if it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

"I just want to be enough," you whispered against his chest, barely audible. "I want to be... something good. For once."

"You already are," he whispered back, pressing his lips to the top of your head. "You’re my daughter. You’re everything to me. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone."

Your sobs broke loose then, and you let them come. Let yourself fall apart in the safety of your father’s arms, not caring about the essay, not caring about the image you’d been trying to keep up for so long.

You didn’t need to be perfect. Not for him. Not for anyone.

You woke up late, the alarm blaring its usual obnoxious tune, but this time you didn’t hit snooze. You just… didn’t feel like getting up. Still, after the long conversation with your dad, a sense of calm had settled over you that you hadn’t realized you’d needed. It wasn’t the kind of calm that fixed everything, but it was enough to get you out of bed and, against all odds, to school.

You sprinted down the hall, your bag bouncing against your side, heart pounding as you dashed toward Gojo’s office. Missing the first period wasn’t ideal, but you’d already made a decision. You were doing this. Not for anyone but yourself. Not for Megumi—whatever that was. No. This was about you. You had your own shit to prove. You were sick of falling short.

You burst through the door of Gojo’s office without knocking, barely catching your breath, and locked eyes with him. The typical cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a soft surprise behind his glasses.

"You’re late," he said casually, but there was no judgment, just curiosity.

"Yeah, I know," you replied, already opening your notebook, the pages freshly filled with the essay you’d been working on all night. "Here. I got it done."

Gojo raised an eyebrow, the sudden seriousness of your tone catching him off guard. He took the paper from you and glanced it over. His eyes scanned the words, his lips moving ever so slightly as he read. He seemed focused—more focused than usual.

"Huh," he said, breaking the silence. "Okay… I’ll check this."

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You just stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of you. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, but there was something else now—something that felt like you were finally getting it right. The words on the page felt like you, like they belonged to you. You hadn’t relied on anyone else. You hadn’t slacked off or tried to get by with minimum effort. This was your work. And it felt good.

"Good work, Y/N," Gojo said, surprising you. His voice was softer, more genuine than you were used to hearing. "I’m impressed."

You blinked. Impressed? Was that really the word he just used? You hadn’t been expecting that. You wanted to feel smug, to let that adrenaline fuel a comeback, but… no. You actually felt something else. It was a quiet, simple sense of accomplishment. And it felt better than you expected.

"Thanks," you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips. The moment was brief but important, like the first small victory after a long time of feeling like you were just slipping by. But as soon as the pride started to settle, your mind wandered, as it always did, to him.

Megumi.

How would he react to this?

You almost scoffed at yourself for even thinking about it. It didn’t matter what he thought, right? You weren’t doing this for him. You weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone. But your mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at you, cold and angry—words you’d hurled at him like daggers, only to have them stab you in return. He had no right to make you feel like you weren’t enough.

So why did it matter so much?

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts. "You want me to grade it now? Or… are you heading back to class?"

You gave a quick nod, barely aware of your body moving toward the door. "Yeah. Sure."

"Don’t go thinking this means you’re off the hook, though," he added, a bit of that teasing tone returning. "You’ve still got work to do."

You waved him off, not bothering to look back as you left the office. But as you walked out into the hallway, the quiet thrum of your heartbeat was steady. For once, it wasn’t anxiety or fear—it was anticipation. You weren’t sure where this would lead, but for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were in control of your own story.

And maybe, just maybe, Megumi would notice.

You and Nobara were hanging out by the lockers, leaning against the metal doors while the noise of the school buzzed around you. It was one of those rare moments where you didn’t have to be the perfect, untouchable “bad bitch” everyone expected you to be. Instead, you were just… talking. And it felt weirdly nice.

“Well, I’ll be honest, I thought you’d be a little more chill after everything with, you know, Megumi,” Nobara said, popping a piece of gum into her mouth and flicking it with her tongue. Her eyes studied you carefully, like she was trying to read a chapter in a book she couldn’t quite finish.

You scoffed, flipping your hair over your shoulder, giving her a pointed look. “I am chill. I’ve always been chill.”

“Bullshit,” she grinned, “You’ve been a walking hurricane lately. Like, you keep acting all tough, but you’ve been so fucking quiet.”

“Not quiet,” you replied, eyes narrowing in a fake attempt at annoyance. “I’ve just been—occupied.”

“Occupied with what?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “With your grades? Or trying to pretend you don’t have a damn heart?”

You laughed it off, crossing your arms. “No heart. No problems.” You rolled your eyes dramatically. “And don’t go all psychoanalyst on me either. I know what you’re gonna say.”

“Oh really?” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

You scoffed again. “I don’t need to figure you out, Nobara. You’re pretty simple to read.”

“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow again, her grin widening. “And here I thought you were all mysterious and complicated. Guess not.”

You leaned back, hands on your hips as you gave her an exaggerated look. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like I’m some emotional wreck.” You smirked, acting all nonchalant, but the words stung. “I’m fine, alright? Totally fine.”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s why you’ve been disappearing every time someone mentions Megumi. Total ‘I’m fine’ energy there.”

You shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his name, but you quickly masked it with a snarky smile. “You think I care about what he’s doing? Please.”

“Oh really?” she said with a teasing grin. “Because I seem to remember you having a meltdown in the cafeteria like, a week ago. Pretty sure your ‘I don’t care’ act needs some work.”

“Stop acting like you know shit,” you snapped, but it was all a front. You hated that Nobara could always see through you. “I’m done with him, alright? So drop it.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you are,” she said, not buying it for a second. She popped her gum again, a knowing glint in her eyes. “But tell me this—what’s really going on with you?”

“Nothing,” you shot back quickly, “Everything’s fine. I’ve been busy. That’s it. Now, can we stop talking about this?”

Nobara opened her mouth to argue, but then she stopped, glancing down the hall as she caught sight of the clock on the wall. “Oh look,” she said, not missing a beat. “Ten o’clock.”

You rolled your eyes, not understanding why that was significant. “And?”

She grinned devilishly, her gaze flicking to a figure in the distance. “Guess who’s about to show up.”

You blinked. "Who?"

“The one, the only…” she paused dramatically, “Megumi Fushiguro.”

Your heart skipped in your chest, but you refused to show it. You hated how he still had that effect on you. “Oh, great. What do you want me to do, roll out the red carpet?”

“Pfft, I’m just saying, you’re still not done with this whole ‘I’m the bad bitch who doesn’t care’ thing. That shit’s getting old, you know?” she said, the tone of her voice softening for just a moment. “You’re only fooling yourself.”

You straightened up, feeling the familiar defensiveness bubbling inside of you. “I’m not fooling anyone.”

“Sure you’re not,” she said, her eyes narrowing, but she didn't push it further.

You hated that she could read you like a book, but you weren’t ready to admit any of that to her. To anyone.

And then, there he was.

You didn’t even need to look hard; Megumi was walking toward you, his typical hoodie and glasses hiding his expression, but you could feel the weight of his presence as soon as he entered your field of vision. You instinctively tensed.

You stood there for a second, unsure of what to do. There was this insane part of you that wanted to go to him, talk to him, maybe even try to make things less...awkward. But your pride? Your damn pride wouldn’t let you.

“Go on, talk to him,” Nobara said with a grin, nudging you gently.

You ignored her, walking up to Megumi, your heels clicking sharply against the floor as you tried to mask the nerves building up in your stomach. You kept your gaze steady, but when you finally reached him, you faltered slightly. There was something in your chest, like an empty, aching pit.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I handed an essay to Gojo today.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable as always. “Good for you.”

You blinked, the words stinging more than they should have. “Yeah, well... It was a little late, but I tried.”

He nodded once. “Try harder next time.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway, feeling stupid and small.

“Good talk, huh?” Nobara muttered, glancing between you and Megumi as he walked off, his back turned without a second look.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to hold your composure. But it was hard, so damn hard to pretend it didn’t hurt. It hurt more than you wanted to admit, and you hated yourself for letting it sting.

“Yeah,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Great.”

The soft hum of the lamp in your room was the only sound that filled the space as you sat at your desk. You’d somehow managed to grab one of the materials Megumi had made for you, the one with the little notes scribbled in the margins. The ones he’d given you after that one tutoring session that—well, now that you looked back on it—felt like a turning point.

The paper felt heavier than it should have, as if each mark, each word, was weightier now. His handwriting, a scrawling mess in some parts, neat and careful in others. But what hit you wasn’t just the content. No, it was the bits of comments he left here and there, like he was trying to break through his own usual, distant shell.

"Try connecting this with the main idea." "You're overthinking this, just read it carefully." "Good effort. I’m not totally convinced, but it's a start."

It wasn’t like he had to leave these notes. He didn’t need to care. He didn’t owe you anything. But there they were. Tiny pieces of advice, encouragement, frustration. And the one that made you smile for a second: "I know you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for."

For just a moment, your heart ached at the thought.

He didn’t have to say that. Megumi could have dismissed you like everyone else did. He could’ve walked away, let you fail, but instead... instead, he chose to give you a chance. And now? You were sitting here, staring at it all, because you knew deep down you had to prove him right.

But how could you do that now?

Your eyes flickered to the small sticky note stuck on the top corner, where he’d written a single line in the same pen, his handwriting barely legible: "You can do this. Just try."

You exhaled, biting your lip, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

You remembered that day—his quiet, reserved voice telling you not to give up. It wasn’t a normal pep talk. It was more... personal. Like he was giving you something fragile, trusting you with a little piece of him. And somehow, you'd been too busy pretending to not care, too afraid to admit how much it affected you, that you fucked it up.

You remembered how he’d looked at you that day, his shoulders tense but his eyes softer than usual, like he was on the edge of saying something more, but he kept pulling back. And you? You were too wrapped up in your own self-image, too proud to let yourself show any weakness. So you made a joke, cracked a smile, pushed it away.

But now? Now, you wished you hadn’t. You wished you’d let him in. Wished you hadn’t been so fucking scared to be vulnerable for once.

Because if you’d been honest with yourself, you'd realized—just then—that Megumi had started to become someone you didn’t want to lose. Not just a tutor. Not just a guy you kept pushing away. But someone who saw past all the shit, all the walls you’d built around yourself.

You remembered when he opened up to you, just a bit, about the shit he was dealing with. About how much he hated being treated like he wasn’t enough—like a fucking robot in the eyes of everyone else. How he was constantly forced into situations where he had to be something he wasn’t.

You saw it. You saw that flicker of vulnerability in him that he hardly ever let anyone see. And you? You shut it down. You shut him out.

Your hands gripped the paper a little harder, and you exhaled slowly, frustration building up inside your chest.

"Why the hell did I have to be so goddamn stupid?" you muttered, slamming the paper back onto the desk. You leaned back in your chair, letting your head fall back to stare at the ceiling.

All that shit with Noritoshi. With the way things always went wrong. You’d shut yourself off from everyone, including Megumi, thinking you could handle it alone. And you did handle it... but now, sitting here, you realized how empty that felt. How lonely. How cold.

He thought you could be someone to trust. And what did you do? You let your pride, your stupid fucking pride, tear that down.

The thoughts swirled in your head—self-hatred mixed with the anger you had at yourself. You slammed your hand down on the desk, frustrated with how badly you’d messed up. You could feel the tears starting to burn at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away.

It wasn't just Megumi you were angry with anymore. It was you. You’d fucked it all up. And now, you had to live with that.

But what hurt the most? What really fucking hurt was knowing he wasn’t going to just come back and fix it. No. You had to fix this. You had to make it right, because if you didn’t, you’d lose whatever fucking chance you had with him.

And somehow, as much as you hated it, you realized that wasn’t a possibility. You didn’t want to lose him.

Maybe it was time you admitted that.

So, with a sigh, you pushed the paper back in front of you, knowing that this was more than just about a grade anymore. This was about proving something to yourself. About showing Megumi that you were worth the trust, worth the time, he’d invested in you.

And for the first time, you didn’t want to fail, not this time.

You stood there, staring at the building in front of you, your fingers clutching the crumpled piece of paper that seemed to have mysteriously found its way into your hands again.

It was Friday, the day Megumi had always made clear he wasn’t free. He’d said it casually enough back then, like it was something so ordinary that there was no reason to question it. “I’m not free on Fridays,” he’d said, voice flat and unaffected. But now? Now, you were standing here, outside what looked like an abandoned gym, the same address scribbled on the paper he’d let slip out of his textbook once.

What the hell is this place?

The paper hadn’t meant much then. It was just an address, a scribble, nothing more. But now, the fact that you were standing outside of it felt like something more—a revelation, maybe? Or just a damn mistake.

Was this where he goes? The thought kept pushing at you, refusing to stay buried. The building in front of you was weathered, the windows cracked, and the doors? Rusted. It didn’t look like a place Megumi would spend his time. Not at all. And yet, here you were.

You could almost hear his voice in your head, telling you he wasn’t free on Fridays, reminding you with that cold tone that he had other things to do. Other things that didn’t involve you.

But then why?

You didn’t know what had made you follow that scrap of paper, but somehow, here you were, your heart hammering a little too loudly, the nerves making your hands shake. You had no idea what you were hoping to find. What were you looking for, exactly? An explanation? A reason?

You inhaled sharply, trying to pull yourself together, pushing back the mix of doubt and curiosity that gnawed at your insides.

It’s none of your business, you told yourself, but the words felt empty. Because it was your business. Megumi was your tutor—your reluctant tutor, but still, he was the one you asked for help. The one you asked to let you in. And now you were standing outside, on the edge of some kind of answer, but you weren’t sure if you actually wanted to know what it was.

Is this really the kind of guy you want to know?

You stepped closer to the door, the sound of your shoes crunching against the gravel beneath you. Hesitation lingered in every movement, but your legs carried you anyway. There was something pulling you forward, an urge to know, to break down whatever wall he’d built between you.

The door creaked open as you reached for the handle, the scent of dust and old leather filling your nose as you stepped inside.

The gym was empty.

The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and old wood. The lights overhead flickered in a slow rhythm, casting uneven shadows across the worn-down equipment. Punching bags hung in the corner, their leather faded and cracked from years of use. Rusted weights lined the walls, a neglected space that felt like no one had cared for it in a long time.

What was Megumi doing here?

You looked around, feeling more and more out of place by the second. This was nothing like the Megumi you thought you knew—the quiet, reserved guy who seemed like he didn’t care about anything. This place was rough, tired, forgotten. So was he.

You didn’t expect to see him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t Megumi.

The man sitting on the bench had a relaxed, confident posture, like someone who belonged in a place like this—worn-out gym flooring, cold lighting, walls sweating the weight of discipline. His eyes flicked up as you stepped in, and when they landed on you—miniskirt, tank top, lip gloss still glossy—it wasn’t judgment you felt.

It was scrutiny.

Like he was sizing you up for something you didn’t know you were auditioning for.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, shit.”

Your brows pulled in. “What?”

He stood slowly, broad frame shifting with ease, cracking his neck before he stepped forward just a bit, boots heavy against the floor. “Didn’t think a girl like you’d actually show up.”

You stepped back, fingers tightening around the crumpled paper in your hand. “Excuse me?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite mocking either. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite. You’re the one Megumi’s been tutoring, right?”

You blinked. “How do you—?”

He shrugged. “He doesn’t say much. But ‘m not stupid. Kid’s been dragging home worksheets and stress for weeks. Took a guess.”

Your heart stuttered, embarrassment bleeding into caution. “Why would he be here?” you asked sharply, voice a little too defensive. “And who the fuck are you?”

The man gave you a low, amused look, voice loose and grounded. “Friend of his dad,” he said, vague but intentional. “Used to run with the old man. Name’s Yoshinobu.”

He offered no last name, no further details. Just a beat of silence between you before he nodded toward the bench across from the ring.

“You came this far. Might as well sit down.” You didn’t move.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Then he turned back toward the ring, where the lights were dim, but movement flickered behind a mesh curtain. You could hear it faintly—dull sounds of something hitting leather. Gloves. Skin. Breath.

Your fingers twitched around the paper. You glanced at the exit behind you. You could still walk away.

But instead— You sat, "Where's Megumi?"

Renji said nothing more. Just leaned back, ankle over his knee, arms sprawled against the bench like he’d done this a hundred times.

“You'll see,” he muttered eventually, almost too casual.

And so you did, no answers. No explanations.

Just the heavy, humid stillness of a worn-out gym. And the echo of fists hitting something hard in the distance. Over and over and over again.

The sound came before the sight.

The sharp thump of gloves hitting canvas. The squeak of shoes on the floor. And then— Megumi stepped into the ring.

And you—holy shit.

You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe a hoodie, a scowl, more of the same stiff, buttoned-up Megumi Fushiguro who tossed study packets at you like you were a charity case. Not... this.

Not him. Shirtless.

Sweat-slicked skin, broad shoulders flexing as he rolled out his neck. Arms defined. Stomach lean and tight, with the kind of abs you only see in boxing anime or underwear billboards. Veins along his forearms. Knuckles wrapped. A thin scar near his rib you never noticed before.

And his hair—still messy, still unruly, but wet and spiked, falling into his face in that way that made your jaw clench because— What the fuck.

You were drooling. You were actually drooling. And the worst part?

He didn’t even look surprised to be here. He didn’t look embarrassed or shy or like he was hiding. He looked like he belonged in that ring—like it was the one place he let go.

Yoshinobu chuckled next to you, like he caught the twitch in your lip or the way you were suddenly sitting very, very still.

“Yeah,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the ring. “Kid’s been doing this for years.”

You tore your eyes away just long enough to hiss, “He’s been hiding that body under those crusty-ass sweatpants?”

Renji smirked. “Not the only thing he’s been hiding, I’d bet.”

You gave him a side-eye.

“Relax, I’m not saying I know your business.” He leaned back. “But I’ve seen a lot of fighters. That kid? He’s sharp. Holds back too much sometimes. Always thinking five steps ahead. Got that from his old man. But when he lets loose?” He shook his head. “It’s brutal.”

Your gaze snapped back to the ring.

Megumi was facing down a taller man across from him—thicker built, more muscle, maybe even more experience. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Megumi didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down.

Then the bell rang. And just like that— He moved. Fast. Clean. Deadly.

You could hardly keep up. He dodged the first punch with a low slip, twisted his body, came up with a hook to the ribs so fast it barely made sense. His form was perfect—like he wasn’t even thinking about it, like it lived in his bones.

Another hit. Another pivot. A sweat-slicked arm. You actually let out a noise. A soft one. Embarrassing.

You crossed your legs tighter and leaned back on the bench, trying not to show it, but your face was burning.

Yoshinobu glanced over, clearly amused. “Not what you expected?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, eyes still locked on the ring. “I’ve seen better.”

You hadn’t. But you’d die before admitting that.

Megumi’s opponent landed a jab. He shook it off like it was nothing and came back swinging—faster, stronger, sharper. His entire body snapped with every motion. Power in every movement. Rage in every breath.

He wasn’t just fighting. He was working through something. And God, it was hot. You hated yourself a little for thinking it.

But you couldn’t look away, even if it burned, even if it hurt.

He was relentless.

The guy he was sparring with was taller, broader, probably stronger by weight class—but Megumi?

He was smarter.

You watched as he moved around the ring like the ground bent to his will—his footwork barely audible, shifting weight like water. He let the other guy swing wild—miss, overextend, pant like a dog—and Megumi waited. Studied. Measured.

Then he snapped.

A lightning-fast left jab cracked against the man’s cheek. The sound echoed across the room. You flinched. But Megumi didn’t.

He followed through without hesitation—hook, uppercut, block—his body twisting and coiling like a loaded spring, punching through the air with enough force to make you wince.

Every time his fist connected, sweat flew off his knuckles like it was vapor. Every time he exhaled, his jaw flexed, sharp under the bruised light. Every time he moved— You swore it did something to your chest.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You just sat there frozen, pulse thudding in your ears, mouth dry, lips slightly parted like an idiot.

Yoshinobu let out a long whistle next to you, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“I don’t know what your deal is with him,” he muttered, tone unreadable. “But don’t hurt him.”

You blinked, dragged out of your haze. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. He was still watching Megumi. “He’s a good kid. Stubborn, quiet. Doesn’t care about much. Not money. Not praise. Not even winning, sometimes.”

You stayed silent.

He continued, voice low, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “So when Toji mentioned he’s tutoring some attractive girl—his words, not mine—so imagine my surprise when he started to ramble about asking me certain things."

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, and?”

“And then,” Yoshinobu said, barely hiding a smirk now, “he starts taking longer showers in the locker room. Like ten, fifteen extra minutes.”

Your jaw dropped.

“What—?” you blurted. “Are you—? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

He shrugged. “Just saying. Maybe you’re not just his tutor project.”

Your face burned. You whipped your head away, cursing under your breath.

“I’m not—he’s not—” You scowled. “He doesn’t even look at me anymore.”

Yoshinobu tilted his head. “No?”

“No,” you snapped. “He’s probably still mad about the fight. Whatever.”

But your eyes said otherwise.

They dragged back to the ring—because even now, even when your heart was still sore, when everything inside you screamed you should hate him for how he talked to you, yelled at you, shut you down—

He still moved like he was carved from stone and fire. Still burned like something you couldn’t stop watching. Still made your stomach flip when he shifted and the sweat slid down his back, over the cut of his waist.

And he didn’t look at you once. Not even once.

Yoshinobu must’ve sensed the shift in your silence. “He fights like this when something’s in his head.”

You said nothing.

The match kept going. The guy threw another heavy swing, but Megumi ducked, moved so fast you almost missed the counter jab that sent the man stumbling backward. His chest was heaving now, face red, breath ragged.

Megumi didn’t gloat. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t say a single word.

He just reset his stance. Chin down. Eyes sharp. Fists up.

Focused. Controlled.

It hit you all at once.

That was the boy who sat beside you with textbooks and red pens. That was the same boy who rolled his eyes at your dramatics and still added notes in the margins. That was the same Megumi Fushiguro who kissed you with inexperience and slow-burning want—and still let you break his heart before he ever admitted it.

You hated this.

You hated the way your chest ached. You hated the way you wanted him to look at you—just once. You hated the way he didn’t. And still, you couldn’t look away.

The fight was over. But the tension still lingered in the air like smoke—thick, clinging, inescapable.

Megumi stepped off the mat, bandages undone, hanging in strips from his wrists like ghosts of the fists he'd just thrown. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was still coming down from the adrenaline, but even from here, you could tell how calm he looked on the outside. Unbothered. Still. Like none of that meant anything.

You wanted to scream at how easy he made it look.

Yoshinobu watched from beside you, arms folded. “That was clean,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even use his full weight.”

You swallowed thickly, unable to tear your eyes away from Megumi. He was wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt now—that shirtless torso lifting, exposing the bruises on his ribs, the scars on his waist.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Yoshinobu’s voice cut through again. “You planning to keep gawking, or are you gonna go talk to him?”

You flinched slightly. “I’m not—”

He gave you a look. The kind that saw through all your usual bullshit, the kind that made your spine straighten.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on between you two,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking between you and the boy across the room, “but he’s not gonna make the first move. Not when he’s like this.”

“Like what?”

Yoshinobu shrugged. “Closed off. Pissed. Hurt. Take your pick.” Your throat tightened.

He turned away with a quiet sigh. “Go.”

You watched him kneel by the guy Megumi had just knocked down, murmuring something low, like a check-in, a reassurance. The other boy nodded slowly, rubbing his ribs.

Megumi, meanwhile, started walking to a bench. He still hadn’t seen you.

But you’d already disturbed so much, hadn’t you? You took a breath, and walked.

Every step echoed too loudly in your own ears. The gym felt cavernous now, like it was holding its breath, waiting for this exact collision. Him and you.

You stopped a few feet from him. His head was still tilted back. Eyes still shut. Bandages slack against his thighs. He looked peaceful.

God, you hated him for that.

You weren’t peaceful. You were a hurricane pretending to be a person. You were mascara smudged in the dark, whispers behind lockers, a reputation clinging to your throat like perfume. You weren’t someone who stayed.

But you were here, he didn’t see you at first, or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

His back was to you, chest rising and falling, fists still flexing at his sides. His bandages were half-off, peeling from his knuckles like scorched paper, sweat dripping down the slope of his spine. The gym lights weren’t kind, but on him, they didn’t have to be — they only carved the lean muscle of his back in harder lines.

You stopped short. Because goddamn, he looked— shut up. You shut it down. Now wasn’t the time.

You opened your mouth to speak— He turned around.

Slowly. Deliberately. And the second his eyes landed on you, the air shifted. His voice cut through the air like a blade. “What are you doing here.”

Not a question. A warning.

He was shirtless, breathing hard, chest streaked with sweat and god knows what else. His black shorts hung low on his hips, legs braced wide as he flexed his wrist slowly — as if shaking off the last of the fight. He sat down with a quiet thud, legs spreading carelessly as he leaned forward on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like you weren’t even worth the effort.

You swallowed.

This was worse than cold. This was indifference, and it felt like hell.

You held up the paper in your hand, voice shaking despite everything in you trying to sound composed. “I found this. Once. It fell out of your notebook when we were—”

“Leave.”

He didn’t even glance at you.

You blinked. “I—I didn’t even know what it was back then, okay? I didn’t know what this place was.”

“I said leave.” His tone dropped. Sharp. Clipped. You flinched. But you didn’t move.

“I remembered what you said,” you rushed, stepping closer. “About not being free on Fridays. I remembered, and I—I was curious. That’s all.”

He stood suddenly, and you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes, he was taller like this. Broader. Angrier.

And even now, when he looked like he wanted nothing more than to get away from you, he still looked stupidly good.

His chest heaved once as he scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Then he turned, and walked.

Not toward the ring. Not toward Yoshinobu. Toward the locker room. You panicked. You followed, because you weren’t done. Not this time.

“Wait—wait!” you called, footsteps echoing as you chased after him. “I’m not here to fight, I swear—just listen to me!”

He shoved open the locker room door, and you didn’t even hesitate before slipping in behind him. The slam echoed through the tile like a slap. He didn’t face you. Not at first.

He yanked a towel off the bench, wiped his face, cracked his neck. Like you were just noise behind him.

“Megumi,” you tried again, voice thinner now, fragile around the edges. “Please.”

That made him freeze.

“Please?” he repeated, quietly. He still wasn’t looking at you.

You nodded. “I need to talk to you.”

“And I need you to get the fuck out.”

You stepped forward. “I need you.” Silence. That got him. He turned, finally, eyes sharp and hard and fucking exhausted.

“For what?” he snapped. “To be your emotional punching bag again? I am just a emotionless virgin to you after all."

“No. I'm sorry.” He stared at you like he didn’t believe a word.

“I just—” You exhaled, chest tightening. “I need you to know I’ve been trying.” He said nothing. You pulled your bag around and yanked out a wrinkled paper. “Gojo gave us an essay about constitutional rights. I finished it.” Still nothing. “And today, Nobara asked me a civics question and I—I remembered what you said. About the electoral process. About proportional representation in the Diet. And I said it right, I think. Mostly.” Megumi blinked, jaw twitching.

You pushed on. “And yesterday, I tried answering a question about Newton’s third law. You said, ‘equal and opposite reaction,’ right? I think I got it.” Still, he didn’t speak. He was looking at you now. Really looking.

“And physics? I remember... I remember you said momentum equals mass times velocity, and I tried—” Your voice cracked. “I tried. I’m still trying.”

You laughed a little, bitter. “I don’t even know why I care. Why I wanted to get better. It’s not like anyone expected me to.”

Megumi’s hands were braced against the locker behind him, shoulders still tense, like if he moved, he’d explode.

You lowered your voice. “But I did. I do. Because I wanted to prove you wrong. I wanted to show you that I’m not just some spoiled, shallow bitch who uses people.”

Your throat tightened. “And maybe at first, it was just about spite. But it’s not anymore.”

The locker room was too quiet now.

You bit your lip. “You made me feel like I was capable of more. Of being someone better. You were the first person who made me want to stop coasting.” Still, he said nothing.

You swallowed. “I know I said things I can’t take back. I know I hurt you.” Your voice broke again, softer. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I wanted to.” You waited. His face didn’t change. He just… stared. And you didn’t know what that meant yet.

But you’d said it. You’d fucking said it. And now it was up to him.

You didn’t know what else to say.

You’d poured it all out—your voice raw, your throat aching, your pride shattered at his feet. And still, he just stared at you. Silent. Stone.

So you filled the silence the only way you knew how.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you muttered, eyes falling to the floor. “But I need you to tutor me again.”

That caught his attention.

Your breath hitched as you pushed forward—too fast, too vulnerable now to stop yourself. “I meant it. I remember everything you said. All those little examples, your stupid metaphors, even that time you made fun of me for not knowing what a veto was—”

Still nothing. His hands were still braced behind him. Still staring.

“I don’t care if you think I’m a mess,” you whispered. “I just… I just want to be better. And you’re the only one who ever made me believe I could be. I need you to help me get there.”

You looked up finally. “Please.”

Silence.

Then—

He moved.

Fast.

A blur of heat and muscle and fury, Megumi was in front of you before you could even blink, grabbing your face in both hands and crashing his mouth to yours.

You gasped, and that was all the invitation he needed—his tongue slid deep between your lips, hungry, slick, and fucking claiming. There was no hesitation, no sweet slow burn. Just raw, unforgiving heat. Teeth and breath and everything you’d both been swallowing for weeks.

His hands dropped to your waist, yanking you flush against him like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies a second longer. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, tugging hard, and he growled—actually growled—into the kiss.

He kissed like he hated you for making him want this. Like he was punishing you and punishing himself all at once.

His palms slid down to your ass, gripping hard, forcing you closer as he slotted a thigh between yours and shoved you against the nearest locker. The cold metal hit your back, but you barely noticed—your brain was too fogged, lips bruised, hips grinding down instinctively against the heat of his thigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered into your mouth, voice cracked open, wrecked. “Why do you have to do this to me?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, breathless, dazed. “I don’t know, but don’t stop.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your waist, dragging over your ribs, up under your shirt, fingertips scorching against bare skin. You could barely breathe, barely think. His mouth found your jaw, your neck, biting hard enough to bruise before sucking the pain away, tongue hot and wet.

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs squeezing tight around his.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” he breathed against your skin, voice full of heat and hurt and everything in between. “But I can’t stay away.”

You kissed him again—desperate, wet, open-mouthed—and he groaned deep in his throat, like he was starving for you. His hands cupped your ass again, lifting slightly, grinding you down against his leg so good it made you gasp.

Your hips moved on instinct. The friction was dizzying.

You tangled both hands in his hair now, tugging, pulling him deeper, and he let you—let you own him for a second, just like you always tried to do. But this time, he gave in.

No more rules. No more distance.

Just heat. And tongue. And teeth.

And the crashing, furious kiss of two people who’d tried so fucking hard not to want each other—and failed.

You were still gasping against him when he broke the kiss, chest heaving, lips slick and red from how hard he’d kissed you. His hands gripped your waist like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

Your hand dropped to his shorts.

His breath hitched.

You looked up at him with wide, daring eyes. “Can I?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything—just stared at you like he couldn’t believe what you were asking. And then he nodded.

Slow. Tight. Jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fuck. Yeah.”

You sank to your knees.

He watched the whole thing—eyes dark and blown, hands falling to his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. You tugged his waistband down, and his cock sprang free—and holy fuck—you were right.

So right.

Big. Thick. Heavy. Veined. The flushed tip already slick, like he’d been aching for this longer than he wanted to admit.

You bit your lip, fingers wrapping around the base as your throat tightened with anticipation.

“Fuck me…” he breathed.

You glanced up.

He was staring straight down at you, hair messy, sweat dripping down his chest, jaw flexing like he was trying so hard not to lose it already.

“You look so pretty like that,” he muttered, voice low and cracked. “On your knees. Fucking perfect.”

You smiled, wicked. “Gonna let me make you feel good?”

He groaned—half growl, half prayer. “Please.”

You licked a stripe up the underside, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing every ridge and vein. His hips twitched. Your lips wrapped around the tip, suckling lightly as your hand stroked the rest, wrist twisting gently.

“Oh my god,” he hissed. “Your mouth—fuck—”

You took more. Inch by inch, pushing down until your throat clenched around him, spit pooling, mascara probably already smudging. He was so thick your lips were straining around him, jaw aching—and still you kept going.

“Jesus—fuck—just like that,” he gasped. “Shit—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

Your tongue licked under the head as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks, letting him hear how wet and messy it was. Slurping. Gagging a little when he hit the back of your throat—but you didn’t stop.

You moaned around him instead.

His hand shot out, threading into your hair—gripping, tight, controlling.

“Fuck—fuck,” he growled. “You were made for this, weren’t you?”

You blinked up at him, tears starting to prick in your lashes from the stretch.

“You like this?” he bit out. “Like choking on my cock?”

You moaned again, harder this time—vibrating around him.

His hips thrust forward suddenly, and he groaned deep, watching your throat bulge, your jaw stretch wide around him. You gagged a little again—but fuck it, you loved it. The way he cursed. The way his legs trembled.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “All pretty and ruined, just for me.”

You sucked him harder. Faster. Spit dripping from your chin, his cock slick with your saliva, your fist pumping the base while your mouth worked him with obscene, wet sounds.

He was shaking now, barely holding back.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he warned, voice cracking. “Fucking hell—don’t stop. I’m so close—shit—”

You sucked him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat one more time, and that was it.

“Fuck—fuck!”

He came hard—hot and thick, spilling down your throat in long, shuddering pulses. You swallowed around him, gagging again as he groaned so loud, hand still tangled in your hair as his entire body trembled.

You held him there until he stopped twitching, until he was completely empty—then finally pulled off with a slick pop, licking your lips, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

He was still staring down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild and fucked-out.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

You grinned up at him, ruined and satisfied. “That good, huh?”

He just groaned again and tugged you up by your wrist—dragging you into another kiss, filthy and full of spit and tongue and everything you didn’t say.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open.

You barely had time to adjust your shirt when a voice called out—lazy, amused, and way too casual for the situation.

“Yo, Megumi.” Your heads snapped toward the entrance. Yoshinobu stood just outside the locker room, one brow raised, arms crossed, clearly trying not to smirk.

“Toji’s gonna walk in any second,” he added, voice like a warning wrapped in a grin. “If you still want to keep that pretty little lady around for your tutoring sessions, you better hide.”

Megumi groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. You wiped your mouth, slow.

Yoshinobu winked at you. “Hey, no judgment. I’d let her tutor me too.”

Megumi slammed the locker door shut hard enough to echo. “Get the fuck out.”

Yoshinobu just laughed and walked off, muttering, “You’re welcome, Romeo.”

As soon as Yoshinobu disappeared down the hallway, the panic kicked in.

“Shit,” you muttered, already bending to the floor. “Where the fuck���where did half my notes even go?”

Megumi was beside you in seconds, shirtless and flushed, sweat still clinging to his chest as he reached for your crumpled worksheets. His hand was still wrapped in bandages, movements tight and clipped as he grabbed a page and shoved it at you.

“You seriously brought all this to a gym?”

“Don’t start,” you snapped, snatching it from him. “Not when your dick’s the reason I dropped half my life on the floor—”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, eyes wild. “Do you want him to hear us?” Your mouth shut instantly.

You scrambled to shove the rest of your notes back into your tote bag—history quiz key, Gojo’s half-legible assignment sheet, your favorite black pen.

Megumi cursed under his breath. “Where’s your phone?”

“Under the bench—fuck—” He dropped to his knees, grabbing it just as the locker room door creaked again.

“Megumi?” came the voice. You both froze.

Toji. Your blood went ice cold.

Megumi’s eyes darted to yours, and without a word, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you hard toward the showers, around the tiled wall, and straight into the small, grimy private washroom stall. He shoved the door closed with his hip and snapped the lock shut in one motion.

The second the lock clicked, you were pressed together. Tight space. Too tight. Your back hit the tile. His bare chest brushed yours.

His hand was still wrapped around your waist. Warm. Big. He didn’t let go. You didn’t breathe. Toji’s footsteps echoed into the locker room like gunshots. Closer. Louder.

“Megumi?” he called again, annoyed now. “The hell are you hiding for?”

The stall was dead quiet. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Megumi’s chest rose against yours. He was breathing slow, controlled, but his eyes were locked on yours—burning.

His thumb moved once against your side. You swallowed, lips parted.

Outside, Toji’s boots scuffed the tile. He moved past the benches. You could hear him pause, like he was scanning the room. Listening.

“Thought I heard voices,” he muttered.

The air in the stall was thick. Hot. Oppressive. Your thigh was brushing his. His hand was still at your waist, tighter now, like if he let go, something would snap.

You looked up. He was already looking at you.

And fuck, that look—like he wasn’t just thinking about getting caught. He was thinking about what would happen if he didn’t stop. Right here. Right now.

Toji scoffed outside. “Brat probably bolted. Whatever.”

Footsteps. The creak of the locker room door. Then a slam. Silence.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You glanced down at it. Then up at him. Then cracked a grin.

“God,” you breathed, still half-giddy, “we really just sucked each other’s souls out and hid in a locker room washroom like porn extras.”

Megumi snorted, wiping a hand down his face. “I knew Yoshinobu was up to something the second he opened his mouth.”

“Uh-huh. And yet you still let me drop to my knees.”

He groaned. “Don’t start—”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you teased, voice syrupy and smug. “You were into it. You were talking, Megumi. Like, actual dirty talk. I almost dropped dead.”

His ears went red instantly. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Oh no, babe,” you said, drawing out the syllables like velvet. “You called me pretty while I was choking on your cock. I’m gonna hold onto that forever.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like kill me.

You laughed. The air lightened, just for a moment. But then Megumi’s face shifted. Softer. Serious.

“I… I meant it,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck with his bandaged hand. “The pretty part, yeah. But also—” His voice caught for a second. “I’m sorry. For what I said before.”

The words hung between you. Still. Gentle.

Your chest tightened.

He kept going. “I was angry. But not at you. Not really. I was pissed at myself, and I took it out on you. I called you shallow, I said you didn’t try, and that wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

You stayed quiet.

“And I shouldn’t have…” His eyes flicked to yours again, raw around the edges. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. To you.”

Your breath hitched.

To you.

He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered. Not just because you kissed. Not just because you gave him head in a locker room. But because, somewhere in all of this—he actually gave a shit about you.

You blinked fast.

“Well,” you said softly, trying not to sound as shaky as you felt, “you were kind of right.”

He frowned. “That’s not the point—”

“I know. But it’s true.” You shrugged. “I didn’t try. I was mean. I used people to feel powerful. But… I didn’t want to be that around you.”

Megumi’s mouth parted, like he didn’t know what to say.

So you added, with a wry little smile, “Guess we’re both disasters.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Speak for yourself.” You rolled your eyes—but the moment lingered.

You didn’t say anything else. But to you echoed in your mind. And you knew, without question, you’d remember it.

You leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting toward the floor. The heat had simmered down. Your pulse was slower now.

But the words were still in your throat.

“…I’m sorry too,” you said quietly.

Megumi looked up.

You didn’t meet his eyes. “For what I said. The virgin comment. That was…” You sighed. “It was mean. And low. I was just mad and stupid and lashing out like I always do.”

He was quiet.

Then, “It’s okay.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s not. I knew it would hurt. That’s why I said it.”

A pause. You looked at him again.

He didn’t look upset. If anything, he looked… calm. Maybe a little sad.

“I get it,” he said softly. “You were angry. I was, too. I didn’t even care what I said until after you left.” He shrugged. “I don’t really care about the virgin thing, to be honest.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“I mean,” he said with a weak laugh, “not anymore.”

That made you smile—just a little.

A warm silence settled. The kind that felt… earned.

Then you cocked your head, eyes drifting down his chest.

“So…” you said slowly, lips curling into a smirk. “Nerd boy’s a boxer? Way to break the stereotype, Gumi.”

Megumi groaned. “Here we go—”

“No, seriously,” you said, pushing off the wall, circling him a little. “All this time I thought you were just some uptight know-it-all with no social life, and now you’ve got this—” You gestured to his body. “—situation going on.”

“Please stop talking,” he muttered.

You ignored him. “If you really wanted to bag Miwa, you should’ve just taken your shirt off in front of her. Instant success.”

He frowned. “I don’t—what?”

You raised a brow. “You’ve got arms, Fushiguro. Do you even know that? Should I start a fan club? The Biceps for the Blue-Haired Girl campaign?”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the faint pink in his ears.

“I don’t box to impress girls,” he said finally. “It’s not about that.”

You blinked.

He shifted, eyes dropping for a moment before he spoke again. “My dad’s really into it. He used to box when he was younger. I think… I think it’s his way of keeping me grounded. Especially since things have been rough with Tsumiki.”

Your teasing faded.

He continued, voice low. Honest. “It helps. Clears my head. Makes me feel like I’m in control of something. And he knows I’ve been struggling, so he’s trying to… I don’t know. Connect. Without pushing too hard.”

You stared at him, a little stunned. That wasn’t something Megumi usually said. Not something anyone usually said to you.

“…That’s really sweet,” you murmured.

He shrugged, looking away again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” you said softly.

He glanced back at you, and you held his gaze this time.

There was still a teasing spark behind your eyes, sure—but it was quieter now. Warmer. You saw him. Really saw him, and you liked what you saw.

You leaned your shoulder against the tile again, biting back a smile of your own.

“So…” you said, voice light but curious. “Does this mean the deal’s back on?”

Megumi blinked at you. You raised a brow. “Tutoring. Both kinds.”

He scoffed, looking away like he wasn’t about to smile—but you saw it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Then curled.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Deal.”

You saw him by the lockers before he saw you—hair a little messier than usual, collar loosened, black glasses perched on his nose like he was born to judge the IQ of everyone passing by.

God, he looked insufferably smart. Pen behind his ear, shirt sleeves rolled neatly past his forearms like he had an oral defense due in five and a girl to make cry right after. No bandages today. No bruises. No gym sweat.

Just Megumi.

Back in his clean-cut, honor roll disguise.

You walked up slow.

Like prey turning into predator.

“So…” you said, voice lazy, teasing. “Your place free later?”

He didn’t even flinch. Just closed his locker like a professor finishing his office hours and looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

He looked almost amused at your expression, but of course, didn’t smile. That would be too easy.

“My dad’s got people over,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Old friends. Loud. Crude. You wouldn’t like them.”

“Oh,” you said. “And what? You’re worried they’ll scare me?”

Megumi looked you up and down—slow, unimpressed.

“No,” he muttered. “They’ll annoy the hell out of you. And then you’ll start insulting them and I’ll have to explain why my tutor is verbally assaulting grown men.”

You snorted.

“I wouldn’t even raise my voice,” you said sweetly. “I’d just call them broke and unimportant and move on.”

He sighed, looking away like he was trying not to laugh. “Exactly.”

The silence between you crackled. People passed by in little clusters—some staring, some pretending not to—but Megumi didn’t care. He just stood there with his sleeves rolled and his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, like he wasn’t the one ruining your concentration.

You hesitated.

Just a beat.

Then: “My house.”

His head tilted. Just slightly. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Megumi’s gaze lingered, like he was trying to read between the lines.

You lifted your chin. “It’s quiet. It’s clean. My dad’s out. And I’m not about to wait another week because your trashy relatives want to drink beer and yell at the TV.”

There was a long pause, then Megumi nodded once.

“Alright.”

That’s all he said. And then he walked off like he hadn’t just accepted an invitation into your damn world.

You stood there, watching him go, and tried to get your face back to neutral.

It didn’t work. You were smiling. Ear to fucking ear. Like a clown in Prada.

You could already feel the whispers behind your back as people glanced at you from the corner of their eyes, because yeah. Yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro? The nerd in the glasses? Him?

He was tutoring you, and now he was going to your house.

You caught one girl staring too long and raised your brow with a sharp little smile.

“What, bitch?” you snapped. “Yes, it’s Megumi. No, you can’t have him.”

Then you turned on your heel and strutted down the hallway like the queen you were, mentally rearranging your bedroom and maybe—just maybe—deleting the playlist labeled for fucking.

Because if he showed up? You wanted to be ready.

You barely made it ten feet before a voice you didn’t ask for slithered up from behind.

“Well, well,” Aiko purred, her tone all sugar and spite. “The queen bee herself. Slumming it now, huh?”

You turned slowly.

She stood there with her knockoff handbag, fake tan peeling at the collar, and a smirk like she thought she mattered. Her eyes flicked toward your retreating hallway glance—right where Megumi had gone moments ago.

“Him?” she said. “You’re really hanging around him now?”

You didn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” Aiko grinned wider. “Tell me this is, like, community service or something. Please say you’re not actually with Fushiguro.”

You blinked at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean…” She scoffed. “Come on. He’s a loser. Always has been. Total social suicide.”

You just stared.

Aiko kept going, not seeing the cliff she was running toward. “Like yeah, he’s tall and all, but what else? He’s got zero presence, always alone, and he wears glasses, babe. Not even the hot kind. He looks like he’s allergic to sunlight. And you—” she waved a manicured hand toward your outfit, “—you’re you. Everyone watches what you wear, who you’re seen with. And now you’re doing hallway strolls with fucking Fushiguro?”

Silence. Dead, heavy silence.

Then, You took a step forward. “Say that again.”

Aiko’s smile faltered. “Say what?”

“Call him that again.”

Her face twisted with something smug. “What? A loser? I mean, sorry, but he is.”

That was it.

You closed the distance, grabbed a fistful of her hair so fast she gasped—and leaned in close, voice low and sweet like venom in champagne.

“You listen to me, you crusty, clearance-rack bitch. The next time you open your mouth about him like that, I will ruin your life in ways you can’t even spell.” Aiko’s eyes went wide, terrified. She didn’t dare move.

“He’s more of a man than anyone you’ve ever begged to text you back. So watch your fucking mouth. Or I’ll show you what social suicide really looks like.”

Then you let go—slow and deliberate. Her breath hitched. Her lip trembled. You gave her a tight, pitying smile. “Now run along. Before I start listing your body count in front of the juniors.”

She practically bolted.

Nobara wandered up from behind, chewing gum like she’d just witnessed a crime. “Jesus. You need to be arrested for that one.”

“She called him a loser,” you said flatly.

Nobara blinked. “You yanked her hair like she owed you money.”

You shrugged. “I was being nice.”

And as you walked off, flipping your hair and smirking like you didn’t just threaten someone into silence?

You felt proud. Let them all whisper. Because yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro is tutoring you. He’s also making you lose your goddamn mind.

What the fuck about it, bitches?

The car ride over had been quiet.

Not awkward—just charged. You didn’t speak much, and Megumi didn’t ask questions. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook the whole way, like he was trying to remind himself this was still tutoring.

Not… whatever it had started to feel like lately.

When you pulled up to your house—gates sweeping open with the click of a remote—he blinked. Slowly.

“This is where you live?”

“Disappointed?”

He shook his head. “Just… surprised.”

You could see it—how he clocked the driveway lined with luxury cars, the fountain in the center, the perfectly-trimmed hedges that cost more than some people’s rent. You led him up the steps, pulling open the door with a toss of your hair. “Come on.”

The marble floor echoed under your shoes as you stepped inside, Megumi trailing close behind. His eyes flicked to the chandelier, the high ceilings, the art lining the walls.

“You can say it,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s…” He cleared his throat. “Nice.”

You scoffed. “You don’t have to lie. It’s ridiculous.”

He let out the ghost of a laugh. “Little bit.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Gets lonely sometimes,” you said, quieter.

Megumi looked at you—but before he could say anything, a familiar voice called out from deeper in the house. “Sweetheart? That you?”

Your heart dropped. You turned toward the hall. “Shit.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you called, plastering on a smile as footsteps echoed.

Megumi stiffened beside you, And then your father appeared—tie loosened, whiskey in hand, and a brow raised when he saw your companion.

“Well, well,” he said, amused. “Didn’t realize tutoring came with the full door-to-door package now.”

Megumi immediately straightened. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Your dad eyed him. “Polite. Proper. Is this the boy who’s keeping you from flunking out?”

You groaned. “Daddy, don’t start.”

“What?” he said, smirking. “Can’t I be impressed that he’s not an airheaded jock or one of those weird artsy types who cry during movies?”

“He’s standing right here,” you hissed.

Megumi didn’t say anything, but you could feel the tension in his shoulders.

Your dad just sipped his drink, eyes still on Megumi. “Relax, son. I’m not grilling you. I’m just happy she’s letting someone else use her brain for once.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing Megumi’s sleeve. “We’re going upstairs.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” your dad called after you.

“That leaves nothing,” you shot back, dragging Megumi up the grand staircase.

“You wound me, princess!”

“Go work or something!”

You didn’t stop until you were on the second floor, yanking Megumi down the hall toward your bedroom.

He was quiet—still a little stunned, maybe. You didn’t blame him.

“Sorry about him,” you mumbled. “He thinks he’s funny.”

Megumi adjusted his glasses. “He kind of is.”

You shot him a glare.

He shrugged. “In a terrifying way.”

You rolled your eyes and opened your bedroom door. “Come on, nerd boy. Let’s get this tutoring shit over with before he comes back up here and starts quizzing you on wine pairings.”

He walked in after you, looking around your room, quiet again. But there was something different in his silence now.

Not nerves. Not intimidation. Just… awareness. Of where he was. Of you.

Of the way you leaned against the edge of your desk, arms folded, watching him like you weren’t even trying to pretend this was normal.

Megumi sat cross-legged on the floor of your bedroom, textbook open, notepad ready. You were lying on your stomach across your bed, skirt flipped up just a little too high, feet kicking in the air while you squinted at the words like they personally offended you.

“…So mitochondria is not the nucleus.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Correct. They’re two different organelles.”

You frowned harder. “Then why the fuck do they both sound important?”

“They are.”

“That’s dumb. Why not just combine them into a super organelle and call it the brain of the cell?”

Megumi blinked, sighed, and scribbled something. “Because that’s not how eukaryotic cells work.”

You groaned into your pillow. “I hate this. Biology can suck my dick.”

“You barely passed chemistry. Don't give bio a reason to hate you too.”

You flipped over onto your back, glaring at the ceiling. “I’m trying, okay? I actually remembered that thing you said about ribosomes last time.”

“Which was?”

You hesitated. “They… do shit.”

He stared.

“…Protein,” you muttered, pouting. “They build protein. Calm down.”

Megumi finally cracked a smile, just a small one. “I’m genuinely shocked.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean it. That’s the first time you’ve remembered anything correctly without pulling it out of your ass.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Watch your mouth, nerd boy. I’m fragile.”

“…Okay, um… ribosomes build protein. And lysosomes are… the trash guys? Or whatever.”

You were laying flat on your back now, textbook propped on your stomach, one sock half-off your foot, a pencil in your mouth like a cigarette. You were trying. Sort of. Even mumbling the definitions to yourself like they might actually stick.

Megumi was still sitting on the floor, but he wasn’t reading anymore. Wasn’t even looking at your notes.

Just at you.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too busy frowning at the page like it had insulted you.

“...Endoplasmic reticulum. That’s the… protein highway thing. Right?”

Silence.

“Megumi?” You looked up.

He was staring.

“What?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted like he was chewing on the words.

Then, finally—

“I want to do something to you.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

His voice didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, softer now, but still steady. “Right now.”

Your lips parted. “What—like—?”

“I want to go down on you,” he said, low. “I want you to teach me.”

The air left your lungs in a slow, involuntary exhale. The room felt suddenly warmer. He wasn’t even touching you, and still—your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You… you serious?”

He nodded once. “You said you’d teach me. Right?”

You just hadn’t expected this. “Gumi…”

He exhaled through his nose when you said that. Quiet, but full of tension. “I want to know what you like,” he said. “I want to get good at it.”

You blinked, mouth dry, trying to find your usual smug tone—but it didn’t come. He leaned forward, kneeling beside the bed now, hands flat on the mattress.

“I think about it a lot,” he admitted. “What you taste like. How you'd sound.”

Your breath hitched. Heat rushed between your legs. “Shit…” You bit your lip. “You’re really fucking serious.”

He just looked at you. Still calm. Still intense. And fuck—you were wet already.

You swallowed and smirked, finally finding your voice again. “You want me to walk you through it? Like a lesson plan?” He nodded again, eyes hooded.

You dragged your finger slowly up your thigh. “Then get up here, Gumi.” His fingers curled over the edge of the bed. And he did.

Megumi climbed onto the bed, moving slow, like he didn’t want to startle you—like he was worried you’d change your mind.

You didn’t.

Not when he settled between your legs, arms on either side of you. Not when he looked at you like he’d waited for this—quietly, patiently. Not when he leaned down and kissed you.

God.

You weren’t expecting the kiss.

Not one like that.

It was soft. Intentional. His lips brushed yours once, then again, warmer the second time. He kissed you like it was something he needed to learn too, and he was determined to get it right. No sloppy tongue. No teenage teeth. Just slow, sensual pressure—like he was studying your mouth the way he studied your notes.

You made a soft sound against his lips. One that caught him off guard.

He pulled back. “Okay?”

You swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah. Just—kiss me again.”

He did.

Deeper this time. His hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek. Then your neck. And then—when he felt you shift under him, breath hitching—he let his hand trail down your chest.

“You’re warm,” he murmured.

You scoffed. “You’re laying on me, Gumi.”

But your voice broke halfway through.

His hand stopped at the hem of your shirt, hovering.

“Can I?”

You lifted your arms without speaking.

He peeled it off slow, letting his eyes take you in. And you didn’t hide. Not this time. Not when he kissed down your chest, not when his hands slid over your waist like he was memorizing every dip and curve.

When he got to your skirt, you reached down—silent—and helped him pull it off.

Your panties stayed on.

He stared at the damp patch darkening the center.

You turned your head away, suddenly flushed. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

Megumi leaned down, lips against the inside of your thigh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I was.”

You shivered.

His hands slid up your legs, gentle but confident. He moved slow, kissing from one thigh to the other, tongue grazing your skin like he already knew how sensitive you were there. Like he wanted to worship, not just fuck. You’d had boys go down on you before—but it was always a means to an end. Messy, fast, mechanical. You never came. You always faked it.

But this?

This felt different.

“Are you nervous?” you whispered.

He shook his head, pressing a kiss just above the hem of your panties. “No.”

You looked down at him. “You’ve never done this before.”

“I want to get good at it,” he said. “I want to make you come.”

Your throat went dry.

Megumi hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and looked up at you one last time. When you nodded, he pulled them down slow.

He stared.

You wanted to squirm under the weight of it—how intense his gaze was, how quiet he got. He wasn’t gawking. He wasn’t blushing.

He looked hungry.

“…Can you tell me what you like?” he asked, voice low. “What feels good?”

You exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. I don’t—I haven’t really…”

You didn’t finish. But you didn’t have to. Megumi understood.

You felt his breath first. Warm, right where you needed it. Then his lips, brushing so softly over your folds that your hips bucked before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just gripped your thighs gently and leaned in.

The first swipe of his tongue was cautious. Testing. He moved slow, tasting you. Then again. Deeper. He moved his tongue in long, languid strokes, growing bolder as you gasped, as your thighs trembled against his shoulders.

“Gumi—” you whimpered. “Fuck—oh my god—”

He hummed, low in his throat, and the vibration made your back arch. It wasn’t perfect—he didn’t know how to flick just right yet, didn’t know your tells—but god, the way he tried. The way he moaned quietly into your pussy like he liked the taste. Like he liked how messy it made you.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. “Right there—fuck—yes—”

He latched onto your clit with a soft suck, tongue swirling, and your whole body locked up. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready to feel that pressure building, hot and dizzy in your belly, like something was going to snap.

You grabbed at the sheets, mouth falling open. “Wait—wait—Gumi—fuck—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t. Not once.

His tongue was relentless now, sloppy and eager, spit and slick coating your thighs, chin soaked, hands digging into your hips like he needed to hold you together while you came apart.

And then you did. Hard.

You came with a cry, louder than you meant to, your legs trembling and your chest rising in jagged gasps. It felt real. Raw. Like it had been buried inside you for months, untouched. No fingers. No toys. No faked orgasms in the dark.

Just him. You collapsed back onto the mattress, heart racing, breath shattered.

He stayed between your thighs, kissing them gently, like he wasn’t ready to stop. You looked down at him, dazed. Megumi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looking up at you like he hadn’t just rocked your whole fucking world.

“…Did I do it right?”

You let out a hoarse, shocked laugh. “What the fuck—”

He blinked. “You came.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Megumi crawled up the bed slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Teach me more,” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Please.”

You dragged him down into a kiss. Tasting yourself on his tongue. And for once in your life—you didn’t feel like the one in control. You didn’t mind.

The old gym echoed with the steady rhythm of fists against canvas.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Megumi didn’t say much when he was focused like this—wrapped hands hitting the punching bag with precise, brutal timing, sweat gathering at his hairline. His school shirt was ditched somewhere on the bench, tie loosened and hanging off one corner of the bag like a casualty of war.

You were parked cross-legged on a mat near the ring, textbook open in your lap, highlighter in hand—but let’s be real. You’d read the same sentence five times now.

“Hey, Gumi,” you called, flipping to the next page like you weren’t totally checking him out. “How do I remember which cranial nerves are motor and which are sensory?”

“Mnemonics,” he said between punches. “Or just don’t fail.”

You threw a marker at him.

He dodged without even looking. “Try ‘Some Say Marry Money But My Brother Says Big Brains Matter More.’ First letter tells you if the nerve is sensory, motor, or both.”

You blinked. “…Wait. That’s actually smart as fuck.”

He smirked, still striking the bag. “Glad you’re finally using that oversized head for something.”

You gasped. “Oh, so you do think I’m smart.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I think you’re loud.”

You grinned. “Loud and sexy. It’s the full package.”

He didn’t reply—just shook his head, a breathy laugh slipping out as he went back to punching.

You closed the textbook with a dramatic sigh. “You know, watching you box is kinda hot.”

He didn’t stop. “You say that about everything.”

“Not true. I didn’t say it about that weird Gojo lecture where he compared thermodynamics to heartbreak.”

“That’s because Gojo’s an idiot.”

You snorted. “Takes one to know one.”

“I think I could take you in a fight.”

Megumi wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, chest rising slow and steady as he looked over at you. “You getting in or what?” he asked, nodding toward the open ropes.

You raised a brow, still sitting on the edge of the ring mat, textbook half-closed on your lap. “You think I won’t?”

He didn’t even blink. “I think you’ll talk more than you’ll swing.”

You stood up immediately. “Bitch.”

He just stepped back, giving you space. You climbed in, fixing your skirt, cracking your knuckles like you actually knew what the fuck you were doing. Megumi tilted his head. “That serious?”

You flexed both arms in the most unserious way possible. “I think I could take you in a fight.” He stared.

You grinned. “Better watch out, nerd boy.”

He stepped forward, slow, that usual blank expression curling just slightly into something smug.

“Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

You didn’t react. At least not outwardly. Your heart? That shit didn’t know how to act.

You narrowed your eyes, tossing your hair back like it didn’t affect you. “Hope you’re ready to get embarrassed.”

He just smirked. “You first.”

And fuck, you were in trouble. Real trouble.

You raised your fists like you knew what you were doing—which you absolutely did not.

Megumi stared at you, unamused. “That’s not even a stance.”

“Eat shit, Fushiguro.”

He sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, completely relaxed. “Keep your hands up. You’ll get decked first swing.”

You tightened your fists, legs bouncing. “I am up.”

“Barely.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, stepping closer. “You talk like I won’t lay your ass out right now.”

“You’re five-two,” he said flatly.

You lunged anyway, throwing a punch directly at his side. He dodged, clean and fast.

You jabbed again, wild and reckless, and Megumi dodged like he was bored. That just made you madder.

“Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Dodging! That’s fucking cheating!”

He snorted, stepping just out of range like it was easy. “I’m literally just not letting you hit me.”

You lunged at him, swinging fast—and missed again, nearly tripping when he twisted around you.

And then— smack. His palm landed hard on your ass.

You gasped. “Megumi!”

He blinked, deadpan. “What?”

You turned, jaw dropped. “Did you just spank me?!”

He looked completely unfazed. “It’s a good ass.”

“You absolute slut—” You tried to swing again, but he caught your wrist and spun you with zero effort, stepping behind you and bending a little—

“Don’t you dare—” And then he hoisted you clean off your feet.

“MEGUMI!” Your body flipped over his shoulder, hair falling in your face as he held you with one arm like you weighed nothing.

“You’re insane!” you shouted, punching his back. “Put me down, you fucking bastard!”

“Nope,” he said, too smug for someone carrying a feral gremlin over his shoulder.

“You perverted little freak—!”

He smacked your ass again, harder this time. You shrieked.

“I WILL BITE YOU.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. That warm, deep, rare laugh that you only heard when you caught him off guard.

“Fucking nerd boy with muscles, I swear to god—!”

“I told you I boxed,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world while you kicked your feet like a goddamn cartoon character.

“YOU NEVER SAID YOU’D THROW ME AROUND LIKE A DUMBELLLLLL—”

And then— A voice. Lazy. Loud. Horrified.

“Oh what the fuck—” You froze. Megumi did too.

“Oh my god.”

You twisted—still slung over Megumi’s shoulder like a dramatic, designer handbag—and craned your neck as the voice echoed through the gym’s open doorway.

Yoshinobu stood there, a water bottle in one hand, towel slung around his shoulder, his brows lifted like he just walked in on a goddamn soap opera.

“I’ve seen a lot of sparring in this place,” he said, casual but amused. “But I’ve never seen that boxing move before.”

Megumi didn’t flinch. Just slapped your ass. Hard.

“Fushiguro!” you shrieked, legs kicking. “You absolute bastard!”

He had the gall—the straight-faced, gorgeous nerve—to act like nothing happened. Just hauled you up and dumped you like a sack of attitude flat on your back in the middle of the ring.

“You’re insane!” you coughed, sitting up and shoving your hair out of your face. “Feral! I hope you get athlete’s foot!”

Megumi just wiped the sweat off his chest with a towel like you weren’t actively losing your mind right there.

“Hit the showers, kid,” Yoshinobu called, half-laughing as he crossed his arms.

Megumi flipped him off without looking and strolled off toward the back, slinging the towel over his shoulder, his back flexing with every step.

And then— Silence.

You sat on the mat, breathing hard, heart still thudding, every part of you aware of just how deeply he’d rattled you. Then—

“You gonna tell me what that was?”

You turned your head.

Yoshinobu was leaning against the ropes now, one brow raised, his smile gone.

You rolled your eyes. “It was him being a dick. What else is new?”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t smirk.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit in this gym,” he said slowly, “but that wasn’t just a dumb joke.”

You scoffed, grabbing your water bottle and avoiding his stare. “Don’t start.”

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Yoshinobu said. “And I saw the way he looked at you.”

Your breath hitched. You stood abruptly, brushing invisible dust off your skirt. “He doesn’t look at me like anything. Okay?”

“You like him.”

You scoffed. “He’s just my tutor.”

“Right.” Yoshinobu nodded like he believed you. He didn’t.

“I’m serious,” you bit out, annoyed at how hot your face felt. “He likes—” You stopped. You didn’t even know who he liked. It didn’t matter. “He doesn’t like me like that.”

“I don’t care what’s happening between you two,” Yoshinobu said finally. “That’s none of my business.”

He took a step back from the ropes, grabbing a clean towel from the rack.

“Go easy on him..”

You blinked. “What?”

Yoshinobu turned, half-glancing back at you.

“He doesn’t talk much, y’know?” he said, voice a little quieter. “Doesn’t let people in easy. And when he does—he doesn’t have backup plans.”

You folded your arms, trying to look annoyed. “What makes you think I’d hurt him?”

“Because you’re scared,” he said simply. “And scared people bite.”

Your jaw locked. He gave you a last look—measured, unblinking. “He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.”

Then he walked toward the back, leaving you in the middle of the ring, staring at the mat beneath your feet, heart in your throat.

You didn’t know how long you stood there.

But the echo of his words didn’t leave.

He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because somewhere deep in your chest—you already knew.

parts, chapter 04

taglist, @crispycatt @littlevoidfairy @bookfreakk @1-rxse-1 @starzfaerie @zephyairies @moonmaiden1996 @simonexxx1 @pinkmeatball218 @evii1e @xavisbabie @maeviees @justanotherasiangirl @tiasd1ary @shioribuns @allysainz @mwrgwt @cookies-assemble @tiasd1ary @blu3-l0v3r @camy-yh @pinkmeatball218 @chokismom @01elle-sherlock @oidloid @holymolyyikes @haithamsbb @mysteriaqueen @fxngsfxgxrty @meiyinnaise

[jordiemeow]

summary: your boyfriend clark always seems to find the light in everything. but with several hard fights back to back ending in numerous civilian casualties to weigh him down, he just needs a gentle touch to soothe him and coax him back to his former brightness.

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ smut, porn w minimal plot, mild comfort in the form of sex, very brief dry humping, riding, no protection, kind of soft dom!reader, no superman spoilers

wc: 1.9k

notes: started a more dom!clark version of this but idk this felt more fitting. lil short but had to get Something for him out. slowburn fic in the works but i have some joaquín stuff to wrap up first <3

—

You always knew what you were signing up for when you fell in love with Clark Kent.

Not just the farm-boy charm or the unflinching kindness that makes the people of Metropolis trust him within minutes. Not even the gentle way he always holds your hand like you're something fragile. Delicate, to be cherished.

No, you knew what came with loving him. You signed up for the cape, the responsibility stitched into every seam of that blue and red suit. The scars that never get the chance to stay, but still mark him in ways you can't always see. For the nights he comes home smelling like ozone and steel and sweat, shoulders bowed with the entire weight of the world, and for the ache that comes with knowing he's the only one strong enough to carry it.

And you signed up for the silences. Especially on nights like this one, where he doesn't really talk much, voice crushed under the weight of what he deems to be failure.

You can tell by the slow way the apartment door shuts behind him, like he's on edge and afraid of breaking the hinges. No text in advance. No warm "I'm home!" No unmistakeable smell of sugary street donuts drifting down the hall. His footsteps are too quiet for a man his size, boots barely making a thud against the wood of the hallway. And when he rounds the corner, he doesn't look at you. He just drops to the edge of the bed, elbows on knees and fingers loosely laced, breathing like he's trying not to cry.

He won't. He never does. But just the thought makes your stomach churn.

When you look up from the book you've been pretending to read for the last hour, awaiting his return home, your heart cracks. "Clark?" You prompt, voice soft and gentle amidst the silence.

He's still deathly quiet, staring at the floor, his clothes clinging to his skin, muscles drawn tight beneath the fabric. You close the book quietly and set it aside. Stand and cross the room, steps slow and careful to avoid putting him even more on edge. When you reach him, you kneel between his knees and rest your hands lightly on his tense thighs.

He's changed out of his suit, but his skin is still tainted with the aftermath of battle, smeared with streaks of blood that definitely aren't his own and littered with fading bruises. He's a little drained, and with the sun hidden behind a dark sky smattered with stars, he just wants to go about it the human way of healing: sleeping it off. Clark shakes his head, jaw clenched, staring at some point past your shoulder. "Don't. I'll get soot on you."

"I don't care."

His hands twitch restlessly, bruised knuckles turning white from the tension. You see it now—the faintest tremor in his fingers. The clench of his jaw. The haunted look in those blue eyes that usually glow so easily with adoration when he looks at you.

"Clark," you try again, kneeling in front of him now. "Please?"

That breaks something in him. You can see it. Just a little, but you know him too well to not. His throat works around a sound he doesn't let escape. "I couldn't save them," he whispers when he finds his voice, raw and broken. It's nothing like the deep, charming timbre of the voice the rest of the city knows to be Superman. "There were too many. But I—I did everything I could. I swear, I did—"

"I know," you interject. Because he always does. "But you're not God, Clark."

His eyes flick up to meet yours, pain shining within the sapphire depths. "Sometimes I think people forget that."

"Then let me remind you."

Clark doesn't like to ask for help. He doesn't like showing weakness—not when the world counts on him to be indestructible. But when you rise up on higher your knees and press your forehead to his, his breath stutters and his resolve breaks. You cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the dirt-streaked angles of his cheeks, and kiss the corner of his mouth in a gesture that isn't hungry. Hell, it's not even romantic. Just… grounding. Something that says hey, I'm right here. Always here.

"It's been a long week," he says hoarsely, a last-ditch attempt to brush your concerns off. He never likes to be a burden. Not to anyone, but certainly not you. "I'll be fine."

"You always say that," you chide gently. God, you remind him so much of his Ma sometimes. "But you're not steel, Clark. You bleed. You feel."

He tries to smile, but it's brittle at best, so you decide not to press. You just slide your hands up to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one at a time. Your movement is slow and careful, but the pace sets his nerves alight between your touch. Your knuckles brush a bruise along his ribs and his breath catches—not from pain, he's faced much worse, but from the intimacy of your touch. You lean in and kiss it anyway. Another one on his hip. His sternum. His shoulder. Every mark you find becomes pure under your lips, as if your tenderness could erase the damage.

He watches you in silence when you push his shirt off his shoulders. You're still in your pyjamas—nothing particularly sexy, either. Just some cotton shorts and a faded grey tank top with the logo of his 'S' on the chest you brough home as a joke one night after work. But he still looks at you like you're bathed in silk and starlight rather than $20 worth of shitty merchandise.

"I hate seeing you like this," you admit in a whisper. "Torn down. Worn out. Freaks me out."

His hand cups your cheek, calloused thumb brushing just under your eye in a silent apology. He isn't able to find words, so you duck to press a kiss to his clothed knee and then stand slowly, coaxing him back onto the bed. His back hits the mattress with a low exhale, and you follow, straddling his lap with deliberate slowness. He groans at the weight of you, his hands moving to your hips to steady you both.

"You always carry so much," you continue, your words a soft breath that tickles his temple. "Let me carry this for you tonight."

You grind down gently, just enough for your bodies to brush through the fabric—his pants still on, your cotton shorts already damp and clinging. The friction is minimal but the pair of you share a stuttered breath. He's already getting hard beneath you, throbbing where your hips meet, but he doesn't buck. He waits. For you.

Always for you.

When you kiss him—slow and deep—you taste the iron of his split lip and soothe it with your tongue. He groans into your mouth, and that’s when the shift finally happens: he lets go, melting beneath you until he's practically one with the sheets.

"I don’t need much tonight, sweetheart," he whispers when you pull back for air. You almost laugh. Clark can always go for hours—you have Kryptonian stamina to thank for that—but you're not opposed to something slow tonight. Gentle. Loving. Something to remind him you're right there with him. "Just you."

Your hand slips between you, finding the fly of his pants to unzip. His hips lift a little to help you push them down, starry boxers and all, and then he visibly shudders beneath you when you draw him out. His cock is thick and hot and already leaking at the tip. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking him slowly, and his hips jerk despite himself.

He's so sensitive tonight. A smile graces your face, but you choose not to tease, not when he's in such a fragile state.

You tug your shorts aside, not even bothering to remove them fully. Just enough to let the heat between your thighs brush against him, a choked moan escaping you. You glide his cock along your folds—slick, teasing friction that makes him hiss through his teeth when your wetness lubes him up.

"Let me ride you," you murmur, breath catching. "Wanna take care of you."

"Are you sure?" He asks, even now, even like this—hard, throbbing, aching—he's always checking in, always so careful with you.

"I need to," you whisper.

You guide him in slowly, achingly, taking just the tip first. The stretch is deep, almost unbearable, but you don't rush. You've shared enough jokes about him having a Super-dick to know how to ease into it. You breathe through it, eyes locked on his, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. Inch by inch, you sink down until he's fully seated inside you, hips flush together.

He groans like it actually hurts him to feel this good. Ironic, considering you're the one being split open.

"Fuck," he chokes out.

"What happened to 'Superman doesn't swear?'"

He barely manage a laugh. "Shut up. Oh, you feel like heaven."

You finally start to move—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips that drag his cock along your walls in a rhythm that makes you both whimper. Every time you rise and fall, your cunt squeezes him just right, and his head drops back and his mouth falls open. The strain in his jaw softens, melts, and your name is an endless moan pouring from his lips.

He can't even fathom why he'd ever considered spending the night at the Fortress of Solitude instead of here with you.

"You're doing so good, Clark," you groan, rocking back against him. "That's it. Fuck, right there."

His breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut. He thrusts up just once, hips chasing yours, instinct breaking through discipline. You don't even have it in you to tut at him.

"I'm close," he confesses, voice cracking so hard with pleasure it borders on a whine. "Oh, fuck—baby, 'm gonna—nghhh—"

"You can cum inside me," you breathe. "I want you to."

He lets go instantly when he's granted permission. You can feel it—the shudder that overtakes him, the sharp intake of breath, the way his whole body trembles beneath you as he spills inside you with a low, broken moan. You can feel him pulsing as the warmth fills you, sudden and overwhelming. The fluttering of your walls prolongs his pleasure until his hips are canting up and his face is contorted in sheer ecstasy.

"Oh God, yes."

You keep moving in slow, lazy circles until his orgasm fades and he's softening inside you. Your fingers move to stroke through his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp, and he melts into it gratefully. Eyes half-shut, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin.

Eventually, you lift off him and guide him beneath the covers, ignoring the mess between your thighs when you fix your shorts back in place. He doesn't let go of you, pulling you with him, strong arms wrapping around you without preamble.

There's a long silence where all you can hear is his soft pants. Then, quietly, it's broken with:

"…You're the only thing that makes it bearable sometimes," he murmurs. "The only place I can breathe. Makes me feel human when all the Earth wants is some invincible hero."

You press a kiss to his jaw, and then a careful one to his bruised lip that'll no doubt be plump and healed soon. "You never have to be Superman with me."

His arms tighten around you. He exhales into your hair, warm and shaky and finally, finally at peace after a long week. Or a long life, if he's being honest.

"I know," he whispers. "That’s why I keep coming home."

Home: right here, with you.

—

taglist: @newrochellechallenger2019 @gibsongirrl @imperishablereverie @gracelynnx @ellaynaonsaturn — (join here)

[written-and-readen]

Delivered in the Nick of Time

Phainon x reader

Summary: Phainon saves you from another accident

This is it. You're going to die.

The sunny skies of Okhema aren't too bad of a last view. The Dawn Device shouldered by Kephale will make sure the last thing you see is beautiful. They really need to install railings on the rooftops. Or maybe you shouldn't have been so careless. Either way, gravity is taking you to your grave.

You close your eyes, accepting this fate, but your fall does not end in spine-shattering blow you thought it would. Instead, you're cradled around your shoulders and legs. Strange...Thanatos is more comforting than you'd believed. You take a peek at them only to see bright blue irises looking down at you.

"Phainon!" You rejoice. He fumbles your weight as you wrap your arms around his neck. He's truly living up to his title, delivering you from the jaws of death. "Thank goodness you're here!"

"That would have been a nasty fall if I hadn't been passing by. What happened?"

"There was a really pretty bird I was trying to take a picture of..." It admittedly sounds bad when you say it out loud.

"I thought Aglaea told you to be careful after she caught you the last time." You sheepishly look away. Fortunately, Phainon's look of disappointment is not as brutal as Aglaea's.

"I know but please don't tell her!" You plead, hoping to avoid another lecture.

"I don't know...what do you have to offer me for my silence?" Your face scrunches up in concentration before an idea lights up in your eyes. He readjusts your weight again when you pull yourself closer. Quickly, you press a kiss to his cheek that has his face bursting into flame like you'd set off a chemical reaction.

"How about that?" You tuck some of his snow white hair behind his ear that has also gone red.

"Um, I—okay, I won't tell," He mutters, and you smile at how he tries to hide his face by looking in the opposite direction of you.

"Phainon?"

"Yes?" His eyes hastily meet yours again the moment you call.

"You can let me go now."

"Oh, right."

[whywoulditho]

DC released new concept art for the dynamic duo movie where they show Dick and Jason being close in age, sharing a room and working as Robins at the same time

i don't wanna jump on the hate train before we see the actual movie but.. I kinda hate this. I can't believe they're actually going for this concept. It's such a weird choice because i thought it was obvious that each Robin storyline is connected and taking one of them out or not letting them have their own singular arc will defineitely mess up the natural progression of the events regarding this dysfunctional little family.

each robin's relationship with batman is heavily influenced by the previous one. it's a chain of trauma that Bruce tries and fails to break every single time and that's what's tragic about it. when Batman takes Dick in and lets him become his first sidekick, he is strict. he tries to control Dick's every move and raises him to obey orders. a big part of their dynamic at this point is how Batman is always trying to tell Robin what to do and how Dick doesn't follow orders and does his own thing. after years of this controlling behaviour, Dick gets sick of Bruce's bs and gets away from Gotham to redefine himself as Nightwing. Bruce is heartbroken because his son left him, and he doesn't want to repeat the same mistake. that's why he tries a gentler approach with Jason. he puts in the effort to connect with the kid outside of being vigilante partners, he actually tries to be a father figure. he gives Jason more freedom than he ever did to Dick. and as a result of this, Jason is able to go after the Joker by himself and he gets himself killed. now Bruce is actually lost. he hates himself for letting this happen. he will die if he loses another son. so when Tim comes along, he shuts him out of his personal life completely. he won't let this boy put himself in danger for him. he won't let Tim get attached. he has to protect this one. this is why Tim is constantly trying to prove he deserves his place in the Batcave. he's trying to impress everyone, show them he is worthy. and at some point in their arc, Bruce is finally emotionally mature enough to let his walls down. he recognizes Tim's intellect and talent and he actually starts trusting him to have his back in battle. then Damian comes along and he has such big shoes to fill. it's like Tim and Bruce share a brain. they're completely in sync and Tim seems to always know exactly what to do and what to say. Damian is the opposite because he fails to connect with his father. they are too different. the way they see the world, their sense of justice and their idea of punishment is completely opposite to each other's. and now Bruce's challenge is to understand this boy who seems to disagree with him on everything, after getting so used to having a partner who could almost read his mind.

now, if you put Dick and Jason in the Robin costume at the same time, there is no "I was too strict with Dick so i should be gentler to Jason". I assume Batman is just going to be strict with both of them, because he has not one but TWO sons running around in tights and capes trying to save the day and he has to be the one to guide and protect them. so there is no giving Jason freedom. Jason doesn't go after joker and get himself killed. then there is no reason to traumatise Tim by acting so emotionally distant. then Tim doesn't have the insecurities that drove him to be the best version of himself and the best possible partner to the Batman. then Damian doesn't have to compete with an impossible rival. THERE IS NO STORY LEFT. YOU'VE CHANGED THE ENTIRE COURSE OF THE BAT FAMILY.

i know i am over-generalizing a lot of these concepts that were frequently done differently by different authors but i think at the end of the day if you wanna write bat family correctly there should be a chain of batman and robin dynamics, each one connected in some way to the previous one. and if you put the first two of them (who arguably had the most toxic relationships with batman) together, at the same time, you end up removing a huge part of this story. not only do you reduce Dick's importance in Bruce's vision for justice, you also take Jason's influence on the next two completely out of the picture.

and on that note, i have to mention. YOU TAKE SO MUCH AWAY FROM DICK'S IMPORTANCE IN THE DC UNIVERSE. he's supposed to be the first ever sidekick that turned into a legacy hero. the robin who got out of batman's shadow and became a leader for new generation heroes and then even the friggin justice league. he is the pillar that connects this whole fictional universe together. he is the character that paved the way for teenage superheroes in comics. he's THE Robin who also became so much MORE than Robin. now he has to share that spot with Jason? who is (sadly) STILL defined by what happened to him AS robin???

am i being dramatic or is this actually the worst thing they could have done to these characters? i dont even want this movie anymore guys 😭

[mehiwilldoitlater]

If you don't mind!! May i ask of primarch x gn! Sfw please! Reader who's a hopeless romantic and very in love with their husband, like they are literally cry and the primarch are like "Why are you crying?!?" And their lover response "You're too beautiful", or always give them gifts and yell "I LOVE YOU MY MAJESTIC GLORUIS KING!", And look at the primarch with eyes full of love even if they are getting yelled at/scolded.

kinda smut towards Angron and some slightly here and there but nothing too fancy

Lion 'El'Jonson:

"You need to tend it higher…higher… Do you understand a word I am saying?"

You just mumbled, feeling the stretching of the wood in your hands and the pressure of the string in the other one. Before you could even try to get a good shot, the arrow slooowly started to move away, away from the bow. You tried again to fix it, only for it to stray again from your hand.

"You're supposed to shoot upward, not to the side, little one!"

Luthar's voice echoed through the courtyard, followed by a few laughs from the other knights. A simple look from Lion was enough to shut everyone else up, but the damage was already done, because now you had lost the grip on the bow, the arrow now angling away from your hands.

"Don't listen to them. We'll try until you've hit the target."

Now it was his own mission. Yet, it seemed harder than it looked when the arrow, once again, instead of flying in a straight line, chose to end on the side of the target.

"…you didn't tell me about this sudden interest of yours."

"I wanted to follow you on the hunt." He suddenly stopped in his tracks, looking at you like a madman. "In the forest!"

"You won't put a foot in these forests." He said sternly, making you lose a few inches of height, "You know how dangerous you are. I hunt those beasts because I can."

"But I want to make a gift for you too!"

He raised his eyebrow, confused.

"You gift me a pelt every time. I want to make you a proper one too! So we can match! Or stay warm in the winters together! To show you I care!"

Damn…he knew you cared, dammit, he always does! He sighed, feeling his giant heart lose a beat. You stood there, a small smile on that damn cute face, and...he just oated you.

"Let's focus…on the shot for now."

Fulgrim:

The soft light of the candle could only illuminate a small portion of the room, enough for your eyes to see. The only sounds were the sweet whistle of wind outside the windows, the shift of the silk curtains, and the small scraps of the carbon in the paper.

The small sound of the bread on the paper made the primarch shift in the covers; the flame made his long lashes flutter. His hand met his face, scratching his eyelids, sighing from exhaustion.

"Y/n?"

"Sh sh sh," you tried to move away his hands from his face, "go back to sleep."

He gently moved away your hand, rising on his elbow to take a good look at the time.

"We're in the middle of the night. What are you doing?"

"I'm drawing you."

"…now?" He was able to take away from your grip the notebook, leaving you with the carbon still scratching the nothingness.

"My love, you could have waited until tomorrow. I would have prepared myself."

"But you were so beautiful like this!"

"In my nightrobes, disheveled and snoring?"

"Of course! On your natural, you're far more entrancing than all prepped up!"

He sighed, admiring your artwork. He wished he could have been able to see himself in your eyes, seeing the beauty in the imperfections…

You tried to grasp back your notebook, but it had already been posed on his nightstand, and he took the chance to grab you and hold you in his arms.

"I need to finish it!"

"No, I need to sleep, and you too… or I'll give you another reason to stay awake."

You giggled, giving him a full dose of kisses on his neck—it wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Perturabo:

"And what does this do?!"

"This—" he pulled the lever, and one of the many statues near the marble basin slowly started to move. The girl made of stone slowly poured the contents of the vase in her arms; hot water flowed from it in a stream of vapor.

You wowed, then giggled in pure joy. The view was enough for your husband to sigh in satisfaction, completely ignoring the previous harsh comments of his men about gifting a stupid private house to his consort.

"This is beautiful, pretty!!! AMAZING! You're the best! Can we use it?!"

"It is yours to do as you pl-WAIT!"

He had to hold you, and while he did, he saw part of your garments falling down.

"Uh? Don't you want to use it with me?"

"Of course I want it, but at least change in the side room!"

"But the water is warm now! Come on, I saw you naked dozens of times!"

"It won't get cold! Don't you push—AH!"

And he tested the waters himself after a small struggle with you ended up with both of you falling in the water. After emerging, he grumbled, looking at your sweet smile on your face.

"…Satisfied?"

"You're so pretty when you're half naked!"

"You little—"

He started to splash you, and even if his tunic and his staff were completely wet, he would forgive you again, and he would start to think of a new present for you.

Jaghatai Khan:

The roaring of the engine echoed around him.

No one talked; no one needed to. Only the sound of metal and the imnh around him reminded him where he was and of his duty.

The smell of gunpowder, the leather of their bike, the fresh fuel that was ready to burn. Battlefield ahead, a new siege, a new battle to take before more casualties could happen.

Jaghatai was never someone that turned around against danger; he was ready to go straight ahead, like every time. He was the wind, and his sons were the storm, ready to strike to leave nothing behind. He left every doubt, question, and worry behind, or at least that was what he thought.

He closed his eyes, a picture in his mind. Away to his world, where seas of grass go for miles without end. Your worried face begging him to be safe, to at least try for him. Your hand grasped the same small object that he now holds closer to his heart. He takes the chance to take it out, to glance at it.

The small twig is adorned with small white flowers; the fresh smell contrasted with the suffocating smell of oils and Astartes around him. The knot of the red string frees the paper around the sprig; his fingers gently unfold it to read again the few words on it. He knew what was written there; he just wanted to read it again, to feel where you cried and smell what was left of you on it.

As for the flower, its duty is to bloom and wither; yours is to fight to win.

But the robin does not cry over the loss of the flower.

And I would not feast on a fruit from death.

He would not die; it was impossible to kill him, and yet you loved him enough to worry and to weep at a demon that, sometimes, he worried could come.

He put back the twig on his heart; the signal echoed from the sirens.

He promised to return to you, and he wants to do it as fast as he can.

Leman Russ:

He jugged another gulp from his pint, a few droplets of the alcohol drenching his beard that he cleaned with part of his arm. A few laughs that seemed more like barking came from his mouth while the story of one of his captains came to its end, concluding with him running away naked in a snowstorm.

Outside, the snow fell placidly in the land of Fenris, the wolf king and his sons enjoying one of those moments of peace to enjoy the fire, the food, and some good ale, forgetting for once the crusade and the outside, enjoying the moment.

Bjorn's attention fell on the main door, gesturing then to his own father.

"The rabbit had come out from his den!"

Leman didn't need to guess but still wanted to see, with an inch of surprise, your smaller figure searching for something around the hall. So little, so fragile, and with your more demure nature, you were really a rabbit among these wolves.

Once you spotted him, you started to move around the tables and the men, a few of them getting the chance to grab you in some intoxicated state or just jocking about finally having the legion consort share a night with them. You weren't that fond of these festivities, making the event quite interesting.

Once you breached the table, you were already closer to your consort, his hand grabbing you and posing you on his lap like some kind of puppy.

"Well, if it is not a surprise! Are you finally ready to share with us a story of yours, little one?"

Your big eyes met his own, still curious with that canine grin on his face. You started to rise from your seat, your hands around his neck. He felt a shiver of panic, remembering that you never were that kind of bold… Then you just let it go, leaving him there, confused and bashful. You now have a smaller smirk on your face.

"Do you like it?"

He looked at you… then at his neck.

He didn't notice before, but now, adorning his neck, a wooden pendant stood there, an intricate design of a tree and a wolf head on its base. Quite big for a baseline, but for a primarch? Quite the fancy one, at least for him.

He even noticed only now the bandages around your poor hands, wondering how much making it must have been a painful process.

"…I…yes?"

"GREAT!" And suddenly, your lips touched the side of his own, between his mouth and his cheek, only to jump out from his lap and return to where you came from.

After a few moments of silence, the table erupted in a roaring laugh.

Rogal Dorn:

The Praetorian didn't need to ask to know who those small knocks at his door belonged to.

"Enter." It came with a low and exhausted groan, focused on some blueprints that needed to be fixed. He wondered what was the illness that took whoever decided to make that design.

He noticed your head slowly coming from the door, clearly still wondering if you should really enter the room. Maybe it wasn't a good time, but you took so much effort into finding it!

He looked back at the door, waiting for you to come in; the signal was his quill spilling into the bottle on the side of the papers. Your feet waddle closer to him, your face painted with an excited grin and that shine in your eyes that he knows so much about.

"Well?"

"I have a present for you!"

"Can it wait until tonight?"

"I need you awake for it! Here!"

With a sound, you posed on the desk what was supposed to be a rock. No, it was definitely a rock. It had an egg shape, which was curious, and by the look of its material, it seemed to be of magmatic origin, maybe from the last moon that the Phalanx had observed. It was full of vulcanic activities, except for a small portion that seemed capable to being used to construct.

"This, my dear husband…is you."

His face made that kind of frown that made you laugh.

"Crack it open!"

"Uh?"

"Come on! So you can go back to work!"

He sighed. First you brought him a rock, and now you ask him to break it. You were always a curious one, he thought while using his bare hands to open the crude rock like it was bread, but he wondered what kind of new trick you were planning now!

A small crack—he recognized the sound of an empty object. His thumbs and fingers met something rough, then something smooth and pointy. A single push, and suddenly a plethora of blue and white met his eyes. You giggled, clearly satisfied with his expression of awe and surprise.

"…A geode?"

"YES! It is you, Rogal! Rough on the outside, but a treasure inside! I took so much to find one, and the volcanic moon was just so perfect! You told me once, remember? About magma, bubbles, and—"

His two fingers took you face, and suddenly his kiss shutted you up for good.

He liked it!

Konrad Curze:

Some would say that he had the eyes of a predator; others said that he had nothing to show in those empty pools of darkness.

Your eyes reflect on his own; it's hard to see, but you're sure that, with some proper light, you would be able to see yourself in there. Your back pressed to your bed, one of the few that actually look like one on the Nightfall, so small compared to the massive size of the demi-god above you, yet so small for you. His raven hair tickled your cheeks, his teeth bared like fangs, ready to snap at every chance.

He had seen it again, that damn image, the one that had plagued him since he had met you, a small creature whose life could be just snuffed out like a candle. You both knew that, especially the creature that was now looming over you.

He hated you from the bottom of his soul; he hated how much light you could create, and he hated the fact that your existence became the compass of his mind. He wanted to get rid of you, liberate himself of the burden of having you around, and yet he wanted to keep you away from the creatures that he called sons, closer to what he called heart.

"Why?"

His ragged voice was very close in shape with his hands, talons long and sharp that could rip off your head from your neck. His long and slender finger slowly started to embrace your neck, like the spires of some snake, ready to grip just a little more.

"Why do you keep doing it? Why the only thing I see is your…"

Love?

"… I could just kill you, you know?" He smiled, your expression still glued on him. "I could just get rid of you… No one will know, no one will care… That would fix it; I would be free from those images…"

He pulled away his hands, his face inches from your face, his breath moving a few stray hairs from your face away.

"So tell me…why?"

Then, your hands… Your hands reached his face, caressing with your thumbs the cuts, the wrinkles, and the imperfections. Then you rose until your soft lips met his jagged ones in a kiss that he could receive from nothing but an angel. And then you smiled, softly whispering.

"Because I love you…."

Others say that his eyes are the pure darkness of the night, and to you, they are the saddest eyes you ever met.

Sanguinius:

He tried to look away; the view only made him hungrier and thirstier. He tried to convince you to not do it, that it was not necessary, that he could not let you do it on your own for his own sake, and yet you were both there now.

His wings moved, almost in anticipation, looking at your small figure sitting there, on that armchair, while you meticulously secured your arm with the leather strip.

"We can…we can wait," he gasped like a fish. "You don't have to do it. I really wish you didn't…"

His voice betrayed him, and you knew that. You just smiled it off, preparing your arm for the needle. He gasped again; from outside, someone would have believed that you were consuming the most sacrilegious act, which it was in his own eyes.

You were sacred to him, the most pure and precious treasure that the stars had gifted him. He tried to hide his thirst at the beginning, fearing your rejection of him. Instead, you proposed something else…

When the small needle enters your arm, you hold your breath. Slowly, the red flow from it entered the tube, ending inside a glass made for the occasion.

His eyes looked at the liquid, slowly entering the glass, like a nectar made from the best grapes. Then his attention was on you, your face contorted in a small expression of pain, your eyes closed shut, your feet thundering on the ground trying not to flinch. Your free arm slightly trembled, fighting the urge to pull away and free yourself, but you still stood.

His face changed, an expression of pure affection painted his eyes, and so his lips slowly caressed your eyelids, and his gentle hands caressed yours, trying to soothe the pain. You sighed, feeling the shadow of his wings engulfing you.

"You're doing great, my love…"

Ferrus Manus:

"Ummm…"

"… I should go back; my sons will wonder where I am…"

And yet he still obliged you. He wanted to smack himself for his hypocrisy, talking about perfection and duty and then allowing his own little consort to indulge in their own small activities with him. Not like he did not like them, but it wasn't like his forge could just work itself.

He held you on his lap, one arm around your torso and the other in your own small hands, examining it in every detail and texture. You had always been fascinated by his hands, always taking a good time to observe them and tracing his veins and tendons with your smaller fingers.

To him it was a chance to hold you, feeling the heat radiating from your small body and hands, allowing you to admire, like you could admire something like that, his necrodermis. He had always known about your fascination for them, never believed that it could be the reason that he would ever find a consort in some way, and every time he voiced his own doubt, you were there with another answer. This time, you raised his hand against the light, admiring the reflection and the colors moving between the parts, holographic effects radiating from his wrist to his elbow. You looked surprised.

"Your arms are amazing, Ferrus! You have the rainbow in it!"

He sighed, then his entire weight started to slowly engulf you in a goofy and suffocating hug, one that made you squeal with laughter.

Angron:

His hips kept on pounding even after his release. Your own followed him not too much later, reducing you to a moany mess, with tears in your eyes and your mouth half open, taking every breath you could.

Your voice called him from his trance, trying to get him back, while he kept on moving, like he had completely forgotten where he was and what was happening. The pain from the nails and the pleasure mixed together in a strange potion, your pleasure started to drench him like a drug that he could take. It helped, it was helping, he was at peace, there was—

"A-Ang… i-it … It starts to-to hurt!"

Suddenly something snaps. Your trembling voice, your hands that try to push him, your eyes that desperately are trying to get him back to the moment, to you. He recoils his hands from your hips, seeing the purple sign of his fingers, and the scratch of his fingernails made his eyes open wide.

He tried to say something, an apology, to explain, but then fear came, and with fear came the pain again. His teeth start to grind, and feeling blood moistening his mouth and tongue, he pulls away quickly, trying to move away, to get out of your room and find solace somewhere else, where he can't hurt you.

But then he felt it again, your soft touch on him, on the nails, a soft caress that followed his tormented head to his contracted neck, soft kisses following the scars on his face, and a gentle hum coming from your voice. You don't have to use force; you just need to guide him to your chest, allowing your heart to beat in his ears, trying to remind him that you're there, you're not in pain anymore, he doesn't need to do anything, just let you.

He sighs and closes his eyes. He's at peace for now.

Roboute Guilliman:

The smell is the first thing that catches his attention. Sweet, a scent of cinnamon...maybe honey?

Then he noticed the small plate on his desk and then your loving gaze closer to the edge, almost like expecting his approval. He looked at you, then at the plate, then back at you, like he was trying to acknowledge the situation.

"I thought you needed to recharge a little, my lord. Here" then, the smell of sweet mint engulfed his nostrils; a steamy cup was now near to the plate, leaving your hands"this is for wash your mouth."

He looked at the two quite mouthwatering products, debating whether to leave everything and just indulge himself or at least wait for you to leave the room.

"It...smells quite good. The serfs must have outdone themselves…"

"Oh, I did it myself, my lord!" You smiled sweetly, looking at his quite shocked face. "I wanted to do something for you!"

"I…I didn't know you…could cook." He said, almost feeling bad for mistakingly taking your own hard work for someone else's doing.

"We were taught basic skills back at home." You said calmly, quite unaffected by his own stressed face, "This one is quite easy; please eat it while it is hot. And do not overwork yourself!"

He looked at the door closing behind you, leaving him alone…with the small pastry and the tea. When you returned, everything was empty, his face satisfied, and your small heart bigger.

Mortarion:

"Didn't I tell you?! Not once but several times?!"

His voice roared, alongside a few strong coughs from his lungs, from you. You held strongly in your hand the ventilator on your voice, coughing softly a few times while you rested on the bed. Your arms are covered in bandages and ointments from the burns on your skin, the smell of chemicals still on your robes.

When you woke up, he was already there, fuming with rage, worry, and fear.

"The labs are not for you! YOU SHOULD STAY SOMEWHERE SAFER! The library! The decks… WHEREVER BUT THERE!"

"I just—"

"Do not try to find excuses! Look at yourself, you managed to avoid killing yourself because you weren't too close to the vials! How do you think I felt when I heard you were injured!?"

He roared again, and now your small cough was mixed with hiccups. He kept on talking and talking, more yelling than talking, and he stopped only because he didn't have enough air to scream a little more. You sniffed, cleaning your face with your hand, trying to talk between the interruptions of your voice.

"I… I-I just wa-wanted to…make y-you something f-for your v-voice…"

He looked at you, folding his arms on his chest.

"I SNIFF found this substance...it se-seemed easy...to hel-help your v-voice...… I-I didn't know that it w-would…"

You tried to finish, but you only started to cry harder. His eyes started to soften a little, his arms untangled themselves and decided instead to rest around you, and a small tremor came from them. It was him? It was you?

"Don't do that again… I'm sorry I yelled, but don't do that again…"

You kept on crying, holding him closer, still coughing.

Magnus the Red:

"- With this sentence, the poets gave a structured idea of his intention towards the audience of how reading the poems creates what is supposed to be... dear?"

You stayed there, your face posed on your arms, your eyes only visible over them. The table gave you support for your torso while sitting close to it. You raised your head a little, a sound of surprise from you.

"Eh? Yes?"

Magnus looked at you for a second, tilting his head to a side, still holding the book.

"Did you understand what I was reading?"

"…I may…miss a few passage……"

"…From where to where?"

You started to scratch with embarrassment the starting page of today's session. The book was closed with a strong thud. He lowered himself, trying to get closer to your level, a hard task for his own height.

"May I know the cause of your distraction?"

"…I noticed that you're the most charming creature when you talk and explain stuff to me…." You said while raising your face, Now your hands are holding its weight on your palms. If it were possible, you would have some heart-shaped pupils in your eyes.

Magnus sighed again, more annoyed, with a hint of darkness in his tone. This wasn't the first time you've done this, and he feared it would not be the last.

"I thought you wanted to learn…"

"Hard task with the most beautiful husband trying to do it!"

"Um…you got a point…"

"Eh!"

"I'll ask Ahriman to replace me on the task."

"NOOOO EVIL HUSBAND!"

Horus:

You kept on looking at him; the curtains of the bed created a secret hole for you and your husband against the world. The covers rose a little while he regained his breath, your skin still glittering after your consummated union.

You admired the stretching of his muscles while he breathed, the way his nose made that peculiar sound, an old punch maybe, how the tension finally started to get out from his body and mind, and how his skin seemed made of gold under the dim light of Terra outside the windows. You clutched the pillow at your chest, admiring every detail he could offer to you.

A sound, a chuckle, came from him while he opened one of his eyes, looking at you with that kind of adoration that only you could hold in your tiny hands. He grasped you, delicately, guiding you towards him. holding you closer to his chest.

"You're doing it again, darling…"

"I love watching you, you know that…"

He laughed, kissing the crown of your head. You wondered how many other lovers he ever had. Many, you were sure, told you that he did have experience in the matter, a response for your doubts, but it wasn't exactlywhat you really wanted to know.

What troubled you was about the now. Would he ever be able to run in the arms of someone else while you waited for him there? You didn't know; maybe you didn't want to know.

You just snuggle in his arms, allowing the calmness of the moment to cradle you to sleep.

Lorgar:

A moan of pain resounded in your chamber, followed only by the slumping figure of your beloved husband. He had returned from a victorious campaign, and yet he looked anything but satisfied. You stood up immediately, reaching him while he slumped on your shared bed. Another moan came from him while you tried to make him turn on your side.

"Lorgar? Is everything all right?"

"…," he sighed. "…I've…discussed with my brothers again…"

"Oh…" You said, caressing his head that slowly found a place on your knees. You knew what they were saying; you didn't need any information, but that didn't mean you were used to hearing them at all. He sighed again, feeling the softness of your leg with his fingers.

"I am sure of my mission; I would never doubt, but… They seem so blind to the truth… I am trying to help them, but they seem unresponsive."

"They're just hardened by violence, my love."

"They believe I'm weak…."

"They're not able to use anything but brute force. Listen," you held his hand in yours, making him rise a little to look at him in his eyes. "Your work, your mission, is beyond every one of them! You choose another approach than them! You gave people hope, a new light! The light of your father, the Emperor!"

He looked at you talking, smiling a little, seeing the devotion that you had for him in your eyes, shining as the one he had for you.

"Do you really believe that, my beloved one?"

"Lorgar, you have to trust me. You've never been unworthy to stay at your side! One day, you'll hear the Emperor himself proclaim that your work is true and just!"

He hugged you as close to his heart as he could.

"What would I do without you?"

"They'll have to take me away from you, my love!"

Vulkan:

"My gem? Are you here?"

Vulkan heard the sound of stuff being moved, something being dropped in the water, and steam. He entered his persona forge, your tiny hands holding the smaller version of his instruments that he had made for you once you told him you wanted to try his own mastery.

"Wait, wait, wait! Don't come! It's almost ready!" Vulkan steps a foot inside, looking around the place. There was quite the mess. He wondered, How long have you been in there, working on who knows what?.

"My dear, I haven't seen you for hours! I started to get worried!"

"I know, I know, but I wanted it to be perfect!" Your grippers emerged in the water and reemerged; you took a good look at whatever was in your hands and then suddenly started to work with some sandpaper against it. Vulkan tried to get closer, his hands open, trying to get at least a hug from you, only for you to start to back away from him, hiding your secret on you.

"No, no, no, it's not ready; I need to finish it!"

"I demand affection from you, my beloved!"

"I want to hug you too, but I need to finish it!"

"At least one kiss?" You sighed… then stopped, allowing yourself to get kissed by that giant of your husband… And whatever thing you had hidden was quickly stolen and taken by him. He admires the object, a metal cylinder, quite rough, still in need of some processing to make the metal durable and shiny, the edges smooth, and give it a less unclear shape. He tried to understand what it was and what could have been his purpose, only to be snatched away by you.

"You ruined my surprise!"

"Surprise?"

"It was a ring! For our anniversary!"

Vulkan now had to admit, behind the flaws of the beginner of the forge, the object was clearly shaped to be held by a bigger finger, such as his. He felt his heart weigh knowing that his curiosity had led to a frown on your face. His hands took you in a sweet embrace, hotter than the forge itself.

"Forgive me, my love, I was just curious…"

"…it's fine… it's bad anyway…"

"Is made by a beginner. As a forgiveness, I'll help you make a new one."

"Really???"

"AND I'll make one for you to match our work."

The sensation of your lips kissing him was enough for him to forget the mistake.

Corvus Corax:

Your eyesight needed time to adapt to the darkness of the Ravenspire, but unlike the Astartes that resided there or your husband, your eyes weren't made for the dark of the night and the shadow.

But you were a learner, and you were good at adapting to your surroundings.

Your eyes were now good at recognizing the shadows and at averting movements, and your ears were now better at hearing the movements between the walls of your home.

You moved in the open space, your feet trying to move making as little noise as you could, and you looked around in search of something that could give him away.

Then you noticed it, a shape, a small movement of a cape, the swish of a feather between them. Completely still, it was almost undetectable, but you did find it.

You slowly move, closer and closer, following the shadows of the walls, holding your breath. You opened your arms and—

"Found you!"

You embrace only the thin air, falling onward, feeling the fabric of his mantle escape from your grip, and instead of a sturdy and hard body, you meet the hard pavement of the ship.

His skin, white as a ghost, emerged from the shadows. He stepped closer to you until he was on one knee, observing your face, now red from the fall.

"You did… But you rejoiced over the catch before my actual capture. You gave yourself away."

You puffed, observing how Corvus was still trying to hide a small grin of satisfaction.

"…But you're learning."

You smiled, and he allowed you to. Jump on him in a tight hug.

Alpharius Omegon:

"So?"

They talked in unison, to the point that it was even harder to see which one started and which one followed. You stood there, sitting and thinking, while two pairs of eyes looked at you with the gleam of amusement.

Despite holding the title of spouse, sometimes you wondered if you were more a plaything than all.

Your hand on your lips, you kept on looking between the twins, trying to make a distinction between every small detail that they had, between the wrinkles under their eyes, the almost unnoticeable skin imperfections, and the way their smile seemed more like a grin than a playful one.

"…will you shift position in the moment I give my answer?"

They looked at you, then at each other, then back at you, and they tipped their heads with the same synchronicity of a mirror.

"What are you talking about?"

"We would never!"

Yes, yes, they would. You thought for a little… Then rise from your seat.

They watched with curiosity when you jostled yourself on top of the chair, careful not to let it fall with you on it. Their curiosity turned to worries when you faced them and the

"ALPHY, CATCH ME!"

Suddenly you jumped from the chair, and the twin on the left had already opened his arms to catch you.

Once he had posed you on your two feet, and the worry disappeared from his tight embrace, you smiled widely.

"You're Alpharius! And you're Omegon!"

You smiled at the twi ,That seemed to have seen the end of the world.

[brucewaynehater101]

"No," Jason commands. "No. You're not going to do this. I won't let you."

Tim's mouth twitches up before settling back into a cool, neutral demeanor. "It'll be alright."

"Alright?" Jason scoffs. "Alright? You fucking call this alright?" The older brother throws his hands in jerky, wide movements as he paces. Back and forth he moves along the chasm, his eyes never leaving Tim.

"Yes," Tim confirms. "Everyone will be okay."

"'We'll be okay?' Are you seriously fucking telling me that right now? Are you fucking serious?"

"Yes."

"FUCK!" Jason tears off his helmet. He screams, the sound tearing out of his heaving chest and loud enough to cause Tim to cover his own ears. Stomping away from the edge, he claws at his own arms.

"Jas-"

"Fuck you, Tim!" The older brother whirls around with glaring, acidic eyes. "You don't get to do this! You selfish, suicidal bastard! You pathetic, cowardly piece of shit!"

Tim, for the first time since he announced his plan, drops his gaze. His shoulders lower, his body curls in upon itself.

"Don't you give me that," Jason spits. "Don't you dare look like a kicked dog right now!"

"I-"

"You shut the fuck up, you manipulative asshole!"

Tim's jaw clicks shut, his eyes focused on the endless abyss spanning between them, unable to meet Jason's stare. He completely stills, a tension to his posture as he braces.

"I- You- You-" Jason grits his teeth. "Fuck!" He rubs his hand down his face as he looks away from Tim. His eyes flutter shut, and his breath shudders on his exhale. "Gods."

Neither of them can look at the other with only the distant sound of the wind as company.

It's a long moment until Tim finally gathers the courage to speak. "Jason..."

"Fuck," the older brother mumbles. "I shouldn't let it end like this. I shouldn't let your last memories be of this, but fuck you, Tim. Fuck you fuck you fuck you. Gods, fucking hells."

Tim swallows, his vision slightly blurring with the tears gathering in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Jason."

"You're not," he sighs. His shoulders droop, and he slowly shakes his head. "You're not."

The younger brother doesn't have a response to that because it's true.

It takes all of their resolve, but they are finally both able to drag up their gaze to peer at the other.

Jason takes in the messy, too long black hair. Tim's been meaning to get it cut and has been complaining about it for the past few weeks. He was going to ask Steph or Alfred to help him with it. Jason has been teasing him about it, ruffling his hair more than usual.

It's useless, but Jason tries to commit every scrape on Tim to memory. He wants to imprint the scratches on his hands, the gash across his nose, the bruise on his cheek, and the arm being held against his ribs. He can't see from this distance, but he's trying to count each of the freckles scattered on Tim's face. Perhaps if he remembers that number, even if he won't know what it means, maybe he can sear its importance into his mind.

The way Tim's smiles are never symmetrical, his ability to sleep anywhere, the exact shade of his blue eyes, his nose scrunching at a new "Tim" nickname (Timberlina, Timothan, Tim Tim), the secret stashes of zesti in every room, the rare times his laugh bubbles up uncontrollably, anything.

Gods, if there is any mercy in this world, let him remember anything. Anything at all. No matter how stupid, how small, how useless. If he's bled enough for his sins, if he's saved the world enough, if he's been tormented enough, let him remember. Let him remember his brother.

Tim, on the other hand, is drinking in the emotions flitting on Jason's face. He's successfully commiting the desperation in the creases on the older's face, the sorrow in the downturn of his mouth, and the recognition within his eyes.

It's not the amused grin a fond, teasing brother sends to his siblings. It's not the shoulder nudges of encouragement. It's not the heavy sigh of a burden shared. It's not those nights of throwing popcorn at family, racing across rooftops, and fighting together against their foes.

The last sight Tim will have of his older brother is one of grief.

It will have to be enough.

[devil-howl]

I feel like Nero didn't have very good birthdays until he was older.

As a kid, before he met Kyrie's family, birthdays were... frequent. And never a big party. Usually ended up being shared between several kids, one party per month, and maybe a gift, or two. They were so collective, they weren't very important, and Nero was a Problem Child, so it's not like anyone else was getting him gifts.

Even with Kyrie's family, before her parents passed, he was always the other kid. Birthdays were better, but still nothing crazy. But he got a mild celebration, dinner of his choosing, a few gifts [maybe 4-5], a cake, and then he would be dismissed from anything he had to do, school or training, and he'd go play with Kyrie.

After was... well, rough. Birthdays for all three Nero, Kyrie, and Credo were hard to endure. Painful memories, and Credo, bless his soul, had no idea how to do a birthday party without reminding them of the parents that were gone.

After Credo, Kyrie and Nero agreed birthdays aren't big things. Just... little things. Maybe a nice dinner out they'd otherwise not want to waste money on, or they'd find something nice. No surprises. Dante got Nero gifts, but he never told him- he left them, anonymously, on his porch. They were nice, but Nero always felt like he had a stalker. Dante figured it'd be better to not let Nero grow attached.

... However.

The second Dante and Vergil get back from hell, suddenly Nero's the Golden Child. Vergil is going to be appalled at the lack of birthdays, sure, he and Dante haven't celebrated since they turned 8, but Eva made every birthday an AFFAIR. Vergil probably hits Dante a few times over the head for not making it up to Nero sooner, but his son will be celebrated. The Sparda lineage will not meander on the birth of a new heir.

Trish, Lady, and Patty, who previously did not know Nero's birthday... are fucking ecstatic. They are going to go all out. Nico did know Nero's birthday, but she understands how Kyrie and Nero had Issues about it so they kept it pretty low-key.

Kyrie mentions, later on, her birthday is coming up. In passing. Vergil immediately perks up, and simply says "We should get planning, then. Not much time." She just laughs. Probably a nice family dinner, or something.

Oh, no, as Nero has chosen Kyrie, Vergil is going to functionally treat the event with as much grandeur.

(And... maybe a little bit of it is him trying to compensate for missed time. Birthdays, he feels, are important, but he's not hiding the secret from anyone that... well, he feels a obligation to do more, even when no one asked, because he's done so much worse. A small... redemption. Not that he can fix it all, but... he can try. And if he won't even try, then what's the point of staying alive?)

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

Idk if you’ve done this yes but..

Random person trying to impress character’s S/O but failing since S/O and character is very much happy together, and very much trust each other.

Do you get it??

NOTE: Idk if I captured it well enough for what you are asking, so let's see. And yes, GOO KIM IS STRONG. We need to spread this agenda😤. Also, thank you for trusting me that I won't OOC Gun and Goo, but I still struggle with Goo sometimes :(

JAMES LEE

You two were finally out on a fancy dinner date after ages, relishing the rare time you got to spend together. James stepped away for a few minutes to take a "business call" well, it was just Goo and Kitae causing trouble again 😔 In that short span, some guy tried to hit on you, bringing up finance and economics in a condescending tone, assuming you had no idea what he was talking about. You firmly cut him off, letting him know you actually know quite a lot and that even your man seeks your help from time to time. The guy laughed it off until he saw you were dining with none other than Diego Kang. Let’s just say his self-esteem wasn’t the only thing that took a hit.

GUN PARK

You were browsing at a bookstore, deep in the blurb of a novel, while Gun went off to another section to find something you asked for. That’s when some guy slid in, praising your taste in books, trying a little too hard to start a conversation. You politely thanked him but didn’t entertain it further, casually adding that your boyfriend was the one who recommended the book in the first place. Later, when Gun returned, you kissed him on the cheek out of nowhere. A little surprised, he asked what that was for. You just smiled and said, “People really like your book choices,” leaving him both confused and just a little bit proud.

GOO KIM

You had gone up to the rooftop for some fresh air when a stranger struck up a casual conversation beside you. He was being overly friendly, and when he subtly tried to brush against you, you immediately backed off and told him your man was waiting downstairs. The guy scoffed like he didn’t believe you, until you showed him a photo of Goo, mid-song, pulling a goofy face. Even if he found it funny, you told him how handsome Goo is to you. And with the look in your eyes, the guy knew you meant it. He just nodded and wished you the best. Later, when Goo came up to walk you down, you told him he was both goofy and handsome. For once, for once in his life, he was the one blushing but immediately turned the tables saying you are the prettiest.

JAEGYEON NA

Everyone at your workplace kept gossiping about the “weird car” that dropped you off every day. In this crippling economy, people apparently had nothing better to do than speculate. One lunch break, a middle-aged man—probably a Gapryong Kim fan—tried to poke fun, saying you should find someone with a more luxurious ride. You scoffed and said your man’s car is perfect, thank you very much. The uncle kept arguing that his was better, but your unflinching trust in Jaegyeon, and his love for that car, never wavered. In the end, the man grumbled, saying maybe your boyfriend is just as ugly as his car, and that’s why you like them both. But the day Jaegyeon stepped out of the car to help you with some stuff, his plunging neckline very much on display 🔥 well, let’s just say the uncle suddenly seemed unsure whether he wanted to steal your man or be your man. Either way, mission failed.

JAKE KIM

“Gangster’s son”...that title still echoed in Jake’s mind, especially after a tense conversation with his mom. You reminded him he was more than that, and even scolded him to go visit her properly instead of just swinging by to get the latest pre-gen tea. One afternoon, you both went out for ice cream. People visibly parted ways when they saw him, a gentle giant with a tough look and some random uggo had the audacity to say you should be with someone more “normal.” You didn’t bother arguing. You just gripped Jake’s hand tighter, flipped them off with your free one, and walked off to get your ice cream.

Later, Jake looked at you and mumbled, “I mean… I am kind of a gangster. Are you really okay with that?”

You didn’t let him finish. You shut him up with a kiss.

That alone melted every bit of doubt just like the ice cream melting in your hand.

[therobotsarestuckinmyhead]

What would it be like if B-127 made a human best friend? I think it would be cool

[TFO] ☆ B-127 & a human best friend || drabble

if this is TFO B-127 then he might get the human killed, i won't lie. he's really reckless in TFO and i don't think he know the full extent of his abilities in the movie. he would lock in the moment he sees his human friend is hurt, he'd realize how much more fragile humans are and be a lot, lot more careful. B-127 would panic in the scenario his human friend gets hurt because he has absolutely no idea what to do, at all.

but lets just say this is an older B-127, then it would work a lot better.

he would be very excited to understand how Earth and humans work. it would trip him out so much trying to understand the human body. i also hc that TFO B-127 would think that everyday human machinery are actually Cybertronians. he sees a projector and think that he's reunited with Steve.

a human scrapyard would be someplace he actually likes so i think him and his human friend would hang out there a lot--- it would be isolated with less surveillance so B-127 would be able to roam around in his bi-pedal mode. i think he'd build more scrap people like he did back in sub-level 50. he'd name them something like AA-Tron 2.0 & Stephen.

i think the human bff would think its normal, depending on whether or not they've spoken to other Cybertronians before.

you could convince him to take the form of a very fancy yellow sports car and you're showing him off while he's there in his alt, kinda flustered about having so many humans stand in awe at his alt mode. he would be living in your garage, lets just hope you have a whole house to yourself in this economy.

he likes going to the car wash with his human friend. he's basically getting his plating clean and you're paying for it. bonus if his best friend owns the carwash. he will be eternally indebted to you.

B is very chatty so you'd have to deal with him rant about things you don't even know about because you've never gone to space before so he would be talking about 'that one asteroid belt in Delta 23' and you're just nodding your head, pretending to know where that is. but then he'd realize that you're not getting enough context after a few times of doing this so he start deviating from what he was talking about to provide context only to end up talking about something entirely different by accident and thereby, confusing you even more.

one thing is for certain though, the shenanigans would be ENDLESS.

and i'm a firm believer that TFO B-127 would get himself into so much shit without even realizing it until its too late.

[ellesthots]

“under the armor”

read on AO3 🦇

plot: after months of a reluctant crimefighting partnership, Bruce reaches the end of his rope with Clark's hovering.

pairing: corensupes!clark kent x battinson!bruce wayne

cw: 18+, mdni, smut, oral sex, handjobs, pov bruce wayne

words: 8.8k

a/n: hiii !! this is the first yaoi i've ever written, so hopefully it's good !! obsessed with Corensupes and Battinson together, if we won't get them on the big screen we can get them on the fic screen <3 i'd love to know what you think!

the title is based off the dorian electra song by the same name :) sooo Clark's perspective !!

“I told you, you either need to reinforce the suit or take a break.”

Bruce grimaced. God forbid he wasn’t Kryptonian, and his flesh was just that: flesh. He pulled himself to his feet, the armor heavier than it usually was, and stumbled his way to the Batmobile. More annoying than his injuries was the doting. “I’m fine.” 

Clark’s sigh rattled Bruce’s insides, but he pressed forward. Maybe he could pay to get some roads paved back here, the gravel was too loose. “You can’t even walk straight, and you expect me to believe you’re fine?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he seethed, molars grinding together under the white-hot heat of a grazed bullet. Those wounds were always the nastiest; ruinous little things that took ridiculously long to heal depending on how close of a call it’d been, and it’d been pretty damn close tonight. He needed some stitches and ice. 

“Bruce.” 

What he didn’t need was more of the man’s helicoptering. Seemed ever since their paths crossed on patrol that fateful day, Bruce had become the fixation of one Mr. Kent’s worry. 

He stopped about a foot from the car, eyes squeezed shut like it might make him disappear. “I told you not to call me that while we’re onsite.” He barely wanted him to call him by his name anyway, it messed his head up, made it all fuzzy. A searing pain shot up his arm when he moved to yank open the door, and he hid a low groan. Tried to, anyway.

“You’re hurt.” Clark said it plainly, as if that angle ever worked before. In a blink, a hand was pressed to Bruce’s lower back, pushing him toward the passenger side. “I’ll drive you home.” 

“Clark,” Bruce warned, voice raising above a simmer. 

“And then steal this behemoth so you’re forced to rest. Then I’ll have a talk with your butler, who is supposed to be looking out for you, and tell him that he’ll have to personally answer to me if I see—” Clark got lost in his monologuing and had Bruce pinned to the taillight, stuck by a loop in his utility belt. He only stopped when he heard an uninhibited groan. 

Bruce glared at him, half from pain, half annoyance. “Wonder how I survived all this time without you.” 

Clark let go, allowing for Bruce to steady himself before retreating from whence he came. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Clark’s shoulders drop, the bright blue of the suit’s fabric crinkling. 

“I know you’re not used to having a sidekick,”

Something akin to a guffaw fell from Bruce; the man’s golden-retriever nature never failed to keep him on his toes. Sidekick? “Don’t recall ever asking for assistance.” He slipped into the driver’s seat, its taut leather supporting him for a moment of reprieve. 

Clark squinted, confused and flustered. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I don’t have time for this.” Bruce jammed his seatbelt into the lock and pulled his leg into the cabin. “Gotham doesn’t need Superman.”

With that, he slammed the door and shoved his foot on the gas. The narrow alleyway would make a tricky escape, but hopefully that would deter—

A red cape fluttered out the side window, and Clark landed squarely in the middle of the route, trapping him. Ugh. “Get out of the way.” 

He shook his head, his dark, curly hair bouncing with the movement. His hands were balled into fists, his jaw set. Was he trying to be intimidating while wearing a crayon-colored Speedo? “Gotham might not need me, but that bullet that grazed you would’ve been a shot to the head if I hadn’t blocked it.”

Bruce all but snarled, not bothering to roll down the window. He swore Clark could hear him whisper a hundred miles away. “I would’ve apprehended him if you hadn’t caused a scene.”

Clark’s voice was slightly muffled from the thick, bulletproof glass, but he was animated enough there was no question the defensive quest he was on. It made Bruce sick. “It was a distraction,”

“It was impulsive.” He was always impulsive; acting before thinking, meddling with his carefully-constructed plans. It never failed to end in altercations like this, with him defending every crumb of hasty action regardless of logic and tact.

“That Penguin was going to kill people, you seem to keep forgetting that.”

No. Bruce wasn’t doing this. He put the car into reverse, throwing his head back despite the diabolical pain shooting down his shoulder. 

“Hold on a second, hold on,”

Bruce didn’t slow down, and the car only stopped when a flash of blue entered his rearview, Clark casually holding his hand to the bumper. God!

“You’re dodging my point.” His tone grew increasingly desperate, like Bruce was about to launch himself off the face of the planet. Who did he think he was? Being super didn’t make him infallible to the whims of ego. “You’re vulnerable, whether you want to admit it or not. In the six months we’ve been working together,”

His teeth felt like they were splitting apart. “Something like that.”

“Hey.” Clark’s eyes narrowed, and Bruce sat a little straighter. “The damage to your body has doubled. Doubled. What’ll happen in another six months? A year?”

“I get enough of this from Alfred.” 

“Well maybe you need to hear it again.” His chest heaved with the words. “I know you don’t like me very much, but I only want to help. Contrary to what you’d like to believe, that’s not a crime.”

Bruce swallowed, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “I need to rest.”

Clark looked like he didn’t quite believe him, hesitating a few more seconds before releasing the vehicle. Bruce sped off without the slightest lingering, refusing the urge to stay and argue. 

Again. Who the hell did Clark Kent think he was?

Bruce hung a hard right, skidding towards the grass with its velocity. A hard correction and he sped toward Wayne Tower, body lit like a live wire despite the utter exhaustion. 

And Clark thought he didn’t like him? He was a bit too earnest for his tastes, but he didn’t hate the man.

He was frustrating. Grating. Aggravating. Vexing. Well-intentioned, but what did that matter if it wasn’t paired with careful consideration?

The rumble of train tracks alerted him to home. Bats scattered near the ceiling, providing the usual fluttery accompaniment to his dismount. Once the car was parked, he realized he was practically panting. Kent got right under his skin.

He slumped into his stool at his work station, plucking the lenses out of his eyes, staring blankly at the monitor until the footage booted.

Fuck. The cowl.

He stood, weary, and tugged it off his sweaty head. Drained beyond belief, he utilized the last crumbs of strength to toss it by his bench. He groaned.

Pulled off his armor. Then gloves.

Pain.

Yanked off his padding. 

Shit. 

Blood crusted all the way to his wrists, smearing from the gritty sweat. A bit of torn flesh leered at him, requiring stitches. He couldn’t handle Alfred right now.

Ignoring the injury, and refusing to take off his pants yet to inspect whatever the hell happened to his leg, he clicked PLAY on the evening’s footage. So clearly he saw the opportunity to intercept Penguin, and then the blaze of Clark’s cape. His muscles tensed.

The moment Clark pushed him from the bullet’s course, Bruce felt a pang in his chest and tingles under his skin where the man’s hands had been. He clicked the footage ahead ten seconds and turned up some Nirvana, drowning out anything but Cobain’s timbre.

Bruce, bandaged and a little stiff, found himself cutting through Crown Point after stalking a bomb threat the next evening. Every few minutes he rotated his shoulder, wincing a bit, and counted the minutes until his next dose of ibuprofen. The bottle jostled around the passenger seat. 

Gotham’s atmosphere on this side of town was more striking than people gave it credit for; the river, though laced with murderous intent, glittered peacefully at this time of night. Mid-summer, the evening air was cool but not biting, a perfect atmosphere for being in the suit. Nights like these were precious currency; schools out, weather oh so inviting for the criminal element. Winter left a cloak of anonymity, but with weather so harsh, it kept a good chunk of crime at bay. Clark expected him to stay home while the city burned?

The night had been slow despite the singular bomb threat a few hours in. If Clark really got his way, he wouldn’t be surprised if he were tucked in while forcibly read a bedtime story right now. Clark had treated him like an incompetent child since they’d met, thinking Bruce was incapable of even existing near a crime scene or he’d blow up. 

As he neared the Tricorner bridge, Bruce heard some scuffling from a nearby alleyway. He pulled a u-turn and parked just out of sight, rolling down the windows to hear the sound of something punching brick. Bruce flexed his hands inside the reinforced gloves, nimbly stepping from the vehicle.

Maybe another mugging—but on this side of town, there usually wasn’t anything to take. Probably gang related? Gordon was unlikely to get a car to accept coming down here; the city didn’t care about anyone that wasn’t within its downtown limits. Even then.

Bruce took a full breath and rounded the corner.

“Needed to get you out of that darn thing.” 

Darn; the slightest midwestern twinge bled out when he said little words like that. Once, his mother had phoned when they were sharing his behemoth on the way to a drug bust, and he’d caught hints of Clark’s accent ever since—ever since that call, it’d been harder to ignore him. It was one of the first times he’d heard the superhero stammer. Bruce still remembered the shade of pink that colored the man’s cheeks.

“Does Metropolis have crime at night, or is everyone under your curfew?” Bruce adjusted the cuff on his gloves, fuming. 

Clark’s cape swished behind him as he walked closer, and Bruce fought the urge to shrink away in the otherwise empty alleyway. Ignored the look in Clark’s eyes. Ignored the way his whole body reacted to his presence. “If people need help, I’ll know.” 

Bruce looked away, his throat tightening. 

“Right now, you’re in no shape to be helping anybody.”

“I’m fine.” He meant for it to come out roughly, but it was almost whiny. Nasally. Frustrated. 

“You’re not!” Clark let his hands fall to slap his thighs, a particularly dense sound that twisted Bruce’s stomach. He sighed, giving Bruce a pitied once-over. “I drove myself up the wall at the beginning trying to save everyone. What you’re doing is a valiant thing—”

Bruce scowled.

Clark’s brows knit together, his jaw ticking. “—but you can’t do that if you don’t take care of yourself first.”

So goddamn condescending. “I’ve been at this for years, Clark.” His name soured on his tongue; he was this close to refusing to associate with Superman ever again, despite the thinkpiece he’d receive from the Daily Planet in return. “I know my limits. Back off.”

“You do, huh?” He moseyed closer and crossed his arms, nose turned slightly toward the sky. Clark’s blue eyes were deceptively bright, almost artificially enhanced. Bruce held his breath. “Why don’t I believe you?”

A strange assault on his resolve made Bruce take a step back, Clark getting too close for comfort. A flickering streetlight toyed with the edges of his vision. His voice was husky, quiet. “I don’t know.”

Clark’s brow furrowed, and his gaze dropped to Bruce’s chest plate. “Are you scared?”

He wasn’t… scared. Unnerved. Maybe. Overall, he felt an overwhelming sense of dread. 

“Your heart’s gonna beat out of your chest.”

Bruce had rarely been more grateful for his cowl, covering the worst of his flush. He needed to get going downtown, where there were actual muggings, and not continue to commiserate with the man deadset on slowing him down. He tried to let out a snappy comment, a la ‘caffeine’, but his mouth wouldn’t open. He turned to leave.

“Come back here. Batman, come on.”

Bruce picked up to a jog, though he knew it was futile against speed himself. He was vulnerable, and fleshy, and garbled. He always got like that around Clark. Always, always got like this.

“Are you upset about last night?”

Bruce fumbled with the car handle, ignoring him. His gloved fingers slipped on the metal. 

“I can… I don’t know!” He was exasperated, frantically trying to build a bridge. “I’ll listen to your plan next time. Only if lives aren’t at imminent risk, alright? That’s my line. It should be yours, too.”

Why wouldn’t his fingers grip? Christ!

“As a matter of fact,” Clark put on his ‘serious’ voice, a sound that overinflated Bruce’s lungs. “That includes your life. And I won’t stand here and ignore a person in need.”

He managed to get the door unlocked, but a firm hand on his shoulder kept him in place. Bruce’s skin burned under Clark’s touch, even through the suit. “And what do I need?”

“A friend.” His voice was gentle and forlorn. Bruce faltered. One of the most agitating things about Clark? How genuine he was—and how that warmed everything from his concern to his touch. It made his shoulders rise, jaw clench, and his brain go offline. He shrugged out of his grasp and slid into the vehicle, yanking his cape from getting stuck in the door. He revved the engine, then slammed his foot on the gas. 

It was an easy, simple drive home.

When Reál told him he didn’t do anything, Bruce wished he could show her days like these. 

The courtroom was stuffy, packed with starchy suits and so much Baccarat Rouge it made the air hazy. He’d downed a Red Bull on the way, and prayed that anyone who stared at the crescent of gray under his eyes thought he’d spent too long partying. City Hall meetings never failed to bore him to tears, especially on thirty-five hours of no sleep.

Tonight’s meeting was different—gearing up for another election cycle meant that Councilman Hady would spend half the night briefing the elite on the candidates, thinly veiling his political stance just enough for plausible deniability. As great as Bruce’s desire to skip after the torrential rainpour of crime the evening prior, Alfred had made an unarguable point upon waking him. It was, in fact, something his dad would have wanted. Something he would have thought was important—no, imperative—for a Wayne to clue into. It seemed like everyone else thought so, too. 

“Mr. Wayne. Would you like to speak to any of the candidates?” Hady always bowed to him, and it made Bruce cringe. Everyone here acted like he walked on water, constantly bringing up his father like they weren’t part of the very group of people who would hate him if he was alive today. 

“Sure.” He fixed a smile and stood, messing with the button on his suit jacket. Feeling eyes on him made him faint, but he’d rehearsed this. “My father would’ve wanted—”

“Sorry, sorry, thank you.”

Bruce looked over his shoulder to see Clark fumbling in toward the other press, recorder in-hand. His black curls bounced with each step, the looseness of his tie making it swing to nearly catch in the courtroom door. His stomach clenched. “Uh,” 

“Apologies for the interruption, Mr. Wayne.” Clark moved from whispering to addressing the intrusion directly. All Bruce managed was a nod before turning back to the front of the room. He put his hands in his pockets before they coiled into anxious fists. 

“My father would’ve wanted each person to…” 

The man’s click of the recorder and rustling of papers took over every neuron, rendering Bruce incapacitated. Autopilot took over, and he swept through a few paragraphs of fodder about how his father would’ve wanted each person to choose the candidate who best reflected the future they desired, that each vote was an investment in Gotham’s future and values. When his back hit the chair and the attention turned back to Hady, he let out an audible sigh. 

Clark.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blip. As swiftly as possible without drawing undue attention, Bruce stepped out of the courtroom, and made it halfway through the foyer before his elbow was snagged by an all-too familiar hand. Without comment, he grabbed the reporter by the wrist and hurried him down the northern hallway. Clark adjusted his glasses, his worn, creased leather suitcase plastered to his chest with a wide hand. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Gotham’s mayoral elections are a hot topic. The boss wanted coverage, and I thought I could come down to do the job.” He gave a small grin, body slightly pulled away from the billionaire. 

Tendrils of fire swirled up into his chest; did he really see nothing wrong with his constant interference? Was this what constituted friendship in his eyes? “You’re interrupting every facet of my life.”

“Because you don’t get the stakes—” 

For the billionth time since meeting him, Bruce scowled, pacing across the slim hallway. He had a hand to his temple, massaging away a dooming headache. “You treat me like an incompetent child.” 

Clark’s eyes flashed as if offended. “I don’t treat you like a child.”

“Incapable of serving a city I know better than anyone, that I’ve devoted my life to,” 

“That’s the whole point, Bruce!” His voice rose too loud for comfort, but the fierceness in his gaze was just enough to stall his pacing. “It’s gone further than sacrifice, or duty; it’s suicidal.” 

Bruce went to leave through the back exit, but Clark grabbed him a bit too tightly by the wrist. Almost possessive. “I refuse to attend your funeral. Not when there’s something I can do about it.” 

He was full to bursting; his tie strangled him, his feet hurt him, he swore some of the stitching from last week’s injuries were blistering. He yanked his hand out of Clark’s grasp and straightened his cuff, nose scrunched. “Then don’t come.”

By the time Bruce walked to the front steps of City Hall, the drizzle had become a monsoon. Valets splashed in ankle-deep puddles, nervous to upset the horde of millionaires with a pair of late keys. He panted, each heavy breath transformed into a silver mist that matched the hang of clouds slicing through skyscrapers. Pellets of rain slapped his cheeks and rendered his hair limp in seconds. This city was his to protect, and he wouldn’t let a Metropolis transplant throw him off. 

The first week without Clark was a vacation, able to navigate Gotham’s streets as he always had without someone yanking on his cape or blabbering in his ear. The second week was much the same, though Bruce started performing a quick sweep of the sky each time he entered and exited a scene. By the third week, he held a knot in his stomach, a weight in his chest.

It was two months since he’d heard from the man of steel; the only reminders of his existence were in the Gazette’s columns about another barely-avoided tragedy in the neighboring city. Bruce avoided the news broadcasts about him, jumping out his skin at the intensity of the suit’s colors. 

Alfred had unexpectedly asked if he missed Clark, as he grabbed a bowl of soup before patrol. As he laid in the rubble, unable to move, and his brain fought for rationalizations for why the hell he’d missed such an obvious setup, that was the only thing that came to mind. Paired with a bitter thought of wishing he had a partner to help him.

He could get up. He would. 

Bruce pushed off his elbow, but the weight on his knee was too great. With a profound grunt, he thudded back into the shards of glass and tried to keep his eyes from being scratched. His arm was so numb he couldn’t even reach his adrenaline shots. Fuck. 

He’d been in situations like this before. He knew if he could push himself by his feet, work through the mess on the ground, the movement would eventually shift his limp hand to his hip, where he could wedge it against his distress signal. It would be slow, but criminals didn’t want to get caught lingering, and within a few minutes the GCPD could be on their way. 

Not like they’d help him, unless Gordon was on duty. 

He began the snail’s journey across the sharp glass, grateful most of his suit reserved ample padding. It would no doubt be annihilated after this trip, and the extent of his injuries would send Alfred down an anxious spiral. He wasn’t looking forward to it. 

Something above him creaked, and Bruce afforded just enough energy to turn his head, the ear of the cowl brushing against the floor with an uncomfortable grate. A seam was slowly cracking the ceiling—had someone placed an explosive above? He hadn’t heard any loud sounds, nothing in a good few minutes. 

A significant crack was heard above his head, at an angle he couldn’t twist his body toward, but it knew. His heart began to race, and he gritted his teeth as he tried in vain to grip the glassy ground with half-ripped gloves, panting in his effort. The structure was no longer sound, which meant the GCPD wouldn’t be coming in to check, not until it fell through. Either he made it to the opposite wall for the signal, and hopefully someone came fast enough, or he’d have to hope this cement building was an illusion of cardboard. 

An obscenely jarring sound of definitely-not-cardboard falling made him wince, far too close for comfort. Some gravel chunks landed on his calves, small enough to bounce off, big enough to bruise. Dizzy from his body’s feeble attempt at producing proper adrenaline, he grappled with the reality that this could be it. He could die right here, right now, and no one else would ever be helped. It ended tonight. 

He hadn’t reinforced the suit. He’d barely patched its rips, and he’d pulled an all-nighter again. Maybe if he’d gotten some sleep. Maybe if he’d… he’d… he felt lightheaded, like somewhere he was losing blood. Like everything was hitting him at once. 

“Clark,” he panted, conjuring enough energy to push it through his teeth. Another crack. Another seam splitting. He squeezed his eyes shut, every vein white-hot, gasping as he felt a deep throb on his right side. “Clark!” he gasped out, half-scream, half-cry. Blacking out, whiting out, his body was confused. His lids went heavy, then heavier, then darkness.

“Finally lucid, are we?” Alfred’s snark, spoken with a delicately furrowed brow, accompanied his redressing of wounds. 

What the hell?

Bruce felt weighted. Simultaneously exhausted and antsy. How long had he been out? How did he get out? “How did I get here?”

“Your friend brought you. Saved your life, in fact.” Alfred snipped the gauze and tucked it under the wrapping. Every touch felt like stabbing a bruise. “He visits every day. You always flinched when I changed your dressings, but never with him.” 

Clark? A brightness filled his chest, something like hope. “Is he coming today?”

The old man nodded, placing the scissors on Bruce’s work desk; it took him this long to recognize the Batcave. Bruce blinked until his eyes focused, giving the room a visual sweep. Everything looked as it always had. 

“Should be on his way.” He grabbed his cane and headed toward the elevator. “I’ll let him know he can go through the back entrance.”

The clanging sounds of Alfred’s ascent finally let Bruce relax. Either Clark had heard him, or he’d already been stalking. Even if he could get mad at that, he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t be alive to be angry if he hadn’t intervened. 

What if he had died? What if the last time they interacted was an argument? 

Bruce sighed out the last air in his lungs, his stomach clenching over the realization that the next time Clark would’ve seen him would have been a funeral. He shivered, carefully pulling the thin wool blanket over his shoulders, and stared at the entrance to the abandoned terminal. What could he say to him in return? 

Eventually anxiety got the better of him, and he stumbled to his stool to look at the footage from that night. Listed as happening five days ago, all he could make out were flashes of gravel, glints off shards of glass, some red streaks, and then the sky. 

He wrote some findings in haphazard, shaky handwriting. Where did this leave his work? Did he require a sidekick? Was it selfish to continue fighting crime if he couldn’t guarantee not needing to be saved himself? Where did that leave Metropolis, the rest of the world, if Superman’s time was taken up by being the Batman’s bodyguard? 

“Oh, Bruce.”

Clark was present on the monitor in little blips while he plucked out the lenses. Bruce leaned forward on the desk, mesmerized. 

“Kinda surprised you asked for me, to be honest. I’m just glad I could help.” Clark’s dry grin sent a pang through Bruce’s chest, slicing at the lining of his lungs. He shouldn’t be surprised. Bruce was too cold to him. “Even though you’ll probably kill me when you wake up.”

“You really should be resting.” Clark’s voice echoed off the balmy brick; the man strolled in with his arms crossed, a nearly incomprehensible grin wearing his lips. Bruce sucked in a quick breath, holding it. 

“Clark.” Ridiculously simple, but calming just to say. 

He put his hands up. “I just came to get my things, don’t worry. I didn’t want to bother Alfred.”

Bruce watched him walk to his cot, kneel, and pull out a small backpack. He’d kept some things here? How long were his visits?

“He’s a great guy, makes this incredible soup. I need to see if he can send the recipe to Ma.”

“You saved my life. Thank you.”

Clark rose, slinging the pack over his back. He nodded, and it looked like he was unsure of how to proceed. The two men stood, in limbo, until Bruce broke the silence with a soft admittance.

“I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Look, Bruce, you don’t owe me an apology. I inserted myself into your life and refused to respect boundaries. Even if I was correct, and you do need help sometimes, it’s not right. I’m sorry.”

A lump rose to Bruce’s throat. How had he ever treated this man like a fly buzzing in his ear? He was at a loss, feeling the true depth of the canyon between them. The one he’d only widened, despite all of his kindness. Bruce didn’t think he deserved it, but he asked anyway. “Can you stay?”

“Do you want me to?” Clark meandered closer, making Bruce lean against the tabletop to keep from touching. His gaze dropped to his chest again. “Dude, you really need to get that checked out.”

Clark’s freckles. He had… freckles. Dotted across his nose and under his eyes, perfectly kissed by the sun. He was pretty. I missed you sat on the tip of Bruce’s tongue. 

Clark’s tone softened, bringing forward an almost inaudible midwestern lilt. He looked like he was admitting something long-held. “I’m just worried about you. I’m not used to a teammate being so fragile.” His sigh wafted across Bruce’s cheeks like a warm breeze. “It scares me.”

Why him? When there were so many other humans to worry about? 

Though his brain was barely functioning, Bruce thought about if the tables were turned, and he was a metahuman while Clark was entirely breakable. And… he’d… never had to genuinely worry about the Kryptonian before. Just the thought made him sick. 

He needed to bridge the gap somehow. Express these feelings welling up in him before they were stuffed down indefinitely. 

“Bruce, you really need to see someone about—”

Bruce leaned in for a kiss, causing Clark’s eyes to widen as he stepped back to dodge it. A wash of shame fell over him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask, I…”

“You want to kiss me?” Clark laughed, resting his hands on his belt. “I thought you hated me. All this time…”

A streak of rebellion entered Bruce’s bloodstream again, though his tone didn’t have the usual bite to back it up. “Not all this time,”

Was it all this time? From the very beginning? 

“Are you sure you’re not loopy off the medication? I mean, Bruce, you just woke up. Though Alfred said you were awake, but not awake awake, I…” 

Wary and self-conscious, Bruce only made fleeting eye contact. He clamped his hands to the side of the desk to steady himself, the wash of rejection making his limbs numb. But what else should he have anticipated, after months of bickering and showing nothing more than a crumb of kindness to the man? He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Especially not with someone sweet like Clark Kent, whose face was twisting into a soft grin that made his dimple pop. 

“Believe me, I want to. When you’re more… healed.” 

Bruce swallowed hard, a tingle running up his spine at the twinkle in Clark’s eyes. His lips pulsed like he’d bitten into a jalapeño, mouth filling up with spit. Though Bruce had rarely been rejected—in fact, he couldn’t remember the last time—this didn’t feel like being given a placation. Like air had been pumped into the man’s lungs; he was almost beaming, brimming with newfound energy. 

“My lips are fine.” Why did talking about a kiss feel so lewd? So foreign? Clark stepped closer, forcing Bruce’s breath to hitch. Gave a genuine, sweet little smile, and spoke a sentence that would replay on Bruce’s mind like a mantra until he could see him again.

“I don’t know if it’ll just be that.” 

He took his leave at that critical moment while Bruce’s mind fought to catch up, and the room slowly stopped spinning. Jesus Christ.

If Bruce was one thing, he was patient. There was something about delayed gratification that made the final clue that much more satisfying. If Bruce was another, he was stubborn—and in the days that followed, he mused on all the ways he could make Clark tick. Bring that dimple and that blush to his cheeks. Make him stutter. It trumped every introverted bone in his body. He’d make it up to him.

He adjusted his gold cufflinks as he waited for the elevator. The usual hushed whispers, people trying to decide whether or not to approach. “If that’s even him,” he heard from a man to his left, probably speaking to a coworker. In the shined steel, he saw the reflection of wide eyes trained on him. He held a groan. 

The trip up wasn’t as quick as he would’ve liked, the building itself old and ‘historic’; he shut his eyes and took some regulating breaths as the elevator dinged for his stop. He knew this would be overwhelming, but he was dedicated to unraveling one… 

“Mr. Kent.” 

Clark looked up from his desk, startled. A stack of papers slipped from his desk down below his rolling chair, making him unable to shift around to face him. For the first time in ages, Bruce struggled not to laugh. 

“M—Mr. Wayne! I wasn’t expecting you.”

His glasses looked too big for his head, and his suit looked the same. Overblown shoulders and a tie that was begging to be tightened. Bruce’s hand clenched, offsetting the tension to keep his tone light, conversational. “Don’t tell me you forgot?” 

“Uh,” 

“Clark! Perry wants copy on his desk—Bruce Way…” A man donned in a brown polo stuck out a hand, grabbing Bruce with surprising strength. “Mr. Wayne. What are you, uh, what made you make the trip out of Gotham City?”

“Jimmy.” 

Out of the corner of his vision, Bruce watched Clark shake his head at the fellow. Just above his waist, Clark made a cutting motion with his hand. Bruce bit his cheek; it was already working.

“Here for an interview.” Tight smile. Casually tucking his hands into his slacks. 

It took Jimmy a few seconds to compute it, and he could practically see his gears turning. “Sounds good. I’ll let Perry know.” 

He stood behind the desk, stooping to gather various papers and folders. “I haven’t cleared a room for us, Mr. Wayne, and my schedule this afternoon is pretty booked. I don’t know if I can fit you in.”

“Already cleared it with Mr. White.”

Clark lowered his voice, the glasses slipping down his nose. “Bruce. I have two interviews today. You could have called me instead.”

He stared at the deepening pink spreading across Clark’s face, and flexed his jaw. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Befuddled, Clark gathered his suitcase of materials. Bruce wondered if the reporter actually believed him; he hadn’t thought up any answers for said fictional interview, and he doubted his ability to handle anything off script. It was entirely overwhelming to be around Clark now that he knew what they both wanted. 

Clark scurried to the elevator, Bruce following close behind. With people filing in behind them, he abandoned the loosely-formed plan to stop the elevator and start in right then. Shoulder to shoulder, Bruce wondered what the man would like. What he might want. The suite had a California king, a pretty massive loveseat, and a balcony overlooking the east. He could imagine a hundred different positions. A thousand different sounds. 

Bruce kept a few strides ahead of Clark, leading the way to the finest hotel in the city. It didn’t compare to the luxury of Gotham, people in Metropolis being a bit more everyday, but the wealth disparity here was less great. Sure, Luthor’s malignant presence was very apparent here, but the lows were less low, the highs less high. In plenty ways, it was better than Gotham. Sunnier, kinder. He felt exposed here, like you could read every pore, see every thread in someone’s clothing. Where the sun would wake you every morning.

“Shoot, I left my recorder at home. Good thing the other interviews got cancelled today…” Clark grimaced, taking off his glasses briefly to wipe them on the inside of his tie. 

“We’ll make do.” Bruce hummed, dodging someone’s dog lapping up a bowl of water on the edge of the sidewalk. Did Clark really think they were still doing that? 

“No, I need to have exact quotes. For the Planet’s first interview with Bruce Wayne?” He sped up to match Bruce’s stride, raising his heartbeat. 

“Clark,”

“Perry will kill me otherwise.” He mumbled to himself, frustrated. “Probably didn’t even contact them, just wiped them off the schedule. What kind of reputation does that leave the Planet? Print media’s practically obsolete,”

Bruce never considered that the man might take him at his word. His pulse thundered in his ears. If… Clark needed an interview, he could come up with something. Change plans. Had he been placated? Had he sorely misread things, and was about to put Clark in an uncomfortable position? Dear god. 

“I’m gonna run in here really quick. Want anything?” He pointed at a café to his right, dashing in the millisecond Bruce shook his head. Maybe Clark didn’t want to say much about it in public? The last thing he ever wanted to do was make him uncomfortable. Put an expectation on their time together. He wouldn’t push Clark away like that any longer. 

A few minutes later, he emerged with a comically small latte. It looked more froth than anything, covering a significant portion of his upper lip with the white foam. He caught sight of his stare, and looked confused. “Is there something on my face?” He wiped it with his finger, mesmerizing Bruce at how he sucked it off with unwavering eye contact. 

He felt faint. Oh.

Clark pressed on, leading the way to his apartment. Every shred of confidence had left him at the likely unintentional innuendo; he hadn’t expected to get so weak so quickly. 

An unassuming older building made the reporter turn toward the doors, and Bruce spun on his heel to keep up. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. Would he be able to play it off back at his suite? Should he even ask to go there anymore? An interview could be done anywhere. He must’ve overestimated the conviction in Clark’s eyes the week before. Projected his own feelings onto it.

“The elevator’s broken, sorry.” He gestured apologetically to the stairwell, explaining that he lived on the fifth floor. By the third flight, Bruce was keeping his winces to himself, feeling the stitching on his torso begin to fray. Sweat bled into his roughly-healed wounds, and it didn’t help that Clark abandoned his suit jacket at the fourth floor. Too fixated on the ripple of his back muscles, he tripped on the following stair, catching himself on the railing. 

“Here I am!” Clark was chipper, like only a person endowed with superhuman abilities would be after such an expedition. He stuck his keys into the lock without struggle, while Bruce struggled to tame his nerves enough to step through the doorway. 

He rustled around his kitchen counter until he pulled out a slender device. “What are you wanting the interview to center around? Your family, Wayne Enterprises, future goals for the Wayne Foundation? I know there’s a bit of tension around that point.”

Bruce settled into the chair closest to the door at Clark’s two-seater dining table. Had he forgotten about their last conversation? Had he meant something different by ‘wanting it’? Had his brain fuzzed up ‘kiss’ with ‘interview’ and this was one big misunderstanding, borne out of Bruce’s pathetic desperation for the man’s touch? 

“Alright. You ready?” He abandoned the glasses and rolled up his sleeves as he sat, making Bruce chew on the inside of his cheek. This was what he got for assuming.

He gave a meek nod, and wrung his hands under the table. The device dinged as it set to RECORD.

“So um, Mr. Wayne. I know you—”

“Clark, I didn’t…” He felt dirty being here, acutely aware of his ulterior motive. “I didn’t come here for an interview.” 

“Is something wrong?” He paused the recording, brushing his notepad to the side. Concern twisted his features, and Bruce’s heart sank. “Why’d you come then?”

He tensed every muscle in his body, hesitating before speaking. Silence had never felt so impenetrable. “I’m healed.” 

Nothing flickered across Clark’s face. Like their conversation had been a mirage. “Glad to hear it, buddy. I’m sure your city will appreciate having their knight back.” 

Dumbfounded, Bruce stared at the curly-haired, friendly man who evidently had changed his mind and wanted to remain platonic. This hurt had nowhere to go, entirely self-imposed. “I’m sorry, uh, I should be going.” 

“Have a safe ride.”

Bruce nodded. The chair creaked when he stood. He turned and headed for the door, each step a prayer that he’d make it to the hallway without crashing. This was fine; Clark didn’t have to do anything. He’d made an unfortunate assumption, he hadn’t been clear enough, and the man hadn’t even been expecting him today. Dismay of his own creation. 

 “Come on, Bruce.”

He paused, hand hovering above the doorknob. Clark’s tone was lower, more evocative.

“Why do you think I brought you home?”

He didn’t know who moved first. If he had to bet, it might’ve been Clark, because it didn’t take half a second for his back to be pressed to the wall. He’d never noticed it before, but Clark was a good few inches taller. He really felt it this close. 

“It was too much fun to tease you, sorry.” Clark’s saccharine blues oscillated between Bruce’s mouth and his eyes, and he raised a flirty eyebrow. “You wanted to kiss me?”

Bruce wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that, and glanced at his half-windsor, wondering how fast it would be to undo.

“You like looking at my ties.”

Damn. Clark was on him like a hawk. He gulped down the saliva gathering in his mouth. “They’re loose.”

“I’ve wanted to tighten them, but…” he grazed his nose on Bruce’s cheek, lowering his voice to a sultry whisper. “Every time you look at them your heart beats like crazy.” 

Clark’s mouth met his with surprising force, like his earnestness had all been funneled into it alone. Stars immediately swarmed his vision, dizzy from the lethal reality of Clark’s body pressed hard to his. Bruce’s hands found their way around his broad, strong back and held him closer, tighter. God it felt good to give in.

Over half a year of unresolved tension snapped as Clark dug his teeth into Bruce’s lip. Bruce fought not to pass out, trembling fingers rushing to undo the buttons on Clark’s dress shirt. The fabric was rough and tactile, and when he fumbled too much, he moved to his own shirt, not caring about ripping it. 

He got halfway down, drunk off of Clark’s kiss, when their lips separated. “You’re better, not healed.” Clark sucked on his teeth, giving Bruce a once-over. “The elevator works just fine, I wanted to know if you were pushing yourself or not.” 

“I don’t care.” He wanted this, his body buzzed with it. The kiss electrified him, removing the filter from behind his words like it’d never existed. “I want to make you feel good.” Bruce moved his fingers back to his buttons, undoing the last two just as Clark broke away, stepping into the kitchen. 

“You don’t owe me sex, Bruce.” 

He took deep breaths before stepping around the corner, finding Clark leaned against the kitchen counter with his head in his hands. This wasn’t repaying a debt, this was honoring a truth he should've recognized ages ago. “I know that.”

“You’re not healed enough anyway, I don’t know why you keep doing this to yourself.” 

Bruce crept closer, stepping in front of Clark as carefully as approaching a feral cat. Something tender floated between them, and the desire to be manhandled by the superhero fell away. Clark’s care was palpable, slicing a thin cut into his pale skin. He felt a pull away, but resisted. If he kept running, he’d never stop. 

“I want to thank you.” He slowly dropped to his knees, trailing his hands along the sides of Clark’s toned thighs. Wow… he flicked his eyes up to Clark’s, tucking his lower lip under his teeth. “Unless you don’t want it?”

The man’s resolve was wearing thin, Bruce could sense it in the slight tremble of his voice. “Of course I want it,” he sighed, his jaw ticking. “But you don’t need to thank me.”

Bruce grinned, sliding his hands up to Clark’s belt. Blush colored his cheeks, shocked at how smoothly the words fell out in this position. “As good an excuse as any.”

“Bruce.” Spoken like a warning, Bruce paused his unbuttoning of the man’s slacks. “I don’t want you pushing yourself.” 

It would be monumentally harder for Bruce to walk away, but he would. “You want this, I want this,” he was practically salivating. He let his hands fall, waiting for Clark to give permission. “Let me taste you.” 

If Bruce was anything, he was patient, and that was still true despite the way his slacks strained in the moments Clark stared him down, trying to get a read on him. When he thought he might call it off and go back to work, Clark slowly worked his belt, then the button on his pants, scooting them low on his hips. Smooth, even skin stared back, a little happy trail disappearing into his briefs. Mmm. 

Bruce locked his hands on Clark’s waist, pulling himself parallel to the hottest body he’d ever seen. Thick, wide, and strong, he was grateful he hadn’t pulled his shirt clean off or he might’ve lost it. No way he was here right now. He trembled with anticipation, nervous to touch a man who looked carved from marble. 

The hair was soft under Bruce’s tongue as he licked up to Clark’s navel. A slight salt taste danced in his mouth from the sweat of the stairs, and he plunged his fingers under the elastic waistband. Tugging lower with each inch he lapped down Clark’s trail, he withheld a gasp when his dick sprang free and knocked him in the chin. Clark immediately apologized.

“I didn’t mean for—sorry,”

“For what?” Bruce didn’t let him respond, taking him in his mouth with a soft grin. A head rush ravaged him, and he mounted his hands on Clark’s thighs to anchor himself. His cock was thick and warm, filling his mouth with a delicious weight. He wrapped his hands around Clark’s legs—as much as he could, anyway—and pushed him all the way into his mouth, the velvet of his head hitting the back of his throat. 

He gasped, and Bruce didn’t realize how touch-starved he was until Clark threaded his fingers through his hair. Gentle, strong fingers locked into swirls of his sweaty black strands. Bruce pulled away and caught his breath, hoping that his gentle touch might draw insistent. He looked with half-lidded eyes, wrapping a hand around the base of his throbbing, achingly hard dick in lieu of his mouth. 

Clark’s pupils were blown, his lips parted; filthy little sounds slipped out of it, making Bruce’s cock twitch in his pants. The hand that wasn’t petting the back of his head was gripping the counter’s edge with such strength that the paint was crumbling off of it, falling in chips. Shit.

Bruce went to town, suddenly desperate to bring him to climax. His slick hand pumped the base, his mouth working the rest. He toyed around with his tongue, swirling his frenulum until Clark shuddered, a heaviness weighing down the hand at the crown of his head, pushing him deeper. 

Bruce gagged, and Clark tried to pull away, stammering an apology, but he shot him a look and yanked him closer, doubling down. A guttural noise fell out of Clark—music to Bruce’s ears. He’d live and die by the lewd sounds threading out of him. His mouth was so filled, his cock silken, and hard, so fucking hard it rocketed Bruce’s confidence to high heaven. He made Clark feel like this? 

He felt a hard tug on his hair, so hard he was forced to look up, cockdrunk. Clark tugged again, persistent, and Bruce moved to unsteady feet. The room was hazy, his head spinning, and Clark cupped his face with quivering hands, pressing a needy kiss to his lips. 

“So good,” he praised, a thumb caressing Bruce’s chin, and his knees went weak. “Perfect.” He would pass out. He would pass out and die from dopamine overdose. No one could ever touch him again, it wouldn’t compare to the heat emanating off of Clark’s hands, the way his skin went up in flames with every touch. 

“Mmph,” Bruce whined, words failing him as the man grazed his zipper. So sensitive already, he didn’t think he could last more than a minute, maybe two if Clark would only stop kissing him. 

“You want to be touched?”

All he could do was nod. Clark unbuttoned Bruce’s slacks and pulled his aching cock between them, so hard it was almost embarrassing. He rushed his hand back around Clark’s dick, singularly focused on making him feel perfect. At the base of his palm was a smear of Clark’s precum, and a surge of pride slammed through him. 

Bruce’s brow furrowed, his face scrunching as Clark wrapped his large hand around his dick. “Fuck.” His head fell to the man’s shoulder, abs rolling with each pump of his fist. Concentrate… it was so difficult when… when… 

He sped up on Clark, needing to know the sounds he made when he came more than air, more than water, more than he’d needed anything in his life. This heady, all-encompassing feeling was overwhelming, intoxicating, his breathing ragged and pathetic. He couldn’t last much longer, and Clark had barely touched him. 

Clark’s grip was firm, and his hand deceptively soft. Bruce breathed through pursed lips, his wrist beginning to burn with the intensity of his strokes. His building arousal threatened to peak, his dick straining against the man’s hand for release. Still, Clark didn’t seem as thrown as him. 

Maybe Bruce’s hands were too calloused, maybe he wasn’t good enough—

“Ah, hah,” Clark’s abdomen clenched, making Bruce’s thoughts staticky. 

A strangled noise came out as he dug his head into Clark’s shoulder, and his gasps became wanton sounds, his body hot and sweaty, careening towards climax. “I’m close.” His eyelids dropping, stomach clenching, hand tightening around Clark’s cock with a vengeance. He felt its twitch, heard the man’s frayed panting in his ear, and let his eyes shut. Bruce swallowed hard, steeling himself to his own orgasm; jamming his teeth into his tongue, he spun his wrist on each stroke, relishing in Clark’s lilting gasps filling the apartment. 

“Right there, yes,” Clark groaned, his breathing growing shallower as Bruce overrode every overworked muscle in his arm to speed up. Clark was too much, this high was absolutely ridiculous. He’d never had to fight so hard not to finish, his body never twisted this tightly. Clark hit every pleasure center at once, with his lips, his hands, his voice, and the slip of Clark’s dick in his hand at the same time was pure poetry. 

“Bruce,” Clark panted, an octave lower. “I’m—I’m,” he locked into a deep, wet kiss. Bruce swallowed the moans off his parted lips as he felt the man throb in his palm, ropes of hot cum decorating Bruce’s abdomen. His body convulsed, each spurt seemingly stronger than the last. He looked between them and caught sight of Clark’s pulsating cock, and Bruce’s mouth opened with an involuntary moan. 

The tension snapped, hardly able to appreciate the last throbs of Clark as Bruce flew into his orgasm, ratcheting into the stratosphere as his body folded against the man’s wide chest. Their mouths separated, and Bruce bit at Clark’s neck as he thrummed with oxytocin, body straining to spill every last drop. 

He felt like it would never end, Clark’s hand coaxing him through it, prolonging the high. Sweat dripped down Bruce’s forehead, mixing with the other man’s as it fell in beads down his torso. Holy fuck.

Both Clark and Bruce stood pressed against each other, panting, allowing their bodies to reach equilibrium at its own pace. The aftershocks were subtle, yet undeniable; a skip in his chest, a twitch of his half-hard dick, feeling a weak throb in his limp hand. For the first time since entering the apartment, Bruce’s side stitches began to yell. His head rush morphed into a headache. He’d do it over again in a second.

Bruce’s vision fluttered back to normalcy when Clark pressed a tender kiss to his brow. “Go rest on the couch while I clean up.” 

Dazed, he let Clark lead him to the small sectional and place a pillow under his head. He disappeared in one blink and reappeared the next with a damp washcloth, carefully wiping the cum off his abdomen before it dried. Bruce must have looked confused, because Clark grinned. “Didn’t think I meant just me, did you?” 

The doting was kind, but a streak of rebellion still remained. He let Clark finish without comment, tolerating the affectionate gesture until he simply had to say otherwise. “I can clean myself.”

“I know. I just do it so much better.” Clark stood and discarded the tattered rag into the trash, the ripple of his back igniting Bruce all over again. His heart became a sledgehammer, even more so now he knew Clark tracked it. Refusing to give him a break, Clark winked as he undid his tie. “Stay as long as you need. I’ll make us something after I shower.”

Hearing the water run and the soothing hum of Clark’s singing, Bruce thought he could stay here, at least for a while. Whether or not it would be a break was another story. 

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[felonytaxevasion]

what are ur undersiders sexuality/gender thoughts slash headcanons (i’m asking mostly for aisha bc u’re the no1 aisha fan but i do want to hear ur thoughts on the rest!)

You know I honestly feel like I'm not picky about Undersiders gender sexuality portrayals/ don't have many strong headcanons. Like I'm still gonna answer this question in depth and at length but I feel like the only HC I'd even think twice about is CisHet Rachel. The rest exist more fluidly in my minds eye. Anyways though -

Taylor I personally see as Bi, though I am an ally to the lesbian Taylor truthers. I just find the argument that she's gay because her weird heterosexual larp with Brian comes across bland and lacking passion to be unconvincing. I think Taylor and Brian have a weird relationship because Taylor and Brian are weird outside of their relationship. Taylor feels like she has more natural chemistry with Lisa and Rachel because Lisa and Rachel are both pretty unconcerned with appearing normal. Taylor can just talk to them without trying to do things "the right way" like she does with Brian. I think if you paired Taylor with Amy Dallon or someone similar she would come across just as stilted and awkward as she does with Brian. Gender wise I'm not sure. Im a really big fan of trans fem Taylor it just feels at odds with Wildbow's intention to write her as Cis a lot of the time. I want it to be real though

Lisa - Aspec bi?? gay???? gender????? I really don't know. Obviously she's canonically ace aro as of Ward and that does feel accurate to me, especially in Ward. In Worm I'm conflicted because I don't think her feelings towards Taylor are platonic but I also don't necessarily think they are romantic. It's a secret third thing. I think Lisa's dream is to live with Taylor in a house and share a bedroom and hug all the time and Taylor let's Lisa take care of her and they go on dates But also they never kiss or think about being regular in love. As I understand it this is probably the definition of some genre of queerplatonic relationship which I think this is a real life experience people can have, and if they wanna call themselves acearo because they don't experience traditional romantic attraction or sapphic because they do desire a special kind of relationship with a girl that's up to them. Lisa's label doesn't really matter to me as much as her feelings about Taylor existing in the grey area of friendship and romance does. Gender wise I have no strong feelings, though I think she's one of the Undersiders who could be retroactively declared as Trans The Whole Time without raising questions about things that happen in Worm.

Brian - and I think he is such a typical CisHet man but it would be really good for him and his mental health to explore this. I think he'll go on the journey of self discovery and still identify as a heterosexual cis man in the end but it would be good for him to choose this identity for himself instead of letting society decide for him.

Rachel - she is THE butch lesbian to me. I don't care that she was described that way only because Taylor was trying to insult her face shape she is butch to ME. And also other people too probably. But I think Rachel is like the scary stereotypical lesbians they show to girls in But I'm A Cheerleaders fictional conversion camp. I don't think she dates men I think Biter was either a fellow butch lesbian or the narrator made a mistake she's Gaygay to me. Gender wise I think Rachel just identifies as Rachel. I don't think she has a great attachment to her identity as a woman but also doesn't desire to escape it

Alec - has non binary energy but won't realize that himself for a couple years. I've said before that I think you'd have to misgender Alec multiple times in rapid succession before he even cared enough to say anything and I maintain that to be true. He's canonically kind of bisexual (likes it's canon he likes all genders but the way it's phrased doesn't give him a label beyond "hedonist" which is just. We can't get into it, moving on) anyway he's bisexual to me.

Aisha - now I don't know if I've earned the title no 1 Aisha fan but I sure do strive to be this every day of my life. Anyway Aisha is a cis woman, I've written before about her relationship to gender. She's experienced a ton of misogyny and specifically misogynoir in her life but her attitude towards womanhood has always been more of something she wants to fight for to feel safe, rather than something she wants to escape. I can see an Aisha who identifies differently but I think that compared to other characters like Taylor or Brian who would feel obligated to conform to the gender norms of the gender they were transitioning to, Aisha would stay the exact same and maybe just change or add a pronoun. But really I like Aisha's in text relationship with gender a lot, I don't really read into it in any other way. Sexuality wise she is bisexual which is canon. My only caveat is that in Ward she says she has a preference for boys but I think thats not true. Especially since she followed it up by saying her taste in boys is as close to Alec Again as possible. I think she likes both genders equally tbh but that she's going to end up with a woman because she's comparing every man she dates to her dead best friend.

Sabah - Sabah is high femme lesbian to me. Like obviously she is a lesbian sexuality wise but I think lesbian is also her gender. I think she likes performing feminity but it does feel like an intentional performance for her. I do think she also enjoys experimenting and presenting more masc sometimes but that feminity and her identity as femme is what feels most comfortable for her. Projection on my fellow fictional fashion and doll designer mayhaps but it does feel right.

Lily - I think that she identifies as one of those ponytail masc lesbians, I don't think she identifies as butch per se, like I don't think she's performing masculinity so much as refusing to perform feminity. That said I think masc is a label she would give herself anyway. I think going from Flechette to Foil she starts incorporating more intentional masculine elements to her presentation. I don't think the wards were pressuring her to be femme in any way but that Lily would internalize the way the other girl wards present and try to match. Who knows what will happen when March dies and the cluster bleed through hits Lily hard though because I think May is very Femme.

Anyway these are my many many thoughts that I said I didn't have thank you for asking I love talking about the undersidersssss

[relax-and-read-on]

Random rambling about warhammer, narrative and literary themes:

Yeah sure I spend too much time reading 19th century literature so imma make this everyone's problem.

Looking at some of the grand style and themes are super relevant to some of the warhammer 40k characters, specifically the traitor primarch?? I know 40k original creator were literary nerds, you don't go for Lionel Johnson reference without being one (I do know he is more well known in the uk than here in Canada, but STILL), and willingly or not some of the classic 19th century literary tropes, specifically the romanticism ones, have bleed into the narrative.

Romanticism literature has many themes, that can often contradict each others depending on the contry of origine, but one of the major central theme IMO is "The Conflict With God." In romantic literature, you can define that conflict in multiple way, such as: "Defying God", "Searching for God" or comming to grip with the "Absence of God". I won't go into exemple and the nitty gritty of each unless yall want a 10 pages essay on french poetry so let's focus on warhammer lol.

So. Warhammer.

The conflict with God is evident, on multiple level. Between the various Chaos Gods and emp, religious figure are abundant. The Heresy itself is a major "Defying/Rejecting God" narrative, with Lorgar and Horus especially having that reaction toward emp. Because, in the 40k narrative, The Emperor *is* a representation of the divine, all knowing and all powerful. Wich is interesting, because the traditional narrative of the "Defying God" usually have into the main character failling. It's literally a staple of the genra, and while some could argue that Lorgar got what he wanted, mostly, Horus DEFINITLY fit that ending.

I would make a unique argument tho: Fulgrim, Angron and Magnus are more "The Absence of God". There narrative can all be boiled down to being abandonned by God (Emperor), and the fact that this abandonment let them into the arms of more ancient, more "primal" gods. (A certain theme with romanticism was a rejection of christianity, and a celebration of ancient pagan religion, wich you can make a parralel.) Mortarion is a special case compared to the other chaos god allign primarch, as his entire narrative is less romantic and a lot closer to a traditional Greek Tragedy, including the futility of fighting one's destiny, the repetition of motif in his narrative and the desire to fight such fate. I think his case is very interesting because his narrative structure did not seem as planned and more like something done on instinct by the writers.

Perturabo, on the other hand, is a greek Tragedy, played straight. 1000%, they knew what they were doing here, not much more notes to add there.

(Interestingly, a lot of the 19th century literature were very into greek revival and had similar narrative themes, so the point of this post still stand lol)

I will be honest, Alpharius is the one in this post that kinda derail my theory. By the nature of Alphy, trying to figure the twins' narrative and consistant theme is just... headache inducing. I love them, really, but they do scream "modern/post-modern" instead of classic.

Now, I kept the best for last, imo: Konrad Curze.

Konrad, imo, is actually a narrative of one searching for God, specifically a russian one. Now, talking about russian romanticism is it's own beast, as it also include the golden age of the russian novel and a gigantic amount of complex content. But! One of the big theme is this searching for a meaning, including in God. Konrad entire narrative, at the end, is trying to figure out the best way to live his life. His version is to ennact Justice, his vision of it, and we can argue that all of this was a strange attempt to "appease God". It's especially flagrant toward the end of his life, with Emp flesh statue. Konrad was always aware of his end, always aware that God would kill him, and trying to live a Just Life was probably a way to search for God's approval.

What does this all say in the end? I'm not sure. Emperor suck, the primarch were Doomed (tm) by the Narrative, and I probably need to go touch some grass.

[conchoronzon]

My bf's loads have gotton a lot bigger and lately my friends have gone missing. My bf thinks I'm being paranoid but I think he might be churning up everyone I know and I don't know what to do. I don't have many friends left and I'm worried I might be next, any advice?

Ask yourself this question: Could he be churning the people you're close to as a substitute for churning you? What if you make him insanely hungry? A cute prey thing like you, happily emptying his balls all the damn time, clinging to him, walking around nude with your pert ass swinging, covering him in sweet kisses... He already knows what every inch of you tastes like. He knows your whimpers and moans. He probably knows exactly how you'd squirm when you're in his sack, what you'd say, how he'd cuddle your slowly softening form...

But he loves you. And he doesn't want to lose you. So to deal with his hunger, he'd churn random strangers and unload them out in the wild. But over time, that stopped being enough. So he slabbed one of your co-workers and dumped that load inside you. God, that was heaven. Someone close to you made for much better ball food than some stranger.

He wanted to try something closer, so he got one of the guys on the edge of your friend group, someone you don't talk to much anymore. Then he slowly worked his way closer and closer to your inner circle. He feels guilty. He knows you're getting a bit lonely, and a bit closer to churning away in his sack. But he's resisting because he loves you. And he loves to fantasize that the loads he's pumping into your guts are loads he made from eating you with his dick. He gets the best of all worlds then, the idea that you made that load, that you're taking that load, and that he still gets to love you.

You're scared to be cock food. He's scared to lose you.

What can you do? Well, there are a few options. Pick whichever one sounds best to you:

Lead him to a bigger pred, one who likes the thrill of slabbing other preds. Do it and get out of there. Sure, you'll be down a boyfriend, but you and your friends will be out of the danger zone. Are you willing to do that? To let your boyfriend churn into a frothy load to save yourself when you're not even sure he's the one going through all your friends? What'll you do if it turns out he was never a pred in the first place?

Start making more friends. Sure, they'll probably end up stewing in your boyfriend's balls, but you won't be as lonely, he'll keep having a menu of cock food, and you'll stay off that menu.

Surprise him with one of his friends tied up in the bedroom for when he gets home. Tell him you know he's a pred. You know he digests men into cum. You know he's been churning your friends. And you want in, not in his boy snuffers, but in on the hunt. You love your man and you want to love all of him, even the parts he's scared to show you. At the same time, it's not fair that only your friends wind up painting your guts. So he's going to take his friend, and then his hunts are going to start being part of your sex life together. You'll go to bars and seduce guys, bring them back to him. You'll get on Grindr together and have men over for "threeways." Just make sure you stay away fom his man-eater when he's feeding, or he might just take you in, too.

Beg him to go ahead and cock you. It'll save your friends. And hey, maybe you'll love getting cum digested. Maybe it's romantic, getting sacked by the guy you love. Maybe he'll keep your soul in his dick or something. You don't know. You've never been prey before.

Do whatever you have to to raise up enough money to get a membership at a reformation chamber. Sure, they're experimental and expensive as hell, but if you manage it, then he can cock you to his heart's content, and you'll never have to worry about your digestion being a permanent destination

You could try to run away. 'Course, breaking up with a pred is always a dangerous choice. If the love ends, wouldn't it be better, in his mind, to make you part of him forever?

Introduce him to your family! He's turning the people close to you into cum. What's closer to you than your dad or brother or cousins? Sure, they'll all wind up cum flooding your hole or spilling down your throat, but at least it won't be you. And... isn't that kind of hot? Admit it. You like the idea of your boyfriend-pred slabbing anyone and everyone. He's a god, and you're his consort. And you can make a new world where every man enters a lottery while in his 20s. Whenever his number is called, it's his turn to be cock food. You love that, don't you, you little prey slut?

Those are your options. Think it over and choose wisely!

[neowqing]

It is not possible to leave all five together, just as it is not possible to leave Sirius and James together, so McGonagall leaves Peter, Remus, and James to clean her office, and Severus and Sirius in the storeroom upstairs.

Wiping down shelves, books, figurines, desks, chairs, washing the floor takes two hours, when Minerva returns to release them.

"We'll tell Padfoot!" James shouts, running to the stairs, Remus and Peter behind him.

Remus arrives first, overtaking James, with a happy smile.

"We're free!" James shouts, opening the door, and there is only a second before Sirius reacts.

"Oh, fuck!" Black pulls his robe, covering himself and Severus from view.

Severus is the first to adjust his clothes, pulling up his trousers, fastening his belt, and holding Black's cloak so that he can also tidy himself up.

"So, are we free? Let's go!" Sirius pushes through his friends, who don't seem to be blinking, and Black has to push them to get them to react. Severus quietly leaves in shame.

Silence reigns all the way to the room, and in the Gryffindor common room, Remus waves away a classmate who is concerned about their condition, only to have the silence broken in the room.

"What was that?" Peter asks timidly, seeking help from James and Remus.

"What exactly?" Sirius lies down on the bed, holding the back of his head in his hands.

"You and Snivellus, in the storeroom!" James gestures to Sirius, his trousers, and somewhere off to the side, outside the room.

"Oh, you mean that, it's hard to explain."

"Try," Remus snorts.

Sirius thinks.

"It was something like this..."

The storeroom was spacious enough to accommodate two people, who began cleaning at opposite ends, washing half of the floor, wiping the walls, arranging the cleaning supplies on the shelves, then the mops, buckets, and rags. Sirius enjoyed his work, albeit carelessly, because the floor cleaner kept falling on its side, and he couldn't get the stain off the wall, so he took a step back, bumping into Severus.

"Ouch! Can't you be careful?"

"Can't you be careful?" Sirius repeats, trying to be funny.

"Seriously, how old are you?" Severus says wearily.

"Seriously, how old are you?" Sirius even raises his hand, pretending to talk to it.

Severus rolls his eyes.

"No courage, no brains," he says lightly.

"What?! Me?" Sirius turns around completely, coming face to face with Severus.

"Who else do you see here? Four against one, how brave and fair, true Gryffindors."

"Don't play innocent. You can handle four..." Stop, that's a compliment, Sirius interrupts himself. "I have more courage than anyone else."

"Maybe in your dreams, Black."

"All right, take off your trousers." Sirius reaches for his belt.

"What?! That's not what I meant, Black, stop!" Severus steps back.

"What's the matter, afraid of losing?" Sirius already looks like the winner, incredibly annoying.

"All right," Severus agrees, unfastening his belt and button.

Sirius snorts, repeating the movements, Severus bites his tongue to keep from saying that he expected more distinctive underwear than plain black, the comment seems inappropriate in this situation. They are only taking off their underwear, it should be noted, at the same time that James opens the door.

"You know what was next," Sirius finishes.

"Why does that sound like a contrived excuse to see him naked?" Remus asks.

Sirius doesn't answer, swallowing hard, instead reaching out.

"I'm tired, let's go to sleep."

Peter nods sluggishly, walking to his bed. Remus doesn't expect further conversation; he won't get an answer from Sirius. James blinks once, twice.

"From what I saw..." Sirius cuts him off with a harsh, sharp voice.

"What did you see?" Black's eyes flash steel, something dangerous, his posture shifted to the edge of the bed, ready to get up.

"I didn't see anything!" James corrects himself. "Good night."

Sirius snorts, relaxing.

[timefall-if]

NSFW alphabet for C please?

finallyyyyyy, the NSFW alphabet for C!!! will also do a sfw alphabet for each of the ROs later on too ^^

A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

C wouldn't have sex with someone they don't have feelings for, so their aftercare would be dotting but quiet. they'd bring you food and hold you close, but there wouldn't be a lot of words of any kind.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

C's favourite body parts of theirs are their thighs and jawline, though they don't enjoy looking at those very much either. on others, they like necks, lips, and hips.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

they'll try to keep it contained at first, but would easily give in to the idea of having their cum everywhere on their partner, both inside and outside. in fact, that's what they'd probably want to do from the beginning! and C would want their partner's C cum on their mouth, but not anywhere else.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

C would stay behind after meetings with the Order of the Eternals until the room would be completely empty. they'd lock it, and pleasure themselves in their seat at the table, which was the most adorned and clearly of the highest rank.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

not experienced at all, but gets the hang of it pretty quickly!

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

missionary + against the wall.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment?are they humorous? etc.)

C's very serious and present in the moment with their partner! they pour a lot of themselves during intimate times with their partner, and C feels like every time brings them closer to the other person.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

carpet matches the drapes. when it comes to shaving, C likes to keep themselves clean shaved most of the time, but won't obsess over it in the intimate parts. they won't let it get to bush level unless they've been super busy.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

C is very hands on and attentive. while they're into rougher stuff too (see kinks below), they always want to be skin to skin with their partner, no matter what.

J= Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

C never masturbates for pleasure, just often enough to release tension, or when they're angry because of the stupidity of the rest of the Order.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

here's a post with everybody's kinks ^^

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

their seat at the table where the Order has their meetings + their balcony.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

C is turned on by obedience, but intrigued by its opposite in equal measure. they like someone submissive that hangs onto their every word, but also enjoys when someone forces C to put them in their place.

N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

while C is into things like spanking (giving), they would never do things like slapping or spitting on their partner during intimate times, ever. also anything piss related 😭

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

loves giving oral and making their partner feel good, especially because they'd be good at it too, but one of C's favourite things is receiving good, almost reverent and worshipping oral.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

C can start slow but will always end up in a quicker and quicker pace because they let go completely towards the end. no matter the pace of it though because C is always sensual regardless.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

a fan of quickies when angry with built up tension!!! otherwise nope ^^

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

C is not very risky or willing to experiment haha, they like things to be done a certain way, and that's their way more often than not.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for?how long do they last?)

insane stamina, can last for multiple rounds back to back where they're the only one doing the work!

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

C doesn't like toys! they prefer it to be just them and their partner when intimate, nothing in between.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

can be unfair if MC is being bratty or hard to tame, but will otherwise be more than willing to give MC what they deserve if obedient!

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

not very loud in the beginning, but the moans and grunts increase when nearing the end ^^ also dirty talks quite a bit, which is surprising since they get so quiet afterwards.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

C would definitely make MC wear a vibrator or butt plug in public from time to time, just to remind them who's the boss here.

X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

f!C wears matching black or burgundy underwear (so both bra and panties), while m!C wears boxers in the same colors.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

low sex drive in their own, very high sex drive with a partner. C can be turned on just by eye contact if they're with the right person.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

C falls asleep much faster and easier afterwards than they usually do, but it still takes a while. normally, they don't get very much sleep, so in this situation it would be the first time in a long while to rest this well ^^

[storiesofmyhead]

Myung-Gi searching for you after the bathroom incident

Summary: Myung-Gi had always looked for you when things got rough. Always seeking your comfort. So, after he kills Thanos in the bathroom the first thing that he thinks to do after the incident is to find you.

Sitting in the bathroom, Myung-Gi tries to keep his tears at bay his ears listening to the fighting as it finally calms down. Though he could care less about what the bathroom looked like now, all he wanted to do was see you. Stepping out of the bathroom stall, his eyes looked down to see Thanos laying still on the floor covered in his own blood. His body shivered for just a moment before he shook his head and walked towards the door, trying to ignore all the bodies on the floor.

However, what he didn't know was that when all of the men exited the bathroom all bloody and bruised, your eyes immediately noticed that he wasn't a part of the group that exited. Your nerves skyrocketed also realizing that some people didn't come back out, which only left you to come to one conclusion as player numbers were called out over the loud speaking as eliminations.

Though you hadn't heard his number, it still left you with the thought that he was suffering in that bathroom and most likely dying. Sitting up on your bed, you watched the door waiting for Myung-Gi to walk out and finally after a few moments he did.

Letting out of large breath you didn't know you were holding; your feet flew towards him. His face was bloody and so was his jacket, but overall, he seemed ok. His face was stoic, but you knew that had to be due to him having something to do with a death. His body was tense as you ran over to him, but once his eyes connected with yours, he seemed to relax just a bit.

"Myung-Gi." You breathed out, hands lifting to hold his face as you push him to sit down on your bed. "What happened? Are you ok? Is this your blood?" Your voice spouted off questions as your hands moved and tilted his head in different directions, looking for an wounds or injuries.

His eyes were stuck on your face as he took in your worried expression the only thing he could do in that moment was remove your hands from his face and bring them up to his lips, placing a kiss on the back of each of them.

His voice was scratchy, due to Thanos choking him, but his words were clear enough for you to understand. "I'm ok. A bit roughed up, but ok." His lips pulled up into a small gentle smile. "I just-I just need to hold you right now. I'll tell you what happened later. I think something bad is going to happen tonight and I need you to stay close to me so I can protect you. Ok?" His voice turned into worry towards the end as his grip on your hands tightened just a bit.

Nodding, your arms wrapped around his body quickly; your head laying on his chest as his resting sideways on your head. "I love you. You know that? I love you so much and I won't let anything happen to you. We will make it out of this together." He promised to you as all you could do was nod back.

Sitting on the back his back laid against a metal pole that held them together, your body curled up underneath his arms as both of your eyes studied the other side of the room, the O's side.

"Lights out is in 5 minutes." The robotic voice spoke as a timer began to count down.

Everybody began to walk to their beds for the night, Myung-Gi's body was still sat up against the metal poles, yours curled into him almost asleep despite the lights still being on. It was obvious that all the stress recently had taken a toll on you, so Myung-Gi was glad that you were sleeping while nothing bad was happening. He didn't know what was going to happen tonight, but he knew it wasn't going to be good. Another thing he knew was that people was targeting him and with that they were also targeting you too.

Your breaths were calm and relaxed as he stared down at you, his eyes full of love. He was glad that throughout all of this he had you, even though he was heartbroken that you had to be in this death trap of a game because of him. He knew you were doing this for him. Getting extra money for him, so he could pay off his depts. It still hurt him to know that you had to go through all of this trauma and death because of him.

The only other thing that worried him other than your safety was the fact that his pregnant ex-fiancée was also in this game. When he first arrived not only was he shocked to see you, but also Jun-Hee. This worried him that you would meet her. It's not like you didn't know about her, just he was worried that her being here was cause some type of conflict and he would end up losing you which is something that he wouldn't be able to live through. You were his life; without you he was convinced that he'd be nothing. You helped him at his worst and saved him without even knowing.

"Myung-Gi." A soft voice said from behind him, his finger lightly scratching at your head and playing with pieces of your hair. His head turned to see Jun-Hee, his expression shocked as he had tried to talk to her after your lecture about how what he did was wrong and he shouldn't leave his baby without a father. Her eyes glancing down at you before looking back at him. "Hide somewhere when the lights go out." She paused, his eyes watching hers fall to your sleeping form. "And whatever happens don't get involved. She needs you." Her eyes were worried and stern as she looked down at him. It was true, you did need him. She could see it and as much as it hurt the first time, she saw you both together she now knew that you were good for him, and you were what he needs. She could see the love in your eyes whenever you looked at him, the worry when you were without him. It was the same she had for him before he left.

His head nodded as he breathlessly said, "Ok." His finger moving to scratch as your head again, something he knew you loved even when you were asleep.

Jun-Hee's eyes left you and moved back up to look at him. "You should wipe off that blood." She stared at him for a moment before turning around and walking away, back to her bed.

Looking back down at you, he carefully moved his left arm out from under you, causing you to move and cuddle closer into him. Even when asleep you wanted to be closer to him, the thought bringing a smile to his face as he brought his arm up and wiped his face hoping to get the remaining blood off.

"Lights out is in 10 seconds." The robotic voice sounded out again. "10, 9, 8, 7-" It started counting down. "6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1." It finished, the lights going out, leaving everything in pure darkness.

Myung-Gi couldn't fall asleep now, not with thought of somebody coming after him or even worse you, on his mind. It was dead silent, not movement, nothing. Before he could even think another though, he heard loud footsteps as the other side ran over yelling and grunting. Screams were heard as what he could only assumed was them being stabbed and killed.

He felt your body jerk up at the noise, your eyes blinking rapidly before looking back at him. "Myung-Gi, what's going on?" You whispered scared as your grip on him tightened.

"Shhh. It's going to be ok, baby. We just need to stay quiet." He whispered back, holding your body tighter and closer to him.

The lights flickered on and off as some of the beds fell over making loud crashes and screams were heard. People begging as they ran from the ones who had weapons.

Suddenly the lights came on and the men in masks came in holding guns of all sizes. They began to shoot them in the air, causing other to scream as they broke up those who were still fighting, suddenly some of the others began to fight the guards as they took their guns and shot at them.

Whimpering, you moved into closer to Myung-Gi for safety as he moved to shield you from the shots in case any were to go haywire. "What's going on." You whimpered again, flinching at ever shot that rang out.

"Retreat. Retreat." The robotic voice sounded.

"They're revolting. Just stay close to me baby." He whispered back, holding you close as you nodded.

So enough the shot began to slow down as player 456 yelled, "Hold on! Cease Fire! Everybody stop!" Other with guns ran out and pointed at one guard who was left in the room. Finally taking in your surrounding you noticed the number of players and guards that laid motionless on the floor around you.

"It's going to be ok, baby. I won't let anyone hurt you, alright? We just can't pull any attention towards us." His voice calmed you; nodding you hugged him closer, burying your face into his chest and jacket as he rubbed your back.

~~~~~~~~~

Do we want more? Maybe a part 2?