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writerpeach · 2 days ago

Text

Voracious

IVE An Yujin x Jang Wonyoung x m!reader

25k words

Part 10 of IVED Vanilla Latte

pick me up, daddy

That’s it. No please, no emoji—just the assumption that you’ll drop everything and come running. And the worst part is, Yujin knows you will.

So you grab the keys. Most people wouldn't be caught dead in this, the obscene price tag, absurdly polished leather interiors, the ostentatiousness of it all—

But the prying eyes can't help but stare from all sides once you pull into the parking lot. The way everyone looks, wondering who the hell would bring a Ferrari to a college campus, let alone a pink one—it's almost laughable.

Then again, when the roar of the engine hits, you have to admit sitting behind the wheel of this ridiculous thing makes you feel something—a strange sort of excitement. A power you can’t put your finger on, the urge to let your foot get carried away and peel right out of the parking lot. But the reason you’re here isn’t to show off or attract attention—you're here for Yujin.

Parked outside of the library, you don’t need to say a thing. Because who would miss a bright pink supercar showing up here? Not Yujin, not anyone, you're certain.

This was the obvious choice, and she's not disappointed once she comes into view, emerging from the library doors and heading down the stairs with an amused smile. That's her in a dark hoodie and pleated skirt, legs bare despite the chill in the air, full thighs on display when she stops right in front.

Even in a snowstorm, this girl isn't going to wear pants. Not that you'd ever complain.

"Really, daddy? The Ferrari?" Yujin asks as she slides right into the passenger seat, tossing her bag into the backseat. "When I said I needed a ride, this isn't exactly what I meant. This thing stands out like crazy."

"Sorry, it was either this or a cab. Just got whatever I could find the keys to."

Yujin doesn’t seem to mind the extra attention as she buckles the seat belt and rests her head against the cushion, kicking off her flats so she can rest her feet up on the dash. "And Wonyoung let you borrow this?"

You glance her way and just shake your head, starting the ignition and hearing that deep, powerful roar of the engine again. "You think I asked? She was still asleep by the time I left."

"You wore her out, didn't you, daddy? Poor thing." Yujin laughs and rolls the window down, tying her hair up into a loose ponytail.

"I didn't do anything. Woke up, went to class, then came home to grab this. When I left, she crashed on the couch. From studying too hard, I'm sure."

Yujin rolls her eyes, a hand covering her mouth to hide the obnoxious smile spreading on those pretty pink lips. "Yeah, sure. Wonyoungie studies—sure thing, daddy. Studying how hard you can fuck her, maybe."

You start to protest when the car pulls out onto the main street, pushing well above the speed limit. "She can't get through finals on her body alone. Everyone studies sometimes."

"She can sure try though. Maybe if there's an oral exam—"

"Both of you would probably ace that," you reply, hearing Yujin's delightful snort right after.

"Damn right we would. Top of the class, guaranteed."

Yujin laughs again, head turning so she's facing you, enough to catch you staring at those long legs perched on the dash, her tight little skirt exposing so much flesh. She looks delicious, even in this casual outfit, but that's the case no matter the day, no matter the season or occasion. "Eyes on the road, daddy."

"Easy for you to say, brat.”

Even caught red-handed, you have no intention to play dumb once Yujin is aware of the gaze you can’t take away from those scrumptious thighs. She crosses one leg over the other, giving this not-so-innocent little smile, with those dimples so prominent that it almost draws your eyes right off the road again. Almost.

"Poor daddy. Never able to focus around us. Must be awful, being trapped in a car with little ole me, wearing this short thing.”

Yujin enjoys the tease, not moving her bare legs from that spot on the dash where they look right at home. She's playing with fire when that hoodie gets unzipped, exposing a black tank top riding high, showing off way too much midriff to go unnoticed.

You sneak in another glance, one that lingers when you stare at those legs, and that deadly figure that has no right being so fit and curvy—your concentration’s worst enemy. "You really want me to crash this car, don't you? Wonyoung would kill me."

That playful smile widens, turning wicked. The hoodie gets tossed into the backseat without a thought, and the skirt—no doubt deliberately, rides higher up those thighs.

"Then maybe you should watch the road instead of gawking, huh, daddy? Are my thighs that distracting to you?"

You have no response, although there's plenty of temptation to pull over, throw Yujin down on the backseat and make her moan, scream your name so loud everyone passing by can hear. But you need to keep those thoughts locked away, staying focused on the road—a battle that's not exactly fair with Yujin making it more difficult.

"I'm not distracted,” you scoff, not sure you even believe your own words. “Nothing you do could distract me—not your thighs, not your pretty face, not even your tight little ass. We're almost home, Yujinnie. I can give you all the attention you need then."

Yujin looks almost giddy. Delighted, really, being dared to destroy your composure. You’re not threatened, because what more can she do but sit there and look like a delicious feast, begging to be devoured?

You'll find out, you wager.

Once the car stops at a red light, the windows roll back up when the chill starts creeping in. The click of her seat belt is the first warning, the second when Yujin starts crawling across the center console, inching closer to your lap. What can only be described as your fault—giving Yujin a perfect opportunity to see if you really have the power to focus or not.

"Nothing I do would distract you, hm? Then I'll show you how distracting I can be..."

There's no escaping this—not with the light still red, traffic frozen. Yujin looks downright ravenous in this position, the delicious arch of her back while her fingers get a little too familiar with the zipper to your pants.

"Yujin—"

"Just focus on driving, daddy. Don't mind me.“

There's no way she's seriously going to do anything—and yet, right as the light changes to green, Yujin tugs that zipper down, unbuttons your pants, and slips her hand straight into your boxers. "No accidents, please. Would hate to total this fancy thing."

She says this the very second her delicate fingers wrap tightly around your shaft and start stroking, just slowly enough to bring you to complete hardness. It's this moment that you regret challenging Yujin to her own game. It's when she pulls your cock right out, pumping in agonizingly slow strokes that force you to stare at the road, no matter how difficult it is.

"This isn't too distracting, is it?" Yujin asks, and even without looking over, you know there's a grin on her face. You almost refuse to answer, hands on the steering wheel gripping tight, foot just a bit harder on the pedal.

"N-no, not even a little bit. This isn't distracting at all."

Oh, you'll probably regret that the second the words leave your lips. Not that Yujin needs the encouragement. She could have you a mumbling mess of heavy breaths even without a challenge.

"You sure about that, daddy? Don't you need to pull over because your cock is getting too hard?" Yujin isn’t going to hold back, you know that already, and you can already feel the struggle, the way her thumb rubs such a lazy circle against your sensitive head.

You won't give her the satisfaction just yet, staring straight ahead to keep these tantalizing thoughts from running rampant. Nor are you going to taunt her more than you should.

That mouth is the worst possible distraction.

You've got little choice but to push onward as Yujin pumps steadily, tight grip never yielding, and you can sense those dangerous lips inches from your swollen cockhead, hot breath grazing far too close. But the only person you have to blame for this is yourself, for springing your own trap in the first place—you should have known better by now. So now, you'll have to endure whatever she decides to put you through, throbbing between her fingers, knowing she won’t stop just teasing and tormenting you to no end.

"Daddy—take the long way home. I'm having a little too much fun over here," she hums as her hand pumps with this adorable giggle, and the worst part is you're far too reluctant to tell her no. "Take the longest route you can think of—or better yet, just take a couple laps around campus. Drive real slow for me."

You shouldn't. That's a fact and the voice in your head is yelling that exact message. Yet it's quiet compared to Yujin's innocent request, the little flicks of her tongue along your slit, warm breath all against the tip of your dick. With all that you have, you take a deep breath and oblige Yujin. It's a little absurd to realize your own control in this situation, even more that you're heading back in the same direction from before so she can drive you more insane.

Sighing is the only response. This is only the start of what you're in store for—because this is Yujin you're dealing with, and no telling what sort of chaos her devious mind will have in store. Her hand is more confident now as she strokes faster, almost as a reward, twisting around, squeezing tight.

"Make sure you signal," Yujin reminds you in this mocking tone that gets your teeth gritting as she applies the smallest kiss right on your leaking tip. As if that's what matters most. "Wouldn't want to be in any accidents on account of me, now do you?"

Before you can even finish the next turn, her mouth is on you—lips parting around your cock without warning, sinking down in one swift, hungry motion. That warmth engulfs you as she takes you deep, all the way to the back of her throat, your grip on the wheel tightening as she pulls off with a wet gasp and plunges right back down.

"Jesus, Yujin—" you groan, knowing the next breaths you take are bound to be a struggle. One hand grips tight on the wheel while the other reaches down, tangling in Yujin's hair so you can force her head further down. She makes this muffled moan when her lips press flush to the base of your cock, throat so deliciously tight—so fucking warm that you can hardly focus on anything but that perfect fucking mouth.

Another turn has you passing by the science building, where Yujin takes your cock deep without pause, bobbing her head, tongue dragging along every sensitive part. And contrary to your previous belief, it's far too distracting. Far too fucking difficult to stay focused while Yujin slurps your cock, without any reservations, humming through every inch she swallows whole.

"You're insane, Yujin," you hiss out through clenched teeth. "Do you know that? Fucking insane."

Nothing but those cute, playful little giggles echo in the car as she gets you nice and coated with her spit. "I know."

Your eyes stay glued on the road as much as you can manage, until you can't anymore, close to losing it when her mouth finds your balls and her tongue lavishes each. And if you weren't following the speed limit by the book, you're not sure how you'd survive this—

Yujin’s warm fucking mouth working its magic feels too good, her spit glistening all over your swollen shaft as her mouth sinks down your cock with such practiced ease. Up and down—a long slurp, back up to the swollen head to swirl that tongue along the most sensitive spots she knows so well, then down once more. Those silky lips sink further down your length, sucking in deep breaths whenever her nose isn't buried in your crotch, and you have to fight every urge to let the car drift when she gets too carried away.

All while you're waiting for some oblivious pedestrian walking by with no idea you have your cock lodged balls deep down Yujin's throat. Another long slurp is too much—especially as you head further away from the quieter side of campus.

"God, that fucking mouth," you groan in pleasure, unable to keep your focus on the road while Yujin takes you so fucking deep, holding you there for a few tortuous, excruciating moments. Only coming off your throbbing cock when she has to suck in the faintest hint of air.

"This is your fault, daddy, can't deny it feels good. Or are you too distracted while I'm choking down this massive cock?” Yujin mumbles through a series of sloppy, audible kisses, those perfect lips finding all the best spots. "Mmmph—it's okay, you can admit it.”

Not a fucking chance. You can hold on, ignore the warm lips sliding back up, the flicks of her tongue over the sensitive underside—you can stay calm until Yujin is trying to get every inch down the slick entrance of her throat, bobbing and slurping loudly, to really drag that groan out.

Or maybe you can't.

Not when she's so intent on swallowing your shaft, licking up and down, kissing every spot she likes so much. One hand squeezing at your balls. You can try to pay attention to anything else—a car, another street, another person in front of you, but nothing is helping. You barely have it in you to resist the urge to just pull over and fuck her throat until there's not a drop left in you to shoot.

"How's that focus?" Yujin asks, interrupting your thoughts as she breaks away for just a moment, only to drag her tongue down the whole length in one long stroke. Your knuckles turn white from gripping the steering wheel, her moans so filthy the whole time she sucks your cock. It's everything, and too much at the same time, the warmth of her mouth just too much to endure.

And now you're stuck waiting at a red light, right by the admission office where anyone could see you with your cock out, buried to the hilt in Yujin's inviting throat, taking it without any shred of hesitance. At least the interior is so dark that nobody should notice anything outside—it's only obvious when she raises her head up that the sunlight catches the shine on her greedy lips from the sheer amount of spit dripping down her chin.

"You're unbelievable, Yujin, seriously. You and that bratty fucking mouth," you grumble out, wishing that traffic would hurry up.

"Me? You're the one who couldn't stop drooling over my legs the whole time. If anyone's to blame, it's you, daddy."

The light turns green again. You don't get a chance to argue when Yujin's back to blowing you. Just putting on the most sloppy, vulgar, reckless, indecent fucking display you've ever seen. "Almost there, aren't you? Better find us somewhere to park real quick then. If you can, with that dick so hard and buried in my throat."

You should have known this would be nothing but hell.

Not that you're not getting any less close—maybe even closer, despite every effort you make to pay attention. The closest lot ends up being the rec center, and that'll have to do. You manage to swerve in, parking right in the back row through every motion that gets your shaft rammed harder in her warm little mouth.

"Should have made you fucking walk," you growl as you unbuckle your seat belt, finally able to enjoy Yujin's undivided attention.

"Daddy would never make a pretty girl like me walk," Yujin says as her hand gives your cock a squeeze, those dimples coming out while she smiles like a smug brat. With the engine cut, the windows up—there's not much keeping you from giving Yujin what she wants and more. But the glance out the side mirrors confirms how risky the whole situation is, and nothing makes her happier than that.

You’ve been through the ringer. This fucking desperate urge to unload inside that pretty fucking mouth, and watch her smile through tears and hot streams of white spilling from her lips. But she doesn't let you cum—pulling her mouth away at the last minute with an unashamed lick of those lips.

"Yujin, why the fuck do you think I parked, if you're not gonna swallow—" you snap in this low growl, wishing you had her mouth back where it was. But her lips remain closed—only parting for a giggle when she climbs back across the passenger seat, bare legs stretching across and feet meeting to rest in your lap.

"Because it's more fun to tease you like this," she quips, then presses her toes right against the head of your cock. There's nothing in the way anymore—an abrupt gasp when she slots you right in between her silky feet and squeezes. "Don't worry, daddy, this'll get the job done too. All the hard work I put in doesn't need to go to waste."

You can't say this is entirely unexpected—or unsatisfying in any case, how perfectly your cock fits between those delicate arches. How the friction sends these chills through you the second Yujin slides her gorgeous red painted toes up and down the head, slow, calculated, not needing much power or force behind her movements. They feel so goddamn good, so soft against your cock with that wide smile on Yujin's pretty lips.

“F-fuck—“

Those are the noises Yujin wants, the desperate moaning, watching you try to hold on as much as possible—as if she already doesn’t know this is where she needs you to spill. That's why her toes are on your dripping slit, gripping hard and rubbing slowly with an evil giggle.

"Gonna make you cum,” she simply says in her most innocent, adorable voice, like there isn’t a choice in the matter. The act doesn't match the expression on her face, not with those painted toes working magic as they tighten and flex to force out more moans. "Just relax, daddy—you deserve this. After being so patient, so very not distracted... "

Yujin won't relent, nor is she afraid to use whatever she needs, looking far too comfortable while she alternates pressure and teases this extra sensitive spot against the head of your cock. No more games, no more drawn-out moments where you're about to explode, but still hold back.

"God, please—" you can only beg as her feet squeeze a little tighter, this deadly combination of her pillowy soles and long, perfect toes, every inch being stroked to perfection in ways you can’t fathom.

Your moans sound so pathetic and Yujin doesn't give you time to speak any more, shifting forward until she keeps your cock trapped, one foot holding you firmly in place, while her other one keeps jerking off the head with relentless, nonstop strokes, painted toes all around your aching cockhead. Again and again, so merciless, your slit drooling over her toes and the bottom of her foot, so soft, all slippery and warm it’s not going to take much longer.

“Look at your cock, daddy. It looks so good throbbing between my pretty feet. It’s so easy to get you off this way, isn’t it?”

There’s nothing you can do but watch. Your gaze locked at how her toes grip your shaft, the soft sole of her foot gliding along, cock so impossibly hard when she presses down on the sensitive tip. “G-gonna—“

And then you explode. Your dick throbs, your head falls back, and you groan like Yujin has never heard before as your seed bursts across the top of her feet. Hot streaks color her painted toes, spilling more with every unyielding stroke, one burst after the other as she milks out as much cum as she can with a proud smile.

When it’s all finished, you're a shaking mess, one that Yujin revels in, arching that foot to collect what still oozes out. She never takes her eyes away as it drips everywhere, across her beautiful red polish, already getting between her toes that have yet to stop stroking.

"There you go, daddy. Making such a mess on my pretty feet," Yujin praises, rewarding your efforts by easing the pressure around the head of your pulsating cock—then admiring the sight, a creamy white clinging to her toes, smearing it all over every part of her feet. "And I didn't even have to use my mouth."

"F-fuck, you're too good at that—"

"Of course I am," is all she can respond, all confidence and no shame in it. “Daddy should know I wouldn’t ever let him leave the car without blowing a huge load.”

That's the whole problem with her. How fucking addictive she is—how she can make you cum with any part of her body she chooses. And now here you are, with her sticky feet resting on your lap while you catch your breath.

"O-okay, we can head to the apartment now—Wonyoung is probably wondering where her car is..."

Yujin seems to pay no attention as her red-polished toes curl and massage your cock for another moment, amused by how you've splattered her feet all over with your load. "Oh, daddy. As if I'd ever give your cock a rest. Wonyoungie can wait."

There's something delectably sinister about Yujin's tone, especially after you've thought this is over. Because it’s far from. The smirk that follows proves it, especially when your oversensitive cock can’t stop throbbing under that merciless rub.

"I wore this skirt for a reason, daddy, not just so you can drool and stare at my legs,"

Before you can even think of an answer, Yujin’s already sitting up, hand slipping beneath that tight little skirt and hiking it above her waist. You already know what’s next. She hooks a finger into her lace thong, and drags it down to show off the soaked mess she’s made of it, then tosses it carelessly into the backseat.

You get an eyeful, drinking up every filthy little detail—her cunt bare, soaked, and on full display.

"My cunt needs your cock," Yujin growls, a demand that won’t go ignored no matter how sensitive you might still be. ”More than my mouth. Don't leave this pussy neglected, daddy. Need to fucking fill it up. Put a load in me until it’s dripping all over this seat.”

Yujin makes her way across with one coordinated motion. That deadly skirt stays on as she climbs into your lap, thighs spreading around you with ease as she shifts her weight and finds the lever under the seat to lower the back until it's to her liking. You can’t take your eyes off her, even more so than usual. In fact, it's impossible not to watch, now that you don't have to concentrate on steering a multi million dollar car through campus.

"You're really testing the limits today, aren't you, brat?"

Yujin responds to that with the only way she knows—she guides your shaft between her dripping lips, the head teasing just inside for only a few moments. "I don't believe in limits, daddy. Gonna fuck you right here, in this car, right in the school parking lot. If anyone sees—even better."

And it's not like you can do a damn thing to stop her. The moment her hips lower and your cock slips past her tight entrance, there's little else you ca do but look in her eyes while she rides the absolute fuck out of you. Little else to do when every part of you is quickly enveloped in the intoxicating warmth of her soaked little cunt.

In Wonyoung's car.

In the front seat, no less.

In plain sight of whoever might be looking.

But Yujin gives not a single damn, and you don't get the chance to before her hips bounce up and down, dragging you all the way in, before rising up only to slam right back down. "You'll never get enough of me, daddy, never will, will you? Not me, not my tight cunt, not my thighs, and definitely not cumming deep inside me—“

It's so good it feels wrong, sitting in someone else's car, watching this girl bouncing so desperately in your lap. The squelch is unmistakable with Yujin's perfect, wet pussy swallowing every inch.

"Fucking hell, Yujin, go slow. I just fucking came—"

But the look on her face tells you exactly what you should already know. That this is gonna happen the way she wants it, rough, desperate, your poor cock forced to go through it. There's a thirst in Yujin that's a bottomless pit, and you're not enough to appease it. That’s impossible.

She rides your cock like she's starving for it. Up and down, hard slams of her hips, making sure you feel every movement while her fingers tangle through your hair.

"Slow? Don't even know what that word means. Your cock too sensitive, too drained from emptying such a huge load on my pretty little toes? Must be," she says, then shuts you up when she grinds her hips back down, dragging you as far in as physically possible, hitting your cock against her cervix while that smile goes lethal.

“Of course, you little fucking brat."

She gasps in faux surprise at the words—before you get a squeeze in, grope her plump ass and spread open her cheeks a little, where your cock impales so deeply. Not once does the pace fade, and her hands tug at the hem of your shirt so she can pull it right off, joining the heap of discarded clothing in the backseat. Zero shame in anything she does.

“Only fair I get something to stare at now, isn’t it? Need something to drool over when I bounce on your thick fucking cock."

You couldn’t agree more, as your hands move up and explore her body, the sweat on your fingertips only adding fuel to this already burning desire that can’t be cooled off.

"Fuck, Yujin, the way your pussy fucking devours my cock—"

“And your fat cock drives me crazy," Yujin moans out through each desperate bounce. Her hands find your chest, fingers digging in, every inch of Yujin dripping for the way you stuff her tight cunt. "Love daddy's huge, hard cock. Need it to fill this greedy cunt more than anything."

Yujin brings her mouth crashing back to yours, unable to resist any longer, teeth nipping your bottom lip. It draws this pathetic noise from your lips, but she's right back into it, her hips never ceasing while she continues to bounce, to sink your cock inside the warm depths of her wet cunt.

Her mouth and that tight cunt have far too much control over you. Too dangerous, too good. You could kiss these pretty lips for hours—could plow into her soaked entrance forever, thrusting up with your hands squeezing those wide hips, until you have no energy left in your body.

"Feel my pussy gripping all of your thick fucking cock, daddy? Feel how wet you get me, even after you covered my pretty feet all over?" Yujin continues, a barrage of sin and lust that gets you more worked up with every syllable.

"Brat. Love when you talk like that. Say it again, tell me what my cock does to you."

That mouth knows you far too well by now. Knows how much you adore that dirty mouth, and Yujin couldn't play along more perfectly. Her moans drown out the rest of her words for a moment—moans she gives when your cock pistons upward, hitting every angle.

"You make me so wet. Fucking love daddy's huge cock stretching my pussy open. L-love it when these balls feel so heavy and slap against me when you thrust—" Yujin spares no details, nothing left unspoken, getting so sweaty while the windows fog and every inch is slick and smothered.

Fuck, this girl is a dream. A force far beyond anyone's ability to contain her, you think, considering her voice alone is threatening to take you apart with little effort. Those words continue right into your ear while her tongue drags its way out to lick along your earlobe, getting another pitiful groan out of you,

"Love daddy pounding my wet cunt until he fucking creams deep inside. Love knowing daddy always fills my womb full with a huge load..."

"Love when you ride me like you can’t control yourself," is what you say, and give her tight ass a squeeze, bucking up into her when it's just so easy to.

That just makes Yujin bounce harder—your hips moving just to keep up, slamming upwards to meet with her delicious wet warmth that can’t stop devouring your entire cock.

When Yujin grabs the hem of her tank top, it’s the kind of anticipation you’d never get tired of. Even when she doesn't fully remove it, no—just bunches it up over her bra, because that's just as satisfying, giving a good enough look at that gorgeous skin, enough cleavage and detail of her toned abdomen and everything her tank top doesn’t reveal. It's plenty.

Yujin likes being seen, loves showing her body off, even while her cunt takes and takes.

And you take, too—mouth locking onto the curve of her throat, sucking hard at the heat-slicked skin. You know she won’t cover the marks after, not a chance. She’ll wear them like a trophy. That alone gives you permission to go all in, to leave proof of every bite, every bruise, every bit of payback for all the teasing she’s made you endure.

"D-daddy," Yujin mewls into your ear, pressing you closer against her, with nothing to hold her back while she bounces relentlessly.

You bite down hard to cut her words off and let that whimper simmer.

More of this is inevitable. You can see the appeal of this, skipping class just to bury yourself inside Yujin in the backseat. A quick blowjob before lab doesn't seem quite so unattainable. Neither does her climbing into the car after lunch, especially if these slutty little skirts have something to do with it.

"What would Wonyoung think? Seeing this pretty pussy dripping cum all over her nice car?” There’s a laugh when Yujin whimpers, her tongue flicking at the shell of your ear, salacious moans filtering into every little space they can.

"She'd probably ask where the camera was," Yujin counters, snorting through her soft little moans. That pussy of hers squeezes hard, holding your throbbing length captive in this incredible heat and not letting go. There's no fucking escape—only these rapid, relentless motions and Yujin's full hips working overtime.

"Both of you," you sigh, head tilted back against the cushioned seat and lost in the moment. "Are going to be the end of me. The absolute end."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, daddy. Two pretty sluts keeping your balls drained—such a rough life for you. It must be so hard getting to wake up with two sloppy mouths wanting their breakfast," Yujin laughs. "How cruel, am I right?"

When she says it out loud, you really have nothing to complain about, do you? Not a single fucking thing. Both her and Wonyoung happy to get their throats fucked every chance they get—bent over and taking it, filled to the brim or left covered in cum. There's not a real downside.

Those perfect asscheeks bouncing in your lap interrupt the thoughts, an unending tempo, your throbbing cock impaling Yujin's cunt while those thick thighs put in the work, speeding up the process. This really isn't so bad after all. You can't help staring, those lips parted when she hits deep, the only time that mouth ever shuts up. This visual perfection riding your cock like it belongs to her, tits almost spilling out of her bra from the impact, tongue never denying you its presence.

“Daddy, g-give me—“ Yujin doesn't finish as her moans turn deeper, get all breathy while she leans against the steering wheel and gets leverage, trying to swallow you even deeper. "Need this fucking cum inside me."

"Then fucking take it already, you greedy little slut."

That earns a rather hard, brutal slap on her ass, these noises loud enough to draw attention from outside—attention you'd welcome at this point. Yujin takes every inch of your cock with every perfect bounce, her cunt tightening impossibly more as her thighs tense and give you everything she's got.

"That's it, daddy, right fucking there—gonna make you shoot so deep inside of me. Need your fucking cum deep in this little cunt. Can't get off if you aren't filling me with so much it leaks everywhere."

"You're insatiable, Yujin," you say, both praise and accusation, getting closer and closer by the second.

"That’s why you love me, daddy. And your balls are just begging to empty inside me. Can tell the moment I sink onto this perfect cock. You’re just as greedy as my pussy is.”

Once again, she’s never wrong. Your next climax is so near you can taste it. You’re rather proud how long you've lasted buried in this wet fucking heat, but even then, a little part of you wishes for it to keep going, to show Yujin up and prove you’re capable of much more. Impossible, of course. When her cunt feels like heaven, the wetness that engulfs and suffocates your shaft, there's just no resisting.

"L-Love feeling daddy so deep,” Yujin pauses to moan out, slamming down, ass crashing back against your thighs, that slick heat taking all you have to offer. One more harsh slam makes her quiver, every squelch echoing. "Every fucking inch splitting me open—"

There’s nothing left for you to do but groan out, before you can't take any more, when your cum pours into Yujin, when your balls tighten and spill their heavy load.

Shot after shot into her dripping cunt, so deep, thick streams erupting inside that tight wet flesh clenching tightly around your cock. Fuck, her tight cunt deserves it, so does Yujin, for the way she keeps fucking bouncing while that delicious pussy just can't stop swallowing your load.

There's so much. Far more than usual, despite already having cum once before. Every heavy shot adds to the growing mess, but she refuses to let you escape, just keeps bouncing in your lap, just keeps wringing everything out. She can't contain a thing—and clearly doesn't even try, milking out all that thick cum, all sticky and hot inside, so eager to drip down your shaft.

"S-so good, daddy," Yujin breathes out while all that cum goes right down her insides, clamping around your length as it continues to throb with each new spurt, sending so much into her tight entrance that you're a shaking mess. "All this thick fucking seed where it belongs. So much, fucking fill me up. Nothing better."

Yujin is taking it harder than you are when her tight body quivers through every little sensation, all too much for her clenching walls to endure when her orgasm rips through her. She can't stop clinging to you, each shudder stronger than the last—with no concerns for anything other than how fucking deep she has your load pouring, helping it sink all the way to her womb.

When Yujin collapses and finds your neck to hide away in, burying her head there, you pull her closer. Move all that messy hair away to feel the sweat clinging there too, her breathing ragged, panting right into your ear.

“Can't believe you came that much. You’re still throbbing.”

It takes a while to form any proper response while Yujin just basks in the afterglow, not about to move a muscle, either. And now she seems quite comfortable with that.

"You were riding my cock hard," you mumble, wanting to lay back and collapse right here in the front seat of this expensive car with Yujin, listening to the sounds of cars driving by outside while you do.

"Oh, poor daddy. Did I break you?" Yujin laughs at your state—heaving out a mutual exhausted groan as her cunt squeezes one more time in a futile effort to milk out more cum.

"Always do, every damn time, Yujinnie." That gets a wider smile when she leaves one more messy, uncoordinated kiss, her lips trailing along your jawline for a moment. "This was—such a terrible fucking idea."

Yujin says nothing for the moment, not with your cock buried and this fucking mess starting to drip out of her tight cunt. And even in the heat of the car, the windows a little too fogged up from the effort, you don't bother moving from this position.

"The best kind of terrible idea. Like daddy always loves."

She looks gorgeous, even when sweaty, and it's a view from so close you can't take your eyes off. With this alluring mess of her hair, strands of dark locks sticking to her forehead, skin all glistening and sticky and still catching her breath while she stays there, you'd lick her clean without hesitation if there's even the slightest strength left.

"Fuck, you're crazy," is all you can get out, giving Yujin's ass another hard slap, making the soft flesh jiggle.

"Yeah? Crazy for this huge fucking dick that ruins my guts—"

You roll your eyes, not expecting anything less, even as her words hold a bit of that exhaustion. Yujin laughs and kisses the tip of your nose, trailing her lips down to steal a few pecks at the corner of your mouth, barely enough to call this a kiss.

"Get off me, so I can get us out of here. Before someone sees." The least you can do is suggest it, but you know the words do nothing to dissuade Yujin as she looks at you in amusement. "Yujin, this isn't a suggestion—fucking move, you brat."

All Yujin does is keep her arms around you, grinning wide without a care in the world.

"What if I don't wanna? What are you gonna do, carry me out of the car with your dick still in my cunt? I'd rather have you stay stuffed inside my tight little pussy a little longer..."

It's these moments that confirm you'll never really defeat her, and Yujin fucking loves the victory of that. Being stubborn and giving you absolutely nothing you ask for. So you sigh, and shift around, gritting your teeth a bit harder when Yujin has nothing more to do but sit there with a wicked expression. "Yujin, please. Get off?"

That doesn't get any movement on your part, and Yujin takes pleasure in her non-compliance. In every desperate, pathetic moment while her lips remain teasingly close to yours, leaning in to cup your face. "But I just did.”

Insufferable.

"Brat."

She nods in response, like the word is supposed to offend, to somehow deter her from acting any more like herself. Like that's ever fucking worked.

So if words don't work, there's no other option than to try to force her off. Which goes about as well as a pink Ferrari in a parking lot at not attracting attention. The moment you bring your arms to those overworked hips, she catches your wrists and holds them up above your head. "Nuh-uh, daddy. Don't want to get up—so we're staying like this."

You're too weak, too exhausted to offer any real resistance, especially with the way she's looking at you—the sweet, innocent stare that is anything of the sort. As per usual, you’ll accept defeat, only giving her a small glare and sinking back against the car seat. But you at least get the chance to start the car back up and begin blasting the cold air through the vents, too tired to deal with any of Yujin's antics.

So you’ll just sit here, exhausted and sweaty, with your cock trapped inside Yujin’s messy warmth, hoping not a single person is around. You're half tempted to drive like this, pants still around your ankles, with this impossible girl still seated on top of you—but you can't even see over the steering wheel, nor can you reach the pedals.

For now, there's just silence. Yujin's pretty smile, these soft kisses along your cheek that are as gentle as you need them to be. Maybe it's the lingering high, the lack of energy, the smile that can’t stop off her face. This does feel nice, to just bask in the attention, and you'd savor it just a bit more—

Until the screen lights up and flashes an incoming call—it's Wonyoung.

"Speak of the devil. Probably missing you," Yujin chides, leaving you only to sigh and hesitate. You lean forward and put it on speaker, and within seconds you hear that familiar voice echo through the car.

"Daddy—did you steal my car or did Yujin? Where the fuck are you?"

There's not much more than a low laugh before you answer. "Which car would that be? You have like, a dozen or more—"

Yujin has to stifle a laugh, pressing her hand over her mouth and trying her hardest not to let Wonyoung know about her presence. You aren't going to tell her that she's here and still keeping you nice and cozy with her tight fucking cunt—not yet.

"The fucking Ferrari—what else? Did you take it out? Are you driving it? Daddy—"

You sigh, running your hand up Yujin's bare thigh to play with the skirt around her hips, getting a little grab of that tight ass to make her squirm. "No idea what you're talking about, princess. I'm just studying, here at the library. Maybe Yujinnie borrowed it."

Her palm slaps your arm—a reaction you saw coming the moment you threw Yujin under the bus. At this point, it doesn't matter who takes the fall because Wonyoung knows either of you are a suspect.

"Uh-huh. You two do realize cars can get tracked, yeah? It shows where you are on the app—and right now my car is in the fucking parking lot right across the rec center," Wonyoung explains, the fury in her voice a little bit louder each word. "I swear to god if you two took my fucking car and—"

The call suddenly drops when Yujin presses the 'end call' icon. Which finally lets her take a deep breath and sigh, that boisterous laughter filling up the entire car once she gets the opportunity. "Tracked, huh? Who knew?"

Yujin's a little too carefree with that information. Wonyoung is surely rushing on her way right about now, knowing for sure you have her precious car right at your fingertips. That's the final encouragement Yujin needs to move, to lift off you, a groan leaving when she’s empty.

Her hands tug her tank top back down, taking a little too much time crawling into the passenger seat—so you can gawk at her body from behind, that delicious ass sticking out so shamelessly while your load trickles down those thick thighs.

It doesn't stop once she slides back into the seat. Not even a single attempt to clean herself up while her cunt drips over the expensive, premium leather, like she enjoys leaving evidence of what the two of you did inside.

"Daddy, stop staring and drive already," Yujin says when she catches the momentary stupor, tossing your shirt back to you while sliding the seat belt comfortably over her frame. "We have to get your spunk out of the seats before Wony finds us..."

"My spunk? What about the fucking mess between your legs you made? It's fucking everywhere—"

“Don't worry about the details, daddy.” Yujin can't stifle another laugh while she adjusts her skirt and throws her legs back up onto the dash, shameless as ever. And those lace panties are a lost cause.

The engine growls as you floor it out of the parking lot, with somehow not a single person around to witness exactly what transpired. "Maybe next time don't fucking drain me empty in the fucking front seat. Someone could have seen—"

"If someone saw us," Yujin cuts in with another giggle and that devilish smirk returning. "Then they should've said thanks."

You don't even have the energy to roll your eyes. So, while keeping a watch on the side mirrors for Wonyoung following behind, you head towards the nearest car wash, which is right down the street. Where hopefully, you can get rid of all the evidence of the crimes you've committed in her precious car. "Tell the brat to meet us at the apartment in ten minutes. I'll deal with her—"

Sure, that means admitting Yujin is to blame just as much, but there's no point hiding anything at this point. For now, you’ll focus on what the hell the two of you have to do to clean out her seats without raising suspicion.

"Already one step ahead of you, daddy. Told her to give us thirty and you're taking her out for ice cream. She'll forget about everything with the promise of sweets." Of course, Yujin's got the solution figured out to a problem she caused.

"Bribery solves everything with her. I knew there was a reason I kept you around."

"I think we've established that reason is my charming personality and smile. Oh, and my tight ass."

"Obviously. Your ass is definitely number one."

Back at the apartment, you drop Yujin off and take a moment for one last inspection, making sure the car looks perfect from every angle. By the time you return, Wonyoung is nowhere in sight, which means, thankfully, you’ve got a few precious minutes of peace left before she'll barge in and demand answers.

Yujin changes into a comfortable pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt, no time to shower as she joins you on the couch.

"Do you think she's going to buy it, daddy?" Yujin asks, lying on her stomach with her phone in hand, trying to appear as casual as possible, like you've both been here for hours and didn't just defile Wonyoung's priceless car.

"Absolutely fucking not, Yujin."

It doesn't surprise you when you hear a beep, Wonyoung having unlocked the door and storming right in as she drops her bags on the floor, not even bothering to remove her heels as they clack against the wooden floor. "Okay, whose bright idea was it? Which one of you took my—"

Yujin, who can never hold back her laughter at the best times, is the first to speak up. "Took what? Your car? Princess, it's still in the parking garage, can't believe you're accusing us."

Folded arms, raised brow, it’s the whole package. Wonyoung seething the moment she walks in.

"Alright, if you two wanna play dumb, we can play dumb. I'll go check the footage—that'll show the truth."

That only leads to Yujin laughing again, and this isn't going the way either of you had planned. "Daddy, Wony thinks she's got the evidence. Do you believe that?"

You're not even going to begin to go along with this, already dreading the consequences once Wonyoung learns the full truth. At this point, it'll save some time for you to confess now, and endure the aftermath as best as possible. "Yujin—is to blame. She needed a ride from the library."

"Daddy! Traitor!" Yujin says, that expression of betrayal when you throw her under the bus. Again.

"The library? Then why the fuck did it stay parked at the rec center for twenty fucking minutes?"

Yujin shoots you another look, the first time you've seen her lose that sense of confidence. Because she could get out of murder just by batting her eyes at anyone. Wonyoung is a different story, though. "Well, Yujin wanted to get a workout in, so we took a little detour before coming back home. That's it."

"Uh-huh." The girl raises an eyebrow, and clearly isn't convinced, and now she's glaring daggers, as if there's even the slightest chance you could both survive what's to come. "A workout? That's what you're gonna go with? You're telling me nothing fucking happened in my Ferrari?"

"Nope. Just some cardio, a shower, then back here," Yujin quickly responds, putting that smile to work, not even going to bother putting in effort into trying to lie. Wonyoung gets a little closer to the couch, leaning down between the two of you and getting in Yujin's face.

She takes a long look. And then the reveal comes out of nowhere—Wonyoung dangling a pair of panties in front of Yujin's face, black colored, lace trimmed, and just fucking ruined in every possible way with her fingers around them.

"Cardio and a shower got these wet, huh? Care to explain, Yujinnie?" she asks, and a silence takes over the room, a few intense moments before Wonyoung throws the scrap of fabric into her lap.

"Oh hey, you found my panties. Was wondering where they ended up, silly me." Yujin giggles at the wrong possible time, showing no remorse for how they managed to be in that state, and Wonyoung does not look amused in the slightest.

"In the backseat. They were in my fucking backseat. Is that where you two fucked? Is that why my car was parked at the rec center for half an hour?"

"Not in the backseat, obviously." Yujin offers this insincere, hollow little grin, eyes batting prettily as she hesitates for a moment. "Like I said—we were getting a workout. I rode daddy in the driver's seat. Until he emptied his balls. Well, until I did."

"Unbelievable. You two couldn't wait to fuck at the apartment, so you had to go at it in the parking lot like a couple of horny fucking teenagers?" She shakes her head, incredulous. "I swear, you'd both fuck on my bedroom floor if there wasn't a perfectly good bed."

And now you can't believe what you're hearing. That Wonyoung of all people is lecturing about self control in public, like she's forgotten the time she dragged you to the stairwell landing by the art wing so you could fuck her throat before class.

The nerve.

With a deep sigh, Yujin takes the lead this time to save you the struggle. "Fine, guilty as charged, princess. But your car is cleaner than new—we did a full detail too. There's not a single bit of jizz..."

Wonyoung covers Yujin's mouth before she has the chance to continue with that explanation. "I didn't need the fucking details. Gonna pretend like I never heard that. We all good here, or is there anything else I should know about?"

"That's everything," Yujin answers with a devious smile, enjoying not having to give much in the way of an apology. "Turns out daddy can drive really well when his cock is down my throat. Gotta remember that for future road trips—"

This time, you're the one covering Yujin's mouth, knowing that's a little too much information than needed.

Thankfully, Wonyoung doesn't seem to mind, or maybe she's just ignored it entirely. "Great. So I heard I was being treated to ice cream? I want mint chocolate chip—"

Oh, if only all of Wonyoung's complaints could be solved with the promise of ice cream. Then again, maybe things would be a little too quiet around the apartment.

"We're taking a different car, though. I'm not gonna sit my ass in cum-stained seats."

And she's back to normal in a flash.

Yujin hops off the couch, being dragged along with Wonyoung by the wrist as her bubbly attitude shows no signs of dissipating. As if none of this is a big deal at all.

"Coming, daddy?"

"Hey, that's not fair," Yujin whines, clutching a plastic spoon tightly as she scrapes every bit of mint chocolate ice cream left at the bottom of the bowl.

"Neither is stealing my fucking car for a quick fuck." Wonyoung snatches back the spoon in retaliation to try and find any last remnants, not having any luck. Ice cream parlors and petty fights—suddenly, you’ve got déjà vu.

"It wasn't a quick fuck," Yujin counters, trying to get out of those with her best weapon, her charm and that smile. "I needed a ride, and you weren't answering. So daddy graciously came to my rescue."

This argument's going nowhere fast, and it's not really yours to be having anyway. Yujin can win or lose, no difference will change anything. Although, it's rather comical how similar the two of them can be—arguing over the same damn thing and you stuck in the middle.

"It doesn't matter what kind of a fuck it was," Wonyoung lashes back before shooting you an accusatory look. "What's done is done. So like I said—now I get daddy for the rest of the day. The whole night, as an apology."

"That's not even close to fair, and you know it. Don't act like you've never gotten railed in anything I own, princess."

That has Wonyoung scoffing in response and tossing the empty ice cream container right into the nearest trash can. "That's fucking different. And I at least have the decency to make daddy pull over so he can rail me against the hood and not in the backseat!"

Now the two of them are yelling, and attracting the attention of practically the whole shop—although their words start to blend into nothingness.

"It wasn't the backseat, like I said. I rode daddy in the driver's seat after I blew him on the way back," Yujin insists, and just by the way they're moving closer to each other you can tell this is only going to end badly. "So if anything, you should thank me since we made the car even cleaner."

"Oh, that's even better! Thank you for leaving me sticky fucking seats, you greedy little whore," Wonyoung argues right back, shaking her head in disgust. "You owe me a new fucking car to replace that one. I can't even buy another since I'm still blacklisted just for wanting a pretty pink one."

Now Yujin can't even stop laughing, this ridiculous notion that Wonyoung genuinely is going to hold her liable for something that had both your approval. And your head is starting to throb the more this goes on.

"You can have daddy for two hours. Two—uninterrupted. Then I'm getting in on the fun whether you like it or not. You steal him enough as is."

And once again, you're being offered like property, like you have no say in what happens next. Wonyoung at least looks happy that Yujin's agreed on a compromise of sorts, even if it comes at your expense. Not that claiming your time is necessarily the worst trade-off.

"I don't steal—whatever, so long as he's filling me up, I'll be satisfied. Deal."

Once again, you're stuck in this weird, albeit envious predicament that has them tugging either side of you. Two hours with Wonyoung as your 'punishment'? You can think of worse things. No doubt most of it will be her moaning from whatever place she chooses this time to spread her legs—a sacrifice for the greater good.

"Here? You want to do this here?”

Wonyoung just scoffs, like you're the one being unreasonable. Of course she'd come back here—a petty little revenge trip, dragging you right back to the scene of the crime. She takes the stairs ahead of you, the hem of her white dress revealing more than necessary. All deliberate, of course, while you have the perfect view of her long, shapely legs.

It's nothing flashy for once, simple, sleeveless, a little clingy in the right places, but it’s enough to get you staring.

"Being banned from one library isn't enough?” you ask, as if you actually have a say in this.

"What, Yujinnie can study in here all she wants, but I can't?" Wonyoung asks while the two of you head up. The sound of her stilettos hitting the steps gets amplified, a clack with every step that grows louder, her annoyance the motivation that carries her upward.

"Studying? What exactly are you wanting to study here, princess? Other than that dress barely covering your ass, I can't think of anything worth studying here."

Wonyoung sighs and keeps walking, stopping when the both of you reach the top step. "Pervert. Fucking pervert, you are," she says, and glances over her shoulder with a look that says the exact opposite. And then—a single twirl, one fluid motion that catches the breeze enough to flash a hint of pink lace and the curve of her ass, gone as quickly as it appears.

"Me, a pervert? Sure. I don't see you complaining," you remind her, like there was a chance Wonyoung forgot who had instigated this. "What is with you two and public places, today? Is the bedroom too mundane for your taste?"

There's that angry stare in her eyes that appears right as your fingers interlock with hers, Wonyoung trying to guide you to wherever her heart desires. "Why would I need a bedroom when you're ready to plow me right wherever I say, daddy?"

You have nothing to deny that accusation when Wonyoung squeezes your hand and grins wider. This other library across campus is just another box to check off. And wherever else it's about to be after this.

At least she has the sense to admit it. It's the least you could expect for being dragged here.

With Wonyoung pulling a few steps ahead, you make it to the third floor of the library, a floor she reassures absolutely no one spends any time in an old and run down area like this one is. You can’t say she’s wrong about that. The lighting is dimmer up here, half the overhead lights flickering, the shelves old, dusty, and full of books no one ever reads.

And aside from the two of you, the only sign of life is the head librarian—tucked behind a desk in the far corner, too buried in her monitor to care.

So you head deeper into the back, past the 'no food or drink' sign that's the least of your concern, too focused on those heels that clatter past the shelves, and those mile-long legs of Wonyoung tempting with every step. She stops on a dime, a secluded little corner that's going to be nothing but trouble.

"This should do," Wonyoung muses, dropping her bag on a table right next to her, and her cardigan on the back of the seat as she glances around just in case of any stragglers. None in sight, thankfully. "Sit, daddy. We have some studying to do."

Yeah, studying. Even with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the hardback leather bound encyclopedias collecting dust, this location couldn't possibly be anything more than a front. But you'll indulge the brat for a fleeting moment, and sit down across from where she is. And for once, she's playing the part of student, taking out her laptop and at least pretending to focus, if only for show.

"What are we studying, princess?" Nothing but a loud slurp of Wonyoung's iced coffee answers, obnoxious as she is pretty. A few more sips as those perfectly manicured fingers clicking away at the keyboard, entirely in her own little world.

She's silent. Too quiet. This girl who can't go a single moment without hearing her own voice. Something is off—you can just tell that whatever Wonyoung has brewing in that pretty head of hers is never any good. Never.

More sips of her drink, without a word spoken in between. Even when she removes her heels, one at a time, kicking them off as they fall to the floor with a little thud. Not a sound when she slides her barefoot across your thigh, inching higher up until it's right between your legs—and her toes curl right against your crotch.

“Wonyoung.”

Nothing said. Absolutely nothing. Another sip of coffee while she just presses her foot harder, rubbing against the fabric of your pants and stroking along the outline of your cock. Your pants tighten against your own volition, and you're not even looking under the table, not giving the satisfaction. Instead, you stare intently, try to make her falter even for the smallest moment.

"Studying? Is this what this is, princess?" More sips, fighting for the last drop while you're trying not to make a sound from the teasing touch her pretty toes dole out.

"Studying, yes. Studying how hard you can get. Good start,” Wonyoung finally replies, eyes still locked on the screen. She doesn't look at you—just keeps her foot pressed firmly over your crotch, studying all the twitches you make, growing harder by the second.

"If you wanted me hard," you start, pausing to stifle a moan escaping your mouth, knowing you can't make the slightest sound here. "We could have stayed at the apartment—“

"Where's the fun in that? It's called research, daddy. And I get two hours to do as I please. Without Yujin butting in."

That foot between your thighs just gets bolder and bolder, more forceful as she drags her foot up and down, making your pants painfully tight. There's no denying just how fucking hard you're getting. Wonyoung doesn't even give a glance at anything but her screen, as she keeps stroking up and down with those perfect, glittery pink painted toes, gripping hard, doing everything possible to get a groan.

"Remember—quiet," Wonyoung taunts as she doubles down, pressing against every throb she can feel through your pants, while you do your best to pretend it’s not happening. But you can't. Not when you finally bring your gaze to where you're getting teased and god—you grab her ankle, not to push her off, but to keep her in place, keep that pressure right where it belongs.

Wonyoung doesn’t miss her chance to flex her toes one last time, then just like that—she pulls away, not even sparing you a glance.

"Think I've had enough studying for today…” Wonyoung says as she shoves her laptop and the rest of her things into her bag. She saunters around the table, still barefoot, until she’s at your side. A quick lean in so the softness of her lips drops a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, before she lifts herself up to sit on the edge of the table, legs parted enough for you to glimpse what's in between.

Those little pink panties are barely covering her cunt, just the thinnest fabric right between those creamy thighs. You can almost see every detail, especially with the way she keeps her legs spread just for you—and now your dick aches even more.

"Look what daddy did to me, got me all wet. Guess it's time for a study break."

That's all the encouragement you need to get up from your seat, kick the chair aside, then drag her back enough, ass right to the very edge of the table, legs dangling over the edge. "If I'm responsible, then so are you. For what you started, brat."

You place a palm against her bare shoulder and push her back, a simple gesture that lays her out flat on the table with a smile. And she doesn’t need direction as she hikes her dress up herself, letting it bunch around her waist so you can tug her panties down with ease. Down her luscious legs and thrown to the side.

Wonyoung parts her thighs, offering her bare little cunt for the taking, already glistening and dripping with need already, every delicious inch calling to be devoured. Gorgeous, absolutely mouthwatering, the kind of perfection that brings you to your knees—quite literally.

"Remember, princess—quiet."

That's the only warning she'll get before you dive in, without the faintest fucking care in the world who's here, or where you are. All you care about is making this brat lose it, make her realize that there are consequences for teasing this hard and not following through. So you lean in and go right for a taste, taking a long, generous lick across her wet slit, savoring her sweet nectar and wanting more.

"D-daddy!" Wonyoung groans as she grabs the back of your head, letting her legs fall over your shoulders while you eat her out, and she nearly bucks right off the table. You've done this enough times to know how sensitive this girl gets, the way her taste becomes stronger every lick, all the easiest ways to have her quivering, to make her pussy drip right into your mouth.

You take another slow lick of her cunt, this one right up to her swollen clit, letting your tongue tease around it before drawing circles—little laps, flat swipes across that have her writhing. Wonyoung knows better than to be so fucking loud in a place like this, but that won't stop her from moaning your name so shamelessly, arching her back right off the table and getting a good grip of your hair.

"Oh my god," Wonyoung whines, eyes wide as you pay no attention to those desperate pleas, letting them fuel you as your hands grip around her thighs to keep her from squirming away, eating that delicious pussy like you're starved. You have the brat helpless, with a hand tight on the back of your head, the other covering her mouth to muffle the shameless noises spilling out.

Wonyoung just moans right into her palm, choking back the desperate cries for more while you lick away and plunge your tongue deeper inside her wet cunt, almost daring someone to overhear this pretty girl losing it.

Fuck, she tastes amazing, and her entire body quivers from every messy lap of your tongue, a growing mess dripping down your chin that's only going to get worse. No matter how quiet she's trying to be, this girl's never been anything less than a loud, trembling mess the moment her legs spread, and this is no exception.

The risk is secondary to how much you love burying your head between her legs, licking up every part of her cunt that glistens like a feast that you can't get enough of. You’ve got Wonyoung far too worked up to care about anything but grabbing your head, unabashed by how you eat her out without mercy.

She'll learn her fucking lesson if you have to make her gush over and over again on top of this table. And even when she tries her hardest to close her legs and wiggle away, you'll do it again.

Wonyoung can't keep that one word from spilling out, moaning 'daddy' over and over and crying out how fucking good you are at eating this delicious pussy. Each swipe of your tongue feeds your arousal more than ever, lapping at her cunt, slurping on her clit that gets all the best noises out of her, her thighs clamping around your head and pinning you exactly where you belong, just face-first between these legs of a goddess.

It's almost laughable how much effort she's wasted trying to keep her volume low, yet her entire body surrenders to your mouth. One harsh slurp of her sensitive clit has her grabbing a fistful of your hair in desperation, head falling back on the hard surface of the table and biting her bottom lip, a useless attempt to contain the pleasure.

There's no letting up, not after getting her so ridiculously wet—sucking hard on her clit between filthy, relentless licks, eating her out like this isn't happening in a library, like it's just another day of breaking Wonyoung down and making her melt.

She's trying to ride your face, fuck herself on your mouth with these frantic, uncontrollable jerks of her hips that almost force you to tear yourself away just so you can have a moment to breathe.

But you don't need that. Not when her hips only move out of control, and the grip in your hair gets even tighter while she squirms. She's right where you want her, and if you really wanted to, you could drag this out a little longer to prolong every tremble and whine until she's in tears. That's a risk you're not willing to take, given she might alert the entire building to where you two are.

Instead, you'll have mercy, if you can call it that.

You offer no chance to gather her senses, focusing on the sensitive bud between your lips, that little part of her that’s more than enough to drive her right over the edge. Looking up, there’s that perfect view of her pretty, flushed features, a girl far past falling apart while you suck her clit hard, dig your fingers into her creamy flesh and send her hurdling right over the fucking line.

"F-f-fuck—fuck, gonna cum, fucking gonna—"

Wonyoung is incoherent already, hardly able to keep those frantic cries held back, thighs locked around your head, toes curling when the orgasm hits hard. In seconds, she's gushing all over your face and spasming hard, hips bucking desperately against the greedy laps of your tongue to contain the arousal you’re drowning in. Let anyone walk by—you welcome it, you’ll thrive on it, because you’re not stopping.

The sheer pleasure becomes overwhelming as Wonyoung rides it out, thighs trembling, body shaking so violently that even the table shifts, breath so shaky she could collapse any second. When it's done, Wonyoung can't even speak, trying to shove your head away, but you're not letting up—certainly not done with this delicious treat in front of you. "Daddy, stop—too m-much—"

There's not a chance you'll listen. Not after this fucking tease from earlier.

You’ll lick up every drop of her juices from her soaked cunt and ignore the tremble in her thighs that loosen their grip, only to clamp back shut when she reaches the edge again. Any more words spoken, any more pleading, everything dissolves the longer this goes, eating her out without relent, even after she’s too sensitive to endure any more, not given a second of rest.

"D-daddy!" she cries out, eyes rolled to the back of her head when she cums on your face again, harder than before. Lips parted, shuddering and digging her nails into your scalp, Wonyoung grabs anything to try and free herself, the overstimulation far, far too much. The way her voice wavers—you can't think of anything more beautiful, one more lap at her cunt to give a final suck on her swollen, throbbing clit, forcing her to ride out the orgasm with your mouth all over that little bud.

Wonyoung can’t help but force more pleas out, body overwhelmed beyond her control. Once your mouth pulls off her cunt, you get a good look at the delicious view left behind, as you leave kisses on her messy thighs, the shaking yet to subside while she lies there on the table, breathless, unable to even move.

"You're so fucking delicious, princess," you growl, noticing her expression when the fingers gripping your head finally let up and she collapses against the table. "Couldn't get enough of your pretty cunt."

Wonyoung can't offer up a single word, still sobbing quietly, writhing with the aftershocks yet to cease. Her entire body feels too sensitive, drunk off pleasure and an utter trembling mess underneath, still yet to stop the desperate little spasms of her hips at what you did between her legs.

"That mouth of yours is fucking dangerous," Wonyoung sobs out, not bothering to lift her head to even glance at you. This girl that normally commands a room can't do anything but lie there—a pathetic, overwhelmed, mess, all sprawled out. "C-can't—can't fucking believe you made me cum like that.”

"You know me, princess. Couldn't help myself."

A faint sigh is all she has to give. It takes a moment, but she somehow manages to sit upright, eyes glazed when she looks up, the poor thing utterly ruined after one round. "Fuck, I’m still shaking. That’s how good daddy’s mouth is…”

You can't help laughing at how spent Wonyoung has gotten from just your mouth between her legs. A rare occasion. "Then maybe we should cut the study break short for today, princess."

Wonyoung perks her head up and stares at you, looking rather disappointed. "Hey, wait—you're still so fucking hard. We're not leaving until we do something about that. Come on."

Well, there's no denying that, even in her disheveled state. And she's not going anywhere without it being dealt with properly, already unbuttoning your pants and impatiently trying to tug them down. "Here? Still?”

"Where else? If we haven't gotten caught at this point, it's not going to happen. Yes, here—dummy,” Wonyoung says, recovering enough to give your cock some relief when your boxers meet your pants around your ankles. “Fuck me raw on this table. Right now.”

That rapacious look of hers is too much, every set of long strokes working wonders to get you desperate for what this girl's willing to offer up. "This looks pretty painful, daddy, doesn't it? Your cock deserves some gratitude. For what that mouth did to me."

But before you can even get a word out, she leans back again—this time raising both feet, pressing each sole against the swollen head of your cock. Nothing you can do but grunt when her delicate toes squeeze the head just so, her other foot stroking the entire length, coaxing precum that drips down.

"So fucking hard. Might just burst if my pretty little feet keep jerking you off, huh?"

Wonyoung knows exactly what you crave—and knows too well what a tease like this does to your cock. Just those small touches against your most sensitive spots, little strokes of her toes that urge you right where she wants you.

The way her toes tease the tip, slide down to play with your balls, getting them heavier before dragging back up with one sole caressing your cock again, is downright dizzying. "That's what you fucking love, isn't it, daddy? These soft feet all over that huge dick of yours—"

She has you in the palm of her hand—always has and always will.

"Princess, quit teasing," you groan, unable to do anything but watch as she places both feet flat on either side of your cock, stroking up and down the sides while keeping the head right at her toes. This is absolute bliss. She watches with those big, doe eyes, observing how you can't keep from throbbing, her toes toying and sliding everywhere they possibly can.

"Then do something about it," Wonyoung tempts, keeping those long legs raised and stroking your shaft with both her soles. Until you grab those legs and hoist them on your shoulders, wiping that grin off her face when you line her tight entrance with your needy, dripping cock.

And now you're the one teasing, nudging your cock just inside the silky lips of her cunt, getting enough of that wet warmth around the head before pulling away.

It draws a breathy moan from Wonyoung, with her legs anchored onto your shoulders, slick juices all over your tip each time you brush through her slit. The way she mouths out a 'please’, begging for you to shove that cock between her folds and stuff her little cunt—makes you prolong this delicious torment for far too long.

"This what you wanted? For me to do something about your dripping cunt?" you taunt, rubbing your cockhead against those drenched lips, loving the desperate whine when you slide in enough to make her want more before you pull right back out.

"Just fuck me—shove it in. Quit playing already."

"Oh, you don't wanna beg? Fucking brat can tease me but not the other way around, is that how it works?"A deep sigh follows when Wonyoung grows annoyed each time you drag along her slit and tease a few thrusts to slide right in.

"I don't need to beg. That's your job, I just need you to plow my fucking pussy," Wonyoung demands, trying her best not to whine with each denied attempt at entry.

"That's the fucking plan, brat,” you growl as you push further inside the heat of her slick, well-devoured cunt and bury the rest of your cock, getting a deep gasp from Wonyoung who welcomes every thick inch with little resistance. That tight pussy swallows every inch in an instant, wrapping around every bit you give her, so warm, so inviting, drenched and perfectly clenching around you.

"Tight fucking slut, god. How can you still feel so damn good no matter how many times I'm inside you?" Barely a few thrusts and Wonyoung feels so wet, drenching your cock that's suffocating in this slippery heat.

"Because you're fucking addicted," she answers, smirk fading fast while grabbing the edge of the table and losing herself with each pump of your hips.

"And you can't live a day without this dick—" That's what gets the loudest cry out when Wonyoung clenches tighter, those never ending legs spread on your shoulders while your hips crash right into her as you thrust deep into that wet little hole.

"Because it's mine."

You can't disagree, not at a time like this. With her eyes locked on yours, her lips part to spill these needy moans, cheeks flushed a deep pink. You’re buried inside her, every inch claimed by the kind of heat and insane grip that makes it nearly impossible to let you escape.

Wonyoung is perfect, always is, perfect to be fucked deep and raw. Perfect to bend over whatever is in reach, using whichever part of her gorgeous body she wants you in. And now these legs feel so natural resting on your shoulders, one on either side, locked behind your neck to make the angle even deeper.

“Daddy feels so deep inside, fucking wrecking my pussy," is all Wonyoung can get out in between heaving breaths while the whole table jostles each time you hit the deepest parts and plunge through these walls to stay buried.

There's no objection in how you pound into her, nothing but pure, unrestrained lust, not a single care with every noise coming out of her mouth, every squelch that echoes as your heavy balls slap into the curve of Wonyoung's tight ass.

"Princess, fuck, so good—love this tight fucking pussy. Love your filthy fucking mouth and your pretty face and all of you. Love fucking you here on this table," you say, the praise spilling out without even trying. And Wonyoung has been far from subtle the moment you started driving your dick deep, mouth never shut—the heavy moans, the loud gasps, every deep breath growing ragged with every new thrust.

"Love when you fuck me so hard," Wonyoung murmurs back, doing nothing to tone down her reactions as she demands your cock claim all of her tight, impossibly soaked cunt. The feeling is very mutual. There's not anything better than these hot, slippery lips trapping you inside, tightening around every part that's throbbing.

All in a library, no less. One that’s neglected, but the lack of concern only makes you pound this tight cunt faster. Maybe you’ll check off another banned location from your list, because the studying going on here is anything but academic.

"Fuck, fuck, you're stretching me so much—rearranging my guts, daddy."

"Library, princess…" you remind her, words she doesn't hear or even care about. Not that you give any more of a damn. Your hips don’t either as you keep slamming away, lost in the feeling of how good every thrust feels, nothing less than balls deep while you grip her legs for leverage. She clenches harder the deeper your thrusts hit, until her voice stalls, and she lets the moans get a bit too loud.

Wonyoung just can't contain herself and gushes all over your cock, forcing you to fight through that mess that floods out all over.

It gets everywhere—all over your thighs, the table, her bag, even the floor. Wonyoung can't stop trembling, eyes rolling back, legs shaking hard, all this messy gushing that's threatening to shove you out if not for her cunt desperately holding you inside.

"S-shit, daddy, couldn't help myself. Your huge cock feels too fucking good. Too fucking deep in me," she gasps out when her legs give out on their own and those ankles detach from your shoulders.

"Made such a huge mess, princess," you say, not stopping the steady, deep pumps even as her legs now rest limply against the table. Each thrust turns her into more of a whimpering mess, overstimulated in a way that makes her toes curl, legs continuing to shake when you fill her to the hilt and keep fucking her.

"That's your fault, not mine. You love fucking me wherever I want, can’t help how good it feels.”

No rest for either of you then, it seems. You're right back to it, holding her thighs apart to slam into her pussy in a relentless rhythm, smacking your hips into her tight little body, pistoning hard enough the table rattles. And there's no time for Wonyoung to do anything other than lose control.

"Daddy can't stop fucking me," Wonyoung taunts in the middle of her heavy panting and moans, tongue out, drool spilling past her lips with each hard slam. "You love my tight little pussy way too much to stop."

As if she didn't just fucking gush like a hydrant a minute ago.

Wonyoung doesn't get anything else out when she opens her legs as much as she can, finding enough strength to wrap them around you, tight as can be to get you even deeper inside. There's not a chance she would allow this cock anywhere else with how hard she squeezes and makes sure not an inch slips away.

"Daddy's not going anywhere, not with my fucking legs locked. Not letting you fucking leave or ever pull out—"

"You think I could ever leave your warm little cunt when it feels this good? Not a chance, princess." You can't possibly look away from those expressive eyes, full lips open with heavy, desperate groans, staring right at you as you keep sinking inside, every throb met by a delicious squeeze that demands you give every fucking drop.

This harsh rhythm, the sound of flesh against flesh, a cacophony of groans while Wonyoung keeps those legs wrapped tight leaves you drowning in this pleasure.

"Want you to fucking cum right inside of me, daddy. Can't take it anymore—just fucking pump me full, pump my womb with all that hot fucking seed, make me leak all over this fucking table. Breed me right here in this fucking library, right now. Please, daddy—please."

When she begs so prettily like that, with you buried so deep, what resistance is left in you? Nobody has these pleading eyes like Wonyoung, trying to squeeze your cock as tight as possible to empty you inside.

This isn't a study break, but a full on performance by both of you. The library is the worst place for this, and yet it doesn't stop you from pumping harder into Wonyoung's slick cunt, like you're just asking to be heard at the back of the third floor.

"Gonna fucking fill this pussy," you growl, powerless to stop the inevitable with how tight these walls cling around you, downright impossible to not erupt when she has you right where she wants. Those legs around your waist expedite it even further.

“P-please, right now,” Wonyoung begs one final time, giving you just enough time to look up, to see the way those eyes are looking at you—not pleading anymore, but a sense of desperation in there.

Not another moment to think. Not another second to stop yourself from doing just that. With a final, unapologetic slam that hits as deep as her body can take, you unleash everything inside, heavy spurts flooding right into her tight, greedy cunt. That voice that has you pumping hot, messy streams of cum from your aching balls into the girl who craves it more than anything.

It's fucking endless, it always is. Her cunt swallows your load with every violent throb, greedy walls squeezing hard to wring out the spurts you pound even deeper inside.

And that's just what Wonyoung deserves, taking your load with pride. The relief is undeniable, second to the way her pretty face glows, lips parted as the last of your cum disappears into her well-fucked pussy, never, ever getting tired of the grip that demands more.

"Every single drop…” Wonyoung murmurs as you fill her up, legs locked so tight around your body to make sure all of that cum stays inside, a hot, sticky, pearlescent mess flooding her insides. No pulling out. Not until you're totally drained, that's her demand, and that's non-negotiable.

"So thick, so fucking warm, daddy. Keep fucking it all deeper, wanna feel it leaking." There’s little you can do but that, move your hips in small movements, to make sure your fresh load finds its place deep between those creamy thighs.

Your thrusts slow down by the end of it, all this combined pleasure that's finally taken its toll. Finally having the chance to catch a breath, you close your eyes and revel in the softness wrapped around your sensitive shaft, in the sweat you can feel trickling down the side of your face. There’s no better satisfaction than pumping this pretty pink cunt to the fucking brim.

"Princess made me cum so damn hard. You just couldn't wait to empty these balls into that tight fucking cunt, could you, brat?" you whisper against the shell of her ear, face buried right against her bare shoulder when it's just the two of you defeated by exhaustion, no break from the grip her legs won’t give up.

"Daddy always gives his princess always gets what she wants. Love when you use me to drain those heavy fucking balls."

You don't know what it is with these two today—these demanding, greedy brats craving the seed that's pumping into Wonyoung and oozing right from the tight little hole it fills, but there’s no complaints. None whatsoever.

"First your car, then the library. It's like you both hate the apartment now," you tell her, earning a little giggle betraying any sense of decorum.

"Or maybe we’re just two insatiable sluts that love daddy fucking us wherever possible," she fires back with a tremble in her voice, and a little peck to your lips, finally freeing the hold her legs have around you. You don't pull out quite yet, taking a moment to savor the warmth and the mess you’ve left inside before easing out—

You watch the most sinful little sight when you do, a flood of thick cum without cease onto the library table, those beautiful thighs, everywhere it chooses to defile.

There's definitely not the smallest bit of remorse or modesty, despite the huge mess the two of you have just made. The mixture of your cum and Wonyoung’s floods through this table, no doubt ruining anything in the near vicinity. At least it'll be a fun story to explain to Yujin why you're banned from a different library entirely.

But that’s a problem for later. Right now, you're too focused on the sight of your cum dripping down Wonyoung’s thighs, watching as her fingers trail through the thick white between her legs, shoving whatever escapes back inside. There's silence while she does so, save for her loud, uneven breaths and your own.

You lean in to kiss her, this time a longer press of your lips as you cradle her face, tongue invading past her parted lips, lost in this lust for what seems like forever.

"This is a library, you two know—"

The sudden interruption has you pulling away in panic, because it's not a voice you know. Wonyoung, however, doesn’t look the least bit bothered when she glances to find another pair of eyes staring right at the two of you.

"Yes, very fucking aware," Wonyoung replies in a rather calm voice given the circumstances. You follow her gaze, seeing it hone in on a figure not too far from what you’ve done to this poor table.

It's not the head librarian at least, the only relief you can have with your pants around your ankles.

Whoever it is takes a step closer to reveal herself, a younger woman, student if you had to guess, judging by the book she holds (or rather, embraces), and the backpack slung over her shoulder.

"Then why are you two defiling my favorite study spot?" the girl asks, coming closer. There's annoyance when there should be shock, her concerns clearly involving any inconvenience and not how compromising this position is.

“Shouldn't you be a little quieter then? This is a library after all," Wonyoung fires right back, returning her gaze with a finger still mindlessly running through those creamy folds, until one pops right into her mouth. She doesn't give an ounce of embarrassment or the slightest consideration to this other woman inches away.

"Yes, a library. For the purposes of studying. And it looks like there's been a fucking orgy happening on this table," the other girl says in return. There's a trace of sarcasm, one that matches Wonyoung well while she inspects the damage, to where the table has a thick trail of fluids that's not going away.

"And what would you know about studying? Don't exactly recall seeing you in class once this semester, sweetie."

"How would you—" the other woman starts, stopping herself. She stands there with arms folded, both of them hesitant for a moment until she gathers her thoughts. "We have economics together. Every Tuesday. And every week, you're off getting dicked down somewhere or I don't know, whatever other hobbies you have that involve spreading your legs."

"Sorry for having a social life. Maybe you should try it out, Gaeulie."

This girl laughs a little, leaning against a dusty bookshelf. "Gaeulie? No one's called me that since—"

"Our senior year in high school, I know. But it's the same Gaeul, isn't it? Still the shy, nerdy girl with the same smart mouth, huh?”

And now it all clicks together in an instant, even without knowing a thing about her. Someone who clearly can handle Wonyoung, knows how to handle her without being the least bit bothered by any of these insults, clearly used to such attitude.

"You'd be surprised. Things change," Gaeul starts, gaze traveling around the table. It falls onto you, and she takes a second, studying.

Wonyoung just stares.

"Yujinnie mentioned something about a guy she was banging lately, said she was sharing him with you. Thought it was just a one time thing, but looks like you're still here, yeah?" Gaeul asks, with that gaze glued right where it is, on you, between your legs and for longer than just a cursory glance. "With a huge cock, apparently. Guess that's as good enough reason as any."

It doesn't make you uneasy as it should, perhaps because you're still processing this all. But the way she ogles your body, that's what does, not wanting to strike up a conversation all exposed like this.

Her eyes just follow wherever she pleases, and doesn't even attempt to hide her blatant stare.

With your clothes back on, now you can at least look at this girl named Gaeul for more than a second. Not bad to look at, honestly. She's rather attractive, but the polar opposite of Yujin and Wonyoung in her casual hoodie and jeans, glasses neatly atop her face, long blonde hair and a shy smile to go with it. A smaller stature compared to the other two and just a general timidness that's clear, but not without enough confidence to go head-to-head with Wonyoung.

"Hi, I'm Gaeul," she reiterates. "Nice to meet you. Enjoyed the little show. Sorry, didn't mean to stare at your cock that long. Impressive though."

This is awkward, to say the least. Meeting an acquaintance of Wonyoung when you're naked from the waist down. That's a new one.

You have not a thing to say, just a quick nod while you shake the extended hand, meeting this mysterious woman. Gaeul can only let out a giggle, and you think this might be more embarrassing than being banned from another library.

"Well, as much as I would love to stand here and chat, it smells like a goddamn porn set back here, and I've got an assignment to complete. Unlike someone who skips class just to get a dick down their throat," Gaeul says, smiling the whole time she speaks. "We should grab a drink sometime. And maybe—"

She gives a glance towards you, then back between your legs. "Maybe you could bring him too. Oh, and don't worry. I won't tell anyone what happened here. That librarian forgot her hearing aid, probably. Besides, who would ever believe a cute little nerdy girl about a study corner getting used for this kind of debauchery?"

Before anything gets answered, Gaeul's already out of view, leaving a last little wave behind her and heading out. And that's when you can finally breathe again.

"Don't say a damn word," Wonyoung warns the same moment you even think about opening your mouth, hopping off the table. She scans the room, eyes landing on the soaked, crumpled panties tossed among the wreckage. Without a word, she stuffs them into her purse, adjusting her dress like nothing ever happened.

"Time to go, daddy. We have an hour left, and that cock isn't done spilling cum in me. Let's go find another place. Preferably one with less dust."

For now, you're too exhausted to object, being led back out of the library, in search of your next potential place to desecrate.

Which turns out, is no easy feat, when your options are rather limited, given it's past midday. Public bathrooms are overdone at this point. The science center is a bigger no, as is every lecture hall that is entirely too occupied to even enter. The cafeteria is dead at this hour, but even for Wonyoung that's far too risky, even with that one spot she keeps insisting on, the one she swears no one will ever wander back to.

A quick text to Yujin to check in, and she replies back asking how many times your balls have been emptied, with not much more advice than to try the auditorium. Which apparently Wonyoung takes up on—and that's always a dangerous thing, judging from the way she tugs on your arm.

So now your back is against the bright, white wall of the racquetball court, another ‘abandoned’ space that she’s taken you, a term that you aren’t even sure means anything anymore. Nowhere near as exciting as that one time Wonyoung dragged you into the pilates studio—when the only stretching involved was her leg hooked on the ballet bar and your cock buried in her tight little cunt, each thrust rocking her petite frame against the mirrored wall.

And this is more of the same.

Your pants might as well live around your ankles these days. The racquetball court has seen better days, with paint peeling from the walls, floorboards a little worse for wear.

Not to mention the lights dim and flicker, but it’s still bright enough to catch the obscene sight of Wonyoung on her knees, drool spilling from her lips as she devours your cock. Like it hasn’t even been five minutes since you last emptied yourself inside her.

"You’re greedy, today. Getting my cock in your mouth the second we step through the door," you point out, running a hand through her hair as the sound of that sloppy mouth gets louder with every bob of Wonyoung's pretty head. And these walls echo with every slurp that spills out.

Her eyes peer up through the mess of spit that drips down, two fingers rubbing at her pink slit while she slobbers over every inch. She's messy in the cutest of ways. Lips pink, parted, and pouty as they slide down your shaft, right to the back of her wet throat. Her cheeks hollow as she works nice and slow, grabbing your hips when she stuffs your entire cock in her mouth with only a tiny bit of a gag.

All the little choked gasps, the effort she makes to take you deeper, those eyes that get all wide when you help force her head all the way to the hilt.

"I'm greedy everyday, daddy. Haven't you realized that, yet?"

Hard to realize anything but how good those soft fucking lips feel wrapped around your cock. That warm mouth spilling plenty of drool over every inch, so utterly soaked, pink little tongue dragging along every vein when Wonyoung runs those luscious lips right back down. Until her nose is buried against your pelvis, leaving no room to breathe as she keeps your dick in the heavenly depths of her tight fucking throat.

It’s easy to indulge that greediness, when your cock aches just as bad, forcing her head down the way you need, with your fingers through that silky dark hair, threaded right through.

Especially when you press her up against the court wall, with a handful of hair and fuck into her slick, needy cunt, sinking in deep without restraint. No need to hold back when the soundproof walls swallow up every obscene noise, not when Wonyoung is demanding to be ruined, begging for more with every pathetic gasp.

Neither of you giving a single fuck how loud you can get, yanking back to expose that pretty little throat that Wonyoung leaves all vulnerable, the marks from earlier still noticeable, even more vivid on that pale flesh when your teeth dig in.

The best part is how all your thrusts amplify in this large space, each rough pop of your hips forcing her slender body against the padded court wall. It's the sweet sounds that escape her mouth, loud moans and gasps and filthy praises spilling from those swollen lips. How wet she gets with every thrust pinning her to the wall as she cries out 'daddy' like a mantra, cunt only gripping tighter the more your hips slam into her ass.

And she tries—to get her hand underneath, to rub against her swollen clit but you move her wrists above her, pressing her body flat against the wall. "You'll cum on this cock when it's time. No help."

"That's not fucking fair." The tone Wonyoung says it with doesn't even matter, not with how helpless she looks against you.

"Too bad. Bad girls don't get to decide the rules."

That makes her cry out another moan, her tight cunt clamping even harder. "How am I supposed to not touch myself when you keep destroying my fucking pussy like this?"

"Quit whining, brat. You can take it, can't you?"

"Of course I can, daddy. I just—oh god, it's so good. Just wanna cum on your fat cock, please."

A weak argument at best. "You think that's not gonna happen with how fucking hard you're getting pounded into this wall? No chance.”

“D-daddy, please—“

A slap lands so hard across her bare ass that she yelps into the surface her cheek rests against. Another even harder comes after, no relent or consideration, one that she'll feel at her next class, regardless of when she decides to show up.

Wonyoung is in her element here. A public space but contained, making as many noises and shameless sounds as she pleases.

Panties ripped off and thrown somewhere on the court, with heels, of course. This time they stay on her feet, so they do little more than add an extra little thud when you deliver every slam inside that delicious, soaked cunt that can barely take all of you.

“You’re throbbing—which means I get another load. Fill me where I want it,” Wonyoung pleads, like she’s so sure she’ll get anything. Even with the loud spanks on her ass that cut through her moans, leaving her with red handprints and bruised flesh that just makes her whine for more.

"No—"

Another slap on her tight ass, another loud gasp she offers up in return, a tug back so you can whisper in her ear. "Princess doesn't get another load in her cunt—this one belongs all over your pretty fucking face."

So a clench of her dripping wet walls is what you get in reply, because she'll take your cum however she can. Nothing gets her cunt drenched more than imagining your cum spilled across her.

Then it’s one final, frantic thrust before you pull out, and Wonyoung doesn't hesitate at all, dropping down to her knees and awaiting her favorite reward. She watches the way you stroke your cock in front of her angelic face, and that sultry pout on her full lips is more than enough to get you there.

With one hand through her hair and the other gripping tight around your cock, you keep Wonyoung as close as can be, her eyes wide as she patiently waits and anticipates every bit of your cum, offering her whole face as a canvas.

The first thick blast hits Wonyoung's face right away, landing all over her cute nose and splattering white streaks across her plump pink lips. Next comes her forehead, shooting a double of long, sticky strands all the way up to her dark hair, cock still gripped firmly so you can target every gorgeous fucking spot on her.

Each heavy spurt paints her perfect skin, spurts that end up all over her cheeks, on her chin and that outstretched tongue to leave this brat properly covered, just as promised. Your load clings to those lips that shine under the bright lights, unable to contain a giggle from how proud she is to get decorated.

She's gorgeous. There's never enough time to savor this incredible sight, Wonyoung with your cum painted all over her beautiful face.

"Love how your cum feels all over me. Love when daddy blows his big, heavy load all over my fucking face."

Wonyoung strokes your cock against her cheek, pulsating right on her face and wearing every spurt across her smooth skin like a trophy. A dizzying sight, her messy smile and your cum streaked across that pretty face, the kisses she lands on the sensitive tip of your cock that sends more shudders through you.

The lights buzz overhead. Somewhere above, shoes squeak faintly across the floor, sounding so much louder when Wonyoung's fully distracted, lazily stroking your sensitive cock.

"Well, well, well—"

Interrupted again. But this time, there’s no mystery when you both glance up at the viewing balcony above you. Who else but Yujin leaning against the railing with a clear view down, ponytail swaying as her head drops to get a better look.

She’s dressed in what looks like workout gear, a black sports bra and pink yoga pants that cling far too tightly around her thick thighs and shapely ass, slinging an athletic bag over one shoulder. There's a sheen of sweat on her skin like she's already spent the better part of an hour on a treadmill, yet looking gorgeous as ever. "Funny seeing you two here. Is this the premium courtside experience, or do I need to pay extra?"

Wonyoung says little, nor does she acknowledge the third party while she keeps her position, kneeling on the court floor. "My two hours aren't up yet. So unless you're going to stay and watch..."

"Trying to get rid of me? I paid for the full-access pass, so I better get my money's worth, princess," Yujin teases right back, already striding down the flight of stairs, heading in your direction. In seconds, she's down on the first floor of the court and making a beeline right towards the two of you.

You're the most vulnerable one in all this, cock out, pants around your ankles with Wonyoung still stroking your shaft at a steady rhythm. That little laugh from Yujin catches both your attention when she sees the mess covering Wonyoung's face.

"Jesus, princess. You're a fucking mess.”

"You'd be too," Wonyoung defends, offering no apology as she slides a couple fingers through the cum dripping down her features before shoving them in her mouth to clean them, slurping lewdly. "If you saw what we were up to. My ass still fucking stings."

Yujin only laughs. "Good."

Wonyoung rises from the court floor then, only to be met with Yujin who leans in with a little smirk and plants a greedy kiss on those cum-smeared lips, getting a good taste without hesitation. Then it’s just pure lust as their tongues collide, swapping saliva and the lingering taste of your cum they crave more of.

And now you’re the one just watching. Standing with your dick still out in the open while these two make in front of you—Yujin's fingers sliding between Wonyoung's legs to plunge them inside, eager for another taste from somewhere else.

"Daddy didn't wanna cum in your little pussy, huh?" Yujin taunts, like she can't see the mess that's still present on Wonyoung's glazed features.

"He did already. Filled me so good a little while ago, and now he wanted my pretty face all covered—don't be jealous just because you didn't get yours."

Not like Yujin has anything to envy, watching Wonyoung fall apart at the feeling of her long fingers buried between those wet lips, not even giving a care to your presence. "Daddy came inside me first, though. In your car, remember? He couldn't help it while my tight cunt kept riding his huge fucking dick..."

That's the best way to get Wonyoung to shut up—still annoyed at what the two of you did in her car. Yujin slips out the two fingers coated in Wonyoung's juices, then licks them clean without breaking eye contact.

"So fucking what? What are you even doing here, anyway, Yujinnie?”

"Other than watch you two fuck like animals? Thought I'd get an actual workout in, and see what you two were up to. Are those your panties?" Yujin asks, laughing as she glances down to a small pair of discarded underwear that can't possibly qualify as anything.

It's Wonyoung's turn to laugh now. "Might be. Daddy kind of ruined them."

You roll your eyes, gathering your senses back and finding some semblance of modesty that the other two clearly don't seem to grasp. "You begged me to. Rip them off and pound my pussy like a whore is what you said to be exact, so—"

"Shut up, daddy. I said no such thing—"

Yujin can't wipe that wide grin off her face, looking between you two with a judgmental shake of her head, acting like she hasn't said similar things. "Since we're not heading back to the apartment anytime soon... there's a locker room, down the hall. You know where that goes. We've got the place all to ourselves."

There's never a real break when the three of you are together, when Yujin gets that familiar gleam in her eye, pulling her ponytail free and letting that dark hair cascade down her back.

That's about all Wonyoung needs, and all it takes for you to follow. She doesn't even attempt to make herself presentable, dress left hiked up and disheveled. Those clothes are all coming off anyway. "Hurry up, daddy."

You'd rather get out of this pathetic looking court sooner rather than later. So off to the locker room you all go, bags and belongings in hand. Your two leggy roommates saunter ahead of you, your gaze shamelessly aimed at Yujin's ass in those tight pants that hug every delicious curve to perfection.

You'll never get cleaned up—not if these two have any say in it, but maybe you're okay with that.

“Come on, it’s empty,” Yujin says as she leads the way into the locker room that’s surprisingly luxurious, with marble counters and large mirrors, rows of shower stalls and padded benches. It smells faintly of citrus and lavender—a surprising contrast with the neglected condition of the facility.

You're the first to follow Yujin and her deliciously swaying hips as she slides those yoga pants off, glancing over her shoulder to make sure you're watching before sliding her sports bra off. Now in just a tiny little pair of panties and nothing else, the small fabric does its best to cover that perfectly shaped ass, and those legs a sight you could stare at forever. She stretches her long limbs up above her head, toned arms flexing and offering an even more tantalizing glimpse of that bare back, where your hands always gravitate towards, all that smooth, flawless skin that feels so nice underneath your fingertips.

"Enjoying yourself, daddy?" Yujin teases, taking her sweet time to peel those tiny panties off, bending forward and popping her ass up even more.

Your gaze can't stay away from every sinful inch, especially right between her legs, that gorgeous, smooth cunt of hers, and you're tempted to skip on a hot shower and bury your face between her thighs right fucking now.

"Hard not to when you look so good naked, Yujinnie," you answer back, taking a step forward to grope around her curvy hips, then squeeze at her plentiful ass, savoring the slight jiggle when you get a handful and knead those soft cheeks in your palms.

"Then you better take those clothes off too, daddy. Can't take a shower with these on, can you?”

Yujin doesn’t say anything more when she turns around, walking backwards to the nearest shower stall as you get the full view of that delicious body from the front before she slips in and starts the water.

No time to waste. Your clothes end up scattered, shoes kicked off as you finally join Yujin already under the hot water, not afraid to push you against the tile wall and capture your lips in a deep kiss. And you can't wait another second to grab her ass again, feeling her soft flesh up while you enjoy her hungry mouth, steam surrounding you more and more as the hot water rains down your bodies.

"Who said you could start without me?"

Wonyoung's voice interrupts as she stumbles in and closes the curtain. There's really not enough room for three in one shower stall, but you're all pressed in close and it doesn't matter. And hey, you aren't going to say no to having these two naked and all sharing the same water.

"Don't act like you don't love watching us," Yujin says in between the two of you devouring one another, her greedy hands sliding all over your body to find your cock already throbbing and needing her touch. "Was wondering if you were ever going to join us."

"Had to wash this cum off my face, obviously," Wonyoung huffs, stepping closer to join in on the fun. She runs her wet tongue across your chest until her body is pressing into yours as well, all that wet skin sliding across yours and feeling so damn good. You switch from Yujin to Wonyoung, capturing those lips next with your tongue slipping right in to taste.

Yujin isn't idle though, reaching below to grab your cock with her soapy, wet hands, stroking nice and slow. It’s so easy to find yourself lost between their mouths, swapping saliva with each girl while your cock gets more than a little needy. Now it's both of them who stroke, keeping up with the pace Yujin is setting while each of their lips claim yours back and forth, teeth teasing and tongues desperate for attention.

All the hot steam, all the naked skin on display and it's no surprise your cock is growing so stiff as Yujin slowly drops to her knees and positions herself between your thighs. Hot water falls over her, washing soap off your cock and trickles down the curves of her body while her tongue brushes in this playful tease over your dick that twitches with each touch.

"Didn't Wonyoung take care of you earlier, daddy? That huge load on her face and you're still this hard?" she asks, clearly not expecting a proper response, especially when she wraps her lips around your swollen tip and takes you deep into her tight throat all at once. And the moan that follows makes this question impossible to answer.

"That was barely even an appetizer," Wonyoung cuts in, kissing down your wet body, lips tracing down your abs while moving further and further below. The lower she drops, the more she crouches, the closer her hot mouth approaches—

And then her lips surround your aching balls while she begins to suck, drawing the hefty sack into her mouth to show her admiration. "Needed so much more than what he pumped across my face."

More sounds spill from your mouth with this extra attention. Yujin works diligently on your cock, bobbing her head along and drooling over your shaft, with Wonyoung on her knees right beside on the wet floor, lavishing your balls in tandem. Two ravenous mouths that seem to love the task, slurping and sucking without a care. Two noisy mouths kissing, licking, downright worshiping your cock from tip to base and everywhere in between.

"Fuck, you two are—" is all you can say when Yujin leans back to spit a huge mouthful of drool that coats your shaft, her palm stroking it all in before going back down again.

Once she comes up, Wonyoung gets her lips right at one side of your thick cock, while Yujin takes the opposite, the two running those soft, warm lips from base to tip before their tongues dance all over your leaking cockhead together, trying their best to fit as much between their pretty lips as possible.

"My turn," Wonyoung demands, shoving your cock into her bratty mouth without warning. Yujin only giggles and dips back down, no objections when she latches her mouth on one of your heavy balls with a satisfying slurp.

"Mmh, daddy's balls are so full, so delicious," Yujin moans, staring at Wonyoung, sharing that lewd look that'll end you.

The sight, the feeling, this devilish pair of lips treating your needy cock like a delicacy, it’s far too good, far too overwhelming the way their greedy mouths treat your cock. Especially Wonyoung, her mouth all warm and wet, all that tight suction from slobbering on your length without even a pause to breathe.

Her head bobs furiously along your shaft while she stuffs every inch down, straight past the back of her throat with little difficulty, right to the hilt. And Yujin is equally relentless with her attention, relentless in how she sucks at each your balls, running her tongue all over them before releasing with a loud pop that echoes in the shower before wrapping her mouth around again.

There's definitely nothing getting clean, but this is visual stimulation. Their gorgeous mouths competing with each other, two slobbery, soft sets of lips showing no sign of stopping until they get you off.

With Wonyoung choking you down, Yujin doesn't take too long to up the ante, eager to make you crumble with her tongue flicking fast on your balls as she guides a hand to one of your hips, moving between your legs. As she reaches underneath, a wet finger probes right at the spot she knows will make you fall to pieces.

"F-fuck, Yujin," you rasp out when that curious digit circles your puckered hole before dipping just inside, not enough to penetrate but a steady tease.

Yujin withdraws, spitting into the palm of her hand so she can return to your ass, this nice, slippery feeling of her wet finger massaging your prostate to coax the right response out of you. One that she gets immediately, when the pressure mounts, and she traces your rim with the tip of her middle finger, eagerly anticipating the moment when you’ll lose it.

Even with your cock impaling that tight little wet throat, Yujin makes damn sure to draw your attention, finger slowly pumping inside your ass. The wet slurps of Wonyoung’s greedy mouth are one thing, but the way those messy lips wrap around your balls as she continues her advance inside your ass is more than just another level.

"Too fucking good, god, feels so fucking good," you groan as Yujin plunges even deeper, buried all the way in your ass and curling her finger to hit just the right places. "Not gonna last if you keep this up—”

“Then don’t,” Yujin says, and that's clearly their intention. With the way they stare at one another and share an equally filthy smile before locking lips, trading their own sloppy spit between them before continuing their oral assault. One that doesn’t stop, Wonyoung picking up the pace as she works to choke you down her throat, a strangled, gargling moan and spit dripping off your balls, sloppier than you've ever felt before.

There’s no stopping this hungry duo, the greed they can’t stop displaying, each just as desperate for another load of your cum.

Yujin looks up with all that wet hair stuck to her beautiful face, and that expression hits hard. Wonyoung has no other thought in her mind than swallowing this huge, thick load straight from the source as she takes you down her throat with ease, holding for as long as she needs to.

Neither will back off as that heavy throbbing increases, their target clear, both ready to pull the trigger with all this combined effort driving you wild. Neither can resist the temptation to devour your length, your balls—kisses and frantic licks that won't quit, until all that overwhelming sensation becomes more than what your body can handle.

"Let it out, daddy," Yujin hums, greedily drawing out as much cum as she can get with each suck of your balls. "Blow that huge load right down her filthy fucking throat.”

You don’t stand a chance.

All that’s left is to grip tight at the back of Wonyoung’s head, forcing her down as your cock erupts without restraint, spilling everything into her wet mouth.

Her eyes widen when you throb in her mouth, nails digging into her scalp as you erupt down that tight, warm little mouth that demands your hot cum, swallowing it all down with ease. That pretty mouth stays firmly at the base, each eager gulp taking as much of this thick, creamy load that churns out of your balls, shot after shot shooting straight down her throat.

Wonyoung sucks harder than ever through every last twitch, holding your hips to keep you where she needs you, buried down her throat when she guzzles it all down. She doesn't stop, not until she's drained you dry, every last spurt coating her throat, not a drop wasted, not until she's satisfied, opening her mouth to show every last drop swallowed, tongue out to confirm just as much.

Not a moment to rest before they're both all over you in an instant, while their lips converge around the sensitive head of your cock, two greedy tongues all over your cockhead to taste you all over.

“That cum is so delicious, daddy,” Wonyoung says and runs a long lick along your spent shaft, while Yujin savors a nice, slow slurp across your still throbbing cockhead, neither mouth ready to leave you.

"I'm guessing you weren't sharing that, were you, princess?" Yujin asks as she looks at Wonyoung and gives another drag of her wet tongue on your cock.

"Hey, you said daddy came inside you first. And you ruined my car, so I think it's only fair if I get the rest—"

Yujin doesn't even look too bothered as they rise back up together, giggling as they lean in to share a heated kiss, sharing the flavor on each other's lips. "Always a greedy little brat, aren't you?"

"Can you blame me?” Wonyoung replies back, brushing her nose against Yujin’s. “When daddy loves filling us up, it makes it so hard not to be. And besides, you know there's plenty more..."

Even as many times as you've been drained today, it still doesn't make much difference—one look at Wonyoung with those legs, water dripping down her pale flesh and Yujin with her hands all over that soft skin, and you feel just as insatiable as they always do.

You're content to be just a spectator, for now, or at least try to be while the two take all the room under the shower head, kissing slow and deep. Yujin takes hold of Wonyoung’s slender waist, always so easy to grip, and pulls her close, the other hand landing a sharp smack on her ass as the sound echoes through the steamy stall.

"D-do that again."

"No."

"Do it," Wonyoung whines. Yujin doesn't miss a beat, doing just that to make Wonyoung gasp out loud and give her the satisfaction of spanking her harder than before. Even better that she can't help the whimper that follows.

"You really are a slut," Yujin laughs, hand spanking her a third time.

"Like you don't like when daddy makes your ass red, Yujinnie. Like I don't hear the way you beg when he fucks your ass in our kitchen..."

"Point taken," Yujin says, all giggles and gives a few more smacks across each cheek, letting you watch the flesh jiggle before giving one more final loud slap. And now you're really thankful for how long this hot water lasts, the temperature not dipping at all, not even when they both turn to face you and you get an eyeful of their dripping wet, perfect bodies all glistening underneath the running water.

"You’re staring too much, daddy," Wonyoung purrs, that same bratty attitude with her hands all over Yujin's body, groping whatever part she can, no regard for modesty when the two are just as horny and desperate. “Or are you ready to go again so soon?”

"Pretty sure his balls have been drained enough today," Yujin says, dipping a finger inside Wonyoung in a torturous, slow movement so she can enjoy the wetness. "Daddy's been so spoiled.”

“S-shit, never enough. Can never have daddy fill me enough.”

Yujin couldn’t agree any more.

“Look at you, princess,” Yujin murmurs, stopping mid-stroke. “You’re drenched. That greedy little cunt didn’t get enough?”

“What do you think, Yuj—ah, fuck!”

Your eyes go right between those slender legs where Yujin works her open, the wet squelch of Wonyoung's cunt the best sound heard over the fall of water in this shower.

"Still so wet, princess. That big cock must have done a number on you. How many times did you cum all over it? Two? Three? A dozen?”

Wonyoung gasps and clutches at your forearm, nails digging right into your skin for support. And Yujin takes that as an invitation, dropping to her knees right under the spray.

Wall at your back, you hold Wonyoung by her hips and keep her steady while Yujin eats her out.

There’s nothing restrained about it. The sound of water hitting tile gets easily drowned out by the slick, lewd noises between Wonyoung’s wet, creamy thighs. You can feel her tense up, how she tries to stay upright but fails, her legs buckling with every flick.

Her head falls back against you, these beautiful whimpers that escape while Yujin is relentless, one arm hooked around Wonyoung’s thigh to keep her from squirming away. "Y-Yujin, I-I can't, oh god, I’m gonna fall—”

Breathing right in her ear, you tighten your grip, fingers digging deep into the wet flesh as you keep Wonyoung held up. "You won't."

Yujin just keeps at it, tongue buried deep, lips latched tight, licking right at her throbbing little clit, listening to the way she falls apart so easy from a simple swipe. It’s beautiful how fast it can happen, just how much Yujin can break through Wonyoung's feisty exterior like it's nothing.

"I think we’re the ones who are spoiled with how good this pussy tastes," Yujin says between long laps, barely giving a break to catch her breath. You're only there to help, to keep Wonyoung from toppling over, holding her steady for Yujin to devour.

“Y-Yujinnie, f-fuck—don’t stop,” Wonyoung breathes out as she grinds helplessly against the tongue ruining her. “Please don’t stop.”

How could she ever? Even as the sounds in the shower grow louder, more desperate, your attention is solely focused right on Wonyoung, listening to her lose all control and composure so easily. Yujin licks right at her core a little faster, lapping all over, humming with satisfaction in the taste that this needy girl provides.

"Hold her tighter," Yujin instructs as she delivers a harsh slurp on Wonyoung's sensitive clit, one that causes a sharp intake of breath that fills the whole room. “She’s shaking.”

Of course she is—anyone would if they had Yujin's mouth right between their legs, giving everything she has, nails digging in a bit into Wonyoung’s thigh, keeping her exactly where she wants her. Without pause, her tongue darts back in, swirling around that sensitive nub, and hitting the spots she knows will cause the most damage.

And the best part is, you get a closeup view when this orgasm tears right through the pretty girl that's rapidly falling apart right in your arms.

So you do nothing but hold Wonyoung tight, pressing kisses into her exposed neck, a mark or two forming wherever you decide to suck that gets her moaning a bit too loud.

Yujin is nothing but merciless. The more Wonyoung's toes curl, the louder her voice gets, the more frantic Yujin laps, fast swipes, more drawn-out flicks. Then her tongue buries inside her again, never a moment to rest, only devouring her dripping cunt to give her exactly what she deserves.

You can feel the shudders, how Wonyoung is so overcome from this sensation, writhing between your grasp. And it's happening sooner than expected, the little cries erupting through her moans, the desperation seeping in as her body starts to falter.

"Think she’s about to cum—aren’t you, princess?” you ask, kissing right behind Wonyoung's ear, that spot where you know she’s the most sensitive. Wonyoung can't respond with anything but broken moans, so Yujin does it for her.

"Good, want my fucking tongue all over her pretty pussy when she does. Want her to gush all over me." Yujin doesn't slow down for anything, doesn't miss a single moment. Not when those thighs tremble, not when her breath hitches.

"S-so close," Wonyoung whines out, in her cute, desperate voice, knowing it'll drive Yujin's efforts even more. She says little between her loud slurps, keeping a hand on Wonyoung’s quivering thigh to help stabilize the poor thing.

“You wanna cum, princess? Show us how good this is making you feel."

An all-out assault comes on her clit before she can even think of a response. Every single flick of her tongue, everything Yujin can throw her way. Wet, sloppy, utterly obscene sounds echo and fill up the room, sounding more pathetic, more erratic the closer Wonyoung gets, trying to buck those hips further against Yujin's skilled mouth.

No restraint left for Wonyoung to carry as she lets loose at the speed Yujin fucks her sopping wet pussy with her tongue. Those long, slender fingers clutch right at the back of Yujin's head, fumbling through strands of damp hair to anchor her close to her cunt.

It all just feeds Yujin to make her lose it.

All it takes is one last, achingly long lick—Yujin's tongue dragging up from her drooling slit, then sealing tight around her clit. That's what sets the fireworks off, a gentle squeeze of her thigh to send the floodgates free. Wonyoung can’t stop from shaking uncontrollably, and you struggle to hold her upright with just how strong these sensations hit.

Wonyoung cums hard—trembling in your arms, toes digging into the wet tiles beneath her feet while those pretty features contort. Her breaths come out in heavy pants with an overwhelming craving for Yujin's tongue, and gives every drop she releases, everything spilled into her mouth, cumming on her face, soaking everywhere her tongue makes contact.

It's beautiful to watch when she shatters completely. You try your best to keep Wonyoung upright as the violent spasms flow through her, legs all but useless as those moans let out right into the steam surrounding her.

"Your cunt tastes so good when you cum, princess," she praises as her tongue swipes all over those soaked folds, cleaning up whatever she can. It’s too much for Wonyoung, and Yujin is far too good at knowing how to make this high linger, her movements not slowing in the slightest.

And Wonyoung is so beautiful the way she trembles, face flushed, full lips parted, chest heaving when her cunt spills into Yujin’s insatiable mouth nonstop.

Yujin won’t let up, that throbbing clit not leaving her lips until she's dragged out the most pathetic whimpers she can. The sounds are simply too irresistible, the cries and pleas only growing the harder Yujin slurps—knowing her favorite place is in between these thighs that can't stop violently spasming.

"F-fuck—enough. Stop. Please," Wonyoung whines out, fully leaning against you and almost impossible to balance between the two of you. Yujin does eventually, but not until she's made sure to lick every single part clean, only pulling away when those lips glisten with Wonyoung, and not a single drop is wasted.

After it's all over, Yujin lifts her head up and laughs, kissing up the porcelain skin of Wonyoung’s body yet to stop shaking, moving up to share her taste. "Our pretty, spoiled little brat. Always looks so perfect when she's making a mess," Yujin says when they break apart, dipping a finger back right into her warmth to get a little extra overstimulation out of her.

"N-not my fault you're both so good at making me feel good. Have to be greedy when—when both of you ruin me so fucking well."

It's cute, to say the least. How overwhelmed and wrecked Wonyoung gets, trying so hard not to act desperate and failing every time.

You have not a thing to add, enjoying the view far more than anything else, while these two share a moment under the running water. Yujin wipes the tears in Wonyoung's eyes, kisses being placed against the pretty streaks down her face. "We didn't really get cleaned up here, did we?"

"We never do..." Wonyoung answers.

Now you're the one planting kisses on Wonyoung's wet skin, working your way from the spot behind her neck. Over her shoulders, down her bare back, Yujin does the same while she stands there, basking in the shower of attention both of you provide.

"We should get you home, Wonyoungie. Get some food in you, get some rest. Your poor cunt could use a break."

Wonyoung laughs through a sniffle, with barely enough energy to get a nod out. "My legs don't work."

"You'll live," Yujin fires back, savoring the final moments of the hot water before she shuts the shower off. She grabs a towel to dry a helpless Wonyoung, then herself, while the two of you help her to the bench, right over the mess of clothes.

"Oh yeah—daddy met someone, today. After he fucked me silly. Someone you might remember," Wonyoung says. Yujin can't help but be curious as she finishes drying off.

"Who?"

Wonyoung also can't help but look cute with a towel wrapped around her head as she sits down. "Gaeulie. You know, our old roommate. The shy nerdy girl from back when we started our first year here."

And Yujin is quiet for a second. A quick, subtle moment that lasts as long as her drying. "How could I forget? Girl ate pussy like her life depended on it. The quiet ones are always the biggest freaks in bed, I swear."

"She wasn't that shy," Wonyoung starts, fighting through a giggle at how utterly tired she looks. "When she was staring at daddy's cock after she walked in on us."

Well, now you just want to curl into a ball and disappear, now that this conversation is out in the open. Yujin doesn't show an ounce of hesitation to cackle. "Do I even wanna know where that happened?"

You give a stare. A bit of a plea for Wonyoung to leave the details a mystery. But it's pointless.

"The library, the one daddy said you were studying in earlier. All the way upstairs where that art section is that nobody fucking goes to. He fucked me right on the table that was apparently Gaeul's favorite study spot. Like, full on ruined it."

"Hey, you're the one that came all over it first, princess. No warning, just fucking flooded it," you reply, taking over the explanation.

"Not my fault you were fucking me so hard. You should already know how easy it is to make me gush in public.”

Shameless. Even when the exhaustion is setting in. Towels thrown on the ground, you think there's been enough public shenanigans for one day. You could use a night in—maybe an entire week. Some food, a nice, clean bed to spend lots of time curled up with these two brats, not even thinking about classes tomorrow.

By the time the three of you stumble in through the front door, Wonyoung can barely make it to the couch, mumbling something incoherent about ‘five orgasms in an hour is a crime,' before collapsing face down in the cushions. You'll carry her the rest of the way to the bedroom, you suppose. Up every step, down the hallway, right into the Yujin-scented sheets, as she gets to the business of ordering food.

“Don’t forget my iced americano,” Wonyoung groans into the sheets.

Yujin pauses at the edge of the bed, laughing as she starts scrolling through the menu. “It’s already pretty late. You really wanna be up all night?” There’s nothing but an incoherent sound as Wonyoung fades deeper into the pillows.

She’s hopeless.

Setting the phone on the nightstand, Yujin perks up with this flirty little smile that overtakes her features, before she lies back and drags you down with her. "Food will take about an hour, so we have time. Which means—"

You don’t even need to hear the rest of that sentence. Because now Yujin gets you alone again.

Well, alone is a generous term. Wonyoung is just a few feet away in a sprawled-out heap, but very much not conscious, clinging to a pillow and drifting out of the conversation. "Whenever you wanna join in, princess, feel free."

Maybe the idea of that will bring her back. Yujin kisses her on the forehead and brushes some hair away that’s fallen before returning her attention right to you.

"So, daddy, she's exhausted, you're still hard…” Oh, there’s that look again, the one that ensures neither of you will get any rest any time soon. “We might as well find a way to pass the time. No holding back.”

As if you’re not already craving her, stripping her down in seconds, kissing every inch of that sinful body and exploring those decadent curves.

Throw your clothes somewhere, anywhere, as long as you get inside Yujin fast. Pin her knees to her chest, fold her in half and fuck her into the mattress until she can't do anything but scream your name. Make her cum more times than she can handle. Make her tight pussy flood the sheets until they're ruined, until she's ruined—that cunt so wet you can barely keep your cock inside.

Fuck her right next to Wonyoung—your cock hammering so deep that Yujin can't stop shaking, your balls can't stop slapping against her ass, her voice can't stop falling apart.

This slur of obscenities that gets reduced to ‘harder, daddy,” and ‘ruin me like you do Wonyoung’ until the sounds of hot flesh on hot flesh slapping together get deafening. You’ll give her everything she wants, spoil her, fuck her senseless and drive your cock so hard that there’s a modicum of worry that you’ll break the bed.

Even if you did, that would only be a bonus. When you can turn that sweet smile into something so depraved, make her legs shake when you pound her so hard and deep. And she’ll beg for more, whimper with every breath, clutch at the sheets while you use her, every thrust unforgiving, every single slam an echoing thud against the wall.

She’s still coherent when you’re about ready to fill her up, which means you’re not fucking her hard enough. And she’ll tell you the same, blur the lines between a plea and demand.

“Fucking cum inside me, you’re not done pounding me until I’m dripping you everywhere—“ That’s what she says to get what she wants. Nothing new, but still enough to keep your hips moving, keep her legs folded in the air, keep her toes curling when Yujin just can’t stop cumming on your cock.

You’ll oblige, because all you can think of is unloading inside that tight, little warm cunt, fucking your seed deep, keeping her bent in half so obscenely, so her womb gets everything you give her, not a drop escaping. You’ll fuck her through all the creaks, even when she gets so impossibly slick with how hard you’re ravaging that warm little hole, feet dangling helplessly in the air through every single gasp and daddy. Those beautiful sounds.

But the best sound is Wonyoung stirring to life next to you. Just to watch Yujin get her creamy little cunt destroyed—watch you bury every fucking inch in that tight fucking heat.

"Yujin—"

With Wonyoung’s eyes wide and locked on the depravity of this scene, watching Yujin folded in half, legs thrown up, pussy stretched and dripping as your cock slams into her, and the wet smack of your thrusts echoing through the room—you can’t hold back. Can’t do anything but bury yourself balls fucking deep and unload, groaning as you fill her up while Wonyoung watches it all. Eyes glued while you fuck this satisfaction deeper, already overflowing, pooling on the sheets that have no chance of surviving.

One more greedy orgasm for Yujin when it all spills inside, eyes rolling back, clenching hard to help milk your throbbing cock dry.

"S-so fucking full, daddy—so warm, so deep, fuck, feels so good…” Even after that delicious cunt empties you, twitching around your cock as it milks the last remnants of cum from your balls, Yujin keeps clenching hard—greedy, insatiable, her body refusing to let you slip out. Her legs shift when they fall down, wrapping around your waist to keep you buried deep.

You kiss Yujin while you still throb in that mess you’ve left in her, those delicious thighs far too powerful to let you escape. Which you’re more than happy to linger here, even with Wonyoung to the side.

"Fucking wrecked me," Yujin gasps through a smile, no concern for anything but keeping you trapped inside. “Those poor balls just can’t stay full around us, can they?”

Not a chance.

"You two were so loud," Wonyoung chimes in, sitting up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "Like, can't pretend to not notice, kind of loud."

Yujin, all naked and sweaty, laughs and leans in to kiss Wonyoung on the cheek while she tries to catch her breath. "You were louder earlier, brat."

Then it’s quiet for a solitary moment. Just the sound of your breathing, the fan overhead, Yujin's playful little giggle in the aftermath. Those legs still wrapped tight, your cock still buried, still throbbing—

The doorbell rings downstairs.

You forgot all about the food. The timing is impeccable. You can't possibly be expected to leave the bed like this, and neither can Yujin. Wonyoung groans when the realization sets in, and Yujin tosses a smile her way.

"Princess, would you mind getting the door?"

A heavy sigh falls out as Wonyoung reluctantly detangles herself, somehow the least wrecked of the three. "Wonyoung to the rescue once again, because you two idiots fucked each other senseless."

Yujin nuzzles against the nape of her neck, brushing kisses over the warm skin to show her appreciation. "Be careful carrying the bag, might be too heavy..." she warns while Wonyoung glares as best she can. Sauntering out of bed, Wonyoung just scoffs with a little bit of extra hesitation in her step.

"Just because I'm the only one who can still use their legs—" she grumbles as she heads down the stairs to get the door open, one step at a time. "Doesn't mean I have to do everything."

"Thanks, princess."

It's morning. Monday morning to be exact.

You're naked, Yujin isn’t. She’s still getting ready for class when you find her, that sinful pair of lingerie you bought her last week hugging her curves just right. The light purple looks so good against her soft skin, wrapped in lace and devilish temptations. She doesn’t even notice you at first, adjusting a strap.

“You weren’t supposed to see this yet,” she says, catching your stare in the mirror. But Yujin doesn’t cover up, doesn't blush. She just smirks, lets the moment simmer, lets you stare. You step in close, pressing up against her body from behind—drinking in the view of those wide hips where the lace barely hides the full curves of her ass, the fabric almost daring to be pulled aside.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t walk around in it,” you reply back, not bothering to be subtle in the way your hands slide down, squeezing her ass while she melts under your touch.

“Not my fault you have no self-control, daddy. Still hard? Wonyoungie didn't do a good enough job taking care of that?" Yujin asks, her voice getting far too sultry this early.

"That mouth drives me fucking crazy, but—"

Yujin doesn't even turn around, hand reaching back to give a firm, forceful grasp that drives a groan right past your lips. "But you need someone to properly take care of this?" she continues for you, glancing up through the reflection while your breath hitches with her perfect grip.

"Something like that."

Those soft, cute giggles are always your favorite thing to hear in the morning. Even while she pushes her hips back against you, grinding enough to feel your hardness. “I’ve got ten minutes. Think that’s enough time to do something about this?”

She knows it’s plenty.

Yujin stares in the mirror as you grab her hips, and slide your cock right in the gap between her delicious thighs, all silky and warm. Not saying a word, she just bends a little, her thighs clenching so all that supple flesh traps your shaft tight, just how you like them. And then the soft little moans she makes when you graze against her cunt and thrust forward are heaven, the lace enough of a tease.

Your hands tighten around her as you take the lead, pumping through that velvety flesh and fucking Yujin’s thighs, slow, deliberate drags back, slamming forward when you need more. It’s this combination of your moans and the friction of your cock dragging through her thighs that fills the space. Her hands flatten on the countertop, leaning her weight into it, so you can use her like this—more leverage to drive in between.

Yujin doesn't even need to do anything. Just stand there, watch your face twist in pleasure, and look pretty.

"God, daddy," Yujin murmurs, lips parted when you graze against the right spot. “You’re such a menace in the morning."

You can hardly even think straight to respond to that. "You show up in the bathroom wearing this, and you expect me not to be? Look at these thighs, Yujin. Can't blame a guy for going crazy over these."

"Can't a girl just look sexy without you wanting to blow a fat load all over them?" she asks, with this mocking bat of her eyelashes, through every long, overwhelming stroke of your dick between those succulent thighs. "Poor daddy. So obsessed with fucking my thighs that he'll do anything for it."

She says that like there's not a gasp or moan leaving her every few thrusts while you do so. No—she wants this as much as you. The fabric of her panties gets wetter by the second, but Yujin just smiles to herself, keeping herself braced on the vanity counter while you thrust—those heavenly thighs only encouraging your lust and desperation.

You’ve completely lost control, pace quickening without thought as your hands clamp down on her hips, fingers digging in. Every time your cock glides through that soft, pillowy flesh, a shameless groan escapes at how you can’t stand how good Yujin feels, only getting better.

"Don't ruin these pretty panties, daddy—they're my new favorite. Haven't even gotten to leave the house with them on, yet."

Oh, like you care. Like she cares. So much prettier if there's a huge stain covering them from your load, and she'd agree. Not that there's a chance of holding back, not when Yujin feels so perfect, when her thighs suffocate your cock so well.

"Too late."

They're ruined before you even get there—you thrust harder, fucking her silky-smooth thighs so fast that her ass jiggles just a little more each time you're buried between them. Yujin watches you fall apart, eyes locked on the mirror on how your cock thrusts between her thighs, matching your desperation with how she whimpers from her own sensitive clit rubbing against the lace so soaked and dripping wet.

Those thighs trap your dick as you fuck them faster, rougher, rapid thrusts plunging between the flawless skin, each stroke more frantic than the last. The friction, the heat, the way she squeezes around you—it’s too much. Her ass bounces with every thrust, right until the moment where you’re about to lose it all. There's only a split-second before it's too late to warn—a quiet groan into Yujin's ear.

And then, you erupt.

Bursting hard right between her thighs, over the expensive fabric, throbbing as you release a mess of thick, pearly spurts all over those poor panties. They're covered in you. She'll never wear these without remembering your hands gripping her hips, your seed clinging to every thread of fabric, smearing between her thighs.

“Daddy really ruined these,” Yujin says, like she’s not the one still helping milk your cock with her thighs as your cum stains them, a stray spurt that hits the mirror that only makes her smile widen. "Fuck, I can feel you everywhere. Just covered in daddy's cum..."

And you’re not the least bit apologetic.

Not when you’re still throbbing between her thighs, with this sticky load that clings to the lace. “Almost as good as filling that tight little pussy. Unless you want that next.”

Only then does your cock slip free, so Yujin can turn around and glance at you properly, giving a good look at the mess you’ve made on her. "Too bad we have class, then. Unless… we're planning to skip so you can finish what you've started."

That'd be so damn tempting. To stay in the bathroom with Yujin, rip those ruined panties right off and fuck her over the sink until you fill her over and over. But the responsibilities weigh more heavily—and so much work lies ahead if you miss a lecture.

"Another time, Yujinnie. Gotta leave something for you to drain later.”

The little pout that she gives is almost enough to make you change your mind. So is that smile. "Aw, look at daddy, being all boring and responsible.”

"Forgive me. Maybe I can rail you in the bathroom between classes if you're a good girl."

"And when has that ever happened? Me, good? Have I ever not been a complete handful?" Yujin reminds you.

Never, of course. You’d be shocked if she suddenly turned over a new leaf—and honestly, a little disappointed. This is the girl who drops to her knees while the coffee’s still brewing, who’ll let you fuck her face while the bagels toast.

The same girl who will slip a hand down your pants in the middle of class and jerk you off with a straight face, chewing her pen while pretending to take notes. Yujin isn't the type of girl to listen and behave.

And you'd never want her to be.

#ive smut #yujin smut #wonyoung smut #kpop smut #male reader #reader insert #girl group smut #wonyoung x reader #yujin x reader

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starmapz · 2 days ago

Text

what you know - ch19: crash || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. self-loathing. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). medical content. minor descriptions of wounds. tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 25k.

❦ a/n ; tags have been updated. see you at the bottom :)

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

After awakening with a jolt to an alarm clock that felt as though it was going off far too early (only to realize you’d actually gone to sleep far too late), your morning passes with little fanfare. For you, at least.

Sukuna wakes up to the sound of your alarm as well, but his eyes only flutter open to the sound of your footsteps. The usual lethargy of waking up after passing out mid-workout doesn’t constrict his muscles or muddle his mind. He feels oddly refreshed, having gotten a half-decent sleep for the first time in…

He doesn’t really know how long.

Peeking one eye open, he watches as you slowly creak his door open, trying to keep quiet as best as you can to give your friend the opportunity to sleep.

“I’m awake,” he informs you huskily, his voice sending a tingle straight up your spine.

When you come into view with a soft ‘sorry if I woke you!’, Sukuna just can’t help it. Your legs are bare, and his extremely oversized T-shirt hangs down over your form to just above your knees.

It’s undeniably hot, and it makes you look like you’re his to hold at night.

Shit.

Your hold on your change of clothes tightens as you scamper to the washroom, his eyes never once leaving you. They trail on the door, even as his cock twitches in his pants. He shuts his eyes, draping his arm over his face and taking a deep breath as he’s forced to adjust his sweats.

He ends up settling for a thick and inconspicuous (he hopes, despite the warmer weather) blanket to keep attention away from his issue and settles on a cold shower the moment you’re out of the washroom.

As he climbs into the shower in a surprising hurry, you rush out the front door half-past seven and make your way to class with ten minutes to spare, and a chance to text Shoko.

The verdict? Everything Sukuna’s been doing as of late can’t mean nothing, and Shoko had been more than positive before your falling out that Sukuna had been into you, but now she’s equally as wary as you in potentially starting something. Her med school (and psychology) instincts kicked in as she told you that even if you simply tried to engage with him at the wrong time, it could set him off with how things have been lately.

Unfortunately for you, that means more waiting. Waiting it out, and seeing what Sukuna could be thinking under all of those layers of grumpiness.

Which puts you back at square one.

How convenient.

You contemplate asking Uraume their thoughts, but you don’t get the opportunity to track them down before work. In fact, you don’t even manage to get to work without a flood of messages that you don’t have time to read while driving, or on your way to work after class. As messages continue to flood in, you catch a glance of Sukuna’s contact, but you figure you’ll see him momentarily.

Your heels clack across the floor as you make your way past the open desks and cubicles until you reach Sukuna’s office tucked into the corner opposite yours and Yuki’s. Poking your head into the room, you blink at the realization that he isn’t there. You scan the office, but you can’t tell whether he’s been in at all today.

Pulling your phone back out, you begin reading through them as more pour in.

10:17 AM Kuna || she played dirty and she won

10:17 AM Kuna || she fucking won

10:18 AM Kuna || what the fuck

10:18 AM Kuna || what the fuck am i supposed to do

10:19 AM Kuna || so fucking pissed

The smallest of breaks between messages, and then-

10:21 AM Kuna || she didnt watn them

10:21 AM Kuna || she left

10:21 AM Kuna || she cheated on my dad

10:22 AM Kuna || i wouldnt have stopped her if she took them back then

10:23 AM Kuna || would have thought she loved them

10:23 AM Kuna || all she cares about is money

10:24 AM Kuna || i guhess she fucking has it now

10:25 AM Kuna || alll of it

10:27 AM Kuna || mine too

You suck in a sharp breath, fiddling with the hem of the dress you changed into after wearing Sukuna’s hoodie all morning. You’re not positive where this outburst is coming from, but you can definitely make an assumption based on the fact that he had a meeting with his lawyer this morning right after you left and he’s not here yet.

10:34 AM Kuna || she can go to hell

His next message arrives as you start typing, followed by another one before you can get a word in edgewise.

10:35 AM Kuna || legal bullshit

10:36 AM Kuna || dont fucking get it

At the realization that his messages just keep coming, you opt to just call him. He picks up on the first ring, launching immediately into whatever thought crosses his mind.

“‘M so fucking done with all the legal bullshit, just gonna go to that tech event thing myself and grab them!” he barks into the phone without so much as a hello, picking up right where his texts left off. Wind whips in the background of wherever he is, the ambient sound of an engine muffling some of his words.

Your brow raises and you hold the phone slightly away from your poor ear. “Slow down Ryo, what’s going on?” You do your best to stay level-headed though you get the feeling you know what’s wrong already.

“That fuckin’ devil is still playing me,” he growls out his explanation in the loosest of terms.

“Okay…” your brow furrows as you shut his office door so that no one overhears your conversation. The last thing you need is a gossip-heavy office talking behind your back.

“This whole thing, it doesn’t matter what I fuckin’ do-”

“Sukuna,” you state his name with enough authority to get his attention. “What happened?”

He huffs with enough exasperation that you can practically feel the flames of his anger licking your skin through the phone. “Kaori-” his voice cracks, his poor throat giving in under the weight of his emotions as of late. You hear him suck in a breath, balancing on a precipice of fury and anxiety. “She tried to pay off my lawyer. Ms. Harte said she didn’t take the bribe, but she also doesn’t think an appeal will go through no matter what, n’ I dunno what to believe anymore,” he rambles. “There’s nothing I can do, there’s no fuckin’ point in any of this.”

Sukuna’s not exactly one to ramble, so you can only assume the words are just falling from his lips like a current. Taken by the tide, and washing ashore in a mess of thoughts.

“I can’t get past the first fucking step because I’m broke and all she had to do was sleep with some rich bastard to win.” You can practically hear his teeth grinding through the receiver. “The lawyer even thinks if we could get this to court and get a fair trial that we could win with the new evidence, but how the fuck am I meant to get that far? The court’s in Kaori’s fucking pocket!”

Your jaw hangs ajar as you listen to his panicked explanation, the anxiety sinking in and settling within the marrow of your very bones. Clutching your stomach, you take cautious steps forward in Sukuna’s office, taking a seat on his desk. It’s hard to find an answer and comfort him when your own outlook is beginning to fizzle out as everything becomes more hopeless, little by little.

“And that’s if I can even trust my lawyer at this point.” There’s a tremble to the cadence of his voice as he grows more and more manic by the second. “I can’t afford another fucking lawyer, I can’t even afford this one, I- I don’t-” His voice breaks, along with your heart as his life doesn’t just fall apart yet again, it crumbles into pieces that you aren’t sure can be picked up.

Searching for anything that might pull him back to earth, you let out a shaky breath and do what you can to keep yourself even for him. “We can talk to Hiromi again, maybe-”

“It doesn’t fucking matter!” Sukuna barks on the other line. You blink in surprise, though he can’t see your expression. You can understand his frustrations, you know better than to take his outburst personally. “She won! She fucking won!”

“You can’t give up,” is all you can think to mumble, but you know it’s of no help to either of you.

“Princess,” he sighs, teeth audibly gritted. He holds his tongue to keep from saying something he’ll regret. “It’s over. There’s nothing I can do. There’s no higher family court to appeal to, there’s nothing else to accuse her of.” There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. “I’m done.”

“Well, wait, what about if she cheated on your dad?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he grumbles, defeated. “Doesn’t fucking matter anymore. It’s all family court, and she owns them.”

“Could you file in a different city, maybe get around the courts here? She can’t have paid off everyone.”

“Look-” he swallows hard, trying to keep his voice at a reasonable level. “I tried, okay? That’s not how shit works.” Even as he actively focuses on keeping his voice even, it breaks.

You quietly sniffle, wiping carefully under your eye in an effort to avoid smudging your makeup at the realization that hot tears are silently streaming down your face. “I just don’t want…” You think better of saying you wish things didn’t turn out this way, that you miss the kids like they’re your family. The last thing he needs is to hear your disappointment at the failure.

“I know,” he mutters shakily. “You think I wanted to lose them?” He hisses, which only causes your tears to stream faster. “Think I just-” He chokes on his words. “I need some air.”

Two monotone beeps let you know that the line has cut out. You pull the phone back from your ear, staring at the screen that says ‘call ended’. Your thumb trembles as you attempt to call him back, scrolling to his contact, but it only rings twice. He must be declining your calls.

Burying your face in your palms, you can’t even be bothered to worry about your makeup anymore. It’s smudged as-is. For once, you let yourself cry. Really cry. It’s been a long time since you’ve indulged in a moment to yourself, and you’re grateful you’re alone in Sukuna’s office, away from your colleagues. Sure, you’ll need to face them eventually, but for now this moment is yours.

Tears trail your cheeks, getting caught in the divots of your fingers. The excess of salty liquid drips down your wrists and chin, dotting the fabric of your dress as your throat and chest constrict. You can’t possibly help that you grew so close to Sukuna’s little brothers when you were around them for so long. Your heart tries so desperately to cling to whatever ounce of hope there might be as ideas swirl in your mind.

Is it really hopeless?

Are his options only to pull an illegal stunt that won’t last or to drown himself in debt?

You drag your hands down your face, staring at your hands in your lap with a sniffle. The purple and red bracelets around your wrist are still tied tightly, hanging like a badge of honor that feels more like a loss now. That badge has warped into something unrecognizable, like a monster with roots tied so tightly around your heart, you're not sure you’ll ever really let go of that pain.

You sniffle again, wiping under your eyes once more as you begin to settle. Weariness plagues your bones, as if the three and a half hours of sleep from the previous night wasn’t enough, now you’ve worn yourself dry.

With nothing left to give, you hop from Sukuna’s desk with heavy feet and a heavier heart. Keeping your head down, you clutch your belongings tightly, heading for the washroom as your new reality settles in.

–

By the time you finish what’s frankly a half-assed attempt to fix your makeup, you tiredly make your way back to your desk, brushing Yuki off under the guise of having a long day. She doesn’t buy it, but she gives you the silence you clearly want. Your attention is elsewhere all morning, your head in the clouds and mind on the two little boys who you fear you’ll see across social media for the rest of their lives.

Every sigh and glance at your phone has Yuki staring uncertainly across her desk at you, tapping her neatly manicured nails on the desk. By the fourth time you’ve flipped your phone to check it in less than five minutes, she shuts her laptop and clasps her hands, leaning forward.

“Girl, talk to me. You’re not just tired,” she pointedly juts her chin out at your phone as you flip it back over.

Carefully rubbing the corner of your eye in an attempt to keep your makeup from smudging, you brush her off again. “It’s fine, Yuki. I’m alright, just worried about someone.”

Yuki is rarely this serious, prone to nonchalance and boredom, so her stare bores into you. Averting your gaze, you pick up a pen and fiddle with it, clicking it a number of times as if it might protect you from the way her gaze threatens to pick you apart.

“Fine,” she relents with a sigh. “But go take a walk, or something. I hate to see you like this,” she frowns genuinely, leaning her chin on her knuckles. “Actually here,” she reaches into her bag and pulls out a bill. “Take this, coffee’s on me.”

You hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“‘Course!” She beams, straightening in her chair. “I’ll text you my order.”

You shoot her a tight-lipped smile and push out of your chair, stopping just outside of your office to quickly check your phone.

Just once more.

Maybe he’ll have responded this time.

You’ll give it a break after.

Sighing at the sight of your unread (and unanswered) texts, you push that thought aside and shove your phone in your pocket.

“Hey, intern!”

You spin on your heel, turning to face- unfortunately- Reggie. He’s pulled his long blonde hair up into a bun, a sly grin plastered across his face.

“Hey,” you greet him with as much enthusiasm as you can muster. Unfortunately for him, that’s pretty much none right now. It’s been a long day, and you don’t need him adding to your misfortune.

“I hear you’re headed on a coffee run.”

You can see where this is going from a mile away. Sighing, you give in. It’s not worth it to fight with him right now. “Yeah. What do you want?”

“Well, I was thinking, why don’t you get the whole office coffee?”

That turns a few heads and you frown. “Are you paying?”

Reggie chuckles. “C’mon. It’s just a few coffees.”

Maybe he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, you can’t be sure, but god damn it, it’s working. “There’s like twenty of you here. I can’t afford that.”

“You’re getting paid, aren’t you?” He sneers, leaning in slightly to block you from leaving the office until he gets what he wants.

You take a step back to keep your distance from him, standing your ground with a grimace. “I work two half-days a week, Reggie,” you point out in an effort to de-escalate the situation before you need to take it to Maya. The last thing you need is to cause a scene in an internship you hope to turn full-time.

Especially given the state of your scholarship.

Which also got you this job.

What a shitshow.

“That’s enough to spend a little extra on coffee, no?” He takes another step forward, prodding your arm.

Your expression hardens as irritation courses through your veins. You know better than to let him step on you. “No. I have other things to deal with. You can give me money to get you coffee, or get it yourself.”

“Leave her alone, Reg!” Yuki calls from over your shoulder within her office, turning more heads towards the commotion at the front. You shrink at the realization that all eyes are on you, holding your phone tightly to your chest.

“Tell ya what,” he offers, crossing his arms over his chest with a condescending grin and narrowed eyes. He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “The rest of the office can pay for their own, but I’ll pay you back with some training.” He shrugs, sliding his hand smoothly up your arm to rest a bit too close to your neck for your comfort. “How’s that sound?”

A shiver runs up your spine as you shrug his hand off. Your grip on the device in your hands tightens as you keep your head up, inhaling deeply and standing your ground out of principle, now. “No. Get your own-”

“Thought we decided you weren’t gonna make a habit of not listening to her,” Sukuna interrupts. He’s got a light coat on and must have just walked in and heard the last few seconds of your conversation. He places a firm hand on Reggie’s shoulder, eyes ablaze as his fingers dig into the pleated suit the sleazy man dons.

You purse your lips, the confrontation with Reggie completely forgotten as a flurry of questions for Sukuna arise, but you don’t get the chance to ask.

“C’mon, man. I’m just trying to get a coffee. That’s the whole point of an intern, right?”

Sukuna leans in, placing pressure down on Reggie’s shoulder. The blonde’s eyes flicker down to the hand on his shoulder, and back up to the pair of crimson eyes searing his cheek. “She said no, but I can get that through your thick skull with my fist if you want.”

It’s hard to forget just how big of a guy Sukuna is, but when he’s standing menacingly over Reggie’s shoulder with eyes alight with rage, it really puts it into perspective. Reggie isn’t small either, but Sukuna makes him look like he is.

“Sukuna, it’s fine. We were just finishing up our conversation,” you murmur with a pleading look. Any other day, this altercation would dissolve here and now, but you can see it in his eyes. He wants a fight. He’s a man who thinks he’s hit rock-bottom, with nothing to lose and no fear of consequences. He wants Reggie to make a wrong move.

Reggie stands off silently with Sukuna, before your friend thankfully decides to back down, every muscle visibly taut beneath his deep red dress shirt. He gives a small shove to Reggie’s shoulder as he pulls his hand down, eyeing him furiously as he aims to brush past you and head to his office for some peace and quiet.

“Who shoved a stick up his ass?” Reggie mutters loud enough that the poor receptionist turns with widened eyes to hiss his name as he flattens his shirt.

Sukuna’s head whips around equally as quickly. The fires of Hell burn ferociously behind his eyes as he’s provoked by your shitty coworker, and you watch in horror as he trudges heavily up to the blonde man. “You don’t wanna know,” Sukuna hisses, jaw set with a rage so primal, you’ve never seen him quite like this.

Frozen in horror at the exchange over something that you could have handled, you can only watch, dazed, as Sukuna’s fist grips the front of Reggie’s beige dress shirt.

“Oh my god,” the receptionist squeaks as she slips out of her seat and towards you, attempting to pull you away. Her presence thaws you, and you leap at Sukuna, grabbing his raised arm in horror before it collides with Reggie’s face.

“Sukuna, please,” you gasp. His irises flick to the side, eyeing you through his peripherals. His body is physically shaking, his chest rising and falling quickly with each breath as he examines your expression. “I had it handled. I promise,” you assure him.

It takes a moment, but he huffs. He shoves Reggie back with enough force that he collides with the edge of the reception desk, just barely catching himself before he slides to the floor. His eyes are wide with genuine fear as Sukuna turns on his heel again.

“She’s not your assistant,” are his last words before he storms off into his office, slamming the door behind him. Every pair of eyes in the office is on you and Reggie, no one daring to say a word before Yuki leaps from her chair to jump into action.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” She places one hand on either of your biceps, looking you up and down.

You nod, casting a glance back at Sukuna’s office. “I’m fine,” you dismiss her worries, peering past her at the blonde man. “He’s going through a lot right now, sorry Reggie.” You apologize on your friend’s behalf, but honestly? You wouldn’t be that opposed to seeing him get some sense knocked into him. Still, work isn’t the place, and you need this situation to simmer down, lest you both lose your jobs.

Reggie’s brows are knit tightly together as he smooths his shirt back down. “Fucking HR violation,” he grumbles, pushing past you and Yuki with a shove to your shoulder.

“Shit,” you mumble as he heads straight for Maya’s office.

“Sorry, Yuki,” you excuse yourself with a grateful smile, avoiding the continued stares of the rest of the office as you jog on your heels to Sukuna’s office. You rap your knuckles against the door, chancing a glance towards Maya’s office.

You can really only pray that Sukuna isn’t outright fired at this point. Hell, this might even be bad for you.

“Let me in, Ryo,” you plead loud enough for him to hear you through the door as you jiggle the locked handle. He relents after a moment, cracking the door open just enough for you to slip in and shut it behind you.

Sukuna’s mind is blurry with smoke, and what parts aren’t are shrouded with the fire that caused it. There’s no clarity to his movements as he paces back and forth in frustration, his eyes flickering wildly around the nooks and crannies of his office.

“That fucking asshole,” Sukuna hisses the moment the door is shut. The room within is suffocating, the smoke of his rage filling the room, and in turn your lungs. You frown, opening your mouth to say something, but you’re interrupted by his mindless rambles of frustration. “Thinks he’s all that just because his salary has a few extra zeros in it, must be fuckin’ nice.”

Sighing, you take a step towards your friend. Your gaze trails after him as he continues back and forth across the worn laminate floor. His shoes squeak with each turn, his hands balled into fists at his side.

“He’s not worth it,” you shake your head, grimacing. “He’s just an asshole because he knows he can be.”

“Wish I had that sort of job security,” he grumbles.

You flash him a wry smile, moving on. “Can we talk about this morning?” You try, hoping to get to the root of what caused this outburst in the first place.

He stops dead in his tracks, turning to face you with an equally defeated and frustrated expression. “What’s there to talk about?” He shrugs at you, exasperated.

“Well, there’s gotta be more options-”

“There aren’t!” He barks, inhaling sharply as he lowers his voice. “There aren’t.” He swallows hard, guilt wrapping its painfully steady hands around his throat and twisting as he sees you frown. He averts his gaze, as the floor suddenly becomes tenfold more interesting.

It’s painful to watch any signs of life drain from his eyes, leaving behind a husk as he avoids your eyes. You know he didn’t mean to snap, you don’t hold that against him. It’s not directed at you.

Chewing on your lip, you swallow down the lump in your throat, doing what you can to keep any more tears from falling. Sucking in a deep breath, you move past him and hop up on his desk. “Can you at least make a new case for visitation?”

He shrugs, shaking his head. Dull crimson irises fix you with a stare, though there’s no emotion behind them. “Went over that. Kaori fucked my chances of seeing ‘em.”

“But Yuji’s five,” you point out, accidentally salting his wound. “That’s twelve years before…” You can’t even finish the sentence, trailing off.

He winces at the reminder. “I know. That’s if he even cares by the time he’s eighteen,” he scoffs, shaking his head again. The little boy barely understands a lick of what’s going on, how’s he supposed to understand that Sukuna didn’t abandon him?

“Are you sure you went over everything?”

He shuts his eyes, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he takes a breath in order to keep his frustrations at bay. “Yes.” He knows you just want him to elaborate, but he doesn’t fucking want to. “My lawyer thinks Kaori’s paid off everyone in the family courts in town. Nothing will get past them, whether it’s an appeal, or a new lawsuit. I can’t submit out of town since that’s not how shit works, I can’t submit anything to the law society because they sponsor Kamo events, so they’re with him too, there’s fucking nothing.” He pushes his hands back through his hair, balling his fists and gritting his teeth. “It’s over,” he growls, turning away from you.

You can barely withhold your own tears, your lip trembling in the grip of your teeth as your vision blurs. Sukuna turns back towards you, examining your expression, but you can’t bear to let him see that this is breaking you, too. Staring down at your lap, you shudder as you fight off the betrayal of your body. A tear slips down your cheek and you quickly wipe it.

If Sukuna felt hollow upon seeing your frown, the shell keeping him from breaking down cracks upon seeing a tear fall from your chin. He physically aches to reach out and pull you tightly to him, to reassure you that everything will be okay, but he can’t bring himself to. He’s the cause of this. He pulled you in, he kept you close, and he let you down. He’ll blame himself for a lifetime, and it’s easier to handle his own guilt if he keeps you at a distance.

Right?

He bites down on the inside of his cheek as his thoughts race. Why does it feel as though he’s constantly fighting himself when it comes to you?

He takes a step back, peering back at his door as he hears the clack of heels. He already knows he’s probably fired, but he can’t bring himself to care. He can make things work at the auto shop, no one is relying on him to put food on the table anymore but himself.

He lowers his head, every emotion flooding the cavity of his chest as fear, melancholy, guilt, and overwhelming disappointment bloom. Each motion takes root in his veins, thorny tendrils all gripping at a different piece of him. Like a blow to the chest, he stumbles forward to face the door, opening it before Maya can knock.

With a hollow expression, he faces his boss. Tight-lipped, her brow twitches as she scrutinizes Sukuna, before speaking. “My office, please.”

He nods. “Can I have a moment?”

“You may,” she agrees. The telltale clack of her heels, authoritative even in gait, disappear behind the door. Slowly, he turns back to you, and despite how good things had been for just a few days before this, it’s as though that piece of him has already been buried. His movements are languid as he leans back against the door, facing you.

He’s not sure what words there even are to say to you at this point. Sorry he fucked up? Sorry he fucked up and yelled at you and made you cry? Sorry that he lost his brothers and made all three of the people he truly loves all lose faith in him?

He chokes on air at the mere thought, coughing into his elbow. Feelings are one thing, sure, but does he love you? The thought came so easily, like second nature.

“Are you okay?” You ask as you wipe any remnants of tears from beneath your lash line, brows knit tightly together with concern.

He lifts a hand, catching his breath between coughs. As they die down, he clears his throat, though his words still come out as a croak. “I’m fine.”

What a sickening realization to come to after losing his brothers while on the precipice of being fired.

You wait for his breathing to clear before fixing him with your concerned and fearful gaze again. “I know you don’t wanna talk about it right now, but are you sure you’ve thought of everything?”

He shuts his eyes, letting out another small cough. He doesn’t want to deal with these questions right now. He doesn’t want to think about the anger boiling in his gut, or that he hasn’t had time to process the fact that his fight is over. He doesn’t want to fall apart at work, no matter the fact that he’s about to lose his job.

He just wants to keep that last shred of dignity.

He takes in a breath, but even so, the simmering in his stomach threatens to boil over. “Yes,” he replies, somewhere between neutral and a growl.

Your shoulders fall, another tear trailing down your cheek. It’s not your fight, but you’re not ready to give up. You’re not sure you’ll ever be.

“Look,” he sighs, averting his gaze as a gleam of salty liquid shines in a line down your cheek. “You can stay here as long as you want, okay? I’ve gotta…” He points back over his shoulder with his thumb in the direction of Maya’s office. With a sluggish turn, he’s halfway facing the door when he pauses and says, “dunno if I ever mentioned it before, but… thanks. For getting me this job. I liked it.”

Liked.

You frown as he shuts the door. Liked. He thinks he’s getting fired too. You lean back on your palms against his desk, staring at the ceiling as the hope that had made last night feel so familiar and freeing is sucked away without even really allowing either of you the chance to breathe. It’s just one thing after another, beating him down until there’s nothing left. All at once, the life you’d seen reinvigorating him, it’s nothing but gone.

And in all honesty, you really enjoyed working with him.

Your head whips down to the door and you wipe at your puffy cheeks to clear up the evidence of your tears as it occurs to you that he’s in this mess because of you. You never asked him to jump in and violence is not the answer, but with the day he’s having and Reggie pushing his buttons, you understand what brought him to that point. He’s made it clear that you’re dear to him, and while that’s another subject entirely, it also adds clarity to why he might go so far as to cause a fight in the middle of his office.

For you.

You blink at the door that he disappeared from only a couple of minutes prior.

Shit.

Pushing up from the desk, your shoes hit the laminate floors in a flurry as you jog to Maya’s office, rapping your knuckles on the door hurriedly.

“It’ll need to wait,” she calls through the door.

“It’s about your meeting!” You call back, your brow knit together with concern. Sukuna’s damn near lost everything over the last couple of weeks, how could you possibly sit there and let him lose his job too when he was only trying to protect you from harassment?

There’s shuffling behind the door for a moment before Maya peeks her head out with a serious expression. “What is it?”

“He was just looking out for me,” you blurt, hushed to keep the rest of the office from listening in. You can feel their eyes boring into you. Your boss frowns, but before she can get any sort of reply in, words are already falling from your lips again. “I know he went about things the wrong way, but it’s been a really tough few weeks, and he could really use a break and he told me he actually really likes this job, and-”

Maya interrupts your rambling with a tight smile as she says your name. “He’s lucky to have someone like you looking out for him.”

Your chest warms with pride and you open your mouth to reply, but Maya continues.

“I’m not firing him,” she sighs, “he’s good at his job and he’s really good with everyone except Reggie.” She takes a full step out of her office, shutting the door behind her and leaving Sukuna isolated within. She points to Reggie’s office, where from the entrance you can just make out the silhouette of the man packing up his belongings with a little bit more force than necessary. “He thinks he’s untouchable just because we’re related, but he’s not. I won’t tolerate harassment here.”

You bring a hand up to your neck where he’d cradled it in relief, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction at the idea of no longer needing to work alongside the man.

“There’s a camera at reception,” she explains. “I heard everything he said. I was meaning to call you to my office next. Are you okay? Do you need to speak with anyone?”

Your lips purse as you stare up at her. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

She nods, a grateful gleam in her eyes. “Don’t be afraid to come to me if someone ever treats you like that.”

“Thanks, Maya.”

“Anytime. Let me know if you need anything.”

Nodding, you watch as she disappears behind the door once more, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. You return to your office, slumping back into your chair and sliding Yuki’s cash back across her desk. “Do you mind if I take a rain check on coffee?”

Shooting you a sympathetic look, she shakes her head. “Next week we’ll go together,” she agrees.

Your chest rises and falls as you let out a breath, staring up at the ceiling as you contemplate the mess that intertwines you and the once-mysterious brute.

–

The sun is just barely casting light over the grass and leaves that decorate the trees outside when Sukuna stretches his arms over his head. He yawns, pausing the music in his headphones to stare out his office window. He spins in his seat to watch the passing people below with ice cream in-hand and a dog trailing behind. They’re followed after by two kids excitedly holding their treats in the air like prizes.

Averting his eyes, he’s quick to reach for his music, looking for anything to stop the thoughts from creeping in.

He’s managed to avoid them thus far and he isn’t about to stop now. He just needs to keep focusing on his work. Anything to keep himself preoccupied.

Spinning back in his chair, he glances at the clock.

Seven o’clock. Two hours since you came to check on him after he left Maya’s office, counting his blessings he got to keep his job. He supposes he should give three cheers for the office’s collective dislike of Reggie, which probably got him off the hook for a more serious HR violation, but he doesn’t have much elation to put into it.

In truth, he’s not really sure how the plan was never to fire him. Did Reggie deserve to be fired? And then some. But should Sukuna have also been? Probably. Yet he was let off with a written warning and a metaphorical slap on the wrist. Well, that and a ‘thank god you didn’t actually hit him’, so as it turns out, he owes the fact that still has this job to you.

He owes a lot to you.

But he can’t dwell on that too long, lest his mind be given the room to wander.

Burying himself in work, he finds himself hardly noticing the passing of days, even as the weekend hits. What time isn’t spent working at the publishing house, he sticks around the auto shop, finding ways to keep his mind occupied, even once the shop closes up. It’s never looked better in there, and although Sukuna isn’t enjoying the work by any means, it’s better than nothing.

At least he has control.

He works until he’s ready to pass out, gets home and lifts weights until he does pass out in the early morning hours. He wakes up in a pool of sweat on Saturday morning, a sickening feeling in his stomach that he blames on the lack of sustenance in his body.

Squinting his eyes as he sits up, he can’t remember the last time he ate something beyond a protein drink. Figuring that’s probably it, he grunts as he pushes himself out of bed, grabbing his coveralls and tossing them over his shoulder, along with a pair of boxers, a folded shirt, and a pair of shorts from his dresser.

His stomach churns again uncomfortably. He groans, suppressing a cough as he readies the shower, waiting for the water to warm to a comfortable temperature before hopping in.

His shower is short-lived and filled with enough heavy metal music to have his neighbors surely place a complaint with his landlord, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s that, or tight-chested heaving and gasping for a breath, so… yeah. Sukuna will take the complaint.

Pulling on a clean pair of boxers, he tilts his head when he hears a knocking sound. He’s not expecting anyone, so he figures it’s a neighbor rightfully pissed about his music and shuts it off. His hair's gotten so long that pushing it from his face just ends up with stray strands falling in his line of sight anyway, but fuck if he doesn’t find it annoying. He ought to just get a haircut at this rate, but he doesn’t exactly have the cash to spare given the latest invoice from his lawyer. He supposes it’ll have to wait, if the call of the kitchen scissors doesn’t tempt him first.

Another knock sounds outside, pulling his attention to his living room. Slipping on the shirt, shorts, and coveralls, he makes his way to the door, peering out the peephole. To his surprise, he’s met with the familiar face of Uraume. He pauses to cough again before pulling the door open.

“You’re alive.”

He scratches the back of his head. “Somethin’ like that,” he grumbles, turning on his tail to head back into the apartment and grab something to eat as his stomach roils once again. Downing a protein drink, he turns back to face Uraume. “I gotta leave for my shift in five,” he warns, glancing at the clock.

“Five minutes?” They ask, perplexed. “You texted me after you got home at midnight last night. That can’t be legal.”

“My shift ended at nine,” he shrugs, setting the bottle in his hand back on the counter in a row with another seven empty ones.

“And you only got home… at midnight?”

“Had some errands,” he shrugs dismissively.

Uraume stares for a moment, jaw tightening as they contemplate his well-being. Their sharp eyes survey the dark circles beneath his eyes and gaunt appearance of his skin. They suck in a breath, done with his dismissive antics. “You’re working yourself to death.”

Sukuna doesn’t move, casting a glance at the clock on the stove faintly glowing in the early morning hour. “Four minutes.”

“Sukuna. Can you take this seriously?” Uraume grimaces, a flicker of genuine frustration within their eyes that admittedly does make him a bit guilty. He knows he’s being a prick when even they’re annoyed with him.

“Yeah, alright,” he huffs, pressing the pad of his thumb to the crease between his brows. “Look, it just helps,” he sighs, coughing again into the ditch of his elbow. He frowns at the scratchy feeling of his throat, turning to the fridge again to grab some water.

“You’re clearly making yourself sick,” they press on, propping their hands up on their hips. “You’re not helping yourself. You need rest.”

Sukuna pauses as he considers whether he maybe has a cold, figuring he can just take some ibuprofen and pump his body with Vitamin C and he’ll be fine. He casts another glance up at the clock, shutting the fridge and downing half a bottle of water before tucking it into the pocket of his coveralls. “I gotta go.”

Uraume mutters a curse under their breath, reaching for Sukuna’s wrist and holding him in place. It wouldn’t take much for him to tear away from their grip, but they can see the troubled look swirling in the depths of his eyes that pins him in place as he chooses to listen.

“You need rest. You look like you’ve seen a ghost and missed your last week’s worth of meals.”

He blinks.

He has seen a ghost, to some extent.

In the delirium of his lack of sleep, he sees his little brothers running to their door in his peripherals when he walks past. Each time, he’s met with a shut door and utter silence that leaves him so lost and full of hatred for Kaori and for himself that he bolts away to busy himself and not be able to linger for a moment too long on the thoughts.

“Have you even had time to grieve?” Uraume queries when Sukuna remains silent and unmoving.

They’re met with more silence and a subtle twitch of his fingers.

“Sukuna,” they sigh, pressing a thumb to the crease between their brows. “You’re only prolonging things by ignoring your body and mind.”

He grits his teeth, considering their words. “I’m fine,” he mutters.

“You’re not,” Uraume shrugs. “I know you. If you were fine, I would have been tossed out the door four minutes ago and you would have said something snarky and rolled your eyes.”

His brow twitches as he contemplates his own reactions. Would he have done that? Is his differing reaction now just a side effect of trying to better himself for you, for his friends, and for his brothers? Or is it a product of the misery guiding him through a life where he can’t remember what day it is and doesn’t know what to make of his own damn self? He can’t be sure.

“Call in sick. Take a break. I’ll make you some food, fuck-” they shrug, staring at him expectantly.

He wrenches his wrist away finally, dragging a hand through his hair as he straightens. “Can’t. Got shit to do at work.”

“Do you? Or are you just afraid of facing your problems?”

“I’m not afraid,” he hisses.

Uraume crosses their arms. “At least there’s still a piece of you somewhere in there,” they sigh. “Take the day off.”

“No.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m not.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sukuna,” they groan into their hands, rubbing at their eyes.

“I’m leaving,” he grumbles decidedly, grabbing some of Yuji’s Flintstones vitamins and popping a couple into his mouth. He ignores Uraume’s ‘you’ve gotta be kidding me,’ and pockets a bottle of Ibuprofen, grabbing his keys and putting on his work boots. He swings the door open despite Uraume’s protests, his gaze hardening as he shows them the door.

With a furious frown, they stand their ground, unmoving.

“Fine, stay then,” Sukuna shrugs, “but I’m locking the damn door and I expect it to stay locked,” he grumbles, indignantly narrowing his eyes when Uraume slides past him with a disapproving frown, like a parent disappointed with their child. Regardless, it gets them out the door, which is all he can bring himself to care about right now as he locks it behind him and purposefully walks away.

“She’d be sad, too, you know. If she knew you were doing this to yourself.”

That puts a kink in his pace as his movement falters and he nearly trips over his boot. He pauses for a moment before a bit of his fire returns as he stares back over his shoulder. “Don’t bring her into this,” he hisses.

“If I don’t, you won’t listen to me,” they deadpan, shrugging their shoulders. “You won’t listen to anyone.”

He opens his mouth to protest, fire in the pit of his stomach growing with each passing moment as he regards his close friend. His words form a lump in his throat at the realization that he’s pushing Uraume away. Pushing everyone and everything away once again. He knows the signs, he knows he’s fucking doing it again, but if he stops to face it, he’ll be forced to face not just that, but everything. Swallowing the lump down and dampening the fire with his cowardice, he turns away. “I don’t have time for this,” he mutters, leaving Uraume standing at his door.

The last thing he hears as he races down the rickety old stairs of his apartment building is the sigh of one of his closest confidantes.

–

Sukuna’s morning and afternoon are draining. Every movement feels like an effort, his body is covered in a layer of unrelenting sweat and it drips down the valleys of his back muscles. The day drains him, but it’s enough to make sure he’s not forced to remember. To confront the thoughts he’s running from.

Lifting an engine, changing tires, doing an oil change. He runs on autopilot, tightening bolts and changing air filters. He’s never been one for customer service but today is a particularly bad day, even his boss chooses to effectively ‘shelve’ him, leaving the customer service work to the rest of the shop. He blames it on inattentiveness, but anyone can see there’s more to it than that.

The pressure in his head mounts as the sun crosses the sky and he finds himself pressing his thumbs into his temples, praying for a break from the incessant ache.

“Go home. I don’t mind paying you overtime, kid, but-”

“Don’t call me that,” Sukuna grumbles.

“- not when you’re like this. You sick? You look worse than you usually do.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna grumbles, suppressing a cough. “Just haven’t been sleeping well, not a big deal.” His voice is barely audible as he sits atop the rubber of a tire he just changed, throwing back half a bottle of water.

His boss, an older man with graying hair, reaches up to scratch his jaw, deep in thought as he watches his youngest employee’s slightly labored breathing. “Fine,” he agrees with a shake of his head, “but I’m dragging you out of here once you hit eight hours, you got that?”

The tattooed man is too busy pressing his oil-slicked thumb into the crease between his brows to hear what he said, so he just grunts.

No matter where he is, everything feels like it’s out to get him. His body is working against him, his mind is a battlefield he’s not willing to let himself weather and now every little clink and buzz in the shop is setting his nerves to a searing blaze. He can hardly bear to listen to the noise anymore, quickly getting to his feet and slipping under one of the half-open garage doors.

Taking a breath of the warm air, he stares up at the sky, grateful for the peace it allows him, if only for a moment. He slips his hand into his pocket, pulling out whatever cheap pack of cigarettes he’d been able to get his hands on and slipping one between his lips. He lights it and inhales sharply, but the nicotine does him no favors. His nerves are frayed and his energy is at a new low, even for him.

Thinking back to when you first met his brothers, that might have been one of his most exhausting ‘normal’ days, but even then he’d had the energy to handle life. It doesn’t even begin to match up to how he feels now.

Taking a long drag, he exhales into the air, pushing his hair out of his face and wiping the sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. Shutting his eyes, he attempts to shake the weariness from his marrow, but it seems to plague his soul.

“Shit,” he mutters, unzipping the top of his coveralls to let it rest over his hips, but he can’t seem to shake the pulsing sensation of overheating.

“Full service in bay one, Ryomen,” one of his coworkers calls out. Letting out a breath, he coughs as it catches in his throat, his cigarette sputtering to the ground. With a frustrated shake of his head, he stomps the ember out of the cylinder and pulls his coveralls up over his shoulders once more.

“Got it,” he mutters, barely lucid enough to understand what’s being asked of him. He rolls his shoulders, letting the older man handle the customer portion and call out instructions to him. He runs through it on autopilot, the only thing getting him through the day without passing out, and descends down into the grease pit to check for leaks beneath the undercarriage of the Honda before he clears it for an oil change.

Narrowing his eyes, he manages to make out a large rusted hole in the base of the car, so much so that there’s almost surely a carbon monoxide leak in the vehicle.

“Exhaust leak!” He calls out from beneath the car, staying put in case he gets put on that duty.

His vision blurs as he stares blankly at the greasy wall beside him, the yellow paint chipped with years’ worth of wear. The longer he stands unmoving, the worse all the feelings closing in on him become. He coughs into his sleeve, the force of the movement causing a sharp pain in his head. Leaning against the wall, he clutches his forehead, spreading grease through his pink hair.

“Fuck,” he sputters out, nausea extending to his limbs. Forced to sit down, a lump forms in his throat, but before he can face the possibility that he might throw up in the damn grease pit, his colleague calls out to him.

“They’re gonna leave the car for an hour. Can you replace the rusted portion of the exhaust?”

Sukuna groans, pushing up again and clutching his stomach. “Yeah,” he gruffs, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it.

He makes his way back up to the bay, standing for a moment too long to assess the selection of pipes that he could cut to the size he needs before grabbing the angle grinder. He sets everything up, safety glasses and gloves on, before it all seems to happen in a flash.

The sparks, the jarring pop and screech, the clang of the pipe and the bang of the tool hitting the floor.

His chest heaves and he blinks as something warm trickles down his brow. Backing away from the workbench, he tosses his safety goggles aside, staring in complete and utter shock at what could have been a hell of a lot worse. The angle grinder disc is lodged straight through the left side of the glasses, the disc having snapped in half and sent the other side straight into the wooden table. He should consider himself lucky.

The loud noise draws the attention of the rest of the shop as his colleagues all come barreling towards him. Through labored breaths, he runs on autopilot and adrenaline, fueling his body as he runs to the shop washroom, locking it behind him as he stares in the mirror.

The frenzied man looking back at him is foreign. Pale in a sickly manor, his eyes swimming with surprise and a hint of fear. Grease coats the right portion of his hair where he’d been running his hand in order to keep it out of his face, and a portion of his muscle has even faded. He’s not even positive how that could happen, when all he does is work and exercise, though he supposes he could do with a better meal plan.

This isn’t like before. This isn’t a case of not recognizing himself. This isn’t Sukuna.

He takes a breath, his eyes trailing to the thin slit in his brow where the angle grinder just barely nicked him. It’s nothing serious he’s certain, just enough for blood to seep out, but it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

Sukuna is a meticulous man. Detail-oriented and on top of things, mistakes like these don’t happen for him. He’s an emotional mistake waiting to happen, but tools? Art? Labor? That’s what he’s best at. He can’t read people, but machines are predictable.

What the fuck went wrong?

He mentally goes over the steps of what he did to prepare the angle grinder in his head, only for it to disappear as he realizes he can hardly remember even grabbing the pipe in the first place. Everything was on autopilot.

Grabbing a paper towel, he winces as he wipes the blood from his forehead. His skin is clammy, sticky to the touch and hot.

Shit. He hates to admit it, but maybe Uraume was right.

So why is he so cold all of a sudden?

He leans heavily on the sink as the adrenaline wears out of his system, his breathing now rapid and shallow. His boss knocks on the door and calls his name, but it barely registers as anything more than white noise.

He shuts his eyes, his knuckles going white as he clings to the sink and breathes in and out as evenly as he can manage. His hair is so long that it nearly hangs in a curtain around his head, the pink strands matted with oil.

“Shit,” he breathes, clutching the sink harder as the bile in his throat seems to turn more sour. The nausea increases too, just as his boss warns him that he’s about to unlock the door.

In an effort to maintain his appearance, Sukuna throws his head back, shaking his hair from his face and swallowing down the lump in his throat. He sucks in a breath, pulling the door open and facing his boss with the best hardened expression he can manage.

The older man’s eyes widen at the state of his employee.

“My office. Now.”

Stifling a cough that nearly causes Sukuna to throw up his shitty protein drink from earlier that morning, he nods. Keeping his head down, he shields himself from onlookers as he follows after his boss. Just barely holding himself together, he crosses the threshold into the only office in the small garage, with a single desk and a rickety fan on the ceiling. An old brick of a monitor sits on the desk with a filing cabinet off to the side that holds up a very dead bamboo plant.

His boss reaches across the desk with a paper towel, making a motion to his brow. Sukuna takes a hold of it, pressing it to his wound.

“Look, Ryomen. Whatever’s going on, you can’t be here in this state.” He explains, taking a seat behind the desk and waving a hand for Sukuna to follow suit in the shitty plastic chair opposite him. “I’m putting you on medical leave until you can show me you’re feeling alright. You’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

It’s like a shot to the heart. Or maybe the head. Nausea hits him like a gavel striking a podium, hard, fast and loud. His ears ring and his stomach churns. He leans forward, his vision growing white at the edges.

“Kid? You need me to call someone?”

“Don’t call me that,” he croaks like clockwork.

His boss sighs heavily. “Am I calling someone or not?”

He runs his non-dominant hand through his hair in an effort to keep his wound from getting infected. “I need the money, I can’t-”

“I’ll give you two weeks of paid leave. But I don’t want to see your ass back here until you’re feeling better.” His tone is stern, his hands clasped before him on the desk.

Sukuna’s leg bounces, unable to meet his gaze as he struggles to find a way to argue that this is all that’s keeping him from the one thing he’s not sure he can handle right now. He can’t even be shocked or grateful for the paid time off, preoccupied with other thoughts.

Only six days remaining until he can’t appeal any longer.

His leg bounces faster, his breaths growing shallow again.

“That’s it, I’m calling someone,” his boss mutters at the state of his youngest, but one of his best and most reliable, employees. He pushes up from his chair, keeping a watchful eye over Sukuna as he sifts through his files in the cabinet at the back corner.

Shit. You’re his emergency contact.

“No,” he mutters, unwilling to pull you from your studies yet again for something stupid and trivial. “I’ll call someone,” he insists breathlessly.

The graying man lets out an exasperated sigh as he turns and leans against the cool filing cabinet. “Fine. But I’m not letting you leave until someone is here. No buses. Understand?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t move, devoid of emotion as he hangs his head. The feeling of his matted hair against his cheek and forehead makes his skin crawl. He’s in desperate need of a shower.

His boss leaves the room to give him space as he pulls out his phone, keeping one hand pressed to his brow with the paper towel.

You’ve texted to check on him, sweet as ever.

1:34 PM Princess || Hey :) how are things??

He finds himself reading it three times over as his thumb hovers over the keyboard. You’re usually the one person he doesn’t struggle to talk to, but in his delirium, that doesn’t prove to be the case.

Leaning forward on his knee, his eyes glaze over as he contemplates his words, before finally landing on something and typing it out with one hand.

2:12 PM Sukuna || good. working

2:12 PM Sukuna || you studying?

Neither of you have ever really needed much small talk, but it’s all he can really manage.

With a dejected sigh, he pulls up his contacts and clicks on Uraume’s name. It takes two rings for them to answer.

“Hello?”

Sukuna’s mouth opens but his words die in his throat. How humiliating it is to need to make this call in the first place. He wants to say he’s fine enough to take the bus, but the overwhelming heat his body’s producing along with a pounding headache and tight chest prove him wrong.

That, and the crimson seeping through the paper towel to the tips of his fingers. It stings, and he’s fairly sure the only reason it doesn’t hurt more is because his body is still processing the shock of the event.

“... Hello? Sukuna?”

Pulling his phone away from his ear, he presses his eyes shut, holding the device to his forehead. Sucking in a breath, he tightens his grip on his phone as he speaks. “You were right.”

It takes Uraume a moment to reply. “About what?”

Any other day, he might call them out for being an ass about it. They know exactly what they’re right about, they just want him to say it.

Sighing, he holds his phone back to his ear. “I’m sick.”

The silence that follows is staggering. He can practically hear Uraume nodding knowingly, somehow making the whole situation feel that much dumber on Sukuna’s part. Every action and reaction from this morning was nothing more than robotic. A tired man with rusted hinges acting on his biological written code as if it’s all he knows. But he’s no robot.

Just a dumbass.

“Need a ride?”

Uraume’s form of care has always been tough love. No words to sugarcoat his situation, no offering of niceties when reality makes more sense, even if it’s harder to stomach. They make him admit to his own issues and offer no comfort in return, but at the end of the day they’re there for him. They find solutions. They make shit work.

“Yeah.”

“Be there in fifteen.”

“Right.” He pulls the phone from his ear, pausing over the end call button before muttering, “thanks.”

He hangs his head low, curling his lip at the smell of whatever grease, oil, and gas all coats his fingers, alongside the metallic scent of blood. He doesn’t want to hear it. The ‘I told you so’, the ‘take better care of yourself’.

He’s sick and tired of it. He doesn’t want to hear it. Not from Uraume, not from his boss, not from you.

Let him be pissed. Let him be a fucking mess.

He’s over this, he’s over everything.

Pushing up from the chair, his entire body protests, aching in places he didn’t even know could ache. His head pounds and the wound in his brow stings, screaming at him to take a seat as nausea rocks his stomach. Groaning, he presses on, avoiding the concerned questions from his coworkers as he passes them and ducks under the door outside, discarding the paper towel on the way.

His boss leaves him be as Uraume pulls up and rolls their window down.

“Hey, how- Your eye, what happened?” They gasp, their expression shifting from one of exasperation and knowing to genuine concern.

“Made a mistake,” he gruffs, hoarse.

“Jesus, Sukuna-” they cut themself off as Sukuna slams the car door shut. He turns his head just enough to buckle himself in, his wound visible to his friend. “You’re still bleeding, maybe I should take you to-”

“Drive me home before I throw up in your fucking car,” Sukuna growls harshly as he leans his head against the cool glass of the passenger window. He shuts his eyes, taking deep breaths in order to prevent exactly that as the car lurches into motion. Clutching his stomach for a majority of the ride, he remains zeroed in on his breathing in an effort not to throw up in his friend’s car.

He’s not sure he’d ever emotionally recover from it if he did.

The silence is welcome, though he can feel Uraume’s concerned glances burning into him, particularly as the vehicle halts at his place and he’s out in a hurry, practically bolting up to his place to clutch the toilet in complete and utter nausea before forcing himself into the shower.

Uraume unhurriedly makes their way up to the apartment with him, completely unphased and unsurprised by the development, aside from the injury. They could see it coming a mile away this morning. Sukuna rarely got sick in the years they’d known one another, but with the petri dish that is Yuji Itadori, it was bound to happen every so often, and it hits him hard every time.

This is no exception.

Uraume waits patiently for Sukuna’s body to stabilize, leaning against the counter with a sigh. In Sukuna’s haste this morning, they hadn’t had an opportunity to really notice the state of his apartment, but it would seem as though even since they were here last week, Sukuna’s been letting responsibilities and chores slip to the wayside. Grimacing at the thought, they tap their fingers along their arm, contemplating how to help him.

The grief of losing his father and uncertainty with how to handle his little brothers as a guardian was one thing, and they could handle that. They could handle the mornings where he didn’t ask for help, but they could hear Yuji crying somewhere behind Sukuna over the phone. They could handle the long nights where he struggled to sleep and the late mornings where he struggled to get out of bed.

This was a new low.

His shoulders are slumped as he trudges from the washroom and casts a glance in their direction. A chill runs up their spine as they approach slowly, getting a better view of the damage done to his brow. A shallow cut runs down his cheek, the water of the shower leaving it as little more than a scratch, but they’re not sure they’d say the same for the slice through his brow.

“Shit, Sukuna,” they breathe.

Avoidant of their gaze, he backs away. “Just let me get some fucking sleep,” he grumbles.

“What if you need stitches?”

“I don’t.”

“You’re still bleeding,” they argue, watching as he lifts a hand to test whether that’s the truth.

Fresh crimson coats the tips of his fingers. “Nothing a bandage can’t fix,” he mutters, lazily heading to grab one as Uraume gawks at the state he’s fallen into.

When did he get so comfortable in the grave he seems to think he dug for himself? Even if he dug the hole, it was Kaori who thrust the shovel into his hands and life itself that forced him to dig. He seems comfortable convincing himself that rock bottom is where he belongs, resigned to accepting that happiness isn’t meant for him. It’s not a good look on the most prideful and resilient person that Uraume knows.

Looking at him now, you wouldn’t know this is that same person. The one who faltered through grief and parenthood just to pick himself back up and make a show of being able to handle himself.

By the time he returns with a bandage wrapped over his brow and eye, Uraume isn’t exactly convinced that he should be alone. Blood already seeps through the white gauze fabric and it’s undeniable just how shaky his entire figure is, still wracked with shock.

“I’m going to bed, you can show yourself out,” he mutters, pausing. “Thanks.”

And what more can they do than to stand there?

The two of them may not seem particularly close from the outside, both of them coming across fairly disconnected and often cold, but that’s not the case at all. Sure, they can go days, sometimes even weeks at a time without talking, but that’s never been a sign of what their friendship is or isn’t. When Uraume needs a helping hand and the evidence slips through the cracks, it’s Sukuna who shows up with Yuji on his hip and Choso trailing behind to help them through it. At first, they thought it was just to repay debt, but it became obvious through inside jokes and shared trauma that that wasn’t the case.

Sukuna cares. He cares more than most would admit, but he can’t seem to fathom that others might care for him, choosing instead to bury himself in misery and loneliness.

On one hand, Uraume wants to tear Sukuna’s bedroom door off its damn hinges and shake some sense into the man. On the other hand, they can’t bring themself to do anything more than stare at his shut door. He coughs, muffled behind the wooden barrier, and Uraume can only blink.

This isn’t like any other time they’ve managed to pull Sukuna through the mud, no matter how battered and bruised he came out. It’s as though he’s actively working against them. He wants to wallow, wants to give up. Like the Sukuna that Uraume’s come to know has been held underwater so long that his lungs are filled with water and any attempt at gasping for air causes unfathomable pain.

In truth, they’re not sure what to do.

Force him to go to the hospital? Let him rest and risk leaving him alone?

They’re at a loss. All they can think to do is to reach out and get your thoughts and let him get some rest.

–

News that Sukuna’s sick didn’t come as a shock to you. After the incident with Reggie, he’d been nearly unreachable. That’s not uncharacteristic of him, but he was harder to reach than usual. Every time he would answer you after a long wait, he’d excuse his tardy reply with the excuse that he’s working.

You hate that he wouldn’t admit to being ill, that you had to hear it from Uraume, only to find him pretending he hadn’t woken up to the sound of you buzzing his door. With the door open only a crack, he eyes you from within his apartment.

His voice has the rasp of nails on a chalkboard. “What?”

Grumpy.

“Uraume mentioned you’re-”

“‘Course they did.”

You shoot him a look for interrupting when he’s clearly in need of a little TLC. “I brought, um-” you rustle through the bag hung around your wrist. “- Acetaminophen, Ibuprofen, some Lozenges, some anti-Nausea meds, and soup.”

He gives you a thirty-yard stare like he didn’t hear a word you said, too worn out from a lack of sleep and being unable to keep any food down. “Uh-” he clears his throat when he chokes on bile. “Just drop it out there.”

“Let me make you the soup,” you insist with a sweet smile. Under the dim lights of the hallway, you still manage to look angelic with the glow acting as an incandescent halo, even as Sukuna attempts to shoo you away. Always offering up whatever help you can, all for a sliver of his friendship, or maybe his affection? You brought him the entire drug store when all he really needed was some sleep, he can’t think of another person quite as thoughtful.

Still, he doesn’t move, too caught up in his thoughts, or lack thereof. He blinks, staring straight at you from where he stands with the door blocking a majority of his figure.

“... Ryo?”

He blinks again, huffing out a dramatic “fine,” and moving aside. He turns on his heel, collapsing on the couch into the pile of blankets and pillows he’d dragged out when he’d been hit hard by chills in the middle of the night. He sniffles, burying his face in the blankets as he coughs. “You should go home before I get you sick,” he rasps.

“That’s alright!” You cheerily smile, somehow managing to light the room with a simple gesture.

Your expression contorts as he swivels his head enough for you to see his extremely swollen and bruised brow, with whatever is causing it narrowly covered with a bandage. With a gasp, any thought of keeping your distance is gone as you’re at his side, leaning down to get a better view of his injury.

“Oh my god, what happened?”

“Fuck off before you get sick,” he grumbles, swatting his hand through the air in dismissal.

With a soft shake of your head, you take another step forward. The golden rays of early evening cast an orange hue over his skin, allowing you to see the weariness you’ve come to expect from him. Purple and blue decorate the right side of his face down to his cheek and his eye is swollen enough that it makes him look even grumpier, if that’s possible.

Blinking out of your stupor, you take a look at the pile of blankets he’s plopped himself into, folding the fabric over him to make room for yourself at his side.

“Fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, inching away from you. “Don’t blame me when you catch this.”

You slide closer, unphased by his watered down threats. You can’t exactly afford to get sick, but given the state of your friend’s life and Uraume’s concern, you think he could use the support. Besides, you didn’t get sick when Yuji was last year. You’re willing to risk it again if it means helping him.

That’s not to mention that all concern over your scholarship was practically thrown out the window upon the realization that you have little control over it as is.

“What happened?” You repeat, leaning closer to him.

“Can you fucking listen?” He hisses, standing up to face you now as he puts some distance between you. His head protests the sudden movement with a pounding sensation, causing him to wince. “Just-” He reaches up to where the bandage is plastered to his skin, shutting his bruised eye as he waits for the pain to dissuade. “I can make the soup myself.”

Frowning, you stand to meet his gaze. “Stop that. Stop trying to do everything by yourself.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off.

“No, listen to me,” you plead with him, taking another step forward.

His mouth snaps shut as he’s suddenly hit with the image of you walking out of his apartment in tears as his mind replays that moment in painful detail. He’s not about to watch you walk out of his life again because he’s a dumbass. No matter how shitty he feels and how foggy his mind is, he’s not stupid enough to fuck things up. Not again.

His shoulders slump as he fixes you with his attention.

“Look, I get it. I know you’re just trying to look out for me, but you don’t get to make decisions about us for me.” You straighten as you face him. “I don’t care if I get sick, I just wan-”

“Us?” He sputters it out before he can think about it.

Your muscles freeze as you choke on your words. His brow is about as furrowed as he can manage with how swollen it is, his lidded eyes flickering around your face and intermittently landing on your lips. It’s hard to pretend you don’t notice it, don’t notice the little things at this point when it all feels like it’s pointing towards one thing.

“I-” You stammer, equally confused as you stare back at him. It would be so easy to tell him, but between the injury that you still have no explanation for and the fact that he looks a bit like a big wet cat who got into a bar fight, now doesn’t feel like the right time. “Yeah,” you manage a thin-lipped smile. “Our friendship.”

“Right.”

“Right.” You chew on your lip for a moment, unable to gleam anything from his reaction as he stares blankly at you. The moment hangs in the air a second too long and you race to fill the space. “I just thought we were past these stupid arguments about letting others help.”

“We are.”

Your cheek twitches as you eye him. He doesn’t usually relent so easily with such little fanfare. You can blame it on his cold, but… Huh.

“Right. Okay,” you nod, averting your eyes to stare at your twiddling thumbs for a split-second. “So, what happened?” You blurt again to fill the strange silence.

His gaze slowly lifts from your lips as you try to pretend you haven’t noticed again. The sickness must have him delirious or something, you’re sure of it. As your words register, he huffs out a sigh. “Accident at work with an angle grinder,” he explains vaguely with a shrug. He doesn’t particularly want to go into more detail, staring at his pile of blankets with a frown.

“Oh god,” you breathe, taking another step towards him. He stifles a cough, looking away from you. “Did you need stitches?”

Probably. “No.”

You nod slowly as your eyes trace the bandage and deep black and blue that decorates his eye. You reach up slowly, using a finger to delicately push his hair back away from the bandage. “Ryo…” you murmur softly. He’s too caught up on the way you say his name with so much care and genuine worry that it has his delusional mind running through a million scenarios where he leans down and captures you in a kiss. As it stands, he finds himself struggling not to lean into your touch.

Though, in all the scenarios in his head, he’s not sick, and he’s a well-put-together man. It’s not even him in the scenarios. It’s who he used to be, or maybe who he wishes he could be. It’s not the hollow man who stands before you.

He frowns, pulling back from your soft touch as his brow pulls together in contempt for himself. Maybe in another world he’d be deserving of someone like you, but he can’t fathom what it means to be loved in such a way.

“I’m fine,” he mutters guardedly, sitting back down in his blankets. He already feels tenfold better than the previous day, no longer nauseous and his coughing dying down. He’d just needed some rest to allow his body the chance to fight.

“Do you want some ibuprofen? It should help with your cold and the pain,” you offer, turning back towards the bag you’d left on the couch.

“Sure, princess.”

He takes it without protest, and even lets you warm up a can of soup for him. It may come out of a can but he swears it tastes different than he’s used to.

Maybe it’s just the bitter aftertaste of self-loathing.

As you grin at him when he gives you a nod of approval, you take a quick glance at your phone. “I should get back to studying,” you hum more to yourself than him. He wants to reach out and stop you, but knows better. “I should head out,” you direct your attention back to him. “Do you need anything else?”

You. “Nah.”

Sympathy crosses your face in the form of a smile as you gather your belongings and set out the medication you brought over for him on the coffee table. “Feel better soon. Text me if you need anything,” you tell him softly before slipping away out the door.

His gaze trails after you, locked to the spot where you disappeared behind the door for god knows how long.

Something in his chest tightens as you walk away.

“I’m so fucked,” he mutters emptily to himself.

–

Monday morning is the best he’s felt in a long time, but it still hits him hard. He wakes up in a cold sweat, eyes flying open as he sits up on his elbows. Sweat pools at his lower back, too shaken to bother getting up and going to shower, even if his body is begging him to do so. He falls to his back, staring at the ceiling.

It’s how every morning has started lately.

Well, not the cold sweat, but staring at the ceiling as he contemplates what put him in such a miserable position to begin with. He thinks over virtually every thing he’s fucked up, he goes through every ‘what if’, as though he might find some alternate universe where the kids are two rooms over and he can slip through the cracks to reside in that world instead.

No matter how hard he searches, he can’t find a solution to his problems. And when that thought begins to creep up on him, that’s when he finally pushes out of bed to get ready and occupy his mind with something.

The cold sweat has to do with the dreams that have been haunting him lately. He wants to call them fever-induced, but he doesn’t feel sick anymore. He still opts to call in from work just to be safe as he’s still somewhat shaken from the incident on Friday, but he feels fine otherwise.

The dreams vary in subject matter but one thing remains the same across each one; you.

A soccer game with Sukuna and Choso on the sidelines. Yuji is running as fast as he can straight for the ball. He effortlessly kicks it straight into the goal like it comes naturally to him, turning to grin at his two older brothers. Sukuna smiles lazily as Choso cheers his little brother on. It feels easy. Free. But when he turns his head, you’re there to lift the little boy into your arms excitedly and he feels his smile falter as his heart hammers.

He remembers one where Choso sets the table, and proudly places down the first steak he’s ever tried to cook. Seared with care on the stove and basted in garlic butter with fresh thyme, he clenches his fists at his sides as he waits for his brothers to try it. Sukuna cuts into it, eyeing the inside. Medium rare, perfectly cooked. He smirks as the savory taste hits his tongue, but before he can praise the meal, you chime in about its perfection. His head whips towards you, lips forming an ‘O’.

In another one, he’d managed to save enough to take his brothers to a theme park. Not a big fancy one, but keeping them in order is a hassle regardless. It isn’t too difficult keeping Choso nearby, but Yuji is a flurry of excitement and limbs. As Sukuna grows increasingly frustrated with the little runaway, you manage to pull him to you and lift him onto your shoulders without any issue. He straightens at the sight, blinking.

The single constant across each and every one is that you seem to appear out of nowhere, bringing out the best in his little family. Encouraging all three of them, keeping them in order, and helping without a second thought.

It’s domestic. It’s warm and fuzzy and makes his limbs feel weak at the very thought.

It irks him, as he stares at the mirror, because the man staring back at him isn’t the same one in the dreams. He grits his teeth as he grips the counter. Maybe if he could find that version of himself, he might consider himself worthy of confessing.

He harshly rubs the temple that isn’t swollen, attempting to rid himself of the thoughts. No use in crying over spilled milk. He cracks his neck on either side, taking off his bandage and assessing the damage. It’s no longer bleeding, scabbed over and ugly, and some deeply loathful part of him genuinely thinks that maybe it’s what he deserves.

He washes it carefully, not bothering with a new bandage as he evaluates what he assumes will be a permanent accessory to his appearance.

He’s lucky it didn’t do any more damage, but he should have gotten stitches.

He spends the day finding little ways to keep himself busy as thoughts of his shortcomings with the trial continue to creep up on him, grateful that over the past couple of days his mind was too muddled to be plagued by them, but there’s one thing he can’t seem to escape.

You.

His body and mind are screaming in unison at him that he’s being a dumbass, that there’s more to your friendship than he thinks. That you choosing to say ‘us’ the other day means something, that the gentleness with which you treat him is reserved solely for him. That maybe Uraume was right. Every little moment with you is replayed in his head over and over, even as he mindlessly sorts through emails or makes himself dinner.

Taking a seat at the couch and shoving the pile of blankets aside, he takes a bite of his sad sandwich, as he hasn’t been grocery shopping in longer than anyone should care to admit. He reaches for the remote, knocking over a bottle of Acetaminophen and pausing. In yet another moment for his mind to replay like a movie, he finds himself lost in thought staring at the bottle.

You had taken the time out of your day, swamped with studies, to not only bring him way more medication than he could have ever needed, but also make sure he ate. You had stood up to him when he was being a dick and a dumbass and still stuck by him and treated him with kindness. You had referred to the both of you as ‘us’. And even if you’d brushed it off, he’d noticed the way you faltered and the little nervous aversion of your gaze.

He saw it all.

He was too spent to think much of it then, but now it’s the reason his leg bounces and his food is forgotten on the coffee table as he finds himself booking an Uber. He doesn’t have the cash, nor does he care.

He just needs to feel in control of his life for once, and he’s set his mind on something he’s capable of doing. Grasping at whatever hope he can that maybe you still have feelings for him, he changes into a pair of jeans, throwing his leather jacket over a plain white T-shirt and uses some hair gel to make himself look somewhat presentable. His eyes slide towards his injury in the mirror, but he doesn’t have time to think about it as he jogs down to the waiting car.

The ride to your apartment feels suffocating under the weight of just how many things could go wrong in one moment. The fear of losing you claws at his lungs, causing enough of a tremor in his voice that he almost cancels the whole idea, but the idea of drowning in his emotions with you at a distance is equally as stifling as doing so without you at all.

If he can hold onto the hope you provide for long enough, maybe he can find something before his time is up and figure out how to appeal. Maybe if he just forces himself through this, no matter how asphyxiating it is, then he can figure out how to take control of his life.

He clutches the door as he steps out, setting his eyes towards your apartment when he spots two figures at the door, both familiar.

You, with a pink hoodie hanging off of your shoulders, a pair of leggings clinging to your thighs, and one of your closest friends, Kento Nanami.

Hugging.

Sukuna knows he should brush it off, it shouldn’t be a big deal.

When you release him and the blonde’s hands find your shoulders, his expression warm and worried as his thumbs rub circles into your arms, Sukuna feels his chest contract.

It’s as though an anvil’s worth of weight has been dropped on his chest, stopping his heart and crushing his lungs on impact. He exists only as a ghost, watching his life play out from the sidelines of his own body.

All he can do is watch as it’s Kento’s thumbs that rub small circles into your arms in reassurance and not his, frozen in place by his own guilt and jealousy. It’s pathetic, really. His lip twitches in disdain for how he’s let his life pass him by, but he can’t seem to break free and crack through the glass.

His mind is all smoke and mirrors. A maze of emotions with no direct path out. Every mirror is jagged, jumping out to knick piece after piece of him until there’s nothing left. He sucks in a breath, though his lungs still feel empty. Had he misread every signal? Are you simply being kind?

Sukuna had been so caught up on the fact that confessing might give him a modicum of control over his life that he hadn’t considered that someone could have beat him to it. Even if you’d said no, you’re both adults, you could have worked through the rejection like you had when Sukuna was stupid enough to reject you, but this? He hadn’t exactly considered this to be an option.

He feels his heart pang when you grin up at the blonde, and turns on his heels to get back into the car before he can see something that’s sure to make him lose whatever dignity he has left.

“Sir?”

“Sorry. Take me to the bar on Third.”

It takes five minutes to get there, but it feels like a blink of an eye. His legs carry him inside without a second thought, desperately looking to envelop himself in a cushion, something to soften the blow of his existence.

He knows better, but convinces the angel on his shoulder that he wasn’t in his right mind when he ended up here.

That feeling numb is easier than being in pieces. Easier than drowning. Easier than burning alive.

He runs his hand down the glass he’s been handed, causing a rift in the condensation dotting the drinkware. He taps it twice, before tipping his head back to down his first shot of the night. It burns as it slides down his throat, reminding him of just how stupid he’s being, but the pain doesn’t match up to the sensation of what it really means to hit rock bottom.

His grip on the glass tightens as he clenches his jaw. He wants so desperately to take a deep breath and take control of things, but it’s as though his own body won’t listen. He’s still stuck on the outside, watching the devil on his shoulder order a second shot and tip his chin for him. If he’s gonna make bad decisions, the least he can do is hope that the second shot will provide some sort of cushioning for him.

It doesn’t. Nor does the third.

Without you, Toji, Uraume, or even Satoru to distract him, the comfortable numbness never quite comes either. Instead, he’s sent into turmoil, spiraling uncontrollably down a lonely path of misery where he can’t bear to face his own issues. The idea of coming to terms with the loss of his brothers and his shot with you going down the drain causes his throat to tighten and his breath to shorten, which is a bad mix with the depressant flowing in his veins.

With parted lips, he holds the uninjured side of his head in his hands. Gripping at his hair, he clenches his jaw as he fights the growing anxiety closing in on him on all sides. Inhaling a shaky breath, he slides his glass towards the bartender. “Hit me,” he mutters.

The bartender pauses her motions, the rag she was holding to a glass coming to a halt. She considers her words carefully, speaking firmly. “Can I offer you some water instead? We can arrange a ride home for you as well.”

He pushes his hair back from his forehead.

“Depends. Does it come with ‘nother shot?” He asks lowly, his words slurred together.

“No, sir. I’m cutting you off.”

“‘Ve only had three shots.”

She grimaces. “Of Everclear.”

“Jus’ one more.”

“No. I’m calling a cab for you. Can you give me an address?”

Stubbornly, Sukuna stares blankly at the empty glass in front of him. He tilts it to either side, listening to the sound of the ice clinking against the glass. It’s cool to the touch, his body otherwise warm.

“Can you give me an emergency contact? A partner or parent?” She pushes, remaining polite as she hooks her finger over the edge of the glass, pulling his attention to her.

Partner or parent, huh?

He taps his fingers on the bar counter, a dry chuckle parting his lips. “Nah. Got neither.”

The uncomfortable silence is deafening. Sukuna’s harsh reality, the very beast he began drinking to avoid, claws at the ground beneath him. It scrapes and drags itself across the ground, its gaping maw opening up to swallow him whole.

He reaches up to scratch at his chest as his body responds to the despairing sensation. Heat comes over him in a wave, stealing the breath from his lungs.

“Do you need a hotel?”

“I’ll jus’ go,” he croaks, sliding from the barstool, even as the bartender attempts to get him to turn back and accept her help. He trudges through the doors, letting the cool night air hit his face. He can’t say for sure what time it is when he starts towards his apartment, nor can recount how he even found his way back. He wanders aimlessly through alleys, stumbling on uneven concrete and gravel.

Narrowly catching himself as he trips on the curb in front of his apartment, he shuffles his feet across the sidewalk, shoving his hand into his pocket in search of his keys, but the cool metal never finds his fingers in either his pants or jacket pockets.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his throat so tight that it comes out in an embarrassingly high pitch as his voice breaks. Weakly, his fist hits the glass door as he slides down and his knees hit the ground, head in his hands.

Every mistake he’s ever made plays back in his mind.

The time he accidentally tripped Toji on the bus when they were kids by lounging his legs out too far and his friend had a nasty bruise for a week.

The time he forged a signature from his father after completely bombing a test, only to have the teacher reach out for confirmation.

The time he’d fought with the doctor over not being able to fix his father’s illness.

The time he yelled at Choso for knocking his coffee over on a particularly long morning where Yuji wouldn’t sleep.

The time he’d left Yuji to cry for longer than any good guardian would because he couldn’t get out of bed.

Failure, after failure, after failure.

Nothing is heavier than the dead body of someone you once loved. Couple that with two terrified kids, now alone god-knows-where and the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen at risk of failing her scholarship and all of her dreams, and Sukuna wants nothing more than to stop all of the thoughts.

His head hangs in his hands.

Stop.

His breathing staggers, catching as it all comes up to choke him.

He can’t run any longer. So fucking close to the Everclear stashed in his locked drawer. Anything to forget.

Fucking anything.

With ragged breaths, he desperately searches his pockets again, taking note of a jingling noise when he shuffles. He slides his hand over the leather of his jacket, slipping it into the front chest pocket. Finally pulling his keys out, he pulls himself to his feet on the door handle and makes his way up to his apartment.

Discarding his keys, he stumbles to his room and pulls the drawer open. He grits his teeth as another shot, undiluted by any kind of soda, burns his throat. He catches a glimpse at the clock, unable to bring himself to care that it’s painfully close to his alarm going off for the shift he promised to attend.

Finally, fucking finally, things begin to fade. The world grows softer at the edges, as does his consciousness. His stomach wants so badly to violently reject everything he’s put into it, any sustenance or water still sitting discarded on his coffee table, but he swallows down any nausea. Anything, fucking anything to keep this haze going.

Thoughts don’t bog him down, his throat doesn’t tighten and his heart doesn’t flip with each unwelcome notion.

He’s numb.

–

Stress is your closest friend as of late. You’re grateful for the support of your friends, particularly Kento, who’s been a huge help in catching up on your studies. He’d also managed to introduce you to someone who was in attendance of the presentation you had missed in your Public Relations and Marketing class, who was able to share notes. How he’d managed that, you can’t be sure, but you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Shoko’s been equally supportive in her own way, always finding dumb things to text you about to make sure you still feel included while you’re busy working and studying. A photo of Yu stuck in a trash can, Satoru looking grumpy while studying, Suguru passed out against the wall of a school hall while Satoru is flaked out on the floor beside him. It’s nice to know they have your back.

It’s equally nice to feel somewhat in control of your life. On top of work, nearly caught up on studying, and thank god for that since finals are just over a month away. Still, your heart is heavy as you find yourself spending your spare time looking for evidence against Kaori.

You have to be able to find something, right? Still, the deadline for an appeal before Sukuna would need to start the entire process over is in two days, and things look grim.

It’s not that there isn’t evidence, you can pull together a fair bit of proof suggesting Kaori isn’t a fit guardian given the new revelations, the real issue is that the court is in her pocket.

Any mention of extra cash and most people are willing to fold, it would seem. Regardless of the importance of their position.

It’s not in you to give up, not when you’ve seen how it’s affecting Sukuna, let alone the hurt you house for the loss of the two little boys, but even you’re starting to lose hope.

You let out a breath as you hop off the bus and make your way down the block to the Publishing House. You’re hoping Sukuna’s feeling better and you’ll see him, but on the other hand, you worry he’ll continue overworking himself all over again.

The sun warms your skin, taking with it a modicum of your worries as it seems to lift the air. Birds sing and chirp overhead, the world once again filled with life as spring blooms around you. Blossoms are perched in the trees around you, caressing you with their sweet and floral scent. The fresh air is a respite from all of your worries and you shut your eyes to enjoy it for a moment longer before making your way up to your familiar office.

You make a mental note that Sukuna may be in, given that his door is closed, before shooting a friendly wave in the direction of the receptionist.

The air in the office is different today, hanging low and uncertain, and you’re more than aware of the passing glances you receive on your way into Yuki’s office. Thankfully, she’s ripe as rain.

“Heyyy!” She greets you with a grin. “How was your weekend?”

“Not too bad,” you greet her in return with a small wave of your hand. “How’d your date go?”

“Girl, I have stories, oh my god,” she laughs, immediately launching into a classically long story in order to avoid working.

“So, no second date?” You chuckle as she finishes her horror story where she nearly snuck out of the date when he would only talk about himself (and his strange diet and workout routine).

“God no,” she groans. “I blocked him already.”

“Good,” you giggle. “He sounds like a nightmare.”

She groans aloud, rolling her eyes at the thought. “What a waste of a Friday night.” Shutting the novel she had open on her desk, she sighs. “Anyway, how’s your man been since the whole…” she waves her hands through the air, making a vague punching motion.

“Not my man,” you correct her, though deep down some part of you aches to not need the correction. “But he’s been having a tough time,” you shake your head. “He was sick all weekend.”

“That’s why he wasn’t here yesterday,” she remarks, fiddling with a pen.

You nod. “Is he here today?”

“Think so,” she taps her pen on her chin. “I thought I heard him drop something in his office when I walked by.”

You nod in relief. “That’s good to hear,” you mumble to yourself. “By the way, is it just me, or is it weird in here?”

“Oh, it’s weird,” she laughs. “It was fine Friday, but I guess yesterday while I was in a meeting, Reggie showed up to try to beg for his job back.”

“Great.”

“Mhm. I don’t really know what happened, but the vibes have been off since then.”

“Did Maya give him the job back?” You inquire with a tilt of your head.

She shrugs. “Doubt it. I’m kinda vying for his position now, though,” she grins, leaning in excitedly. “His old office is so nice. I’d just need to fix the hole.”

“The hole?” You raise a brow.

She laughs. “You don’t know about the hole?”

“What hole?” You ask again, growing increasingly curious and confused. Your eyes narrow as you try to decipher what she means.

“His office has a hole in the ground,” she laughs. “I guess one of the offices below was doing some renovations and tried to fix a stain on the ceiling and messed up and now there’s a hole.”

You blink in disbelief. “You want that office?”

“Hell yeah!” She grins. “It’s still big, it’s worth it. I’ll put my DIY skills into it.”

“Yuki,” you start, suppressing a giggle. “You told me you get your DIY tips from Pinterest.”

“Yeah, and?”

“This isn’t a mirror or a shelf!” You laugh. “It’s the actual floor!”

“I can figure it out!” She insists as your office devolves into giggles and eventually you fall into a good working rhythm. Yuki goes over some corrections to your work, which you make mental notes of going forward, before you work together on another edit for a short novel.

She prints the document to allow you both to see it better rather than crowding around her screen, sending you to get the printed pages.

Your heels hit the floor with a satisfying clack as you make your way towards the back of the office. The printer is already going when you arrive, and to your surprise, Sukuna is hunched over it, gripping the table like his life depends on it.

You tilt your head curiously at the strange behaviour. “Hey, are you alright?” You query.

He hums affirmatively, a deep and drowsy grovel to the noise.

Your brow furrows, watching as he pulls each individual page that he’s printed one by one and stacks them on the table he’s gripping, completely out of order as he stacks them right way up.

“Okay…” you trail off at the odd behavior, brushing it off as just weariness. It still strikes you as strange though, Sukuna runs well under pressure and tired, he always has. He’s on top of things and he rarely lets that put-together persona slip around others, particularly at work.

The silence hangs over you, neither uncomfortable or awkward, just… strange.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Mhm.”

Okay, clearly he isn’t in the mood to chat.

Waiting for his document to finish printing, you wrap your arms around yourself, simply taking in the sights of the open office. Whatever Sukuna is printing seems to be long, and you contemplate heading back to let Yuki know, when finally the printer makes a noise as though it’s moving on to the next document.

Peering over at it, you catch a glimpse of what file it’s starting and nod to yourself, only to watch Sukuna… stay in place and begin grabbing your pages and setting them in his pile.

“Ryo?” You set your hand on the pile, putting a pause to his motions.

He tilts his head slightly. “What?”

“That’s mine.”

“Oh. My bad.” His eyes slide back to the pile as he lets you take the top couple of pages, before he proceeds to… one-by-one take each page from his pile and put it back in order.

The sound of the printer behind you feels like the soundtrack to your confusion right now. Your lips part as you watch, bewildered, while he slowly moves the pages back into order. It also occurs to you that you’re not really sure why he’s printing a full short novel, when he’s a graphic designer.

“What are you doing?” You ask in a slow drawl.

“Putting ‘em in order. Printed outta order.”

Your brow raises as you stare at him. “What?” You ask dryly.

He turns towards you, pointing at the pile as he continues to clutch the table with his other hand. “Puttin’ ‘em in order.”

You raise your gaze from where he’s pointing to his face, completely dead serious, and totally flushed with glassy eyes. You stifle your gasp, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to his office, shutting the door behind you.

“Are you drunk?” You whisper-yell in disbelief.

“Nah, I drank las’ night.”

“You’re still drunk, Sukuna,” you whisper in disbelief. “Oh my god,” you take a step back, evaluating the state he’s in. He’s completely disheveled, in a T-shirt at the office. He should consider himself lucky that Maya didn’t notice. “Oh my god, I’m taking you home,” you breathe, turning towards the door. “Just- stay here.”

You shut the door to Sukuna’s office behind you, inconspicuously jogging to Maya’s office. Your knock is answered immediately and you poke your head through the door.

“Hey, I meant to come check in on you. How have you been?” She greets you, her face softening.

“Oh- um, yeah. I’m fine, thank you. I heard Reggie asked for his job back…?”

She sighs, pulling her reading glasses down off her face and rubbing her eyes. “Yeah. He’s not coming back.”

“Oh- I…” What do you say to that? ‘Thank you for firing your relative?’ “Um- Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, he made his bed. Why don’t you come in, and we can chat?”

“Oh, actually um-” You stammer over your words, mentally facepalming as you center yourself. “Sukuna’s still pretty sick, I was gonna take him home, if that’s alright. I’ll finish my work tonight and have it sent to Yuki.”

“Oh, is he alright?”

“Yeah, just sick to his stomach,” you lie, though you figure it’ll only be a lie for a few hours before however much alcohol he’s downed doesn’t agree with his stomach. It’s a half-lie, really.

“Yeah, of course. Let him know that I hope he feels better soon,” she agrees, dismissing you with a smile.

“Will do, thanks Maya!”

You slip back over to your office and grab your bag, explaining the situation to Yuki, then head to his office where he’s back to organizing his pile of paper that he surely doesn’t need.

“C’mon, let’s get you home,” you whisper, praying no one else has noticed how wasted he obviously is.

“‘M fine,” he grumbles, his brow twitching in disdain as you try to tug on his arm.

“Sukuna,” you plead, chewing on your lip. “Please.”

His heart pangs as your thumb brushes his wrist so sweetly, and his mind conjures images of Kento in his place. It stings, almost as much as his brow when he scowls. Even so, he doesn’t have it in him to deny you. He’s too far gone to say no, and stumbles towards you.

“Oh god,” you breathe, unsure how you’re gonna get him out of here inconspicuously. “Just, here-” You grab his forearm, holding him flush to you and practically dragging him out the front door towards the bus stop. Your mind reels with questions, but before you can even get one question out, he stumbles out of your grip into the brick wall beside you, barely catching himself before he slides down the wall.

His head hangs, staring blankly at his lap.

“I-” you suck in a breath, pushing your hand through your hair in exasperation as you stare back at the office. “What were you thinking?”

He rolls his head back against the wall, his lidded expression staring straight through you. “Wasn’t,” he replies simply. “Didn’ wanna think.”

“God, Sukuna…” you breathe, shifting on your feet as your exasperation shifts to horror. You knew things were bad, but he’d held himself together for so long that you didn’t assume it was this bad. You figured if he needed help, he would reach out after your conversation on Sunday. He’d been fine, albeit sick, only a couple of days ago, what brought him to this point?

He’s cauterizing his wounds with alcohol, chasing the sensation of being numb, but from the look in his eyes, you doubt it lasted long. Distance and inebriation paint his eyes, but a dozen emotions swim beneath that, begging to surface. Anger, loneliness, loss, and anxiety all swim among them, familiar on him, but not something you like to see all colliding at once.

His disgust for himself used to be locked so deeply that it was hard to find, surfacing only in the moments where his reflection would stare back at him, but always fleeting. Now, he doesn’t seem to think he’s worth the effort, or the time it takes to allow himself to heal.

He doesn’t blame himself for his father’s passing anymore, having finally made peace with that sensation although the grief still pokes and prods at him, sharp. What he does blame himself for is what the kids went through as a result of his grief. What they continue to go through.

Or maybe it’s just that he wanted to protect them both from going through what he did, and now he feels that instead of preventing it, he’s causing it. He’s not sure at what point he went from not recognizing himself in the mirror to not liking the person looking back at him. His tattoos feel sharper now, no longer accents, but daggers that paint him with blood and dye his eyes crimson.

Sighing, you kneel down. “Did something happen?”

It’s a stupid question, really. Everything happened. You’ve been there to witness it all, but you wonder if something tipped him over the ledge he’s been teetering on for so long.

He stares hard at you for a long moment, as though he’s committing you to memory. “Nah.”

“Then what…?” You shake your head, searching for an answer. He continues to stare, a soft sadness reflected in his eyes that’s unfamiliar and eerie on him. You can’t leave him here, you need to get him water and food. Strengthening your resolve, you shake off your uncertainty and try to pull him up, but he won’t budge. “Come on, let’s head to the bus stop.”

He doesn’t move as you tug on him, and he’s far too heavy for you to lift.

Placing your hands on your hips, you toss him an exasperated frown. “Seriously, we need to go.” Met with no response, you throw your hands up in the air. “Fine, I’m calling Uraume to help, then,” you mutter. He doesn’t protest, so you pull their name up in your contacts. It rings six times before going to voicemail. Staring at your screen with a frown, you pull up Toji’s contact instead.

He answers in only one ring. “Hey,” Toji greets you in a drawl. You can practically hear the easy smile on his face. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Toji. I really need a favor,” you breathe, glancing down at Sukuna as you face towards the road.

“Yeah?”

“Can you come pick Sukuna and I up? We’re at the Publishing House.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” You can hear him shuffling on the other end of the line, followed by crackling as he covers the mic, though you can still make out the sounds of him talking to someone, albeit muffled. “Yeah, grab the- no, the other fuckin’ keys. Nah, those’re my fuckass cousin’s. Fine, just- yeah, whatever man.” Your brow furrows, but you don’t question it. “Be there soon.”

“Thanks. Can you bring a water bottle?”

“Hm? Yeah, sure.” And with that, he hangs up.

The silence is sharp as you await Toji. Sukuna’s stuck somewhere between not wanting to talk and being so drunk that he’s not all there, and you can’t hold a conversation with him for the life of you. The longer you sit at his side and try to pull details of what happened out of him, the worse for wear he begins to look. You assume that gradually the alcohol is working through his system, slowly pulling both the sickness and anxiety out of him at once and causing a horrible concoction any person would hate to experience.

Thankfully, before you can contemplate it, Toji rolls up and pulls over.

Pushing up from the pavement, you dust your pants off and come up to his window, leaning down. “Hey, I-” You blink at the pair of eyes gleaming at you from the passenger’s seat. “You brought Satoru?”

“Damn. Hi to you, too.” Satoru’s tone is dry, but teasing. He’s surely already caught a glimpse of Sukuna behind you.

“Sorry, Satoru. It’s just… It’s complicated with-” you point your thumb back towards Sukuna.

Satoru laughs easily. “Nah, I know. Toj’ and I were already hanging out. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you wave it off. “He can deal.”

“Speaking of ‘he’,” Toji begins, leaning forward to peer past you. “The fuck happened?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “He came to work drunk, I can’t get him up, let alone on a bus.”

Toji sighs, pushing his raven hair back as he puts the car in park. “Christ,” he mutters as he gets out, staring down at Sukuna with a frown. “C’mon buddy,” he mutters, doing what he can to lift the man up, but he’s dead weight in Toji’s arms. Grunting, he turns back towards you and Satoru at the car. “See, knew he’d be good for somethin’. Satoru! Need a hand.”

You open the back door as they sloppily toss him in the back, met with very little protest aside from a single “stop fuckin’ touchin’ me.”

“Kinda feels like a kidnapping,” Satoru comments a bit too cheerily. You crack a half-hearted smile as Toji shuts the door. Satoru rounds to the other side, giving you a moment to chat with Sukuna’s oldest friend.

“Has this ever happened?” You ask, keeping your voice down.

“Uh…” Toji scratches the back of his head, lazily shrugging. “Tough to say. He didn’t talk ‘bout shit with me.”

“Did you guys drink much?”

The man grunts, staring up at the birds overhead as he considers it. He squints as sunlight beats down on his cheeks, gleaming on the taut skin of his scarred lip. “Not more than anyone else,” he shrugs. “Dunno, the fucker ghosted me ‘til second year. Uraume brought ‘im back to our circle.”

Chewing on your lip, you nod in thought. The alcohol must be a recent thing, though you wonder if maybe Toji might have some insight on his slipping mental health. “So, nothing else worrying?”

“Mm,” he stretches his arms out over his head. “Hard to say. Uraume mentioned some shit ‘bout him havin’ a tough time in first year but I was still pretty bitter back then, so I dunno, really.” He shrugs. “Try askin’ them, maybe.”

You frown at the thought of bringing more people into Sukuna’s personal affairs, but at the same time, this feels like grounds for an intervention. “Right, thanks Toji.”

“‘Course. We goin’ back to his or yours?”

“His place, please.”

He nods, blowing some hair haphazardly from his eyes as it falls over his forehead. “The fuck happened to his eye, by the way?”

“He said there was an accident at work.”

“Shit. Well, hey,” he pulls your attention back. “It’ll be alright,” he assures you with a steady hand on your shoulder.

Forcing a smile, you nod. “Thanks.”

He hums, getting in the driver’s seat as you slide into the back beside Sukuna. His head is leaning against the window, eyes shut, but the moment the car lurches forward, they fly open. “‘M gonna be sick,” he grumbles.

“No the fuck you’re not,” Toji hisses, glaring at him in the rearview mirror.

“Stop th’ fuckin’ car, then,” Sukuna murmurs.

Muttering curses under his breath, Toji pulls over just in time for Sukuna to open the door and throw up. Satoru, ever the dramatic, buries his face in his hands like he can’t bear to look, let alone hear it.

Sukuna doesn’t seem privy to much around him at all, his features completely sunken when he shuts the door again. He ignores or just simply doesn’t process any attempt to talk to him, including you asking him if he’s alright.

Stupid question, obviously.

Sukuna’s stomach settles enough for the remaining portion of the drive as Toji hands him a bottle of water, his eyes shutting as he slumps back against the window. For the better part of the drive, you listen to Toji and Satoru’s banter as they decide what movie they’re going to see on Friday, settling finally on an action movie, although Satoru had been eyeing some new comedy.

“What about you?” Toji eyes you through the mirror.

“Study, probably.”

“C’mon,” Satoru pleads, pouting back at you as he punctuates his words with your name. “That’s all you do lately. We’re inviting everyone else too, you should join. Sugu and Sho already said yes.”

“I don’t know,” you hum, casting a glance at Sukuna.

“You can’t just babysit ‘im all the time,” Toji points out as the car comes to a stop at a light.

“I know, but I can’t leave him like this, either.”

The football player hums from the front seat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he stares out the front window for a moment. “You're sweet,” he comments offhandedly. “I get why the guy likes ya.” Before you can process just how easily the words slip past the gruff man, Satoru interrupts.

“You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped,” your white-haired friend murmurs, twisting in his seat to look at you. Startlingly good advice from the king of not reading the room. He pushes his sunglasses up, letting them rest atop his head as they muss his hair. It sticks out in every direction as he casts a glance at Sukuna.

“You don’t think showing up to work drunk is a cry for help?” You counter.

Satoru shrugs. “He smacked me when we picked him up.”

“I think he just doesn’t like you,” you murmur, wincing as you break the news to Satoru, though he already knows. He may act the part of the goofy frat brother who’s happy to be at the expense of a joke, but the truth behind those big blue eyes is that he’s incredibly smart, albeit dense. He may not be able to read the room, but there’s more to him than just a pretty face. He deserves the credit for it.

He cracks a smile at you. “Neither did Toji. I grow on people.”

“Like a parasite,” the man in question mutters from the driver’s seat.

You giggle as Satoru rolls his eyes dramatically. “Laugh it up,” he shakes his head, though he’s always happy to be at the center of a joke if it makes someone smile. “Point is, just don’t lose yourself for him.”

You nod, grateful for the advice. “I appreciate it. I’m not giving up on him, though. I think he wants help.”

“We’re here to help too, then,” he grins, patting his chest. “But you should really come to the movie on Friday.”

“I’ll think about it.”

It’s not long before the car pulls up to Sukuna’s apartment building, and you’re forced to shake his shoulder to awaken him. He doesn’t offer much insight into how he’s feeling, nor does he seem present. You encourage him to drink some water before Toji and Satoru help him up to his apartment. You’re able to grab his keys from his coat pocket to let you all in before leading them to his room to dump him on the bed.

They give you space to encourage your friend to down more water, and you’re grateful he listens, able to convince him to drink two full bottles before he brushes you off.

With a forlorn sigh, you pull his blankets up over his shoulders as he passes out in his day clothes. Straightening, you’re able to get a good look at his room. It’s worse than when you stayed over by a longshot. There’s very little clothing in his closet as most of it is strewn across the floor or tossed in a pile over the back of his desk chair. Every surface is covered in clothing, receipts, paper, empty cigarette boxes and pencils.

The state of his room, let alone your friend himself, is worrying, but on your way out, something catches your eye.

The only surface that isn’t littered with trash and clothing is his drawing table, which is still mostly clear apart from the usual suspects; paper, charcoal, and pencils, along with a ruler. It doesn’t seem as though he’s taken much time to himself lately, given that you think you’ve seen all of the art before. Landscapes, portraits and anatomy studies, and whatever characters his brothers were requesting all decorate the pages, though sticking out between them appears to be a printed letter. The typeface is professional, but the content makes your heart drop to the pit of your stomach.

Second Notice of Overdue Rent.

The letter details dates by which rent needs to be sent, all of which have passed except for one date, coming up in only a couple of weeks. At the bottom of the page are a number of calculations, many of which have been crossed out. Chewing on your lip, you slide the page aside to take a look at what’s behind it.

Invoices from his lawyer, also engulfed in calculations.

Your eyes scan the rest of the table, landing on a familiar envelope with ‘URGENT’ written across the front in bold red letters.

Shit. This has been going on for a while, then.

Guilt bubbles in the pit of your stomach for snooping, but it’s nothing compared to the dread that Sukuna’s sunken back into his old ways, unwilling to ask for help and trying to manage on his own, all while he’s already drowning. Swallowing your guilt, you carefully shut the door behind you and move to the kitchen in search of the pile of mail you’d arranged a month ago, wondering if it’s still there.

Both men who helped you get your friend here are awkwardly standing around in the kitchen, keeping their voices low as they chat about Toji’s game last night.

“Hey, he good?” Toji inquires as you blaze past him, searching the counters before moving to the table. Your blood roars in your ears as you move aside two jackets and a bag of takeout, pulling out a pile of mail.

Satoru makes his way towards you, tilting his head when you don’t answer. “Are you okay?”

You brush him off as well, your focus poured into your own thoughts. Flipping through the mail in your hands, you pull out the original envelope you’d seen with red font decorating the front, using your nail to tear it open.

First Notice of Overdue Rent.

“Isn’t that illegal?” Toji asks, raising a brow in question.

“Only as illegal as graffiti.”

“Touché,” he snorts, smirking. “What’s up, though?”

Setting the letter aside, you sort through the rest of the mail, though nothing else is entirely remarkable aside from the fact that he’s torn through almost all of the coupons from the supplement store a block away. An equally worrying amount of coupons from the shitty waffle house down the street are also missing.

You tap your fingers along the surface below as you stare at the mess splayed across the veneer table. Glancing around the room, your eyes lock on the coffee table. An uneaten sandwich sits atop it, along with all of the medication you left for him, as well as an empty party bottle of Everclear. Alongside all the supplies you brought over for when he was sick lies exactly what you’re searching for.

“Looking for something,” you murmur in reply to Toji, who watches with his usual disinterested expression. Scattered along the back of the coffee table with a couple of papers fallen to the floor, you find the taped-together pieces that make up the original paperwork Sukuna was served last year by Kaori, along with the evidence you’d pieced together when you went through Sukuna’s documents.

You gather it all up, unsure if there’s much you can do, but you need to try.

Seeing the man you love dive headfirst into mania hurts more than being rejected ever did. Every second spent wondering what to do has your heart racing, beating at the cage of your chest as it threatens to escape.

“What’re you doin’?”

You turn towards Toji, searching for a good reason to go snooping through Sukuna’s things. You stare out the window for a moment, steeling your resolve as you make up your mind. “There’s gotta be something we’re missing about this case,” you murmur, holding the paperwork tighter between the tips of your fingers.

“If there isn’t?” He asks grimly.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Then I guess we figure out how to get him back on his feet.”

Toji scratches the back of his head. “Shit.”

The air in the apartment is stifling between the smell of the uneaten sandwich, the overall stuffy feeling of the small home and the uneasiness sitting between all of you. You suck in a breath, but it does little to soothe your nerves.

“What do ya need from me, then?” Toji offers his help, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“Can you keep an eye on him? Just until I get back? I need to call in a favor.”

Toji shrugs. “Alright. I’m raidin’ his fridge, though.”

You brush him off and head for the door, pulling up your contacts and dialing before you can think twice. “Kento? I need a favor.”

–

The scenery that surrounds you is familiar as you greet Kento and Hiromi in the same cafe as the last time you had this very same discussion. The little coffee shop has changed their decor to suit spring more with an abundance of green and pink flowers and some updates to their menu and uniforms. It’s a refreshing change of scenery and surprisingly uplifting as you find yourself holding onto the fraying thread of hope you’ve been clinging to for so long.

“I’m assuming things didn’t go well,” Hiromi hums as he takes a seat with coffee. A friendly smile curves his lips upwards, though his eyes tell a story of someone who holds sympathy for you. He’s just putting on an expression to keep you at ease, like any good lawyer.

“No,” you sigh. “She won.”

“No joint custody?” He raises a brow, met with a shake of your head. “Tough. I knew it would be in her favor if she could afford such a good lawyer, but that seems odd given the circumstances,” he thinks aloud.

“That’s actually why I’m here.” Sliding the torn and taped paperwork across the table, along with additional evidence towards Hiromi, you pull the article with Kaori and the kids up on your phone. “She’s denying his visitation too. She’s using them, and she’s using his money,” you explain, setting your phone down to face Hiromi with the photo of Kaori, Noritoshi, and the two kids.

“Huh. No kidding.” He scratches his chin, brows raised.

“I think they paid the court out. I swear it was in Sukuna’s favor until then. They even tried paying out his lawyer,” you explain, pulling a page from the stack before him with the information for Ms. Harte.

Hiromi scrolls through the article as Kento peeks over his shoulder. “She said no, right?” He asks, keeping his gaze on your phone as he multitasks.

“That’s what she told us.”

“Figured. She’s good,” he adds, off-hand. “So, I’d take it you haven’t appealed yet?”

“No. She advised us not to,” you begin, launching into a more detailed explanation. As it comes to an end, you search for a reason as to why you’re back at square one, asking Hiromi to take a look again. “He’s only got two days left and he’s not doing great…”

Hiromi smiles up at you as he leans on his fist. Though his eyes are sunken with his own tiredness, there’s a reassuring feel to his smile, that it’s not just a facade to keep you at ease, but genuine. “You’re a good friend,” he offers, skimming the pages in front of him. “Give me a bit to jog my memory.”

You fall into conversation with Kento about your studies and the movie on Friday, which he has no plans to tag along for, lest he get dragged there. You laugh over the fact that he probably will be dragged to it, though he truthfully doesn’t mind, even if it isn’t his first choice. Unlike Sukuna’s unwillingness to tag along for events, Kento’s is more of indifference. He would rather see the movie in the comfort of his own space and to spend more meaningful time with his friends than two hours of silence.

You keep your conversation low in order to allow Hiromi to concentrate, working his way through his coffee before deciding to grab another.

Returning with another black coffee, he addresses you. “So, I’ll be honest, I’m running into the same issue as Ms. Harte,” he speaks grimly. “I think if the courts are in her pocket, there isn’t much you can do to avoid rejection,” he explains, flipping through the pages laid out in front of him as he leans his temple against his knuckles. He pauses on the copy of Yuji’s birth certificate that Kaori submitted along with the lawsuit, flipping to Choso’s and shaking his head. “If Choso was a year older, I don’t think you could lose,” he sighs, shaking his head offhandedly. “You could probably hire a child’s counsel and have him testify if he was ten, but I’m sure Ms. Harte went over that already. It’s not worth the extra cash if they won’t take his words into account for a lack of maturity.”

You nod slowly in agreement, before getting hung up on what he said. “Ten?” You mimic his words.

His pupils roll up to examine your reaction, though he doesn’t move. “Yeah, unless my math’s wrong,” he shrugs, casting a glance at the finance major beside him.

“His birth certificate states he’s ten,” Kento agrees.

“What?” You tilt your head to stare at the date, holding up fingers as you do mental math. Huh. That is what it says, but… “He’s twelve.”

Hiromi’s brow furrows as he stares between you and the birth certificate. “You’re sure?”

“I mean, yeah. Unless he’s got his own age wrong.”

Hiromi straightens, pulling the document aside as he looks it over. “Shit,” he chuckles, breathless as he runs a hand through his mussed hair. “She must have known she’d lose if Choso could speak at the trial, so-”

“She forged the document,” you gasp, eyes wide as hope surges through you. For once, there’s a chance. “None of us questioned it because his age never came up and I don’t think Sukuna thought to double-check his birth certificate.”

“Bingo,” Hiromi agrees. “Has he got the original?”

“I think I saw it the other day.”

“Perfect. Here’s what you need to do, then.” He clasps his hands together on the table. “Get the lawyer on the phone, get the appeal filed with the courts as soon as possible. Get any form of media you can to sit down with Sukuna and get it published asap. Noritoshi’s a big name, he won’t want any negative headlines, so he’ll probably pay to have them taken down, but social media will do the rest of the work for you.”

“Won’t that just put Sukuna and the kids more in the spotlight?” You worry. “And what about slander?”

“Sukuna will be in the spotlight, yeah,” he agrees with a haphazard shrug. “But the kids are already in the middle of it. At least they’ll be with him if this works, right?”

“Right. The slander?”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Civil court’s a different beast from family court. If they’re smart, they won’t pursue that. You have too much evidence.”

You eagerly nod, letting him continue.

“Perjury’s a big claim. Between the media and getting another level of the court involved, they won’t be able to deny the appeal. It’s too public, and Sukuna could lay a lot of other charges with the spotlight on him. They don’t need to know his financial situation,” Hiromi explains, clicking his pen as he writes a number of media outlets off the top of his head onto one of the pages for you. “Go get her,” he encourages, offering a lop-sided grin as he slides the paperwork back towards you.

–

The world spins on its axis as Sukuna’s eyes flicker open. His mind is still muddled, and his last twenty four hours are a blur as he struggles to remember what led him to this point. He doesn’t have much time to mull it over as his stomach protests the small adjustment he makes and he’s making his way to the washroom.

He recalls thinking a couple of weeks ago that the feeling of being numb wasn’t worth his stomach upheaving its contents for several hours straight, but at least Uraume isn’t here to scold him this time around.

He leans back against the tub, eyes heavy-lidded as he stares at the spinning ceiling. Shit, is he still a bit drunk? What time is it? How much did he even have?

He has no answer for any of the questions spinning in his mind as he groans at the nausea rocking his stomach. His eyes lazily scan the room around him, sliding down to the wall and mirror until he dials in on the cups of toothbrushes he hasn’t bothered to deal with. One cup with his and yours, one with Yuji and Choso’s. He’d told them not to bring them because they’d be back soon, that Kaori could buy new ones.

God knows she can afford it.

The sight sets his stomach on fire and his head pounds, all while his chest tightens. He harshly shuts his eyes, clenching his jaw. The muscle jumps with the strength with which he puts behind the actions, but it’s not enough to prevent his stomach from betraying him.

Pulling himself up to wash his face, he puts most of his weight on his forearms as water drips from his chin and nose. He stares down at his hands, shaky with the effort of keeping himself up. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “This is worse than last time.”

He can’t say for sure how much alcohol he put through his system, unable to remember much of anything. As he tries to recall anything at all, it hits him like a truck. The sight of you with another guy. Kento. He always knew you were close, but he’d assumed…

His head hangs lower as the pressure behind his eyes increases, all the while his brow still stings. He doesn’t remember much past you and Kento. Arriving at the bar is a given, but he must have slept up until now, whenever and however the hell he managed to get home. He groans, pressing a thumb to his temple. He can’t keep putting himself through hell just to avoid his own situation, but his growing anxiety is enough to make him instinctively want to reach for something to take the edge off the pain.

Anything to calm his frayed nerves.

Desperate for something to stop the nausea, he pushes himself up and wipes his face with a hand towel, dragging himself to the door and out to the living room where he left the medication you brought over. He freezes at the sight of two men sitting on either side of his couch, a heated game of Smash Bros. Melee keeping their attention away from the six foot eleven man staring wide-eyed at them.

“The hell are you doing here?” He grunts, unable to put the heat behind his words that he intends to, too worn out to bother with a fight.

Toji pauses the game, leaning back on the couch. “Picked up your dumb ass off the side of the road, was waitin’ for you to wake up.” Toji explains, his lips pulling downward as he looks his friend up and down. “You feel any better than you look?”

His brow furrows, causing his headache to pound harder behind his head. He reaches up, rubbing at the crease between his brows. “How bad do I look?”

Toji laughs dryly. “Fuckin’ bad, man.”

“Then no,” Sukuna grumbles. “Pass me the damn Gravol.”

Toji tosses it towards Sukuna, who fumbles, but manages to catch it. “How long have you been here?” He asks lowly, narrowing his eyes somewhat at Satoru, who remains quiet.

Toji turns to glance at the clock on the stove. “Four hours, dunno.”

Sukuna glances at the clock as he lugs himself to the kitchen to grab water. It’s almost four, what the hell? “How fuckin’ long was I at the bar?” He mutters more to himself than the raven-haired man on his couch.

Toji and Satoru exchange a glance, before even Satoru twists from where he sits on the couch, his controller discarded at his side. Toji runs his tongue over his lower lip, scrutinizing his old friend. “You weren’t. Your girl called us to pick you up at work.”

Sukuna rubs at his temple, a sickening chill ripping through his body at the term used for you. “I couldn’t have been at work,” he mumbles. He was blackout drunk, how the hell would he have gotten there? He pulls a bottle of water from the fridge and cracks it open, downing it along with the nausea medicine.

“You were outside the publishing house with ‘er. She said you showed up to work like that,” he shrugs.

“Shit,” Sukuna mutters. Had he really been that out of his mind? “Where is she?”

His friend shrugs. “She called Kento before she left.”

Shame churns in his stomach like a damn punishment for being so stupid when it comes to you. He slips down into a chair at the kitchen table, grunting as the movement nearly has him throwing up again. “‘Course she did,” he mumbles, dropping his head into his hands. “Fuck, I feel like shit.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Toji snorts. “You seen your fridge? How’re you livin’ like that?”

“Protein shakes.”

“Jesus.” Toji pushes up off the couch, opening the fridge to a mostly barren display of food and a sickening mixture of protein shakes and energy drinks. “I’ll order somethin’, you should eat anyway. No wonder the hangover’s hittin’ ya so hard.”

Sukuna barely glances up. “I’m fine. Just pass me the cheese.”

Toji twists back towards the salmon-haired man, one hand still on the fridge door. His nose is wrinkled in disgust. “You want the block of cheese?”

“Yeah.”

With a sigh, he tosses the cheese on the table and cracks an energy drink for himself. He lifts the can slightly in his friend’s direction. “Consider this payment for babysitting duty.”

Sukuna glares at Toji as he tears the plastic open on the block of cheese and bites straight into it, much to the dismay of both Satoru and Toji, who exchange bewildered looks. “You can leave,” Sukuna mutters. “I’m fine.”

“You look it,” Toji sarcastically quips, dropping himself down onto a chair across from Sukuna. He runs his finger along the top of the table, lifting a brow as dust coats his fingers. He brushes them together, flicking his hand once to rid himself of the dust. “What happened?”

What didn’t?

Sukuna sighs, cracking his neck to either side as the nausea medication keeps his stomach from doing a flip and emptying its contents. “Just… had a shitty weekend,” he settles on as an explanation.

Tapping his fingers on the table, Toji motions for him to continue.

“Had too much time to think, I guess,” he mutters, continuing his string of being painfully vague and keeping Toji out of his business. It’s not entirely intentional, it’s more of a case where Sukuna just doesn’t want to talk at all. Everything is a jumbled mess and his words are worse for wear, he just wants to keel over in bed and wait for his hangover to pass.

Toji leans back in his chair, motioning for Sukuna to start talking. “I got all day.”

Sukuna grumbles under his breath. “Don’t really wanna talk about it.”

“Don’t really care,” Toji counters. “You went to the bar last night, yeah? Why?”

Huffing, Sukuna pushes a hand through his hair, careful to avoid his wound. “Think I fucked up, Toj’.” He finally admits after a short silence, allowing a shred of vulnerability to slip between the cracks as he forgets Satoru is still sitting a few feet away.

“I coulda told you that.”

Ignoring the burly man’s remark, Sukuna pushes forward. “I was sick all weekend,” he explains, tacking on that he nearly fucked his eye up at work and you showed up to cook him some soup, bring him some meds, and made sure he ate.

“She’s a sweetheart,” he agrees offhandedly.

Something of a warning flashes in Sukuna’s eyes as his sharp gaze snaps to meet the football player’s, but he disarms himself when he realizes Toji meant no harm by it. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Couldn’t get her out of my head, so I headed to her place. I just…” He shakes his head slowly, searching for words. “I wanted to tell her, I guess.”

Toji sits upright, emerald eyes widening. “You were gonna ask ‘er out?”

“I guess,” Sukuna admits, having not really had a plan. “Figured I already rejected her once, we’d still be close if she rejected me now. At least I’d shoot my shot, right?”

“So, she said no, n’ you found the bottom of the barrel?” Toji quips, frowning.

“No.”

Tension permeates the apartment as both Toji and Satoru lean in. Like a vice grip, it takes a hold of everyone in the room, pinning them in place as Sukuna swallows hard and forces the words out.

“She was with Kento. They were hugging and laughing and shit, looked closer than I thought. I didn’t stay to see anything else.”

Toji’s eyes narrow. He leans back, running his thumb over his lip as he contemplates Sukuna’s revelation. He pauses suddenly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Wait, you rejected her?”

“It was a long time ago,” he grumbles.

“Wait, hold on-” Satoru interrupts, raising a hand.

“What the fuck are you still doing here anyway?” Sukuna barks out, clutching his stomach as it churns.

Satoru raises his hands in surrender. “Toji’s my ride.” Sukuna’s about to make a snappy retort about Uber, but Satoru interrupts. “Listen, I’m sorry about the shit I said at the bar, okay?”

The ex-history major’s jaw shuts as he lets Satoru continue, pinned in place by Sukuna’s deathly glare. He’d never been Satoru’s biggest fan, though in truth the strange back-and-forth banter they’d always had wasn’t hated on either side. They’re two sides of a coin, one hot-headed and sharp, while the other is fast-thinking and cunning. Similar, but never quite in agreement with one another. Still, neither of them would describe their thoughts of the other as hatred. It was disdain at worst.

At least, until Satoru made things personal.

“I didn’t know. Didn’t mean it. I was just trying to get under your skin,” he explains, flicking his head to move a stray strand of unruly hair from his line of vision. “I’ve been meaning to apologize, but you’re never around.”

Sukuna frowns, remaining silent. Satoru’s caught him in a painfully bad mood and some petty part of him doesn’t want to accept the apology, though he’s known from the start that the frat boy never meant any real harm. “Whatever,” Sukuna brushes him off, lazily turning his attention back to Toji.

“Okay hold on, though,” Satoru continues with a bit more confidence, dangling the upper portion of his body over the back of the couch as he faces the table. “You saw her with Nanamin?”

Sukuna lifts a brow.

“Kento?” Satoru corrects himself when neither man reacts.

“Yeah.”

Satoru laughs, like it comes easily to him, which only irks Sukuna more. Everything seems to be a breeze and light-hearted when you’re Satoru Gojo. “Those two have been friends forever,” Satoru explains with a grin. “Like, I’m pretty sure she spent more time at his place growing up than her own. I guess her parents were always working or something,” he shrugs. “That’s why she spent Christmas with Sugu and I.”

How Satoru can laugh when he’s only explaining Sukuna’s exact fears, only causes the fire to burn brighter behind his irises.

Sensing an incoming outburst, Toji pipes up. “Get to the point, Satoru.”

“Yeah- Kento’s always looked out for her. They’ve always been close, but not like that.” He props his elbow up on the back of the couch, leaning on the folded limb. “They’re more like family-” he pauses, bright blue eyes shifting towards a plush that he figures belongs to whatever kids Sukuna has or takes care of. “Like siblings,” he corrects himself. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”

Sukuna’s brow furrows, any signs of anger dissipating as his chest reacts with a burst of fluttering and uncertainty. Could he have misread everything all over again?

“Besides,” Satoru adds in usual fashion, unable to stop once he starts. “She’s so obviously into you. I feel like you’re the only one who hasn’t figured it out, it’s almost annoying.”

Too stunned to snarl out a warning at the mouthy man, Sukuna stares straight through him.

Even Toji finds amusement in that, snorting. “She’s ‘bout as subtle as a brick. Both of you are.”

Hunching over the table, Sukuna leans his head in his hands. “Fuck,” he mutters, shame washing over him at how tactless and ignorant he’d been when it came to you. You had never stopped caring for him, even when he’d been the one to drive you out. You wear his brothers’ friendship bracelets to this day, you got him a job, you literally picked him up from the pit he’d dug and plopped him on its edge, giving him another chance, and he really thought you were in love with another man. “I’m so stupid,” he mutters.

“No shit,” Toji agrees with a shit-eating grin.

“What’s she doing with Kento now, then?” Sukuna queries, lifting his head to glance between Satoru and Toji.

“I’m not sure,” Satoru shrugs, offering a wave of his hand. “She grabbed some papers from the table back there,” he points to the coffee table behind him, “and left.”

Sukuna pushes slowly to his feet. The chair scrapes the wooden floor beneath its legs as Sukuna’s mass displaces it. He makes his way closer to Satoru, blinking at the coffee table, though he can’t recall what was there in the haze of his mind.

“She asked Kento for a favor,” Toji offers, though he doesn’t think it’s much insight.

Still, that sparks something in Sukuna. Hiromi? Did you take the legal documents? Something in him melts at your kindness, always searching for ways to help him, even at his worst.

You’re always such an angel to him. He blinks himself from his trance, but it only makes him dizzy as his stomach flips for a new reason. His heart pounds like he’s just been given a dose of adrenaline straight to his heart. On another occasion, he might use that to go find you, but right now? His body isn’t in agreement.

“Be right back,” he groans, making his way to the washroom.

Satoru and Toji watch as Sukuna retreats, a victim of his own bad decisions and the swirling emotions within his chest. As the two men find a steady rhythm of conversation, you burst back through the door, setting Sukuna’s keys in the bowl and skidding to a stop between the two men. “Where is he?”

Toji raises a brow. “Puking, probably.”

You nod, jogging to his storage room without a care in the world as you carefully pull down heavy box after heavy box, lifting each lid as you search for something in particular. When you finally find a familiar one, you sort through the documents until you pull out Choso’s birth certificate.

“They’re different,” you breathe, turning out of the storage room just as a beaten-looking Sukuna leaves the washroom.

He turns at the sound of steps, straightening slightly as a foreign expression twists his face. You don’t have time to decipher it, too caught up on your revelation. “Sukuna!” You gasp, finding his side and holding out the evidence Kaori submitted, alongside the copy of Choso’s birth certificate that Sukuna’s in possession of. “She committed perjury!”

Unable to process his own emotions as they heighten and he takes the paper with shaky hands, the air is practically pulled from his lungs as he compares the documents.

How had he been so stupid? He never bothered to compare the documents? No- why would he? Choso’s his little brother, not his actual kid. He knows the day of his birthday, but the year? He’d never thought to question it. Even when it came to Choso’s teacher, he can’t recall ever hearing any mention of what grade he was in, and why would Sukuna question it? He’d been in her class for four years. Kaori had perfectly constructed everything so that his age would never come up, playing her cards in such a way that no lawyer would question the forged document. She’d likely preyed on the fact that she knew Sukuna wouldn’t double-check, all to make sure the court would have every reason not to listen to Choso’s wishes, under the guise that he’d be too young and naive to know what’s best for him.

He’d been played.

His blood roars so loudly in his ears that life itself seems to ring within them. He almost doesn’t hear your voice, only pulled back to earth by your touch as you gently squeeze his bicep.

“You can win.”

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

❦ a/n ; sorry for the absolute rollercoaster that is this chapter, i hope it was worth the wait <33

i've been super motivated lately to keep writing and i hope i can keep that momentum up for when i return from my next trip (which starts tomorrow! i'll still be around to answer comments/asks/etc, but won't have my laptop to write on, so no new chapter for a bit again), but i'm really looking forward to sharing the next one!! i've had most of the scenes in ch20 thought out since like ch5 and i'm SO excited to finally get to write them 🤭

thank you as always for all the sweet messages and comments and all the amazing support <33 it means the world and makes my day <33 i hope you all have a lovely day/night 🫶

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 day ago

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Hello! I wanted to say that I really liked your Huntrix and Saja Boys being besties with the manager reader, and a thought came to mind. What if manager reader also gives the best hugs and is surprisingly cuddly so huntrix and saja boys fight each other for reader's hugs and cuddles.

If there was anything both Huntrix and Saja boys can agree on it would be the fact thar you gave the best hugs they've ever had, how heavenly they felt to the point your hugs had become somewhat of an addiction for them all at some point.

Zoey was the first to experience your hugs -having done so in a fit of excitment and happiness- yet the second she felt you hug her back was the stark constract to her tight embrace, it was soft and assuring as you rubbed her back gently, a calm balm to her energetic self. Zoey had to fight the urge to fully colapse within your arms, burrow her head into your neck and fall asleep there for the rest of the day becuase that's how your hugs had affected her so much.

She would later tell Mira and Rumi and Bobby that your hugs were like that of a security blanket, reassuring, warm and grounding, something that she could anchor herself to without the fear for of drifting away. Almost as if you had magic within your fingertips, witholding a warmth that made her skin tingle pleasently.

Romance was the first out of the Saja boys that you hugged, even if it was brief and cordial, and yet it might as well have lasted for eternity for him. To him being embraced in your hug had brought up softer feelings a demon shouldn't be feeling, there was comfort, there was a sense that he could be allowed to breath and not worry so much as it all seened to fade away from his mind as he allows himself to melt within you hug with a genuine smile upon his face.

He goes back and tells Abby, Baby, Jinu and Mystery that your hugs were like being welcomed home, a sense of belonging and a feeling of being seen and still being worthy of love, and how your hugs made him feel as though he could breath again and learn to drop the facade now and then. Your hugs made him feel as though he didn't feel the need to hide but instead find respit in your hold, letting you run your hand up and down his back, all the while he wanted to rest his head upon your shoulder and just shut his eyes.

Now that both groups were aware of the power you hugs and cuddles hold after experiencing them firsthand for themselves, there came a not so silent competition between the two to see who could recieve them first or the fastest, which brought about the competitive sides within both groups as neither were all that eager to loose to the other in the slightest. They both wanted all of your hugs and cuddles as much as they can whenever possible, even if it meant somewhat disrupting your work ethic doing so, something they try not to do so much but it will happen now and then, but at least they apologised and made it up to you by spoiling you in droves.

Jinu acted like he wouldn't participate un such a thing- but the fact that he was wandering the hallway of your apartment said otherwise- however he should've known better then to think that he would be the only one here for your hugs because when he was just about to come into the living room, he saw you hugging Rumi who looked him dead in the eye and smirked as she burrow her head into your shoulder, holding you tightly as you ran your fingers through her unbraided hair and easing the tension that you was certain was there.

'You're doing great Rumi but you need to start resting more, taking time off even if it's for a week, the fans aren't going to be upset and they'll understand and wait until you girls come back.' Jinu heard you say and he clenched his jaw, jealously filling his chest as he watched how Rumi hogged all of your attention all to herself, not leaving an ounce for him or the boys to have later on from how she seemed to cuddle into you almost possesively. He thought the competition between huntrix and Saja boys stupid and yet he would find himself willingly participating in it regardless, your hugs were like heaven to him and drowned out any voices that he could be hearing at that time, making him feel the safest he’s been in a long, long time.

Rumi on the other hand was enjoying every second the hug continued, finding herself more at peace within your arms, finding a reason to relax and be a little lazy if it meant staying here in your embrace, and leeching off of your warmth like she was now. She was hardworking, headstrong and a bit of a workaholic but within your hugs she was the opposite and she was loving every second of it, even when it was to the detriment of Jinu as it was a way to rub it in that she got to you first and that he’d have to wait until she was done; which wouldn’t be until like thirty minutes from now.

‘Rumi?’ You asked.

‘Yeah?’ She says sluggishly.

You chuckle. ‘Don’t tell me you’re close to falling asleep just from a hug?’

Rumi shrugs, burrowing herself closer to you, all the while making sure Jinu’s pout as he stormed off back down the hallway was engraved within her head. ‘What can I say? Your hugs are healing.’ And she wasn’t joking when she said that.

Mira was confident that she was going to get her hugs in today, having had a rough day in preparation for the newest Huntrix album, all she wanted was to rest her head on your chest as you swaddled her in your warmth on your beloved couch. Her body almost puts itself in a relaxed state before she had even gotten to you -she guessed it was her body’s way of telling her that you were close by- already stretching her arms out in hopes to be greeted with a hug without words, only to find you cuddling Romance while Abby was cuddling you, it was a cuddle sandwich and you were the delectable filling.

‘Oh you’re here,’ Abby says, caressing your sides, ‘why we’re a little overbooked right now, come back in about…an hour and a half, maybe two.’

Mira glares at him, her arms dropping to her sides quicker than anything as your fingers ran through Romance’s hair, your fingers should be running through her hair not his! Romance didn’t make things easier as he opened one eye to look at her, a smile tugging at his lips as he wiggles his fingers at her in a mock greeting, which only served to piss her off even more but wouldn’t dare loose her shit in front of you in the slightest and would try -keyword being try- to keep things civil as ling as the boys sandwiching you did.

‘Too slow.’ He mouthed to Mira as she huffed, quite literally done with this game as she walked over to the couch, staring the three of you down as you looked up at her with confusion while Abby and Romance were waiting for just about anything. What either Saja Boy didn’t expect was for Mira to muscle her way between you and Romance, forcing him to be squished to the back of the couch while Abby groaned under the additional weight, and snuggle herself into you as she clung onto your waist.

‘Guess I think we’re going to fall off the couch.’ You warned, liking the attention you were being given, but could feel that all of you were slowly but surely tipping over the edge of the couch that was more or less made for luxury comfortability then anything else.

‘Get off.’ Romance hissed at Mira who only hugged you tighter.

‘No you fuck off.’ She hisses back as Abby too was hissing at her to leave you to him and romance, completely obviously to the fact that you were about to fall off of the couch within a matter of seconds.

‘Guys.’ You tried again but nothing worked and before you knew it you, Abby, Mira and Romance were all on the floor, the cuddle session was ruined the second you all fell to the floor groaning. ‘I did try to tell you that there was too many people on the couch, three was pushing it already but four-‘

‘Four is a crowd.’ Romance mutters as Mira, somehow still clinging onto you, only smiled at him knowing that she ruined his and Abby’s cuddle session short to have her own instead.

‘Oops.’ Was all she said, though she wasn’t anything but happy to have you all to herself now, even if it was on the uncomfortable floor but she’ll take what she can get.

It had been a while since the competition had started and it had only gotten worse since as Zoey, Mira and Rumi were walking towards your room in hope for some group cuddles, however to their dismay Abby, Romance and Jinu were already there at your doorway looking in with pouts upon their faces which made the girls pause for thought in their steps, having noticed that their rival idol group were two members down.

So where were Baby and Mystery?

Cuddling you they would soon find out as they shoulder checked Abby, Romance and Jinu out of the way to see what they could see, only to see Baby cuddled into your side as Mystery cuddled at your feet, yet they weren’t the only ones as you had two more additional guests in a big fluffy blue tiger cuddled at your head as the bird with the tiny hat was resting upon your chest. All of you were fast asleep and looked to be in no mood to be woken up either, far too comfortable in your current state to wake up even if a megaphone was set off within range of your ears. Thank god your bed was big enough for all of you, but damn if you didn’t all look comfortable together, content in heaven and cuddles that all the rest of them could feel was jealously for being left out.

‘We’ve been looking for them for hours and here is where they’ve been, selfish.’ Abby said as he crossed his arms over his chest.

‘Tell me about it.’ Mira replied as she saw the smile upon Baby’s face as he slowly but surely flips her, Rumi, Zoey and the rest of his band mates off.

‘Cheeky bastard.’ Romance spat as Baby’s arm fell limp at your side, clutching onto you tightly as he made a deliberate show of hooking a leg over your hip and burrowing his head into the crook of your neck. Mystery was limp as anything but would occasionally grunt and kick his leg before going still once more.

‘Boo.’ Zoey chimed in as she pouts, Rumi pats her on the shoulder as Jinu only looked on in betrayal of his animal companions having lost themselves without your warmth and companionship. The competition was stupid but none of them were willing to commit nor trusting of the other group to a truce, so they’ll continue to stand at your sorry like a bunch of neglected children in varying degrees of weird but cute cartoonish pyjamas.

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kenntoria · 1 day ago

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you think you’ve seen every version of nanami kento.

you’ve seen him tired, in the glow of the bathroom light, rubbing his face with one hand and brushing his teeth with the other.

you’ve seen him angry, voice low and calm and cutting.

you’ve seen him unguarded and soft and flushed pink under you, so in love it aches to look at him.

but you’ve never seen him like this.

his shoulders are relaxed, and not the kind of relaxed you’re used to — not the slow unwinding that comes when you’re both tucked away in the safety of your shared home. no, this is different. there’s something in the way he carries himself now, standing at the edge of his grandfather’s garden outside of copenhagen, speaking in low, fluent danish to a man who looks so much like him — taller, older, gruffer, but with the same nose, the same quiet strength behind his gaze.

you’re still holding the wine glass someone handed you. barely. your fingers are numb with surprise.

you didn’t even realize he knew danish. he never said, never even hinted.

and god, it’s like hearing him for the first time.

his voice, always so deliberate, so gentle in japanese — in danish, it’s something else. it’s soft, still, but there’s an ease to it, a rhythm, like it’s the language of his bones. like he learned it curled into his mother’s lap, or at the knees of the grandfather who just clapped a broad, affectionate hand on his shoulder.

he laughs. you’ve never heard him laugh like that. not even once.

“du stirrer,” comes a voice near you — a soft, amused one. his aunt, maybe? cousin? you’re too busy staring to remember the polite thing to do and answer. she is shaking her head at the sight of nanami’s grandfather ruffling his hair whilst he tries to dodge his hand. “you’re the girlfriend, right?”

you blink. “yes— sorry, i didn’t mean to stare—”

“it’s alright,” she says, smiling. “we don’t see him like this often either. not since he was a boy.”

you nod slowly, but it doesn’t help ground you. something in your chest is still flipping, turning over itself again and again. watching him. hearing the way he slips between languages like second skin. watching the subtle shift in his face — like this is a part of him you’ve never been allowed to see until now. one he keeps quiet, tucked away, only brought out for these people. for this place.

it makes your throat tight.

because god, you love him. you love all of him.

you love the quiet, tired man who presses his lips to the top of your head when he gets home from work and sits on the couch to remove his shoes.

you love the stubborn, gentle man who folds laundry while muttering about how much he hates folding laundry.

you love the fiercely intelligent man who talks about justice and economics and hard, impossible things in that even, thoughtful tone that makes you listen even when you don’t understand.

but now— you love this, too.

you love this version of him that is suddenly brand new to you, even though he’s been here all along. this version who is, for once, not split between the weight of the world and his sense of duty. this version who is someone’s grandson, someone’s nephew, someone’s childhood made grown — someone whole, in a way you’ve never seen.

“hey,” he calls gently, when he sees you from across the yard. switches back to japanese without thinking. “you okay?”

you nod a little too fast, then take a sip of wine to hide it.

“you were staring,” he says again, stepping close, eyes searching yours. “was it something i said?”

you blink up at him, a little dazed. “…i didn’t know you spoke danish.”

he hums. “it doesn’t come up often.”

“it’s really hot.”

he blinks. “what?”

“really, really hot.”

he looks away then, down at the ground, the tips of his ears turning a faint, warm pink. “you’re drunk.”

“i’m not drunk.”

“you’re a little drunk.”

“i’m flabbergasted,” you whisper dramatically, and he actually laughs. he hides it behind the wine glass he’s just stolen from your hand.

“ridiculous.”

you grab his wrist gently. “say something again.”

“in danish?”

you nod eagerly.

he eyes you. and then — quiet, playful, low — he leans in and murmurs something soft in your ear, too quick to catch all of it. but the lilt of it is beautiful. it ends with your name, and you nearly melt at his feet.

“what did you say?” you breathe.

“not telling.”

“kento—”

“later, sweetie,” he says, and the look in his eyes makes your heart squeeze. “i’ll whisper it to you again when we’re alone.”

you’re going to die.

and he — now smiling, pearly whites and all, the kind that reaches his eyes — knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

because this version of nanami kento speaks danish, and teases you, and is loved by a loud, warm family who call him by his childhood nickname and pull you into their arms like you’ve always belonged.

and you think — no, you know — this is the moment your life changes.

because this is the moment you realize, you haven’t seen every version of him yet, but you’ll spend the rest of your life trying.

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flowergirl1243 · 1 day ago

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out of step - [part one]

SUMMARY: When a ballerina steps into the fast lane, and a Formula One driver slows down just long enough to fall for her.

PAIRING: lando norris x ballerina!reader

part one

EPISODE ONE: THE GALA ⟶ Early March, preseason

ynusername posted a story

Liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and others lando I was told this wasn't a black tie event. They lied 🕺💀🔥

user1 help where is he

user2 this man's always off doing side quests

It starts with a near disaster.

Lando’s moving too fast, champagne in one hand, phone in the other, laughing at something dumb George sent, when he nearly collides with someone in the narrow hallway behind the gala ballroom.

Not just someone.

Someone in a silk dress, pale pink and shimmering like moonlight. She steps back before he can crash into her, nimble as anything, barely blinking.

“Oh, shit, sorry, sorry,” he blurts, clutching his drink like it’s the most precious thing in the room (second most, she’s winning).

She blinks up at him with wide, surprised eyes. But then she smiles. Really smiles. It’s soft and bright and just a little crooked.

“It’s okay,” she says gently, tilting her head. “You looked very determined to sprint through that wall.”

Lando laughs, nervous and loud. “Didn’t mean to almost take you out, I swear.”

“I believe you,” she says, hands clasped in front of her like a ballerina in rehearsal. “You don’t look like a villain. Just…enthusiastic.”

He grins. “That’s generous.”

She shrugs, teasing. “You did apologize three times. That’s more than most.”

“Lando,” he says quickly, offering his hand before he can overthink it. “Norris.”

“I know,” she says, accepting it. Her touch is light. “You’re a bit hard to miss.”

“Oh,” he says. “Is that good or bad?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Her smile softens. She doesn’t let go of his hand right away. Neither does he.

“I’m Y/N,” she adds. “I dance with the Royal.”

He nods like he understands, even though he very much does not. “So like…ballet ballet.”

She giggles, ducking her head. “Yes. Ballet ballet.”

“That’s insane,” he says, stunned. “Like…the toes? The spinning? Swan Lake type beat?”

“Exactly,” she says, amused. “Except tonight, I just smile at people and try not to get sequins in the wine.”

He’s grinning again. “Well, you’re doing amazing. 10 out of 10 sequins-to-wine ratio.”

Her eyes sparkle. “And you? F1 driver crashing into innocent women at black-tie events?”

“Only the pretty ones,” he blurts.

Her eyebrows shoot up, delighted. “Oh?”

“I mean,” he fumbles. “I didn’t, just—”

“You’re adorable,” she says, laughing now, and it’s so unfair that she’s this graceful and this funny.

Lando blinks. Then laughs, full and too-loud and startled. “I swear, I’m not usually...this.”

She raises one elegant eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Chaos,” he offers, holding up both hands like a confession. “Pure, grade-A chaos.”

She giggles. Honest-to-god giggles. “Well, it’s very…charming. In a hurricane kind of way.”

He relaxes a little, then catches up to the fact that she is very beautiful. Not just “pretty in a nice dress” beautiful, but “you’d-paint-her-in-a-museum” beautiful. Pale pink dress, soft eyes, hair pinned in a bun that somehow makes her look like both royalty and a Disney character. Her shoes are delicate and glittering and he thinks they might be terrifyingly expensive.

They’re quiet for a moment. A good kind of quiet.

Then Lando blurts, “Do your feet hurt all the time?”

She gives him a startled look, then bursts out laughing. “Yes,” she says. “All the time. They’re a nightmare. I have a bag of frozen peas in my freezer named Gerald.”

“For ice?”

“For ballet-related emotional support,” she says, mock-serious.

“Gerald sounds like a top bloke,” he replies. “He and I would get on.”

She smiles again, warmer this time. “And you? Do your arms hurt from all that steering?”

“That,” Lando says, hand over his heart, “is deeply offensive. We do much more than steering.”

“Right, right. You press pedals, too.”

“Oh my god,” he says, scandalized. “I’m being bullied by a ballerina.”

She grins, impossibly radiant. “You’re holding your own.”

He shrugs. “I’m doing my best. You’re kind of intimidating, though. You haven’t stopped smiling once and I feel like I’ve aged three years.”

“You’re sweet,” she says gently, with a tilt of her head. “And clearly not used to being off the track.”

“Off the track and out of my depth,” he agrees.

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs, stepping past him, slow and deliberate. “I’ll go easy on you. For now.”

He turns to watch her go. “Wait,” he calls after her. “You’re just gonna leave me here after nearly making me fall in love with you?”

She glances over her shoulder. Her smile is devastating. “Lando,” she says sweetly, “that sounds like a you problem.”

And then she disappears around the corner, pink silk fluttering behind her like a ribbon in the wind.

Lando doesn’t move for ten full seconds.

Then, quietly: “Oh, I am so screwed.”

The floor was too polished.

That’s what Y/N would blame later, the floor, not the dress, not the nerves that hit every time someone glanced at her like they were trying to place her name.

It happened quickly. One second she was stepping down from the stage where the patrons had all just been introduced, a blur of lights and applause and polite nods, and the next, her heel caught on the hem of her gown.

It wasn’t a dramatic trip.

Not one of those cartoonish arms-flailing faceplants. No, this one was subtle, graceful even, just enough of a stumble to tilt her forward, to send her off balance.

Just enough to make her heart skip.

And just enough for him to be there.

Strong hands caught her at the waist, one quick step forward and suddenly she was pressed against a very warm, very solid chest. She could smell something clean and sharp, cologne and champagne and maybe the outside world.

“Careful,” came the amused voice, low and British and far too close to her ear. “You almost fell for me.”

Y/N's head snapped up.

Lando. Of course.

He was already grinning.

She blinked, stunned for a moment by how close they were. His hands were still at her waist. Her hands were on his chest. His bowtie was crooked, and his hair looked like he’d run a hand through it ten times too many.

“I didn’t fall,” she said quickly, cheeks going pink.

“You didn’t hit the ground,” he corrected. “Because I caught you.”

“I was fine.”

“You were definitely mid-trip,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “I swooped in like a knight in shiny loafers.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I am not—”

“Blushing and defensive,” he said, taking a slow step back but still watching her like she was the best thing he’d seen all night. “Deadly combination.”

Y/N adjusted the hem of her dress, refusing to meet his eyes. “If I had fallen, I would’ve landed in a perfect fourth position.”

“Oh, of course,” he said solemnly. “A true professional. But still, lucky for you, I was there. Strong reflexes. Great balance. Heroic, really.”

She looked up at him then, lips curving. “Do you always flirt with girls who nearly break their ankles at fundraisers?”

He gave her the smuggest smile. “Only the really graceful ones.”

Y/N smoothed her dress again, even though it didn’t need smoothing. Her heart was still racing, not from the almost-fall, but from him. From the way he was still looking at her like she was both a miracle and the punchline to a joke he was desperate to hear again.

“You can stop staring now,” she said, aiming for calm and landing somewhere near breathless.

Lando tilted his head, grin not fading. “Can I?”

“Yes,” she said, turning slightly, trying to regain composure. “The show’s over.”

“Well, then I’d like a refund,” he quipped, falling into step beside her as she started walking again. “That was a very short performance.”

She side-eyed him, trying not to smile. “You’ll get your money’s worth next time I fall down the stairs.”

He laughed, open and delighted, and she could feel it settle into her chest, warm and oddly comfortable.

“I like you,” he said easily, too easily, like it was a fact and not a surprise even to himself.

Y/N blinked. “You don’t even know me.”

“I didn’t know you ten minutes ago,” he shrugged. “But now I do. A little.”

She arched a brow, amused. “And what exactly do you know?”

Lando pretended to count on his fingers. “Let’s see. You’re elegant, slightly dangerous in heels, and devastating with your comebacks. You pretend not to be flustered when you are. Also, you smell very nice.”

She paused, thrown by that last one. “Do I?”

He looked over, and for the first time, his teasing dropped just slightly. His voice softened.

“Yeah. Like something expensive and… calm.”

Y/N didn’t reply. For a second, neither of them did.

Then—

“I still didn’t trip,” she murmured.

He grinned, pleased that they were back on familiar ground. “You’re sticking with that story?”

“Absolutely.”

“Bold. But incorrect.”

“I’m a ballerina,” she said primly. “We don’t trip. We redirect momentum.”

Lando let out a laugh that made her want to grin, but she held firm. Barely.

“Alright then,” he said, stopping at the edge of the ballroom where the music was starting again. “Redirect momentum with me sometime?”

She blinked. “Was that a very weird way of asking me out?”

“I’m trying to speak your language,” he said, grinning. “Was that a yes?”

Y/N hesitated just long enough to keep him on his toes.

Then: “If you promise not to trip over your own ego.”

He put a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. “That’s going to be tough.”

“I know,” she said sweetly, and stepped past him, into the crowd. But not before glancing back once, just once, over her shoulder.

He was still watching her.

Of course he was.

The phone rang late that night, soft and unexpected. Y/N glanced at the screen and smiled when she saw Lando’s name. She swiped to answer and settled onto her bed, the quiet of her room wrapping around her.

“Hey,” she said, voice low and easy.

“Hey yourself,” Lando replied, sounding relaxed, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Didn’t think you’d pick up this late.”

“I wasn’t really doing anything important,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You?”

“Same. Just scrolling through memes and pretending to be productive.” He chuckled. “So, what’s new with the most graceful woman I know?”

Y/N laughed softly. “You’re sweet. Not much, just rehearsals and trying not to trip over my own feet.”

“That sounds about right.” He teased gently. “Maybe I should give you some tips on balance.”

“Oh, please,” she said with a grin she knew he couldn’t see. “Last thing I need is you knocking me over.”

“Hey, I’m a professional. I only knock people over accidentally.” His tone was light, casual, but somehow warm.

“Accidental chaos. Sounds familiar.” She paused, then added, “What about you? How’s the ‘deliberate chaos’ going?”

“On point,” he said. “Mostly on the track, but I’m working on it off the track too. Starting with not embarrassing myself at galas.”

“Big improvement already.” She smiled at the thought. “Though you did make a memorable entrance.”

“Memorable, yes. Graceful? Not so much.” His laugh was easy. “Speaking of grace, maybe you can teach me a move or two sometime.”

“Only if you promise not to break anything,” she teased.

“No promises,” he said, grinning through the phone. “But I’ll try.”

They both laughed, the kind of comfortable laughter that comes from familiarity.

“Well,” Y/N said, “don’t keep me up all night with your chaotic charm.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Sleep well, Y/N.”

“You too, Lando.”

They said goodnight, and the line went silent, but the warmth lingered, like a secret only they shared.

Hello, my lovelies! I'm back again with a new series, woo!! I hope you all enjoy it! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist or removed! Also, if you only want it for this series or just my work in general! Love you all!

#f1 #f1 x reader #lando norris #lando norris x reader #f1 smau #lando x reader #ln4 #ln4 x reader

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mandoalorian · 1 day ago

Text

lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson one: kissing

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: after thinking you've met the man of your dreams, you're ready to take things to the next level. one problem: you've never even kissed a guy before. so, you knock on your best friend's door with a proposition, and ask him to teach you everything there is to know about sex. no strings, no feelings, just lessons. but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it's only practice.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ male masturbation, making out, unspoken feelings, pining, a smidge of angst, bucky has a fear of rejection/not being good enough, virgin!reader, experienced!bucky, reader drinks alcohol, mentions of politics, reader is dating a jerk and doesn't know it.

word count: 8.0k

ෆ series masterlist | next part

You stepped out of your apartment at the exact moment Bucky Barnes unlocked his own across the hall.

It wasn’t the first time your mornings had lined up like this. He knew it wasn’t coincidence, not really. He’d long since memorised the sounds you made while getting ready—the soft shuffle of your feet, the hum of a hairdryer, the clink of a mug meeting the counter. Some mornings, he stood by his door with his hand on the knob, pretending to fumble with keys just to run into you like this.

And there you were. Hoodie three sizes too big, hair still damp, yawning into your sleeve. His favourite version of you.

“Morning, doll,” he said casually, holding up your mail like a prize. “The latest threat to your bank account has arrived.”

You blinked, slow and groggy, then narrowed your eyes when you saw the Bloomingdale’s logo on the catalogue. “Bucky, did you read my mail again?”

He gasped, hand to his chest. “I would never.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was protecting your financial well-being,” he insisted, voice going mock-serious. “You nearly cried over that suede coat last month. I’m acting in your best interest.”

“You’re acting like a nosy neighbour, again,” you muttered, taking the mail from his hand.

He let you, though he didn’t quite let go right away.

And you didn’t notice. Or maybe you just didn’t think twice about it.

You never did.

He watched you leaf through the envelope lazily, eyes soft with sleep and trust. The kind of trust he still didn’t think he deserved. But you gave it to him anyway—effortlessly. Like handing him your heartbeat.

“Come on,” you said, already walking toward the stairs. “Coffee?”

“Obviously,” he replied, falling into step beside you.

He didn’t have to ask where you were going. He never did. You always went to the same quaint little café on Saturday mornings, always shared the same slice of raspberry coconut loaf, always sat at the table by the window with the wobbly leg. And Bucky loved a routine, even if he never said it out loud.

Especially one that involved you.

The building creaked softly as you descended together, your steps a little too light, his a little too heavy. When the sun touched your skin through the glass entryway, you tilted your face toward it and smiled.

That smile—God, that smile.

You didn’t know what it did to him. How it made something ancient and restless inside him go perfectly still.

You pushed through the front door and into the street, the early morning light gold and sleepy. A dog barked somewhere. A bike rolled past. You reached for his arm without warning, slipping your hand into the crook of his metal elbow like it belonged there.

Like you belonged there.

He swore his breath caught for a second.

It was always like that. You touched him so freely—so fearlessly. You held his metal hand when you were tipsy, tugged on the plates when you needed his attention, rested your cheek against the cool surface like it was nothing. Like the arm hadn’t killed people. Like it hadn’t nearly killed him.

And every time, it undid him a little more.

“God, I’m starving,” you groaned, leaning into him. “Do you think they still have that raspberry loaf?”

“I think you single-handedly keep them in business with how often you order that thing.”

“It’s so good, Buck. You can’t deny it.”

“I wouldn’t know, every time I order a slice to try, you end up stealing it from my plate.” Bucky smirked.

You gasped, scandalised. “I share with you.”

“You leave me crumbs. Literal crumbs.”

You bumped your hip into his as you walked. “I’m just a girl. I need sugar.”

You’re sweet enough already, he wanted to say. But instead, he didn’t answer. Just smiled, the tight kind, the kind he had to control.

You didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on you—on the light catching in your eyes, on the way your hoodie slipped off one shoulder, revealing just enough skin to make Bucky’s heart yearn. You didn’t see the quiet hunger behind his eyes, the ache that lived just under the surface.

He wanted to memorise everything. The sound of your laugh, the curve of your knuckles, the way you pointed your toe out when you walked. Every piece of you. Etched into memory.

But you were his friend. Just his friend.

And he could live with that.

Because if friendship was the only way he got to keep you close, he’d take it. Even if it hollowed him out a little more every time you smiled at him like he was just Bucky Barnes, your neighbour. Your best friend.

Not the man who watched you like you hung galaxies from your fingertips.

Not the man who would burn the world down just to keep you safe.

You tightened your hold on his arm as you turned the corner. “You’re paying, by the way.”

“Wasn’t aware I wasn’t paying.”

“You’re my favourite sugar daddy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You grinned up at him, mischief in your eyes. “You love it.”

Bucky couldn’t resist the smile tugging at his lips.

The two of you walked slowly, like you had nowhere to be — and you didn’t, not really. That was the beauty of Saturday mornings. No Congress meetings. No global threats. Just coffee, a shared slice of cake, and the one person on Earth who made him forget what the rest of his life had looked like before this.

You tilted your head toward the nearest tree, watching sunlight filter through its leaves, and Bucky watched you instead.

“This neighbourhood’s changing,” you murmured, pointing across the street. “That used to be a laundromat, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. You used to drop your delicates there and then come over to my place to complain about how everything smelled like lavender.”

You laughed. “I still hate lavender.”

He smiled softly. “I know.”

You looked up at him at that. Something flickered in your expression, brief but curious, like you hadn’t expected him to remember something so small.

But he remembered everything.

Like the way you always brought a spare hair tie but never used it. The way you couldn’t walk past a bookstore without wandering in. The way your lips pressed together when you were trying not to say something too honest.

You kicked a little rock on the sidewalk and it skipped ahead of you.

He filed that away too. He always did. Like collecting evidence of the person he couldn’t have but would’ve worshipped if you’d only let him.

You stopped at the corner where the café sat, all old bricks and chipped blue paint and hand-drawn chalkboard menus. He reached for the door and held it open without thinking. You paused just before walking in, brushing your hand against his stomach briefly—just a friendly touch, just something easy and natural—but it burned like a brand.

Inside, the place smelled like roasted espresso beans and sugar. The usual barista waved at you both.

You smiled at her and then up at him. “Iced latte. Two shots. Oat milk. No syrup.”

“You think I don’t know your order by now?”

“I like to keep you on your toes.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. Just warmth. Just a quiet affection he’d never let himself name.

You drifted toward the back table—the one with the wobbly leg—and pulled out your favourite chair, the one with the chipped white paint and the tiny carved heart in the corner that you'd pretended to hate but never actually swapped out.

He stepped up to the counter and ordered your drinks, adding the raspberry and coconut loaf without hesitation. They gave him the biggest slice because they knew it was for you.

By the time he joined you at the table, you’d already folded your arms on the tabletop and rested your chin on them like a kid, watching him with lazy amusement.

“You know,” you said, “if I were a stranger, I’d assume we were dating.”

His chest tightened. But he managed a smirk.

“If we were dating, you’d let me eat more than a third of the cake.”

“If we were dating, we'd live together, and you wouldn’t keep stealing my mail,” you fired back.

“You love it when I steal your mail.”

You grinned.

God, he wanted to reach across the table and tuck that loose strand of hair behind your ear. Not because it was in the way—just because he could.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he pushed the raspberry loaf toward you and watched you light up like you’d been handed a gift.

You broke off a corner and handed it to him without thinking. He took it with a faint smile, letting your fingertips brush.

He wondered—again—if you noticed how often you touched him. If you knew how he soaked up every second of it like a starving man.

You sipped your coffee and hummed in satisfaction. “They made it strong today.”

“Good. You get bitchy when you’re tired.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you get soft when you’re around me.”

He looked at you. Really looked. And for one terrifying moment, he wanted to say something real.

I do. I get soft. I get stupid. I’d say yes to anything you asked me, even if it tore me up inside.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, “That’s your influence. You’re corrupting me.”

You didn’t deny it.

You just smiled, eyes bright with affection, and reached for another piece of cake.

And Bucky Barnes, hardened soldier, century-old weapon, killer turned Congressman turned best friend—sat there, letting you have the bigger half, just like always.

The coffee shop hummed with weekend ease — low music from the speakers, baristas laughing behind the counter, the soft hiss of steamed milk. Your fork tapped against the plate as you divided the final bite of raspberry loaf without asking, pushing the smaller piece toward him.

He gave you a look.

“Don’t fight it,” you said lightly. “You’ve had enough.”

“I paid for it,” he muttered, but still took the bite.

You laughed, sipping your drink. Your lips were pink from the berry glaze, and you wore that tired little smile — the one you always had when you’d slept like shit but tried to hide it. He noticed it all. Of course he did.

Your phone buzzed on the table beside your latte. You glanced down and grinned.

That grin made his stomach turn, but he didn’t know why yet.

“Who’s that?” he asked, casually enough.

“Oh.” You picked up the phone and typed quickly, still smiling. “Congressman Blake.”

His chest tightened before his brain even caught up. “The one from judiciary?”

“Mhm.” You looked up, eyes still sparkling. “He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”

It hit him like a punch.

You. Dressed up for someone else. Smiling like that for someone else. Letting someone else close enough to ruin you.

His jaw locked before he could stop it. “Blake’s—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off before he even said it, tone playful but warning. “Don’t do the overprotective big brother thing.”

He tried to keep his voice even. Tried not to let anything show. “I’m not. Just… Blake? Really?”

“What’s wrong with Blake?”

He’s a sleaze. He cheats. He brags about interns behind closed doors. He’s not safe. But he couldn’t say any of that. Not without sounding like a jealous asshole.

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “Just didn’t realise he was your type.”

You tilted your head. “And what’s my type, Barnes?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when every version of your type in his mind looked a hell of a lot like him.

You sipped your drink again and shrugged, clearly brushing it off. “He’s nice. He’s… ambitious. Confident. And he actually asked.”

That part stung. You’d never said it before, but it was true. Bucky had never asked. He hovered. Protected. Lingered too long when you hugged him, always brushed his thumb along your lower back when he walked you home. But he never crossed the line.

You leaned back in your chair, looking suddenly shy. “Anyway. I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

You looked down at your hands, fiddling with your straw wrapper. “To… take that step. You know.”

He went still. “What step?”

You hesitated, then looked him dead in the eye. “I want to have sex with him, Buck.”

He froze.

There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, and for a second, the café blurred at the edges.

You kept talking, like you hadn’t just detonated a nuclear bomb on his morning.

“I know it’s stupid. I know I should’ve done it sooner or—whatever. I mean, we’ve been seeing each other for a week and a half, and I’m not used to this sort of thing. To be honest, I wonder if it's a little fast. But Blake keeps making moves, and I think tonight will maybe be the night? I mean, he’s hot, and he wants to, and I want to, I guess.”

Bucky blinked. “You want to have sex with Congressman Blake?”

You flushed instantly, but nodded. “Well, yeah. Bucky, were you just listening to a word I said?”

He sat back, stunned. You. Sweet. Soft. Letting someone like Blake touch you?

The metal fingers on his left hand flexed beneath the table.

You rushed to fill the silence. “I just think… I don’t want to mess it up. And he’s… I don’t know, experienced. I want to be good. I want to be enough.”

That last part did something awful to him.

“Don’t say that,” he said sharply.

You blinked. “Say what?”

“That you’re not enough. That you need to impress him.”

You gave him a look, somewhere between touched and confused. “Buck…”

But he couldn’t let it go. Not now.

“You don’t need to prove anything to him,” he muttered, jaw tight. “He should be lucky you’re even giving him the time of day.”

You went quiet. The warmth from earlier cooled around you.

“You sound mad,” you said softly.

He looked at you then — really looked. You, sitting across from him with your heart cracked wide open, trusting him with this truth. And all he could feel was helpless. Furious and heartbroken and helpless.

“I’m not mad,” he said, quieter now. “Just… surprised.”

You tried to smile. “You thought I’d die alone?”

“No,” he said instantly. Then softer: “I just didn’t think he deserved you.”

Your smile faltered.

For a second, you just stared at him, eyes wide and unreadable. But then your phone buzzed again, and the moment passed. You reached for it like nothing had happened.

“Anyway,” you said lightly, “I’ve gotta go and do some errands. He’s picking me up at eight. Think I’ll wear that little pink dress. You know the one I wore for my cousin’s wedding?”

Bucky nodded numbly.

He was your date to your cousin’s wedding last year, after you’d begged and pleaded with him. You told him you only wanted him there so your family would stop asking inappropriate questions about your love life. And wow, you played the part of girlfriend so well. That was the night when he’d nearly told you the truth.

You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and leaned down to kiss his cheek.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you whispered. “You’re my favourite.”

Then you walked out, leaving him alone at the table, heart sinking to the floor, and an empty plate with few coconut flakes and a smear of raspberry frosting.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky stared at the ceiling.

Then he stared at the floor.

Then he paced to the window, looked out at your door across the hallway, and paced back again.

And again.

His hands were in fists. Then on his hips. Then raking through his hair.

He couldn’t sit still.

You’d smiled when you said it. You’d meant it. It wasn’t some joke, some hypothetical. You really wanted to have sex with that asshole.

Fuck.

He muttered it under his breath and stopped in front of the counter, where he’d pulled up a dozen tabs on his phone for raspberry loaf recipes and hadn’t committed to any of them.

“This is stupid,” he mumbled to no one.

But still, he preheated the oven.

It wasn’t even about the cake. It was just—something. A thing to do with his hands that didn’t involve punching walls or texting you thirty times with half-written apologies and I didn’t mean to sound like a jealous jackass, I just—

He scrolled through the ingredients list again and set out what he had. Flour. Eggs. Sugar. Raspberries. Coconut milk — because you didn’t like regular milk, said it made your stomach feel weird. He always remembered the little things.

His thumb hesitated over the coconut flakes. Too much? No. He added them. You liked the texture.

He cracked eggs too hard. Spilled flour on the counter. Burned his finger on the pan and didn’t even flinch. All he could think about was you.

Your smile. Your laugh. The way you’d touched his arm at the café and leaned against him like you weren’t afraid of him at all. The way you kissed his cheek and told him he was your favourite right before walking out the door to go on a date with Blake.

He growled under his breath, rubbing flour into his temples.

The phone on his kitchen island lit up.

He stared at it for a long time, then tapped Sam’s contact. One ring. Two.

Sam picked up, slightly out of breath. “Bucky Barnes, to what do I owe the pleasure? This phone call isn’t therapist mandated, is it?”

“No. I stopped seeing Dr Raynor,” Bucky replied, eyeing up the mess in his kitchen and grabbing a towel with his empty hand.

“And so now you’re calling me because… you miss me?” Bucky could practically hear Sam’s smirk on the other end of the line.

Bucky sat heavily on the barstool, elbows on the counter. “Sam I need help. It’s Y/N. She’s going on a date tonight.”

“Okay… and?” Sam deadpanned.

“She wants to have sex with Congressman Blake.”

There was a beat of silence. “Damn, is that politician who voted against women’s reproductive rights? Or was it the one who got those sustainability protestors arrested at Capitol Hill? Wait— is this the guy you pushed into the vending machine that one time?”

Bucky leaned back, eyes closed. “All the same guy.”

“Fucking super villain,” Sam muttered. “She needs to stay clear from him.”

“She kept calling him hot and— and I just sat there like a fucking statue while she told me she was giving herself to that slimeball.”

“You know you’re allowed to tell her how you feel, right?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I’m not.”

“Buck—”

“She’s my best friend.”

“She’s not a child.”

“She trusts me. I’m not gonna break that.”

Sam sighed. “Then why are you pacing?”

Bucky stopped in his footsteps, cheeks burning. “I’m not.”

“You’re lying again.”

There was a long pause.

“I’m baking.”

“You’re baking,” Sam repeated, a little dumbfounded by the confession.

“She loves raspberry coconut loaf,” Bucky muttered finally. “Figured I’d… I don’t know. Drop one off.”

Sam made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “You’re hopeless.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Do you want her to be with that guy?” Sam asked quietly.

Bucky’s chest caved in. “No.”

“Then say something.”

“Sam, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she deserves soft,” he whispered. “She deserves first kisses and safe hands. Not a guy with a kill count.”

“And Congressman Blake is the guy who has that? I don’t think so Buck,” Sam replied. “She knows you and she knows your past. She’s not afraid of you, and she certainly wouldn’t want you to dote on her like this. Now, go finish up this cake and if you can’t tell her how you feel, at least wish her luck on her date. God knows she’ll need it.”

The oven beeped. The cake was done. And the conversation ended not long after that.

“Thank you Sam,” Bucky said, reaching for the oven handle.

“Love you, buddy,” Sam replied before ending the call.

He took the cake out with trembling hands, set it on the cooling rack, and stared at it like it might offer answers. It looked a little crooked. One corner had cracked.

Didn’t matter.

He was still going to knock on your door in twenty minutes, warm cake in hand, and apologise for everything — even if he couldn’t say the one thing he really wanted to.

When Bucky finally managed the confidence, you opened the door in a rush of perfume and warmth, barefoot but otherwise fully dressed. Too dressed. Dressed like sin in a silk wrap dress the colour of blush wine. Your eyes were lined, lashes fluttering, cheeks glowing. And Bucky?

He forgot how to breathe.

“Hey,” you said brightly, clutching a delicate little purse in one hand. “Oh my god, is that—?”

He held out the loaf cake like an apology wrapped in parchment paper.

Your whole face lit up.

“You baked for me?” You took it from him with both hands, like it was something precious. “Bucky, this is—thank you! You didn’t have to. I’m really sorry about earlier, by the way. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay,” he muttered, eyes darting anywhere but your cleavage. “I was kind of an ass.”

“No, you were just being protective. You always are.” You gave him that soft smile that always disarmed him. That made him feel seen. “I’m just… I really like Blake, you know?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped into your apartment when you gestured for him to follow.

“I’m happy for you.” A bare face lie; but he knew he wanted to at least get to a place where he could be happy for you, his best friend. He hated the way he seethed with jealousy.

You twirled around once and held your hair up. “Can you zip me up?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The back.” You turned around and revealed the bare expanse of your back, smooth and soft, the dress gaping where the zipper ended halfway. “I couldn’t get it myself.”

His fingers shook. He hoped you didn’t notice.

The zipper whispered upward slowly, every inch of skin sealed off like a secret he wasn’t meant to know. You smelled like lavender and coconut, something sweet and warm and home. You looked over your shoulder and smiled at him.

“Thanks, Buck.”

He cleared his throat. “You look… nice.”

Nice. That’s what he landed on. Not breathtaking. Not beautiful. Not like my heart was carved out and put in a dress just to mock me. Just nice.

You beamed like you hadn’t noticed his agony at all.

“I really want this to go well,” you said, turning toward your mirror to fix your lip gloss. “He’s not perfect, I know, but he’s charming. And hot. And I don’t know, there’s just something exciting about him. Like he knows what he’s doing.”

Bucky’s stomach turned.

“And I want to be good for him,” you went on, dabbing something shimmery onto your cheekbones. “Like… I want to know what I’m doing. I’m tired of being the clueless one. All my friends lost their virginity ages ago, and here I am, still fumbling in the dark.”

You turned to him then, a half-laugh on your lips, like you expected him to laugh too.

But he didn’t.

Your smile faltered. “What?”

“You’re a virgin?” he asked before he could stop himself. His voice came out lower than he meant, rougher.

You blinked. “Uh… yeah.”

He stared at you. Of course you were. Of course you waited. Of course you were soft and good and didn’t give yourself away to someone who didn’t deserve it—

“I mean, it's not typically something I announce at parties. I just…” you shifted, suddenly shy, “I want to be ready. For him. I want it to be good, you know? But I don’t want to go in completely blind.”

He didn’t speak.

You bit your lip. Then looked up at him with a spark of something hopeful. Something dangerous.

“That’s actually kind of why I was hoping you’d come by. I was thinking about what you said, about not trusting Blake, and I get it. He’s a little unconventional. But you’ve always looked out for me. Always been honest. And I trust you more than anyone.”

He stepped back, wary of the way your voice softened.

“So…” you stepped closer, eyes wide, tone casual but far too sincere. “I was wondering… if maybe you’d help me.”

His brow furrowed. “Help?”

“With learning,” you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Like… teach me.”

The words landed like a thunderbolt.

You laughed nervously when he didn’t respond right away. “Not everything at once, obviously. Just the basics. Kissing. Touching. Whatever you think I should know. I mean, who better to learn from than someone I already trust, right?”

Bucky was silent.

Then: “You want me to teach you how to—”

“—how to have sex, yeah.” You said it quickly, breathless. “But like… in stages. Slow. You don’t have to if you think it’s weird, I just—I really want my first time to be good, and I figured if I have to learn, I’d rather it be with someone who makes me feel safe.”

Someone who makes me feel safe.

Not loved. Not wanted. Not the man you’ve been quietly obsessed with for years who would rip the world in half to protect you.

Just safe.

“Bucky?” you said softly, your voice a little nervous now. “You don’t have to say yes. I just thought—”

“I’ll do it.”

You blinked.

He said it again, quieter this time. “I’ll help you.”

Relief bloomed in your expression. You surged forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, hugging him like you always did — like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t make his heart splinter.

“Thank you,” you murmured into his chest. “You’re the best, Buck. Really.”

He held you gently. Let himself have the moment.

One more second. One more breath of your perfume. One more illusion of something he could never really have.

“Tomorrow night?” you asked brightly, pulling away. “We can start simple. Just kissing.”

He nodded, throat dry.

“Great! I’ll bring wine.” You smiled again, radiant and entirely unaware of the devastation you’d just left in your wake. “Wish me luck with Blake?”

He forced a smirk. “Break a leg.”

Then you were gone — slipping into your heels, grabbing your purse, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and floating out the door like a dream wrapped in silk and naiveté.

Bucky was left stood in your living room, alone, with a sinking heart and raspberry cake crumbs on his shirt.

──── ୨୧ ────

The restaurant was dimly lit and swanky, tucked into the corner of a cobblestone street in SoHo. You were seated at a private table beside the window, candlelight flickering between you and Blake.

He looked good. Too good. Slicked-back hair, watch glinting under his cuff, shirt crisp and expensive. He grinned like a man who had never been told no, and flirted like it was second nature.

"You clean up well," he said, eyes raking over your body with a smirk. "Though I gotta admit, you looked pretty damn good when I saw you on Thursday. That little T-shirt situation you had going on in the hallway? Dangerous."

You flushed, laughing a little despite yourself. "Yeah, sorry about that. It was laundry day and I didn’t expect company."

"I didn’t mind." He winked, then flagged down the waitress with a pointed glance and a once-over that lingered just a second too long.

You watched him, brows lifting subtly.

She walked away after taking your drink order — a sweet rosé for you, bourbon neat for him — and Blake leaned in with that megawatt smile.

"So," you said, twirling your straw, "do you know my neighbour? Bucky Barnes?"

His smile faltered.

"Yeah," he said after a beat. "Guy’s… around."

You blinked. "You’ve worked with him?"

“Sure. He’s kind of a dinosaur, honestly.” Blake shrugged, reaching for the breadbasket. “Weird loner type. Barely speaks in meetings. Creeps people out, to be honest. All that staring and brooding. Makes everything heavier than it needs to be.”

Your jaw tightened.

“He’s a good man,” you said quietly, the edge in your voice unmistakable. “Sometimes, I can’t believe he even chose a career in politics but he really wants to help people. He fights for change.”

Blake chuckled, caught off guard. “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, sweetheart. You’re right. He’s… loyal. I’ll give him that. But Congressman Barnes and I don’t align on the same things.”

You weren’t sure what he meant by that, and didn’t dare ask. “How come you’re in politics?”

“Fortune, I guess. Power. The ability to get anything I want with a snap of a finger. My dad was a Senator so I’m following in his footsteps.”

You nodded, feigning an attempt to understand, but the glow you’d come in with dimmed a little.

Still, Blake recovered fast. He leaned forward and complimented your eyes, your dress, your laugh — all with a polish that should’ve made you melt. And it almost did. His voice was smooth, his words practiced but alluring, and when he touched your hand across the table, you felt your pulse stutter.

“You know,” he said softly, tracing a lazy circle against your wrist with his thumb, “You are so stunning up close.” His eyes dropped to your mouth. “This is unfair.”

You smiled bashfully, biting your lip.

Dinner arrived — steak for him, something creamy and pasta-based for you — and conversation flowed. Kind of. He liked to talk about himself, but you didn’t mind much. It made you feel like you were in the presence of someone powerful. Someone who wanted you.

At one point, his hand landed on your leg under the table. Light at first. Harmless. But then it inched higher. And higher.

You jumped slightly, thighs tensing under his touch.

Blake raised his eyebrows, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Too fast?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t be sorry,” he cut in quickly, drawing his hand back. “You’re worth the wait.”

You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.

“I mean that,” he added, his tone softening. “Look at you. Smart, funny, beautiful. Not like the usual girls I take out. You’ve got something extra.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

When dessert was offered, he waved it off and paid in full, leaving a cash tip with a wink at the waitress (which you pretended not to notice). Then he walked you out, hand brushing your back possessively.

“Tomorrow night?” he asked, opening the car door for you.

You blinked. “You want to go out again tomorrow?” You remembered your plans with Bucky, and wondered if you could fit in another date around them.

“Of course I do.” He smiled, leaning closer. “Assuming you don’t have plans with your broody neighbour.”

You forced a laugh. “He’s not broody.”

“Mhm. I’ll text you, darling, and we can arrange plans.”

He kissed your cheek — too close to your mouth — and you slipped into the backseat with a flurry of nerves and butterflies.

As the car pulled away, you clutched your purse in your lap and thought about his hand on your leg. How it had made your stomach flip. How you hadn’t known what to do with yourself.

And tomorrow, he’d want more. Probably much more.

You weren’t ready. But you wanted to be.

──── ୨୧ ────

The silence in the apartment building was deafening.

You’d gone hours ago. Dressed in that slinky blush dress, eyes sparkling like precious gems, perfume sweet like vanilla clinging to the hallway even after you left. And Bucky hadn’t been able to sit still since.

He’d paced from the kitchen to the living room, rearranged the throw pillows twice, turned the oven on and off. Every creak of the floorboards made him glance at the door, hoping—praying—you’d forgotten something and come back.

You didn’t.

Instead, he’d stared at his phone like a man possessed, checking the time, the weather, the news. Anything. Everything. Just not you.

He should’ve turned the TV on. Maybe put on a record. But all he could do was think—think about the way Blake might have looked at you. Might have touched you. His stomach churned at the thought. Instead he tried fixating on you. The way your lips parted when you laughed. The way you’d asked him to tie the back of your dress, turning around so trustingly while he tried not to breathe too hard behind you.

God, he was a fucking mess.

You were out with a man who didn’t deserve you, and Bucky had stood there in your apartment holding a damn loaf cake like a second-place ribbon. All he could do now was imagine that guy’s hand on your leg, his mouth on your skin, and he had to get up again. Pacing. Rubbing at his face.

He didn’t want to know what was happening. But God, did it kill him not to.

So when your name lit up his phone at 11:32 PM, he nearly dropped it fumbling to unlock the screen.

you: home now 🥱 you: date was okay. he talks a lot

His stomach unclenched slightly.

You were home. You were texting him. You weren’t in Blake’s bed. You weren’t sending that same message to someone else.

bucky: Glad you’re back safe. bucky: He say anything weird?

He watched the typing bubble bounce.

you: just weird little comments. like he’s used to people hanging on his every word you: but he said I’m worth the wait 💀 you: so I guess I’m irresistible

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. A crooked smile threatened the corner of his mouth, even as he shook his head.

bucky: Obviously. bucky: Glad he didn’t try anything.

You replied a beat later.

you: he tried. I just… wasn’t ready.

His heart twisted. Part relief, part ache.

bucky: Good. bucky: I mean not good that you weren’t ready. bucky: 😆 bucky: Sorry I didn’t mean to press that. bucky: Slippy fingers. bucky: You don’t have to rush anything for some guy who can’t even respect your space.

There was a pause.

you: I know you: that’s why I’m asking you for help

His mouth went dry. He stared at the screen like it might combust in his hand.

you: tomorrow night okay? you: wine + lesson 1? you: blake’s taking me out again around 8, so maybe like… 6?

Bucky had never typed faster.

bucky: My place at 6.

Another pause.

you: you’re the best buck

His chest constricted.

bucky: Not even close, doll bucky: But I’ll try to be.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky had cleaned the apartment twice.

He didn’t mean to. He’d done the usual once-over in the morning, vacuumed, wiped the counters. But by 3pm he was scrubbing the inside of the microwave, reorganising the bookshelf, folding and refolding the blanket on the couch like the way it sat would change the course of fate.

You were coming over. For… lessons. Intimacy lessons. A phrase that had been echoing in his brain on loop since your texts last night. He’d barely slept, barely thought about anything else.

You trusted him with this. You chose him.

He stood in front of the mirror at 5:53pm, staring himself down. Fresh grey T-shirt. Jeans that fit just a little too well. Hair tied back into a man bun because it just wasn’t sitting right. A faint dab of cologne he hadn’t touched in years. Nothing too heavy. Just enough to make your heart skip if you leaned in close.

He looked like he wasn’t trying too hard. He looked like a liar.

At exactly 6:00pm, you knocked on the door.

Bucky practically tripped over his own feet getting there. He paused, steadied himself, then opened it.

And nearly forgot how to breathe.

You stood there in comfy joggers and a slouchy cardigan, wine bottle tucked under your arm, your hair tied up loosely like you hadn’t overthought it at all. You looked beautiful. Effortless. Like home.

“Hi,” you smiled, stepping in past him like you’d done a hundred times before. “You clean for me, Barnes?”

He rolled his eyes, shutting the door behind you. “You wish.”

You grinned, walking into the kitchen. “Liar. It smells like pine cleaner in here.”

He smiled despite himself, watching you drop your bag on the counter like you lived here. The sight made his chest ache. He wondered if you could hear how hard his heart was beating.

“You want me to pour this?” you asked, holding up the wine bottle. “Or are we going in dry?”

He choked. “Jesus, doll.”

You just laughed. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”

He joined you at the counter and took the bottle from your hands. “You’re nervous?”

“I’ve never done this before, remember?” you teased. “I nearly kissed a guy in ninth grade, but uh, that’s it.”

“What happened?” Bucky asked, popping open the bottle of wine.

“I ran away,” you replied bashfully and something in Bucky softened. “I have been doing research, though. Watching movies. Notting Hill. Pretty Woman. And I noticed, when the characters kiss, they always do something with their hands. And I’ve never even considered that before. Made me realise there’s a lot more to kissing than just, lips.”

Bucky tried not to picture where he wanted your hands. He tried really, really hard. “I guess.”

He poured two glasses, handed you one, and tapped the rim of his to yours.

“To lesson one,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s the title?”

You grinned. “Making Out. Advanced level. With tongue.”

He nearly dropped the glass.

You walked over to the couch and plopped down with a cozy sigh, folding your legs beneath you. “You coming?”

Bucky followed, sitting beside you with a casual ease that was anything but. You turned to face him, sipping your wine once more before setting it aside.

“So… how do we start?”

He swallowed hard. “Well. Usually people don’t talk about it this much.”

“I like to be prepared,” you said sweetly, shuffling closer. “C’mon. It’s me. We’ve done worse together.”

Not like this, Bucky thought.

But he nodded. Let himself lean in.

You tilted your head up to meet him.

The first kiss was soft. Simple. Barely there. A graze of your lips against his, similar to the innocent brush of hands you’d share when you slipped past him, or the quick hugs you’d greet him with.

You pulled back a fraction, eyebrows lifting. “That was it?”

Bucky scoffed a laugh. “It’s not a race, doll.”

You grinned. “Okay, okay. Again?”

He nodded once.

You kissed him this time — a little longer, lips pressing to his with more certainty. Your hand landed gently on his thigh and he almost forgot to breathe. He kissed you back, slowly, savouring it, like his entire world was ending and he was memorising the taste of the last good thing.

Your lips parted.

Tongue brushed.

You both gasped.

You pulled away with wide eyes. “That felt… weird.”

He blinked. “Bad weird?”

“No,” you whispered. “Good weird.”

And then you kissed him again.

This time, Bucky cupped your cheek — warm hand tilting your face up, cold metal fingers brushing against your jaw. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause. You just melted.

Your hand slid up his chest. You moaned — soft and surprised — into his mouth, and he made a noise so low it shocked even him.

You pulled back, breathless.

“Was that okay?” you asked.

Bucky’s pupils were blown wide. “Yeah. That was—yeah.”

You shifted closer, nearly straddling his thigh. “I feel like I could kiss you for hours.”

God, don’t say things like that, he thought.

But all he said was, “I’m not stopping you.”

You kissed again. Again. Deeper this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that curled your toes and made your brain go static. Bucky let you tug his shirt lightly, your fingers curling in the fabric as your body moved closer. You were pressing into him, soft chest brushing against his, and his whole body was buzzing.

Then you pulled back, blinking up at him, lips red and swollen.

“I feel kinda drunk,” you whispered.

He smirked. “You only had half a glass.”

You looked at his mouth again. “No, like… from that.”

And Bucky, with all the restraint he had left, cleared his throat and nodded. “That’s… that’s normal.”

Your mind was a haze and God, you loved the feeling. You kissed him again, and again, relishing the way his short beard grazed over your skin and how soft his lips felt.

There was no hesitation anymore — not on your part, anyway. Your lips moved over his with practiced ease, like kissing Bucky was something you'd always known how to do. It wasn’t rushed, or awkward. You just melted into him like you belonged there.

But your hands… your hands weren’t quite sure where to go.

First, you cupped his face. Gentle, sweet. Your fingers brushed his stubbled jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone. He could hardly breathe.

But then, uncertain, your hands moved — dragging down to his broad shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. You squeezed, a soft appreciative sound leaving your throat, and Bucky nearly groaned.

“You okay?” you mumbled against his mouth.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “You?”

You nodded against him. “Just… don’t know where to put my hands.”

He laughed under his breath, breath hitching as your hands began to roam again — this time down the curve of his chest. His heart stuttered.

“Here’s good,” he murmured, voice low as his hand found yours, pressing it gently over his sternum. “So’s here…” He guided you to rest your palm against his stomach, where his muscles jumped beneath your touch.

You slid your hand down further on your own.

Down his abdomen. Over his waistband.

Then down, across his thigh.

He tensed under your touch. The muscle in his jaw ticked. You didn’t notice — or maybe you did, and just thought he was nervous like you. But your hand stayed there, warm and soft, fingers lightly brushing over denim.

Dangerously close to where he was already hard. Achingly hard.

Bucky’s stomach tightened. His breath hitched against your lips.

You pulled back, blinking up at him innocently. “Is this okay?”

His voice cracked. “Yeah—yeah, it’s fine, sweetheart, just—”

But then your thumb brushed just a little too close. And he flinched. Subtle. Barely a shift. But you felt it.

Your brows furrowed, concerned. “Bucky?”

Shit.

He pulled back a little, drawing in a shaky breath. His hand moved from your waist to gently cup your cheek again — thumb brushing along your jaw to soothe you, even though he was the one falling apart.

“You’re doin’ perfect,” he murmured. “Just—let’s slow down for tonight, okay?”

You blinked, flustered. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. No, not at all.” He smiled — soft, tender, reassuring. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You smiled at that, a little dazed. “You think?”

“I know,” he said, and the way he said it made your whole chest flutter. “If this was your first lesson, I’m kinda scared of what you’ll do to me by lesson five.”

You grinned, cheeks flushed. “Five whole lessons, huh? You planning on surviving that long?”

He snorted. “Not sure.”

You looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him. And he wondered if you could see it. The hunger he was trying to hide. The ache in his chest. The ache somewhere lower.

But you just leaned in, pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek, and whispered, “Thanks, Buck. I feel a lot better now. I should probably head back to my place, Blake is picking me up soon and I still gotta get ready.”

“Anytime, doll,” he said quietly.

You stood, stretching your arms above your head, and Bucky tried not to stare at the sliver of skin that peeked out beneath your hoodie. He watched you walk to the door, watched you turn back for one last smile before slipping out into the hall.

And then he sat there on the couch, alone in the dim light, still tasting you on his lips and aching in his jeans.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.

The apartment was dark now — just the dim lamp in the corner casting long golden shadows over his living room. Your lip balm still lingered faintly on his mouth, vanilla-sweet and haunting. His hoodie still smelled like you. The blanket you’d been curled under was bunched on the couch, warm where you’d left it.

And he was still sitting there.

Hard as a fucking rock.

He leaned back against the cushion, ran a hand over his face, then down through his hair. He exhaled shakily. Tried to think about anything else.

Didn’t work.

Because it wasn’t just the kiss. Not really. It was the sound of your breath hitching when he touched your waist. It was your tiny moan when his tongue slid over yours. It was your hand—fuck, your hand—dragging down his chest, his stomach, to his thigh. So damn close to where he was straining in his jeans he thought he might’ve blacked out for a second.

You didn’t even notice what you were doing to him.

Or maybe you did.

And maybe that made it worse.

He stood, finally, and walked slowly to the bathroom — like his body weighed double. He flicked on the light. Avoided his reflection. His jaw was tense. Lips kiss-bitten and swollen. His jeans still painfully tight.

He let out a breath, then unzipped them. Freed himself with a hiss.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, bracing one hand on the cold sink as the other wrapped around his cock. Already leaking. Already aching.

He tried not to think about you.

But your voice was there, soft and breathy in his ears. “You think I’m good at this?” Your fingers ghosting over his thigh. Your body curled into his on the couch. Your mouth, warm and open against his.

“Jesus,” he groaned, jaw clenched, head falling back.

He started slow, fist pumping with deliberate pressure, teasing himself the way he imagined you might. He imagined your hand instead of his. The curious way you'd look at him while learning. The way you’d giggle softly when he moaned. How wide your eyes would go when you saw him like this for the first time.

“Yeah,” he muttered to no one, breath hitching. “Just like that, doll…”

He jerked harder now, breaths coming quick, thighs flexing, hips twitching. His back hit the cold wall behind him and he let it happen, let his legs shake as he chased the thought of you — you with your pretty lips and shy smile and warm eyes, the way you’d whispered “thanks, Buck,” like you had no fucking clue what you were doing to him.

You were so sweet. So good.

Too good for him.

But God, he wanted you anyway.

He came with a low, desperate groan, biting down on a whimper as heat spilled over his knuckles. His metal hand smacked against the tile wall. Breath ragged. Heart racing. His name on your lips still echoing in his ears — imagined, but real enough to ruin him.

Bucky leaned his head against the wall, eyes fluttering closed.

Lesson one was over. And Bucky Barnes was absolutely, completely fucked.

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan @allhailbuckybarnes

Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!) @sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #congressman bucky #thunderbolts #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #Sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #fic series #marvel #mcu

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eveningcherryblossoms · 1 day ago

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It's A Beta Life, Not A Better Life | Part 7

A platonic yandere Batfam x neglected beta reader story

When Jason died, Tim initially assumed you would be the new Robin.

It made perfect sense to him–you were the child of Bruce, of Batman, and the younger sibling of both the first and second Robins. You came to the Waynes at age seven, perfect to commence training. Sure Jason's death happened way too soon, but Dick started as Robin at age eight so why couldn't nine-year-old you succeed Jason?

But months passed, Batman became more and more violent, and there kept being no Robin. For some time Tim was confused, in denial–surely tonight was the night of the third Robin's debut? But it wasn't, and denial turned to anger.

What, did you not want to be Robin? Were you scared to die? Or did you fail to pass the test to be Robin? Were you unable to convince Bruce, Batman to keep having Robin fight by his side? Didn't you know Batman needed Robin?

When Tim became Robin, he'd vaguely recall his resentment of you and squirmed guiltily. He was being really unreasonable there, he just realized it after taking on the task he'd originally allocate to you. Thank goodness you couldn't read minds or sense emotions!

Tim even tried to make it up to you afterwards. Well, he couldn't really do much–he was so busy training and patrolling and going on missions as Robin–but he did make sure to assure you how he had no intention of intruding on your family or birthright or anything like that. And he meant it too!

Sure Batman, Nightwing and Agent A all treated him kindly... Almost like family... But Tim did believe that was just how they were! And as to them not including you in basically anything that Tim half-suspected they forgot your existence, well–

You were Bruce's biological child. Tim was Jack and Janet Drake's biological child. For all Tim knew, it was just how the rich raised their kids.

No. Tim did know that wasn't it, did he? That Batman, Nightwing, and Agent A–for all that they were kind to him, accepted him–neglect you. But by the time he should've realized it, Batman had become Bruce, Nightwing Dick, Agent A Alfred, and the Bats Tim's pack.

Tim didn't want to acknowledge his chosen pack could be neglectful to one of their own.

So Tim didn't say a word about it. Didn't mention you. Didn't interact with you lest the guilt sprang up. Didn't even think about you for years. When he accidentally encountered you on the bus that day, his heart almost leapt out of his throat.

And man, the conversation he had with you was so awkward. It was awkward to the point he was basically transfixed to the awkwardness, that he couldn't even tell your secondary gender when it was so obvious.

Though to be fair to himself, turtlenecks weren't exclusive to omegas... And Bruce was a prime alpha so you very well could've presented as an alpha too...

Tim shook his head. It didn't matter. It was kind of embarrassing that he could tell Bruce's secret identity but not your secondary gender, but he just had a lot in mind and the situation then was too awkward for words! He should put it out of his mind.

And he should especially forget that dream he had when he fell asleep in the bus after you got off. It was the loveliest of pipe dreams–having you present as a beta, finally joining the pack...

Too bad you weren't one.

In a different property of your late mother, your fingers typed on the keyboard at lightning speed as your eyes remained trained on the screen. As you successfully bypassed the cyber security's next defense, your lips quirked in triumph. Not bad for only three months' training.

From the start you had known that you couldn't just train your body; your mind was just as if not more important. Thankfully you'd never been the worst in anything, whatever Damian liked to say. Sure you might never have been the best either, but then again what point was there in trying so hard about things you didn't care about? When it was obvious that a goddamn Nobel or Oscar or Olympic medal from you would mean less than macaroni drawings from your siblings-on-paper?

Now that you got all the motivations you could ever need, you weren't going to hold back. This was your life or death.

As you kept typing, you mentally thought of your problems. Not the greatest one–you presenting as a beta in this betaphobic world–but your two more recent problems.

First, Dick False Promises Grayson unexpectedly trying to fulfill his promise by you. You managed to avoid him for the past month by staying out till past the Waynes' dinnertime, but he'd begun to 'teasingly' call you out so that you had to out-guilt him.

You keep not being here whenever I visit, puppy, one might think you're intentionally avoiding me! I know that's what you're doing, stop it and be grateful I deign to hang out will you.

No way, Dick! How often do you visit the manor anyway? I would've changed my schedule to fit you otherwise! Bitch, please, you always make those empty promises. Why should I bother be here just 'cause you said you would this time?

Aww, I'm hurt, puppy~ You're seriously bringing up old stuff like that? Don't be so petty!

So on and so on. Every time it happened, you ended up nursing a headache while wondering whether all omegas interacted like that with each other or Dick was just special that way.

It would have been so easy to hire somebody to cause him problems in Bludhaven. It had been so tempting to hire Deathstroke the Terminator to abduct Dick forever. Alas, easy and tempting very seldom equalled sensible.

Granted, what you eventually did could hardly be considered sensible either. But when you saw on the news that a beta trafficking ring operating in Bludhaven was apprehended, your mind jumped to the cynical question: What would Bludhaven's infamously corrupt law enforcement do for if not to the victims? Answer: take the unclaimed ones for themselves, use them as bribery, or sell them in place of the original traffickers. Just one quick look with your then-even-worse hacking skill and you managed to find out everything.

So you leaked the truth to all news channels and humanitarian organizations you could reach out to.

Dick, officially the gym coach at an omega-only high school in Bludhaven but unofficially also a 'consultant' at the BPD, proceeded to all but get drowned in the flood of scandals. With that, he was taken care of, if only temporarily.

But the second and more pressing problem–at least for the past month, certain people in Crime Alley were keeping an eye on you. And in spite of their lack of identifying clothes or anything, you were quite sure they were subordinates of Red Hood the crime lord.

You finally got through the whole cyber security, but you could no longer feel satisfaction. You kept wondering, why was Red Hood of all people paying attention to you? Did he know? If so, did he want you?

And if so, how were you supposed to take him down?

A/N: *squints at own writing* Is Tim sufficiently hateful here... Is reader sufficiently stressed here... Oh well lmao yolo *posts it*

Pls no harsh criticism guys 🙏 But I welcome replies, asks and messages alike so don't be shy 💕

Taglist: @randomlyappearingartist @bellethesleepypotato @nirvanaxx1942 @tenswife @galaxypurplerose @shycreatorreview @cupid73 @time-shardz @mikusamsan @simpingpandas @kore-of-the-underworld @elmichi0 @mirabilis-polaris @farsketch @altumsomnum @hai-there-how-are-you @vanessa-boo @ashjade19 @yandere-enthusiast @a-lurking-fae @hyperfixatedcatlover @leeiasure @luckynemi @lowkeyjarrr @lunoorbonoor @deathbynarcisstick @tacendxx @staarflowerr @anonlikesfics @magical-panda2 @whognuthis @arwenyukiamoto @hon3ydewcaram3l @lilyalone @jazzyspaceghost @teabutnerdy @bunbunbread @darktrashpoetry @conqcakes @sleepdeprivedcrappywriter @unrelatedlily @ciatin @ratchetprime211 @mybones537 @anonasatoruu @vikkus-main @shqyou @sitepathos @ee-1ovelifedownthedrain

#platonic yandere #platonic yandere batfam #yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #yandere batfam x reader #x reader #x neglected reader #neglected reader #gender neutral reader #beta reader #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #betaverse #batman #tim drake

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caprisunisgud · 24 hours ago

Text

Oh boy, this is gonna take a while *big breath™*

Andúril replica I bought at a ren faire

6'2, I think the extra two inches are all I need

Dirty blonde/light brown (maybe?)

Don't think I have any

Yes

Good question

Being a massive shut-in with real people

Touches 🥰

Very often

Yes

German

Scotland

I once almost lost my right leg

Two days ago, but I'm gonna shower before bed tonight

A couple months ago, I think?

It was this weird one where everything was 2.5D and had og Doom graphics, but all the enemies were zombies and there was this one big, cyborg skull thing that was a boss

Author

Picnic lunch under a shady tree. After lunch, he takes me home and we cuddle under a blanket and do whatever till dinner

Draw, comfort people, find motivation

Scotland

Don't really know what that means

Not really, not something that hasn't happened to everyone

Chrismas, people give me money

Don't remember

I once made a dinosaur out of cardboard boxes

Probably drawing maps, out of everything

Not very well, but yes

Yes, six of them

Do I die honorably

Nipple piercings, they're just, 🤮

It's summer rn, but I really liked my Independent Research teacher. He was an actual, professional medievalist

Every other day, any more and it gets super gross and greasy

Fairly often, usually about ocs or fantasies of mine

My room. No windows

My dad, he has a lot less counts of being immature and petty than my mom

Loyalty. I always stay loyal to a fault when I comes to genuine things, but if you break it, I'm not delusional, I won't come back

My oldest brother's, he's very good at explaining things

"The river has fish somewhere"

Cuddle with someone

Ghosted one of the best paras I had back in school for no good reason

Yes

Autumn

The twilight before sunrise, even though I'm rarely ever awake at that time

Not really

When confronting someone about their shitty behavior

Don't have any regrets in terms of purchaces

Yes

I dunno, The Hobbit?

This one bitch >:( he groped me in a stairwell in 8th grade, I then kicked him down said stairs and told the SRO to keep him away from me

Sonadow is overrated

Dark Souls remastered, at the moment

This one time I hallucinated the sound of someone walking upstairs when noone was there

... no

Very different, and I'm happy about that

Very much so :)

Don't have one, tbh

Yes

"Oh, uh, thanks, but why?" Irl, and "I could never contend with you ;)" here on Tumblr

Someone (probably a friend) crying for me. That may sound weird, but like, seeing me in such terrible distress distresses them? It's hard to explain

Yes

Not genuinely, no

I already answered this 🤨

Metonic/Sonetal

Can't say, I love a lot of songs

FUCK no

Maybe? Probably when I younger

Sleep? What's that?

No 😔

Three, two cats one dog

Hazel

How fucking nasty and hairy I am. I wanna get rid of all this shit but I don't have one of those thingies people use

Giant pandas

Flirting irl

Spangle's

Yes

11th

Literally only Tumblr

I ended last year with a low D in math

About 5:00... pm

Thankfully no

Most of them

This one red and black shirt I have

FUCK YEAH, DINOSAURS

I hate having so much of it, it feels gross as fuck >:( On other people I'm generally neutral, but down under? 🤮

I dunno

Nah

When I was younger and my parents forced me (I've never liked it)

Yes, quite

ask game

1. whats your favorite thing in your room?

2. how tall do you wish you were?

3. what color is your hair?

4. whats a rare fear that you have?

5. are you single?

6. has your heart ever been broken?

7. what was your favorite thing as a kid?

8. favorite coping mechanism?

9. whats your favorite love language?

10. how often do you get nervous?

11. if you had three wishes, would you use them?

12. if you could be fluent in any language which one would it be?

13. where do you wish to live?

14. what’s something surprising about you?

15. when did you last shower?

16. when did you first join tumblr?

17. do you want any tattoos? if so, where, what, and why?

18. whats the most prominent dream youve had?

19. whats your dream job?

20. whats your ideal date?

21. what do you wish you could do better?

22. what country would you live in if you could?

23. whos the best person you know?

24. have you ever walked into something you shouldnt have?

25. whats your favorite holiday?

26. when have you been most embarrassed?

27. whats your favorite halloween costume?

28. what are you best at?

29. do you know how to tie your shoes?

30. do you have siblings?

31. if you could know one thing about the future what do you wanna know?

32. whats a dealbreaker for you?

33. whats your favorite current class?

34. how many people have you dated?

35. how often do you wash your hair?

36. do you daydream? what about?

37. where do you go to be alone?

38. which parent do you like more?

39. whats the one standard you hold yourself to?

40. whos voice do you enjoy?

41. if you could announce one thing to the world what would it be?

42. whats one thing you wanna do but havent yet?

43. what do you wish you never did?

44. do you believe in life after death?

45. do you prefer book over movie?

46. whats your favorite season?

47. whats your favorite time of day

48. do you have a beloved stuffed animal?

49. whens a time you wish you acted differently?

50. what’s something you wish that you never bought?

51. do you have your own room?

52. whats your favorite book?

53. who’s someone you hate?

54. whats your best hottake?

55. whats your favorite game?

56. whens a time you felt real genuine fear?

57. are you a morning person?

58. do you drink enough water?

59. how different are you from the little kid you used to be?

60. do you enjoy tumblr?

61. have you ever had a tumblr experience that made you wanna delete the app?

62. whats your least favorite game?

63. were you a markiplier fan?

64. how do you respond to compliments?

65. whats something that would make you fall in love?

66. do you believe in marriage?

67. do you have a crush on someone?

68. do you like tumblr?

69. were you a voltron stan?

70. whats your favorite ship?

71. whats your favorite song?

72. do you like loud crowds?

73. have you ever created conflict on purpose?

74. how do you sleep?

75. do you bite your lips?

76. do you use chapstick?

77. do you have any pets?

78. what color are your eyes?

79. what’s something you wish you could change about yourself?

80. have you ever had surgery?

81. whats your least favorite animal?

82. whats something that youre really bad at?

83. do you have an sqishmellows?

84. do you enjoy fast food?

85. do you like soda?

86. what grade are you in?

87. do you wear any jewelry?

88. what socials do you use?

89. whats your lowest grade in school right now?

90. whats the latest youve stayed up till?

91. did you ever have bangs?

92. what trends did you hate?

93. whats your favorite item of clothing?

94. do you like dinosaurs?

95. whats your opinion on body hair?

96. whats your least favorite time?

97. do you make a wish at 11:11?

98. do you have your phone on military or regular?

99. have you ever been to church?

100. are you lgbtq?

#FUCKING HELL #that took a lot out of me

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bananabreads · 22 hours ago

Text

Dad!lads and their child pretending to be asleep in the car so they'd get carried inside (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

𓂃⋆.˚ Dad!Rafayel, Dad!Caleb, Dad!Sylus, Dad!Zayne, Dad!Xavier — requests are always open! ><

RAFAYEL —

You, Rafayel, and your daughter had just returned from a long, fun day at the aquatic park. She was in the backseat, arms wrapped tight around the adorable little seal plushie the two of you had gotten her at the gift shop. Rafayel was carefully pulling into the driveway now, and you were relaxing in the passenger's seat, letting the hum of the engine wind down along with the day.

Your daughter glanced out the window and noticed you were almost home. With a sly little smirk to herself, she knew exactly what to do.

She wasn’t tired, far from it, actually—but she really didn’t feel like walking anymore. She loosened her seatbelt, dramatically draped herself over the backseat, curled into the plushie, and shut her eyes with great effort. Her long purple hair spread out like she was in the middle of a fantasy painting, and for good measure, she let out the faintest, most obvious fake snore.

The car came to a stop.

"Alright, we're home," Rafayel announced gently as he turned off the engine.

You both turned around to check on her, and there she was. Seatbelt already off, cuddling her plushie like a tragic princess, dead asleep or so she wanted you to believe.

You stifled a chuckle and leaned toward her with a soft voice. “Mhm, is our baby now asleep, hm?” you whispered with amusement. She didn’t budge… except she just snored again, this time a little louder.

“She really thinks she’s slick,” Rafayel muttered under his breath, softly chuckling at his daughter's behavior.

You both stepped out of the car and opened the backseat door. Rafayel gently slid his arms under her, scooping her up with the same careful ease like she was the most precious thing in the world—which, well, she was. She didn’t even flinch, her little act still going strong, though you swore you saw the corner of her lips twitch up in victory.

Inside the house, Rafayel gently laid her on the couch while you got her slippers ready. She was still “asleep,” now slightly grinning in her fake dreams.

Rafayel crouched beside her, brushing a few strands of hair from her face and whispered with mock seriousness, “Sweetheart, You know… if you’re asleep, then that means you can’t brush your teeth tonight.”

She didn’t move.

“And you did eat a looot of candy and drinks. Sooo,” he leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically, “the tooth fairy might come early and take all your teeth for being too sugar covered.”

Her eyes snapped open so fast, her plushie nearly fell from her arms. “No! I’m awake! I was just… just… resting my eyes!”

You and Rafayel burst into laughter as she sat up in a panic, quickly covering her mouth.

Rafayel ruffled her hair, still chuckling. “Nice try, little guppy.”

She pouted, hugging her plushie again, but still let you guide her to the bathroom. And despite being “caught,” she couldn’t stop smiling the whole way there.

CALEB —

The three of you had just come back from a cozy little road trip around Skyhaven, enjoying the scenic drives, peaceful spots, and all the walking your daughter could manage, which, admittedly, was a lot for her tiny legs. Caleb was behind the wheel, his left hand on the steering wheel and his other hand comfortably resting on your thigh, his thumb lazily tracing small circles as the car coasted into familiar streets.

In the backseat, your daughter was slouched against her car seat, plush keychain dangling from her hand and her lips pursed like she was thinking real hard. She peeked forward to watching you and Caleb for a moment… then finally committed.

With an exaggerated sigh, she closed her eyes, tightly, slumped a bit more dramatically, and stayed still, as if she was already deep in a dream.

Caleb didn’t say anything.

He simply smiled and gave your thigh a soft squeeze, tilting his chin at the rearview mirror. You followed his gaze, spotting your little girl’s theatrical sleeping act.

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip as you whispered, “She's pretending to be asleep huh.”

“She gets that from you,” Caleb murmured with a grin, eyes still on the road.

“She gets the drama from you,” you replied, gently poking his arm.

Minutes later, the car rolled to a stop in front of your house.

Caleb turned off the engine, leaned back for a second, and dramatically stretched. “Home sweet home,” he sighed out.

You both stepped out of the car and walked around to the backseat, where your daughter still lay, not budging an inch, arms neatly tucked in and face turned slightly toward the window.

You played along, brushing her hair back a little. “Aww, she’s knocked out cold,” you said, pretending to be amazed.

“Mhm,” Caleb nodded in fake seriousness. “But if she is really asleep, then her arm shouldn’t fight back when I do this…”

He lifted her arm a little, and sure enough, your daughter kept it stiff in the air for three whole seconds.

Then she let it gently fall back down, so delicately that it was obviously intentional.

You both burst into quiet chuckles.

“Oh yeah, totally asleep,” Caleb teased. “So asleep she’s doing gymnastics in her sleep now.”

Then he reached for her leg, lifting it slightly.

It stayed.

“Whoa,” he whispered in awe. “Amazing core strength. Our baby's a prodigy.”

You could swear her lips twitched like she was holding back a grin, but she still didn't move. Finally, after a few more seconds of her pretending to be the world’s strongest sleeper, she gave up and simply turned over with a dramatic groan, curling into herself as if to say 'I’m done now, carry me already.'

You and Caleb exchanged another amused glance and shook your heads.

“Alright, alright, baby,” you chuckled. “You win.”

Caleb scooped her up easily in his arms while you carried her plush and bag, the three of you heading inside. She kept her eyes shut but now had the smallest, proudest little smile on her face.

Mission: accomplished.

SYLUS —

It had been a long day with Sylus and your daughter, full of exploring weekend markets, chasing after birds in the plaza, and picking out pastries that she ended up only taking a single bite of each. By the time the sun started to set, Sylus was driving the three of you home, the soft music playing through the speakers blending with the hum of the car.

You were in the passenger seat, your hand resting near Sylus’ on the gear shift. The car smelled faintly of vanilla and street food, and the backseat was filled with a sleepy silence.

Your daughter, snuggled in the backseat with her soft pink hoodie half covering her face, blinked slowly as she noticed the familiar turns of the neighborhood. She knew you were almost home. And she knew what came next:

walking.

But no. Not tonight. She had already made up her mind.

She didn’t fake snore. She didn’t dramatically fling herself sideways. She just suddenly… went limp. Hood still half over her eyes, her body slowly sliding lower in the seat, arms limp at her sides like a puppet with its strings cut. She didn’t even try to make it look natural. She just went into her stubborn “you can’t make me move” mode.

Sylus glanced at the rearview mirror once, then back to the road.

“Mm,” he hummed under his breath, but said nothing. Just a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

You turned slightly in your seat. “…She’s doing that thing again.”

“Mhm.”

The car drove into the driveway, and Sylus turned off the engine. For a second, neither of you moved, just watching her pretend to be absolutely lifeless in the backseat like a tiny, stubborn ragdoll.

You finally spoke up, “You’re not fooling anyone, sweetheart.”

Still no reply.

“She’s not asleep,” Sylus murmured as he unbuckled. “If she was asleep, her feet wouldn’t conveniently be off the floor so she doesn’t have to stand.”

That got a twitch from her toe, but no movement.

You both got out of the car, and when Sylus opened the back door, your daughter remained limp. Her eyes were still closed, but she’d clearly slid into a more dramatic pose now, head tilted, arms flopped in a practiced way, and mouth slightly open like she was just the most exhausted creature in the world.

Sylus crouched beside her, expression soft but amused.

He brushed a bit of her hair out of her face, leaned in, and said quietly, “You can keep pretending, sweetie, but I’m still gonna carry you.”

She didn’t react. So he gently scooped her up into his arms.

She remained stiff for two seconds before melting into his chest with a smug grin.

“She wins,” you muttered, shaking your head with a smile.

“Always does,” Sylus sighed, his voice low but fond as he kissed her forehead. “But I’ll carry her forever if she asks like that.”

She still didn’t say anything, but the little hum she let out as she nestled closer into Sylus’ shoulder said it all.

She knew she had him wrapped around her tiny finger, and he didn’t mind one bit.

ZAYNE —

You, Zayne, and your daughter were finally on your way home after a sweet little family trip, nothing grand, just a day spent out of town, breathing fresh air, picking wildflowers, and stopping by a riverside where she had immediately decided she didn’t like mud.

“Too yucky.." she said, arms raised toward you or Zayne every time she stepped on anything remotely dirty.

And of course, being the little center of your world, she was carried nearly the entire trip.

By the time Zayne pulled into the driveway, your daughter was clearly over it. She peeked out of her window once, saw that you were home, and instantly leaned back in her seat, shutting her eyes with exaggerated calmness like she was about to win an Oscar for being the best at pretending to be asleep.

Zayne turned the engine off and glanced at you, lips tugging into a knowing smile. “Guess she’s sleeping now,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement.

“Mhm,” you replied, unbuckling. “How convenient.”

You both walked around the car, opened the backseat, and were immediately greeted by the sight of your tiny daughter “sleeping” hands neatly folded on her lap, eyelashes fluttering from effort.

You and Zayne didn’t say a word. You just stood there, watching.

And she stayed still.

For a moment.

Then, suddenly, she lifted her arms up in the air. Slowly. Dramatically. Like she was a levitating princess in a fairytale.

Because obviously, this is what “asleep” people do.

You couldn’t help it. You let out a soft laugh and Zayne bit his lower lip, shaking his head.

Still silent, Zayne leaned down and gently scooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other wrapped around her back. She melted into him right away, resting her head against his shoulder like she was truly in a deep sleep, but you saw it. That tiny smile on her lips. That satisfied little victory smile.

Zayne felt it too, her cheek curved right against him.

He kissed her forehead gently.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek as well, giggling softly. “Mhm, our very sleepy baby”

Your daughter didn’t open her eyes, but her arms slowly wrapped around Zayne’s neck.

She was happy. So were you. And you knew Zayne would carry her like that every time, muddy shoes, fake naps, and all.

XAVIER —

It was no surprise to anyone, especially not you or Xavier, that your son had fallen asleep before the car even turned onto your street. After a full day of exploring around Linkon, hopping between places, food stalls, and tiny parks, he was out like a light in the backseat.

Just like his father.

Your son was curled up in his seat, his small hands gently holding onto that familiar blue blanket, the one covered in small alien prints that he insisted on bringing everywhere. His face was peaceful, brows relaxed, and lips parted slightly in a quiet sleep.

Xavier pulled into the driveway and turned the engine off with a sigh. “Out cold,” he said softly, glancing back at the boy in the mirror. “You'd think he was put fighting wanderers all day.”

You smiled and unbuckled, already climbing out of the car as the night breeze gently swept past. Xavier moved to open the door behind you, letting you crouch down and scoop your son into your arms.

And the moment you held him close, his little body shifted, arms clumsily wrapping around your neck, his cheek resting against your shoulder as he snuggled in deeper.

Still silent.

Still eyes closed.

But you felt it, the way he exhaled with that soft, warm sigh he always made when he was exactly where he wanted to be.

You smiled, heart squeezing gently, and began running your fingers through his soft white hair, so much like Xavier’s, just a little messier and wavier when he slept.

Behind you, Xavier chuckled lowly. “Mm… faker,” he murmured, his voice fond.

You looked over your shoulder, grinning. “What gave it away?”

“That smile,” Xavier nodded toward the curve of your son’s lips, tiny, satisfied, and not at all sleeping. “Definitely yours.”

You leaned your cheek against your son’s head, gently swaying as you walked inside. “Maybe. But that sleeping anywhere skill? That’s all you.”

Xavier followed you in, hand brushing your lower back. “Can’t blame him. If I could get carried around by you, I’d pretend to sleep, too.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but the warmth between the three of you lingered, soft, quiet, and full of love.

Even if the boy in your arms was faking it just a little… no one minded at all.

350 notes · View notes

thesvnandthemooon · 3 days ago

Text

𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐧’ 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

18+ MINORS DNI

or: natasha and you go to a concert

part of the short n‘ sweet universe

a/n: another request (who would’ve thought); don’t judge me for the title, i thought it’d be fitting since that’s the name of the tour as well 😗

summary: going to sabrina‘s concert with natasha; based on this request <3 (it took almost three months for me to get to writing this wtf)

warnings: smut (penetration, brief fingering), exhibitionism (i swear i use this tag on almost all sns fics…whatever), alcohol, natasha not being able to recognize emotional intelligence if it shot her in the face

word count: 12k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Hooking up in the university's library is one of the dumber ideas Natasha's come up with so far.

The encyclopedia isle is usually empty — most people use Wikipedia, or another online platform. Physical media has, unfortunately, experienced a decline in popularity.

Sex hasn't, though. Which is why your 'study session' lasted ten minutes instead of two hours. Not much had to happen: Natasha walked in, knowing you'd be sitting between piles of books. She was still in her basketball jersey. Only her shorts had been swapped for slightly warmer sweatpants.

You've been hooking up for months at this point. You can't say you're dating, because you're not. You never really talked about it But when you're around each other, the possibility of her ending up inside of you is big.

Natasha looks up, her body still on top of yours. Her hands are braced next to your head, and you can see the sweat glisten on her neck. You lift your hand and wipe it away.

The floor you're on is carpeted and worn. It smells like old socks and books. You glance to your right and see the half empty packet of beef jerky someone discarded under one of the bookshelves.

"Someone walked in", she says, not making a move to get up. "I think it's that weird dude. You know, with the hoodies."

"That's great", you mumble. You shift beneath her. "I feel like we have more pressing issues, though."

She frowns and looks at you. At first, she doesn't understand. She's warm and comfy, and changing her current situation doesn't seem like the best way to keep up her good mood. But then she realizes she's still inside of you, so she quickly pulls out.

Sweatpants tugged back up, she gets up from the floor. You take the hand she offers you and get up, then adjust your skirt. Wearing that was probably one of the better decisions you've made today — easy access, quick to pull down and cover yourself back up. Natasha resists the urge to pout when your thighs are out of view again.

She was right — someone did enter, and they're approaching the encyclopedia aisle. You grab her hand and tug her back to the tables, causing her to stumble. She curses under her breath.

"Hey!"

"Sit", you urge her. She plops into a chair and you turn around. Before you can sit down, she wraps her arm around your waist and easily pulls you into her lap. "Oh- seriously?"

"You wanted to study", she points out. Her chin comes to rest on your shoulder, her head turns just enough for her to be able to kiss your neck. "So study."

You sigh and get comfortable in her lap. You may as well, since you're probably not moving for a while. Her hand is under your skirt already.

"I'm done with studying", you reply. She hums, lips sucking on your skin until a hickey forms. "Quit that."

"What? This is motivation. Positive reinforcement or whatever they call it."

The guy from earlier reemerges from the encyclopedia aisle, this time carrying a stack of books. The second he sees you, though, he whips around and heads in the opposite direction. Natasha laughs against your neck, a breathy sound, and squeezes your hip.

"What are you doing this weekend?", she mumbles.

You don't reply right away. You've learned that leading her on just a bit makes things better, for some reason — she gets more attentive, puts more effort into the time you spend together. It's not like she doesn't treat you well, because she does. But she sometimes needs to be reminded that, if she doesn't at least try a little, you can easily replace her.

"Not sure", you say vaguely. "There's this concert I wanted to go to with a friend. I haven't gotten tickets yet, though."

"A concert?" Natasha tries to sneak her hand higher up under your skirt, but you quickly grab her arm. "Who's performing?"

"You don't know her", you say, pushing her hand away. She pouts against your shoulder. "I doubt you listen to her music."

Natasha shrugs and puts her hand on your waist instead. She's aware you probably have a point. She's listened to one of your playlists before, and honestly, the only reason she didn't complain was because you were walking around her room naked. That wasn't something she wanted to interrupt.

Does she like the idea of going to a concert with you, though? She does. More than the idea of someone else accompanying you, whether they're just a friend or not.

"I could give it a try. I listen to all kinds of stuff."

A lie. You hear the dishonesty drip from her voice. Natasha's picky with what she listens to. However, she isn't picky about the way she spends time with you. Besides, she'll get to see you all dolled up again — that makes up for it already.

You give her a skeptical look. All she does in response is crack a smile and kiss your jaw.

"It's Sabrina. I probably won't get tickets, anyway", you tell her. Natasha shrugs. "It's this Saturday. I think it's sold out."

"Come on. If there's a will, there's a way."

You roll your eyes, but the way the corners of your mouth twitch betrays you. You turn toward your study setup again and start looking for a folder on your laptop. She watches, leaning forward and breathing in the scent of perfume.

"Don't be too excited", you warn her, opening the folder. A kiss to the crook of your neck makes you squirm. "It's definitely sold out."

"I'll find a way" she insists, glancing at the screen. A bunch of French phrases that you're supposed to translate have popped up. "Not this again."

You ignore her and start typing. She was probably expecting you'd go back to your dorm, like last time. Unfortunately, homework can't wait. Natasha has proven she'll stick around, anyway. That's clear from the way her hands run under your shirt to roam your stomach.

. . .

You get the text message only minutes after your takeout arrives. You're in bed, wearing shorts and a hoodie, the Chinese food still warm and the Sunkist ice cold. Your phone buzzes, so you start digging through the pile of blankets and pillows to retrieve it.

You knew it'd be her name on the screen. You didn't expect that message, though.

Natasha: meet me downstairs in five — 6.02pm

Biting into your egg roll, you try to reply to the message. Before you manage to do that, another one pops up.

Natasha: forget it, im coming upstairs — 6.03pm

There's no use in trying to keep her from doing so. She's stubborn, always has been, and you know her well enough to be certain she's walking up the stairs already. She doesn't even knock; the door just swings open.

"Hey", you mumble, scrolling through your phone and eating fried rice with one hand. "If you want food, order some."

"Forget the food", she says. You look up and raise your eyebrows when you see the two tickets she's holding. Pink and slightly wrinkled. "Look what I found."

You open your mouth to protest, but then close it again. Concert tickets — more than impressive, considering the show was sold out when you last checked. You set the fried rice aside.

"Are those real?", you ask, frowning.

"Very real. I got them from this dude on Facebook marketplace, really sketchy area." She shrugs off her letter jacket and sits down on your desk chair, swiveling it around and scooting closer. You snatch them from her before she can show them to you properly.

They do seem real. Wrinkled, yes, but looking similar to other tickets you've had before. You glance up at her.

"What's your plan?"

Leaning back and crossing her arms, Natasha shrugs. She kicks her feet up on the mattress of your bed, boots and all, and you sigh before nudging them off. You grimace at the bits of dirt that are left behind.

"You said you wanted to go", she says. "So let's go."

Secretly, you're impressed. A little bit, at least. She went out of her way to track these tickets down, just so you could see the concert. To be fair, she had another reason to — she gets to join, after all. But that doesn't make much of a difference. You didn't have to ask for her to do it.

She's looking a little too smug, though. Head tilted, eyes studying you like she knows she's getting some kind of reward for this. You get up, tickets in hand, and start digging through your closet.

Natasha watches as you take off your hoodie. The impatience makes her skin tingle, and she shifts in her seat.

"That's a yes?", she asks, still staring. You're taking your head out of its bun.

"Yeah", you say vaguely. You let your shorts fall to the floor, where they pool around your ankles, and step out of them. "Like I said, my friend really wanted to go. He'll Venmo you the money."

Her face twists into a small, offended frown. Maybe she should've been more specific, but she bought the tickets so she could go to the concert with you — not some random person. A guy nonetheless.

Speaking is hard, since you're standing in front of her half naked. She blinks and shakes her head. "Your...what?"

"Friend", you repeat. You peek into your closet again and push the jackets aside to look for a specific dress. "His idea."

Natasha stares for another moment, then she runs her hand down your face. Just hooking up. Not dating, not committed. The only argument she has is that she bought the tickets.

You glance at her over your shoulder and smile to yourself. You can see the distress slowly bubbling up in her. You'd keep going, but you're already running late for the concert. You can also tell she meant well — this is not her trying to get you into bed again. Making her spiral would be nothing but mean.

"You're so gullible", you say. You reach for a shade of lipstick that matches your outfit. "Of course you're coming with me. You'll hate every second, I need to see that."

She rolls her eyes and slumps into the chair again. She's relieved, but she also knows she probably came off as desperate. That thought is quickly forgotten about when you step closer, though.

There's a bracelet around your wrist. Pink beads, dangling stars. Small and delicate, but enough to transport back in time. She remembers a house that smelled like alcohol and weed, sex in a friend's bedroom, waking up and feeling conflicted for the first time ever. She doesn't even realize she's staring at the bracelet instead of you.

Cupping her jaw, you tilt her face up. Soft lips press against hers and leave behind lipstick. Suddenly, she's too flustered to speak. She's surrounded by your perfume, her mouth still tingling. She doesn't even register when you pull her up from the chair.

"Come on", you say, ushering her out the door. "Freshen up. I need to put on some makeup, I look dead."

"Dead?", Natasha protests. A head or so taller than you, yet she's letting you order and push her around like a well behaved dog. "Nah, you look good. I like the dark circles under your eyes, you-"

With one firmer push, you guide her right out the door and into the hallway. The door slams shut, and Natasha just stands there for a moment to process everything.

If this were someone else, she'd go home and ghost that person. It wouldn't be worth it — she knows enough women who'd sleep with her when asked. But it's you, so she rubs her face before padding down the hall toward the shared bathroom.

. . .

The parking lot in front of the concert venue is packed. Natasha barely manages to find an empty spot, and the one she finds is right next to a bunch someone left behind. Fast food wrappers, empty beer bottles, some dark mystery liquid — you lift your eyebrows at the sight.

She reads your thoughts like an open book. Rolling her eyes, she reaches behind the seats and pulls out a full bottle of vodka. The clear liquid immediately distracts you.

"Seriously?", you ask, grabbing it. She smirks and fishes out a bottle of orange juice as well. "Really thought of everything."

"Pregame", she replies. She pours the juice into a red solo cup and hands it to you. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but it's tradition for me. Clint brings an entire keg full of beer."

Slightly distracted by the task of adding vodka to the cup, you hum. It smells like oranges and alcohol, paired with the air freshener Natasha keeps in her car. You picked it out, back when you stopped at a gas station while coming back from a party.

It'd been her idea. Now it dangles from the rear view mirror, pink and shaped like a Christmas tree. Natasha can't even drive home from practice without being reminded of you, but that bothers her less than she'd expected.

You shift in your seat and lift your legs. Getting them across the center console is tricky due to your dress, but once you manage to swing them over, they land in Natasha's lap. She glances at your legs, blinking and putting her hand on your calf.

The drink tastes like every other you've had so far. Alcoholic, sweet and a little tart. When you've had enough, Natasha grabs the cup and empties out the two sips you left. Your lipstick transfers from the cup to her top lip.

You watch her for a moment, then lean over and wipe it away. Thumb gently pressing down on her lips, you tilt your head. "Ready?"

She raises her eyebrows and leaves a quick kiss on your thumb, then she unbuckles. "Ready", she says, opening the car door. "Come on."

After waiting in line for a while, you enter the venue. Natasha isn't too sure what to do with her hands — but when people start running and bumping into each other, she gives up the facade she usually puts on and wraps an arm around your shoulder. It's not what she's used to, but you sink into her side with enough ease to make her believe that could change.

"Wow", you mumble as you walk into the massive space. "Crowded already."

"Yeah", she says, frowning. "You can barely see the stage from here."

You shrug, subtly eyeing the people around you. Mainly girls, of course. All glitter and pink and cowboy boots. You get a little closer to Natasha.

"It's fine", you say. "This is good, too."

She glances at you, then shakes her head. She's getting you closer to that stage, even if it means getting in a fight with a few other people. Tightening her arm around you, she starts pushing through the crowd.

For her, it's easy. She has the advantage of both height and years of working out. All she has to do is slowly work her way forward utilizing her elbows. There aren't many verbal complaints, but the quick glares are telling.

"You'll end up pushing someone."

"That's the point", she mutters, pulling you in tighter. "Need to get them out of my way somehow, no?"

You shoot her an unimpressed look, but she keeps her eyes on the crowd. Step by step, elbows occasionally nudging someone aside, Natasha weaves your way through the group of people for you. Somehow, you make it close to the barricade.

From that point on, you don't have much choice but to stay where you are. The barricade is jammed with people, and honestly, staying a couple feet further in the back makes more sense.

Natasha believes she's on a mission, though. You have to poke her chest a few times to keep her from wedging herself into a group of girls.

"Are you trying to storm the stage?", you ask, gripping the front of her shirt. She stops in her tracks.

"You don't want first row?"

"I'm just glad we're here at all", you say pointedly. Around you, more people try to get closer to the front. Natasha is forced to step closer, so her chest is almost pressed against yours.

A bit taken aback, she stares at you. The lights have dimmed, and your face is inches away from hers. Your lipstick is smudged already — not much, but enough to remind her of the nights she's spent getting it into an even worse state.

"Yeah", she says dumbly. Her hand is still firmly planted on your back, keeping you close. "Me too."

You tilt your chin up enough for her to be able to kiss you if she wanted. Her heart beats a bit faster, but she tries to ignore it. Catching feelings isn't something she allows herself to do. She leans in anyway.

Just before her mouth reaches yours, the lights go out entirely. Cheers erupt around you, and you pull away too fast for Natasha to see it coming. She turns around and stares at the giant screen on the stage.

"That's a cartoon", she mumbles, still staring.

"It's the intro", you explain. You rest your back against her chest and feel her arms cross over your chest. "Just wait."

Natasha hums, her thumb rubbing back and forth on your shoulder. The cartoon ends, and a woman sitting in a bathtub appears instead. You lower your head enough to kiss her forearm.

"What's her name again?"

"Sabrina", you say absently, watching the screen go dark. It slides up smoothly, revealing a stage with winding staircases and curtains. When she steps out, wrapped into a white towel, and the spotlight tracks her as she runs from one side to the other.

Finally, she steps onto the stage. The cheers are loud as she grabs the fabric of the towel to open it and reveal a glittering golden bodysuit.

"Wow", Natasha murmurs into your hair. "Would you ever, you know..."

You smile against her skin. "Yeah?"

She shrugs. She's picturing you in it already, wearing it just for her. You'd step in between her legs as she sits on the bed. The glitter on the fabric would leave a residue on her hands.

"Would look good." She kisses your earlobe right as the music starts playing. You shut Natasha up by patting her arm a few times, the words already tumbling out of you as you sing along.

Natasha has no clue what the lyrics are, but she's pretty sure she's heard you play this exact song a bunch of times. Luckily, the crowd is loud enough to conceal the fact that all she can do is hum along quietly.

It's worth it, though. She's heard you sing along a few times before, but never like this. Her arms tighten around you as the people around you move, just to make sure neither of you fall. Your heart thrums hard in your chest, and she feels every beat like the music rattling her ribcage.

In the middle of it, you turn your head. You can't quite look at her, but that's not important. She leans in anyway to kiss your cheek. At this point, it's hardly platonic. Hardly something she'd be doing with anyone else, but also hardly something she'd ever admit.

"Liked this one?"

"It wasn't bad", she says. "You seemed to enjoy it."

You tilt your head and raise your eyebrows. She raises hers right back at you. Around you, the crowd gets louder when the next song starts. You keep staring, determined to make this last, but at some point, you have no choice. You turn towards the stage again, and Natasha swallows to get rid of whatever's lodged in her throat.

Focusing on the concert itself seems impossible. You're still pressed against her front, all body warmth and perfume, and the show isn't the most exciting thing anymore. Her hands settle on your waist and her brain blanks when you accidentally grind into her.

The word 'don't' is on the tip of her tongue, but she chokes on it. You have no clue what you're doing — you're singing along off tune, unbothered by the people around you bumping into you. It's not the first time you're ignoring her, but it might be the first time you're doing it on purpose.

"Do you know the difference?"

Natasha quickly looks at you. Your eyes are on her instead of the stage, and you've almost turned around enough to be fully facing her. She didn't even register the song ending.

"What difference?", she asks, hugging you tighter when a girl stumbles into you. Without realizing, she shields you from everyone else.

You gesture at the short blonde on stage, who's already started the next song. "You know — 'there, their and they are.' Were you even listening?"

Natasha goes from infatuated to slightly offended. Rumors have been circulating since forever, pretty much. That she's dumb, an idiot who's somehow got into college thanks to being a top athlete. You questioning her grammar skills hits that sore spot a little too well.

"Of course I do", she snaps, still keeping you wrapped up in her arms. A black tee, with the short sleeves straining around her biceps. "'There' as in where, 'their' as in belongs to them, they-"

The 'are' doesn't make it out. You get on your tiptoes instead, kissing her and swallowing the word. People cheer, either at the show or at you. You choose to believe it's you.

Hands grip your waist, thumbs pressing into skin. You hook one finger into her necklace and ignore the song. You focus on not stumbling backwards with her instead. She tastes lipstick and vodka. Suddenly, the bathrooms are way too far away — and she can't put a pause on the concert, so her only option is to slow down.

You pull away, cupping her face with one hand. Your thoughts aren't any less lewd than hers, but you're just as aware of the fact you're in the middle of a concert. Nobody's staring, really — they're too focused on what's happening onstage.

Natasha clears her throat and nods at Sabrina, who's performing a slower song now. Without hesitating too much, you turn back around and lean against her front again. Arms wrapped around your middle, she goes quiet.

You get peace for about 10 minutes. Then she pulls out a round bed and Natasha's ears heat up. She's still imagining you in that cute little getup, but now, she's flashing back to a specific night. One leg thrown over her hip, keeping her as deep inside as possible. Tugging at her shoulders and moaning into her ear. Lifting your hips a bit, just enough to meet her every thrust.

It'd been quiet in your dorm, apart from the music coming from another building nearby. It smelled like the cocktail you spilled and the new perfume you insisted on testing out on her. Between pinning her down in order to spray some of the perfume on her, she'd grabbed you and rolled over. Every nerve ending lights up, and heat licks at her spine.

"Hey", she mumbles, starting to get antsy. She's trying hard to keep it in her pants, but she needs a moment to calm down. "I gotta go to the bathroom. You'll be okay?"

You're barely listening, but you hear her anyway. You turn around and frown, your cheeks glowing with a mixture of body glitter and sweat. "Really? Now?"

"Just a minute", she snaps. "I'll be back in no time, I swear. Just stay here."

You give her a doubting look, but the more she fidgets and glares, the less resistance you show. With a defeated sigh, you turn away from her.

"Told you not to drink too much. Fine, go. I'll stay here."

Natasha nods, already making her way through the crowd. Her jeans are getting tighter with every step, her heart racing and her nape sweaty. She's seconds away from public disgrace, and the only thing that's able to save her is the bathroom. To get there, she has to elbow and shove her way through crowds of people. The second the door falls shut, she's bent over the sink and splashing her face with water.

The coldness of it seeps into her skin numbs it a little. Biting her knuckles, she looks up at her own reflection and nearly curses under her breath. She's flushed and dripping water all over herself.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck", she mutters, grabbing a few paper towels from the dispenser. She starts drying her face. "Shit."

Behind her, the door to the bathroom opens. She ignores the girls walking in and turns around, sniffling and rubbing her hands dry. She can't even hear her footsteps as she makes her way back into the venue — the music is too loud, even here in the hallway.

Natasha trying to reach the barricade again nearly gets her into a fight. She's always been stubborn, though, and her determination gets her back to your side within a few minutes.

You don't seem to notice her. You're leaning toward another girl, giggling and talking, and Natasha feels her blood pressure rise in a way that feels similar to the drop on a rollercoaster. The girl's fingers are grazing your arm, her head tilted — suddenly, Natasha understands why you get testy whenever she flirts with someone.

Whether it's for fun or not suddenly doesn't matter anymore. She grabs you without warning and muffles your squeak by pulling you against her chest.

"Are you insane?", you hiss. "What was that for?"

"Focus on the show", she says, shushing you. Your nose is right against her shirt, smelling deodorant and feeling the slight dampness of the fabric. "Hey, black suits her."

"Huh?" You turn around and groan. During that short moment of Natasha distracting you, Sabrina managed to pull off a costume change. Feather starts playing, but you're pouting.

Natasha glances at you, her heart thudding still. You're refusing to look at her now, and it's killing her. She's not sure where she went wrong, but it must've happened right after her return from the bathroom.

This is not what she wanted. In her mind, you'd have fun and go home together afterwards. She'd crash in your dorm, naked and hungover, and you'd be happy to have her there. Now, you look like you're about to storm off.

"Are you on your period?", she says, joking in hopes to get you to laugh. It only seems to make matters worse, though, because the look she gets chills her to the bone. "Jesus, alright. Shouldn't have said that."

You roll your eyes and turn around again, keeping your eyes on the stage. The crowd screams over the lyrics, it smells like perfume and sweat and alcohol. Behind you, Natasha rubs her neck. She's used to you two fighting, but she didn't expect it to happen now.

She hesitates, then steps closer. You stiffen at the feeling of her arms around you. Her biceps press against your sides, solid and familiar, and her lips meet your neck. It's enough to make you stop humming.

"Don't be mad", she mumbles, her thumb brushing along the underside of your chest. "You don't want to be mad, and you know it."

"You're a fucking manipulator."

"Only for you." Natasha kisses your neck again. Her hand sneaks higher upwards, cupping your breast and squeezing it. "Enjoy the show. Ignore me."

You scoff, but she doesn't budge. Having a crowd never threw her off, and you're fully aware of that. The library was mild compared to some of the places she's initiated sex in before.

"I would", you say, trying to peel her hand off, "if you weren't such a pain."

"Me?" She nuzzles your jaw. "Funny. You let this 'pain' fuck you four times this week. And counting."

You let out a laugh that signals her death is imminent. It may have been a while since that night at the party — where you slept together for the first time, tipsy and desperate in the sweat-stenched air of Pietro's room — but being reminded of it still sets you off. You'd sworn yourself you wouldn't end up as one of her one-night stands, but you fell for the whole basketball player-shtick anyway.

The worst part is that, even if you get a little nauseous when you think about her abandoning you like all her other disposable hookups, you'll probably still drag her home and into your bed after the concert. You're almost certain you'll end the night with a new dent in the wall behind your bed.

"I'll kill you", you hiss, trying to peel her hand off. "You can't grope your way out of this."

"Hey", she whispers. "Your favorite song."

Unfortunately, her quick distraction works. You look up when you hear Fast Times playing, and suddenly, you give up and let your body do its thing. You melt into her arms and stop resisting the natural course of order.

From that moment on, you forget about the fight. You don't even think about it anymore. When the song comes to an end, you're already over it enough to turn around and tug her into a kiss.

It's always been like this. First you're fighting, then you're suddenly shoving stacks of books off the desk. You can't recall talking an issue out even once. You doubt she has enough emotional maturity to even attempt that.

The vodka and orange juice earlier left a taste on her tongue. At first, everything seems to be under your control — you cup her face, keep her close, try your best to have this remain appropriate. Calloused fingers tug at the fabric of your dress and adjust it. She feels the heat beneath, her self-control wavering. It's a slippery slope from passionate to desperate.

Natasha nods her head to deepen the kiss. Teeth bump, and her hands start bunching up your dress a little. Before she can expose your underwear to an audience of almost 20 thousand people, you grip her wrists and keep her from pushing the fabric up more.

"No", you mumble. She pulls away, breathing heavily, and frowns. "Not now."

"Later?", she asks, rubbing her lips and smudging the lipstick you got all over them. You roll your eyes and shove your hand against her chest. "You were thinking it too."

You shake your head and turn back around, ignoring her as she curses quietly. "That's just you."

She accepts defeat because she has no other choice. Part of her knows she'll end up in your bed — she always does, even if you're arguing. She's never thought of herself as irresistible, but you've gotten close to letting her believe just that.

Her body feels as sweaty as yours as it wraps around you again. You smell sweat and cologne, Read Your Mind is playing, and you both think too much.

You stop paying attention. Her mouth is on your neck, her arms around your waist. The crowd surges every time the lights change. Flashing lights and bass drops blur together just like the songs.

You sing half the lyrics, mumble the rest. Natasha takes a picture of you, then a video. She never lets go of you, though.

"How many songs is that now?", she mumbles against your ear. Her hand runs down your arm until her fingers nudge against your bracelet.

"I stopped counting", you admit. Coincidence just started playing, and judging by how everything has turned into a blur, you're assuming it must've been a quite a few. "My feet hurt."

Natasha tries to sneak a glance at your legs. You're in high heels, but you're still a head shorter than her. The heels are probably killing you by now. She wouldn't be surprised if you ended up with blisters, especially after being nudged around by a crowd all night.

She doesn't understand why you'd put up with the pain just in order to look taller, but it's not her right to judge. Instead, she nods at her boots.

"Take them off", she says. You give her an unimpressed look. "Just do it."

"The floor is gross", you complain, already angling one leg to slip off your high heel. Natasha taps your waist. "What?"

"Stand on my boots."

You pause and stare. She stares back, then rolls her eyes and grabs the heel you're holding. She's not about to argue, because she knows she'd lose. Besides, if she lets you talk too much, you might start saying things that'll scare her. It's better if you both shut up.

"You're kidding", you say, but she's already scooped you off the ground. "Let go!"

"Take off the other one", she insists. She can already feel the sweat accumulate at the back of her neck. "Jesus, hurry up a little."

"I thought I was a lightweight", you hiss. You take off your other high heel, anyway. The leather of her boots feels cold as you stand on them. Natasha loosens her grip on you and exhales quietly.

"Comfy?", she asks, fingers drumming against your stomach.

You let out a begrudging hum and keep staring at the stage. You're not about to give her the satisfaction of knowing she saved you from being unable to walk the next day. Knowing her, she'd use it as leverage. Or to piss you off.

Natasha doesn't really mind your attitude. Not in that moment. You're standing on the toes of her boots, body flush with hers. She has the emotional capacity of a spoon, but there aren't many things she likes more than feeling you this close.

Another song ends. Then Juno starts, and you forget that you're supposed to act like you're mad at her. It's the one song you keep replaying, whether you're in the car or in your dorm. You've requested it at parties (and made a friend connect your phone to the speakers so you could play it if they refused), you added it to Natasha's playlist when she wasn't looking and you obsessively watched the different positions whenever someone posted them.

Natasha's unaware. You tend to doomscroll after sex, a thin sheen of sweat still coating your body, and lift your phone enough to make her see as well. She's tuckered out usually, with her eyes half closed and her face resting against the crook of your neck. She has no clue, but you show her the positions anyway.

"What's that?", she asks, squeezing her arms around your middle. "Why's everyone cheering?"

You briefly glance at her, lips twitching. "Don't know?"

The look she gives you makes you laugh. You don't need her to say it out loud — she's about to see, anyway. You're not too worried, as you've probably done worse than whatever position Sabrina is about to get into on stage.

You watch Sabrina run down the stage and get on her knees so she's almost sitting on the floor. Her knees stay bent for a second as she bounces on nothing a few times. The corners of your mouth tug into a little frown — you're not sure about the logistics behind it. Natasha, however, feels her brain turn into a lump of mush as she realizes what's happening.

It's a sex position. She shouldn't be too shocked, especially since she isn't one to reject experimenting with those, but she's already managed to picture you doing the same thing.

"What do you think?", you ask. She cranes her neck to get a better look at the stage, ignoring you. Her hand squeezes your side like you're about to evaporate and ruin her fantasy of trying this. If she hadn't already been toying with the idea of going home with you, she definitely would've made that decision now.

Sabrina's jumped back up and returned to performing. Natasha finally snaps out of it, but the image of you doing that very thing is burned into her brain. "That- yeah, no, that one's happening. We're doing that. Tonight."

You scoff. "Perv."

"She's creative", she mumbles. "We could be creative. Why aren't we?"

"You're disgusting", you retort, rolling your eyes.

She doesn't argue. She just shrugs, knowing you'll probably end up trying anyway. On stage, Sabrina is back to singing. You're not aware of it yet, but the lyrics plant a little seed in you. One that'll end up growing until you can't resist that itch anymore.

You turn your head to look at her over your shoulder. Natasha almost leans in to kiss you, but there's a glimmer in your eyes that makes her stop. She knows better than to push, as her being nosy has lead to issues in the past, but you have no problem bringing it up anyway.

You lean in closer, so close she can smell the chewing gum you popped into your mouth half an hour ago. Your eyes are dazed from both the vodka and the concert, and she can feel her fingers twitch with the urge to drag you somewhere. She doesn't know where, but anywhere without an audience would work.

She's sweaty, she's tipsy, she's horny. She didn't think you could make it worse. You prove her wrong just like every time.

"Want to give me a baby, too?"

For a split second, all air is knocked out of her lungs. She freezes, eyes wide and hands glued to your sides. Brain gone, body still. Her voice? Nowhere to be found. The music drowns out every thought that's running circles in her mind like a panicked rabbit.

Finally, she lets out a laugh. When she doesn't know what to say, she uses humor to deflect and pivots into touch. Distracting herself is key, otherwise she'll look like an idiot. Little does she know this moment will haunt her all the way to an important basketball game a few weeks later.

"What, now?", she asks, already kissing your neck. "Because I'd rather give you something else right now."

You lift your shoulder a little when her tongue brushes against a ticklish spot on your neck. "Smooth."

"I'm not joking. The bathroom isn't too shabby."

You shake your head and look at the stage again. Still, she keeps all her attention on you. Your shoulder is littered with kisses, her hands roam up and down, quiet curses escape her. You barely hear them, but they add to the thrumming inside you anyway. Alcohol, music, an idea that could either ruin everything or get something entirely different started.

The song has ended, thankfully. Natasha's head hasn't stopped spinning though, and you're somewhere between exhaustion and an inexplicable rush of giddy stupidity. The latter is intensified by the alcohol coursing through your veins. You didn't have much of it, but its effect is stronger thanks to the oppressive heat inside the venue.

You turn your head enough to be able to kiss her. She sucks on your tongue and gropes your stomach, feeling the heat beneath. Please Please Please is playing, you grab her face and deepen the kiss, and Natasha feels blood rush into her lower half. As if the heat wasn't bad enough, it's now accompanied by the recurring pressure in her dick.

Her hand slips lower with each passing second until she reaches what she's looking for. Her thumb brushes the curve of your ass and Natasha sighs, trying to tug you even closer.

No matter what you do or where you are, you always seem to end up in the same situation — with a hard-on pressing against you like a quiet reminder that this is what your relationship is doomed to be like.

You tilt your head as you part from her. She's seconds from bringing up the bathroom idea again, you can see it written all over her face. If you as much as look at her the wrong way, you're ending up with your back against a bathroom wall with sharpie all over it.

"No."

Natasha clenches and unclenches her jaw. She should've expected that answer, but part of her was too hopeful. Rejection therapy isn't something she ever had to get acquainted with, which led to her believing 'yes' would be the standard answer for just about everything.

"The concert will be over soon", you add, pulling away from her grasp. You step off her boots and onto the cold floor, grabbing your high heels again. Somehow, you managed not to lose them.

"Right", she says, watching you put on your heels again. The girl next to you bumps into your side, and Natasha keeps herself from tugging you back into her chest. "Got any plans for later?"

"You're trying to come home with me", you state, not wasting a second on your reply. She bites the insides of her cheeks. "Is that why you wanted to come here? Because it'd lead to sex?"

"You seemed like you wanted it too", she tries to defend herself. She's not sure she means what she said, but it's too late. The words hang between you, Don't Smile is playing and time is running out. You had a fight not too long ago — she doesn't want this to result in another one. She doesn't want to end this night with you being mad at her.

All you do is stare for a moment, then turn back around. Natasha runs a hand through her hair as she tries to come up with a way to salvage this. You still have to survive the car ride home, and honestly, the idea of dropping you off and leaving afterwards kills her. She shouldn't want this as much as she does — if her teammates knew, it'd be over for her —, but she can't exactly change it.

You feel her fingertips trace your shoulder blade. Nails rake over skin, fingers slip under the strap of your dress. She tugs gently, with just enough strength for you to notice. The strap snaps back against your shoulder. You don't react, not visibly, but your resolve weakens.

"Don't be mad", she says, hooking her finger under the thin piece of fabric again. "I'll buy you something at the merch booth."

"I have money", you say, staring at the stage. Her fingers find the zipper on your dress and give it a light tug. "Keep going and I'll call an Uber."

Natasha hesitates. The song is coming to an end, which means that she only has minutes left. Words tend to be her favored way of getting out of uncomfortable situations. She's ended arguments being a touchy smooth talker, murmuring bullshit until the other caved. With you, it's never been different, but there's starting to be more behind it.

"Smile", she says, wrapping a strand of your hair around her finger. "Smile and I'll kiss you."

You ignore the way your skin tingles when she reaches for the strap of your dress again. She tugs at it like it's a lifeline, like touching your body will make you rewind to the night were things were easy and hot and mutual. It's a flirty game, and she's using it to try and charm her way back into your good graces.

"I need you to mean that", you say, still not looking. It's like you just froze time, and the concert, for her.

She's stunned for a moment. Because she does mean it, even if everything about her screams she doesn't. There's no other explanation as to why she'd be putting herself through this otherwise. She has her pick of girls who'd sleep with her. Ever since becoming the basketball's team captain, that number has only increased. And yet, she's standing in a venue full of glitter and makeup products she couldn't name for the life of it.

Somehow, she enjoys being here anyway.

"What if I do?"

"You don't", you insist, your back stubbornly turned toward her. "I don't think you're capable of that."

Natasha rolls her eyes and steps closer. Her hand cups your waist, her front is right up against your back. Her idea of apologizing includes undoing a bra, but you still have an audience.

You don't try to escape her touch. It's not like there's much space around you to do that, but she feels something light up inside her regardless. Her hand curves around your middle and, when you fail to pull away once more, her lips brush your ear.

"I mean it", she mutters, too reluctantly for you to believe she doesn't mean it. It's lies that come easy to her — the truth scares her. "Now kiss me. I don't want you to be mad at me."

You keep your eyes glued to a random spot on stage, but they close for a split second. Inside you, your heartbeat stutters and the petty urge to make her grovel fades. You don't forgive easily — not usually, not when it comes to Natasha. You're already calculating the perfect moment to turn around, though.

You give up on that last bit of resistance when Espresso starts playing. You glance at her and meet her gaze, and paired with the music and the screaming crowd, it almost feels ridiculous. The fight was unnecessary, just like all the other ones you've had so far were.

"I'm sorry", she finally mumbles, licking her lips and looking at your own. "I'm stupid. I know that. Don't take that Uber."

A switch flips and, suddenly, your resolve crumbles quicker than you want it to. Natasha knows she's out of the woods when you roll your eyes, so she taps your lower back and cracks a smile.

"You forgot the kiss", she reminds you.

"Did I smile?"

She shakes her head. Her fingers drag over clothed skin, tapping and curling, and you squirm. You resist the tickling sensation about five seconds, then you let that smile slip that she's been waiting for. Natasha doesn't get to enjoy the view for long, though, as you immediately put on a frown.

"Fuck you."

She laughs, already pulling you closer. You get on your tiptoes right as she leans in. Her lips press against yours, soft and firm at once. You grip the front of her shirt, the fabric spilling out between your fingers. If she didn't know any better, she'd think you're angry about not being kissed this whole time — you're up on your toes just to kiss her back, at least. Natasha convinces herself that counts for something.

People yell around you, confetti falls like thick snowflakes in all kinds of colors. Drinks spill when the crowd moves and makes everyone bump into each other. You hear someone start to list names as they tell the audience to make noise for everyone, but you're both at a point at which you're ignoring it.

By the time you part, you're both out of breath. Natasha's silently swearing that she'll never pretend she isn't way too deep into this, and you're just trying to remember which way the exit was.

"Shit", you mumble, letting people squeeze past you as they start trickling out of the venue.

Natasha swallows and nods, her arm curled around your waist. "I fucking hate when you ignore me."

"Don't give me a reason to, then", you say. You glance at your wrist and touch it, a frown on your face. "I think I lost my bracelet."

"What?" She looks up and blinks, then grabs your hand to confirm. "Oh. Fuck. What's it look like?"

You start searching the floor — looking for the pink beads, the little stars dangling from it — but it's difficult to stay focused over all the noise. The chattering coming from all sides is almost louder than the concert itself, and you're cut off by people who try to get past you but don't quite succeed.

Natasha frowns as she helps you. It’s your favorite bracelet — it's the one you wore when you first kissed. When you first slept together, too. And now, the only thing tying you to that night in Pietro's bedroom might be gone.

Right as she opens her mouth to say something, a girl next to you steps on something. Whatever object her heel landed on crunches loudly, and both of you freeze.

"My bracelet", you groan, immediately continuing to search the floor. It seems impossible with all the people walking by and blocking your vision. “I loved that thing! It was so expensive, too!"

"Well...why'd you wear it?", she asks, panicking as well. But the object on the floor is a cheap pair of reading glasses, with the shards scattered around it. She lets out a breath. "Alright, you can calm down."

"'Calm down'? It's still gone, you moron!"

Natasha shuts up. She knows better than to keep going. As you continue searching the floor, she pads after you and tucks her hands into the pockets of her jeans. Her fingertips brush against something cold and round.

She stops in her tracks and hesitates. Finally, she pulls out the bracelet. It takes you five seconds to notice she's not walking anymore. Like a switch flipped, you go from panicked to pissed.

"What, you're going to just stand there? Of course. It's gone, and you're just going to- oh, fuck you", you hiss. "It's gone!"

Natasha rolls one of the beads between her fingers. She hesitates again — you look like you're about to tear someone's head off, and it'd most likely be hers; but when you whip around again, she can't help it anymore.

"It's not gone", she blurts. "I have it."

You feel everything inside you be put on hold for a second. You don't believe her in that initial second, but then she's pulled out the exact bracelet you were looking for. With the same pink beads and history attached to it, now dangling from her fingers.

Finally, you let out a breath. You're by her side in a split second to grab the bracelet and give it a quick glance, then you put it on.

"This the one?", she mumbles, carefully watching your reaction. You nod and look up. Your hand cups the back of her head faster than she can register, and only when the bracelet gets tangled in her hair does she realize you're kissing her.

You pull away, staring at her. The air between you is charged with the afterbuzz of the concert and the mouthwarm of the kiss. You weren't happy about her suggesting that she come home with you after the show, but now, anything else wouldn't seem right.

"Yeah. That's the one. Let's just..." You nod at the exit. "Let's go."

Natasha nods and puts her hand on your lower back, even though there's no crowd she needs to guide you through. Outside, it's dark and still hot from the day. Cars speed down the highway nearby, and on the other side of the parking lot, two shadows are nestled against the side of a car.

"My dorm or yours?", you ask, trying not to be too obvious. Natasha smiles and lets her hand drop a bit lower.

"Yours."

. . .

Music is playing from your old portable speaker. The room smells like the chicken wings Natasha picked up on the way home. She's on your bed, heart-eyed and silent, as you're sitting at your desk with a vanity mirror in front of you.

"You're taking long", she mumbles, stretching. "Thought we had a deal."

"There was no deal", you reply, using a napkin soaked in makeup remover to clean your face. She sighs and rolls over onto her side. "You being gross doesn't equal a deal."

"It has before."

You give her a pointed look through the mirror. She raises her eyebrows, caught somewhere between flustered and horny. The concert wasn't long — and yet, it feels like she's been practicing involuntary celibacy for years.

"You want to try it, too", she adds. Your mind jumps back to the Juno position and you clench your jaw. Suddenly frustrated, you shift in your chair. Natasha notices, of course. "Don't lie."

"We've fought twice tonight", you point out, desperately trying to ignore the fact you're gripping the desk with one hand. You can't ignore it too well, though. Neither can she. "Don't let there be a third time."

Natasha rolls her eyes and props her upper body up on her forearm. Her hair is in a low bun that's slowly coming loose, and somehow, both her shirt and her cheek are speckled with glitter from your dress. You're still taking off your makeup, but she's got something else to take off in mind.

You should be distracted by the makeup remover dripping down your neck, but you're too caught up on the fact that there's someone lying on your bed. You're both still sweaty, still stuck in that weird, slightly disorienting haze caused by the bracelet. You move your foot, which was crossed at the ankle with your other one, and knock over one of your high heels.

"Are you still mad?", she suddenly asks. It's as unexpected as the cars outside, their tires screeching just a split second after she stops talking. You turn around and stare. "Is that a yes?"

"Guess, since you're so good at it."

Natasha rolls her eyes and slumps back into the pillow. You ball up the napkins on your desk and toss them into the trashcan, then you get up. The second she hears a zipper being pulled down, she lifts her head again.

Your back is turned to her. She watches the dress fall to the floor and, seeing more and more skin be revealed like something at a museum, feels blood rush south. Her boxers tent and she gives you a slightly desperate look when you reach for a pair of shorts.

"What?", you ask, eyebrows furrowed. She isn't sure whether you're irritated or genuinely confused, which throws her off more.

"You got glitter in your hair", she says innocently. Her fingers are twisting the hem of her shirt, her cheeks are dusted pink. She can pretend all she wants, but you know the tiny telltale signs by heart. That same girl who's thrown up on court and ghosted half the campus and flirted her way into your pants — she's nervous now.

You take out your earrings and pad to the windowsill to leave them there. She watches every move like she fully expects you to join her any minute. It's better to be prepared, which is why she feels for the thin square object in the pocket of her shorts.

"I got an idiot in my bed, too", you mumble. "Don't see me complaining about that."

Natasha, slumped into the mattress like she's a wounded soldier, perks up when you make your way to her side. She reaches out her hand and her fingertips graze your thigh, and when you sit down, she finally straightens up fully for the first time since entering your dorm.

"You brought this idiot here", she reminds you, her finger hooking into the strap of your bra. "You're so far away."

"You're kidding."

"I'm really not." She tugs at the bra strap and you sigh. Her fingers run down your arm until they reach your wrist — or rather, the bracelet dangling from it. "Do you hate me?"

"I'm thinking about it", you deadpan. She sees right through your lie, as usually, so your words don't have much of an effect. She keeps tugging, and you keep caving; once you've swung one leg over her lap, one knee on each side of her hips, it's over. You're still buzzing from the concert, and the bracelet, and there aren't many other things that'd be fitting for this situation.

You wrap her necklace around your index finger, pulling at it gently. She nods her head to press a kiss to your knuckle.

"Don't seem like you hate me", she mumbles. "You're still here."

"My standards have lowered significantly." Your lips twitch when she looks up, her eyebrows furrowed. "They weren't high to begin with."

Natasha huffs quietly, but her smile matches yours. She wraps one arm around your waist, biceps solid and familiar, and draws you closer. You don't mean to laugh, or brush your lips against hers, but it happens anyway. You pull away and she hums, staring at you.

You let out a breath. Your hands run into her hair to tilt her head back tugging just a little. Natasha feels the intention of keeping it casual fall apart, and to combat the feeling of anxiety creeping up, she kisses you again.

It's not much. Just soft presses of lips, sighs between them. Mouths open as the kisses grow sharper, a little more desperate. You feel the wet patch on her boxers before she does. You pull away enough to see the smudged lipstick on her mouth. You removed most of your makeup, but leaving that on was intentional.

One hand gripping her collar, you yank her closer. Hot lips press against yours, stiff due to her initial state of surprise, but then she kisses you back again.

Her hands settle on your waist after a moment. She brushes her tongue along your bottom lip, and when you feel her boner press against the inner part of your thigh, you roll your hips against hers. Your knees grind into the mattress and both of you are out of breath way too quickly.

"Hey", she mumbles, pulling away just enough to be able to speak. "You want this?"

"We're past asking, I think."

Natasha exhales and nods. Her hand curves around your back and up your spine, finding the clasp of your bra. It comes undone, the pressure around your chest loosens, and you let the straps slide off your arms. The piece of fabric ends up on the other side of the room, forgotten about before it even hits the floor.

Her hand is inside your shorts before you manage to kiss her again. You wiggle against her fingers, cursing quietly.

"Jesus, you're wet already?", she mumbles.

"You're the one dripping", you shoot back. Her hand moves slowly, too slowly for the both of you. You swear again, clutching her shirt so hard she feels the pressure around her chest.

Her fingers flex inside you. She keeps working you open until you have to clasp your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from whining. Just seeing that happen is enough for Natasha to want to take it slow, but her boxers hurt from the pressure, so she pulls out again.

"Can you not?", you complain, her hand stuck in the waistband of your shorts for a moment. She raises her eyebrows.

"Still hate me?"

"You're on thin ice", you mutter. She puts her hands on your waist and guides you up, making your frown fade. "I'll kick you out."

Natasha glances at you, and somehow, she's able to make you feel bad. It's a guilt trip, heading straight for the spot that'll make you stop whining. Unfortunately, it works.

Once she realizes she's won, she looks much more content already. You're too impatient to put up much of a fight. There are always other ways to take revenge, after all.

"What's your plan?", you cave. She hums and lifts you up again, manhandling you as she pleases.

"Turn around", she says. "I want to try it."

Your back is already turned towards her when she says that. The moment you remember what she's talking about, you feel heat shoot up your spine and then back down between your legs. Natasha tugs at your shorts and waits for you to nod, then she helps you pull them off all the way.

It's hot in your dorm, summer heat clinging to both of you. With her only sitting there in a sports bra now, you can feel how sweaty and flushed she is. You straddle her facing away and lean back against her chest.

"Alright", she breathes, her hands on your waist. You lift your hips and feel her tip nudge into you. "There you go."

"Shut the fuck up", you moan, trying to sink down. The angle isn't making things easier for you — getting adjusted to her still hurts. "Don't move, don't move-"

"I'm not", she husks. Her fingers curl into your sides, leaving little crescents behind as she guides you. "Come on, just a little more."

She rocks up into you, bottoming out. Your hips are pinned in place. The bed creaks quietly and you moan.

The thrusts are long at first, calculated. You're still sitting up, still trying to take each roll of her hips. Her nose is against your neck as she breathes in, perfume and a hint of cherry gloss making it seem like a fever dream in the late of summer.

With her hands still guiding you, she starts going slower. The angle hits deep, the spots are sweet enough to make you gasp quietly. She's not thrusting, she's grinding. It's not rough, but relentless, and she feels her self control slip with each noise you make.

Then, you clench. Natasha curses as she barely stops herself from coming on the spot.

"Shit", she grunts, her voice low and lost between the slick, unhurried sounds that fill the room. Mentally, she's thanking Sabrina for introducing her to this. "Don't do that."

"Come on", you say. You're barely able to speak at this point. "This was your idea. You were so cocky earlier."

Natasha's forehead is glued to your shoulder. You lift one arm and move your hand behind you, cupping the back of her head. The bracelet around your wrist nudges her ear and gets tangled in a few flyaway hairs.

Her hands are grinding you down, her hips are rolling up into you. The room smells like sex and sweat, and when one of her hands suddenly starts roaming your body, you know it's over for you.

She presses down on your stomach, cups your breast, moves it all the way up to your throat. She barely wraps her hand around it before letting go again. It drifts to the aching spot between your thighs, where she's still buried inside of you, and she starts circling it without warning.

"Fuck", you stammer, one knee jerking. "Fuck, Nat-"

She ignores how your fingers tangle into her hair and tug. Her arm locks around your waist, keeping you pressed against her. She feels her own outline against her forearm and almost loses it.

At this point, it's almost too much. Natasha's been hanging on by a thread for hours, and you're not doing better. She tugs you fully into her lap as she keeps grinding up, sweat trickling down her bicep and her hair curling from the moisture.

"The bracelet", you moan, melting against her. "How did you find it?"

"I didn't." She makes a noise that sounds close to a sob. You'd laugh — it's you who did it, after all — but her hips jerk up and rid your mind of any thoughts. "I took it."

"Oh", is all you say. Her hand keeps working your clit, and each thrust goes deeper and deeper until she's all but grinding in spot. Her words linger, but you're too far gone to react.

The buildup is sudden and intense. She thrusts up one more time, her arm pulling you down as she rocks up, and that's it. Heat floods you, hitting each nerve ending. She spills, your back arches, and the bracelet almost rips a few of her hairs out when you adjust your arm.

"Shit", she pants, still nuzzling your neck. "That hurt."

"You're the one complaining?", you whine. You're twitching with aftershocks, nearly wheezed while talking — you could've sworn she'd rip a hole into you. Yet, she's talking about 'hurt' like she's the one who experienced it.

"Your bracelet, dumbass. It’s pulling my hair."

"Oh." You swallow and gently remove your hand. Her hand hasn't moved from between your legs. Her thumb keeps circling your clit like she's about to initiate something else. But you're sticky and trembling and in desperate need of a shower. "Get out of me before I cry."

You hear her swallow, feel the kiss on your shoulder. She hesitates before pulling out, slowly, and wipes your thighs with the back of her hand.

"I didn't mean to", she confesses, grabbing a tissue with her clean(-ish) hand. "I don't know why I did it. Guess it reminded me of...things."

"The party", you state. She shoots you a glare. "Don't look at me like that! You took it like some weird creep."

When she doesn’t say anything, all you can do is scoff and get up. Natasha, feeling like an idiot for confessing while too deep inside you and too pussy-drunk to form a single coherent sentence, jumps up and follows after you. She tries crossing her arms behind her head as you walk to the shower on wobbly legs, but even that doesn't feel right anymore.

"You need help?", she finally asks. You grab your robe and head for the door.

"You need to leave", you say, hand on the doorknob. "You know that bracelet is important to me!"

"I know", she says slowly. She's seen it on you during the party, and then consistently after you started hooking up more. "I'm sorry. Don't be mad."

You roll your eyes and step out into the hallway. Natasha groans and puts on her shorts before walking after you, the floor cold beneath her feet. She makes sure not to step into some old chewing gum and then tries getting ahold of you.

The towel nearly slips. She retracts her hand like she touched the earth's core itself.

"What is wrong with you-"

"I wasn't thinking", she quickly says, fingertips grazing your wrist. "I swear."

"No", you shoot back. "You were thinking too much. See the issue?"

She doesn't understand at first, then she opens her mouth — and shuts it again. Because you're right, again. You're calling her out, which she both hates and loves. It's something that no one's ever done before, at least not like this. Not in a way that made her listen.

"And the concert", you add. "What was that about? Did you want to do something nice, or was it about fucking me again?"

"Okay", she stammers, rubbing the back of her neck. "I don't want to go off topic, but we're in the middle of the hallway, and it's late at night, and-"

"You don't want everyone to find out?", you snap. Her eyes widen immediately. "Little late for that, since under the bleachers seemed just fine for you."

Heat creeps up her neck and all the way to her ears. She rubs her eyes — if she'd just given up on the ticket hunt, she wouldn't be standing here right now — as she tries to find the right words. Somehow, that's where she always ends up: in some weird headspace that removes her ability to communicate verbally.

The easiest way to deal with this would be to drag you back into bed. But you don't want that — you'd probably kill her, in fact — and neither does she. Her only option is to find the right words, even if it seems impossible.

"It wasn't about sex", she mumbles, each syllable feeling like it's clinging to her vocal cords and refusing to let go. "You know that."

You shake your head and adjust your towel. Someone down the hall opens their door, but it shuts again almost right away. "You know, believing you is one of the biggest mistakes someone could make. So why should I?"

"No", she admits. "You shouldn't. But I want you to, anyway."

"It's not about what you want", you reply, fixing your towel again. You almost let go, and she immediately grabs the edge to keep it in place. "It's about being an adult. There's a thing called 'emotional intelligence', but I guess you won't even look at that until you can stick your dick in it."

"You're emotionally intelligent", she says unhelpfully. "Does that count?"

Another stare. Then you're headed for the bathroom, and Natasha has to follow suit again. Why she's fighting, she pretends not to know. Even if everything she does is telling her why.

The water starts running, and she joins you without asking. You don't bother trying to kick her out. It wouldn't work anyway, so you let her lean against the wall of the shower cubicle.

She exhales as you reach for your loofah. It smells like almond and vanilla, but for the first time ever, even that doesn't turn her on. She shifts and then pushes away from the wall to grab the loofah.

"What-"

"I'll be more thorough", she mutters, moving to stand behind you. "Don't move too much."

You scoff, but don't bother arguing. The rough material of the loofah is running along your shoulders already anyway, so you stand there and let her coat your skin suds. It's just the loofah at first — scrubbing away sweat and dead skin cells, cleaning you of every dumb thing Natasha's said that night.

Her hand follows, but it's not the usual little game of trying to get you into bed. Suddenly, she's tracing shoulder blades and your spine and gently poking the spot where the nail of her index finger left a faint mark.

"That's me."

"I know", you say simply. "It's not like there's anyone else."

Natasha nods and lets out a breath. She returns to washing your back, your arms, your sides. Her hand cups your waist and she leans in to kiss the back of your neck. You freeze, then relax enough for her to repeat it.

"I'm sorry", she murmurs, her lips against your skin. Her hand trails down your arm, right to the bracelet. "There's a reason. I swear. But you said it, I don't do well with the sappy stuff."

"Natasha."

"I like what it stands for", she says, slipping her fingers between the bracelet and your wrist. "It reminds you of something. It reminds me, too. I should've just asked for it."

You breathe in and out. Your fingers curl, your eyes close. Her free hand touches your lower stomach before splaying out on it.

She's not making sense. She never did. But you move your hand away from her grasp and remove the bracelet from your wrist. This time, you give it to her on purpose. It looks small in her palm.

"That's yours", she says dumbly.

"You stole it", you say, turning around again to rinse off. "If you can do that, you can accept it from me."

"Yes, but..." She shakes her head and looks up. "Why?"

Not even you know. Not really. All you know is that you’re tired, and if she wants to have a piece of you, she can have it. And maybe, she’ll figure out how to take care of it first.

You don’t tell her. Instead, you shrug, the water running down your body and removing all the soap suds. She tries her best not to check you out, so she quickly looks at the bracelet again.

"I want you to have it", you say, twisting the shower knob and making the water stop running. "Do with it what you will."

She watches you as you leave, your footsteps quiet in the darkened room. She doesn't follow — not this time. She hears the door to the communal bathroom close, then she glances at the bracelet again. It had one memory attached to it before: sex, at a party, mainly resulting from a game of 'spin the bottle'. Now, that may have changed.

Do with it what you will.

Natasha doesn't wear it. Not now, that is. But she keeps it in her wallet, next to her toothbrush, on her dashboard.

When she does decide to give you her jersey, she wears it beneath the sweatband on her wrist. It's hard for anyone else to see the faint outline of it — yet she does, anyway.

#short n sweet #short n sweet au #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #marvel mcu #marvel #wlw #lesbian #wlw smut #smut #fluff #light angst #fanfic #fanfiction #moon’s fics

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