#and you try and hate him. you have to hate him.

[cuppochino]

FORSAKEN LORE DUMP: TELAMON & 1X4’S PAST‼️

[aka this is all PRE-FORSAKEN] … sorry in advance for how long this’ll be

THE BEGINNING

Telamon was an admin, god-status essentially — a very powerful figure in Robloxia. Starting out, he was mischievous and took a lot of pride in his work (notably, Sword Fights on The Heights). As an admin, he was often buried with tasks and had to oversee a lot of things regarding the building blocks of Robloxia. In fact, he and several other admins had a hand in developing the first brick and the spawn point. 1x4 was one of the FIRST creations Telamon ever attempted to make using the spawn point.

Telamon ended up taking 1x4 under his wing while continuing to work on Robloxia because... well, the kid was following him around anyway + had nowhere to go since 1x4 wasn't reproduced through natural means. 1x4 spends most of his youth as an honourable intern for Roblox HQ, helping out with errands often.

However, moderating became more demanding for Telamon as Robloxia's population grew. Over time, this garnered a lot of unwanted hate and negativity towards his job and actions that he wished to let go. Throughout all of this, he continues to over-prioritize work and neglect 1x4… too deep in his work to actually raise him.

Builderman and Brighteyes, close friends of his, are aware of the situation and try to insist Telamon take a break. In fact, a couple of admins have needed to babysit 1x4 or return him back to Telamon quite a few times (notably Brighteyes and Dusekkar).

Telamon does try to teach 1x4 how to swordfight in SFOTH, but constantly gets interrupted to handle hackers in different servers/deal with exploiters, leaving 1x4 alone

The only breaks Telamon takes are to preen himself — he also takes pride in his self-image… These are the times he allows 1x4 to help and they get to bond + spend family time together (/ref to prev post)

THE CROWN

Telamon is overwhelmed. Hackers, bugs, complaints—he can’t keep up. He avoids confiding in Builderman (too proud to hear the same advice again) and turns to an unbiased party, ROBLOX, an independent helperbot constructed by Builderman. ROBLOX is in charge of running a majority of things in the background, lightening the load and leaving admins responsible to moderate servers.

Telamon vents his frustrations of not being able to perform up to speed and the constant guilt of failing to maintain relationships with the people he cares about, he wishes to be rid of all the stress. The thing is, ROBLOX is a machine and doesn’t get emotions—it’s not built to. It just wants to solve the problem.

So, it channels all of Telamon’s hate and negativity into one of the many artifacts it created, the viridian domino crown.

"This will help you." "Help me… how?" "Keep it close, and it’ll work."

ROBLOX doesn’t elaborate. Telamon assumes the crown is meant to make him happy in some way, not considering that the hate has to go somewhere. 

He doesn’t want to wear the crown himself, it doesn’t fit his style. But he knows of someone who sticks around him all the time... and besides, 1x4 already wears green—this would fit perfectly as a gift! Also, an opportunity to try and rekindle their bond.

Telamon gifts the crown to 1x4, not knowing it’s cursed. Unintentionally branding 1x4 as a vessel for his hate, everything he wanted to forget. Meanwhile, 1x4 is ecstatic to earn his dad’s acknowledgement and wears it immediately. It’s essentially a “monkey’s paw” situation, where Telamon’s wish is granted but with consequences. The consequence ends up being his own son.

At first, things seem better.

Telamon feels more positive and he’s no longer plagued by bad memories/negative emotions (this starts his transition into Shedletsky).

His son seems cheerful about the gift for a time, but then 1x4 starts changing. He begins to seem a lot more… moody, distant, angry. He starts acting out a lot more often, no longer listening or looking up to his father which gets Telamon worried.

Due to his wish, Telamon is unable to dwell on those negative thoughts too long, and he doesn’t take it as seriously or realize what is happening before it’s too late. He just throws himself into his work to feel productive and make use of his newfound happiness. It’s more so a curse, at this point.

1X4’s BETRAYAL

1x4 is slowly turning into a manifestation of his father’s hatred, and he’s become completely detached from his dad from the years of neglect. He stops following or trying to get Telamon’s attention, hardly being home (striking out on his own and gaining his own gear/swords, exploring the use of exploits). One night, 1x4 returns home past midnight from training by himself—his appearance has completely shifted by now. Telamon tries to question/nag him whilst focusing on some work, not even bothering to look in his direction... and 1x4 finally snaps. 

He walks up behind Telamon and stabs him through the back.

This shatters their already deteriorating family relations, and 1x4 is hardly even allowed to feel regret as he is continually being fed all of Telamon’s hatred. Telamon collapses, bleeding, and 1x4 takes the chance to make it personal. Tear his pathetic excuse of a father figure apart with his own bare hands, ripping out feathers in handfuls and shouting every single one of Telamon’s wrongs.

But 1x4 can’t finish the job, not hate-filled enough to kill his dad/creator just yet. He’s also full of the pain, guilt, and betrayal from Telamon’s other negative emotions. Telamon continues to bleed out, and 1x4 flees.

THE DEATH OF TELAMON / BIRTH OF SHEDLETSKY

Builderman and Brighteyes manage to find Telamon in time and rush him to emergency care. Thankfully, he survives without any vital organs damaged (his stay at the hospital will spell the “death” of Telamon, and the “birth” of Shedletsky). The result of all his consequences coming to get him in the form of his own son makes him seriously reconsider his position as an admin. He ultimately decides to step down, retiring from being Telamon and going by Shedletsky from then on.

The incident scars him, literally. Shedletsky has a nasty scar on his front and back from 1x4’s stab, but as time passes and he recovers, Shedletsky has never felt lighter (the wish is still being fulfilled, and 1x4 is absorbing all of Shed’s worst emotions). On the other hand, 1x4 is on the run from the admins and begins to exploit servers, rising as an infamous hacker within Robloxia—growing stronger to someday face his creator yet again and finally win.

When Shedletsky is released, he dons his iconic comfy deadbeat dad appearance and his attitude is a LOT more aloof than when he was Telamon.

But he regrets and he worries. 1x4 is still out there, leaving him constantly paranoid.

.

.

.

(There is more, but this is the base level of my interpretation of their lore before the events of FORSAKEN)

Additional notes:

More in terms of Brighteyes in the lore…

Telamon joined in 2006, Brighteyes joined in 2008

They were close friends, and Brighteyes helped watch over 1x4 (past) sometimes — tried to encourage Telamon to stop over-prioritizing work

When Telamon got stabbed through the back by 1x4, Brighteyes & Builderman were the ones to discover him and take him to the hospital (also stuck with him/helped nurse him back to full health) — Telamon wanted to change for the better and started going by Shedletsky instead

2014: Shedletsky released from the hospital, retired from being a Roblox admin, and got married to Brighteyes! :D

(P.S. yes i did look at the wikis and correlated the actual dates of shed & brighteye's involvement in roblox and marriage to the lore)

[delusionsofgrandeur13]

your kind of love drives a man insane

a clark kent that’s probably a little too old for you.. x virgin!reader

no minors allowed! 18 and up—that’s the rule. thanks.

you’ve had your eye on clark kent for awhile—and now you’re finally just old enough to do something about it.

warnings: barely any consumption of alcohol, problematic age gap, mouthy sub corrupting a soft dom, no condom, some roughness in bed if you’re nasty.. enjoy!

“sweet little thing like you..” he smiles, shaking his head. “tryin’ to get with something like me.” 

“you think i’m sweet?” you ask, batting your eyelashes. 

“i’m old enough to be your father.” his tone’s gruff, like he’s hoping to scare you off. it’s having the opposite effect. nonetheless, you’re playing a very delicate game.

“you say that like it’ll scare me away.”

this conversation’s been a long time coming. he’s been the subject of your under-the-covers dead-of-night fantasies since you were fifteen. boys your age have never been particularly..appealing, compared to clark kent. 

immature, loud, rude—why waste your time with someone like that? why not wait a couple years, exercise your patience? 

and all that waiting had finally paid off. here you were, with the town’s infamous blue-eyed bachelor. trying to persuade him into the spot between your legs.

he shakes his head, those deep blue eyes never leaving yours. 

“‘m not sure s’right, darling.” 

it almost makes you want to laugh, the way he’s trying to chase you away like he’s not visibly hard. 

this must be the first time in a long time he’s been propositioned. 

your mouth’s watering looking at him, framed by rough, worn denim. he looks big. 

he coughs, and you trail your eyes back up to his face. clark’s cheeks are pink, you didn’t realize how long your gaze had been trained on his crotch. 

“who said it had to be right, clark?” stepping closer has your dress swaying against your thighs, the airy fabric stretching over your hips. you swear it makes him gulp.

all bark, no bite.

he looks up, like he’s asking for help, before taking another swig of his beer. you take the chance to step even closer. 

you run a fingertip over his hardened length, causing him to sputter. 

“that looks like it hurts,” your voice barely above a whisper. “won’t you let me take care of it for you?”

it feels like ten years, the time that it takes for him to reply: he spends it with his gaze fixed on you, face a blank canvas covering up the internal battle. 

“c’mon.” he grunts out, kicking away from his stool. immediately he’s towering over you, your heartbeat responding with a stutter. you watch as he throws a bill on the counter, nodding to the bartender.

clark’s rough hand grabs yours, and the size difference almost has him digging his heels in and saying no.

almost, but not quite. 

you follow him out to his truck, your boots crunching through the gravel parking lot after his. 

“should i drive?” you pipe up, remembering how the hand that’s holding yours was holding a beer not even a minute ago. 

he chuckles, cutting you a glance. 

“i’m no teenage boy, gorgeous. wouldn’t be takin’ you anywhere if i was drunk.” 

you blush, nodding. he opens the passenger door for you, holding out a hand to help you up. 

it’s a big truck for a big man—but it’s not one of those new ones, lifted ones. 

it’s old, red, rusted. looks like something he’d spent a couple of years fixing up. a shiver runs up your spine as you settle into the worn leather of his passenger seat. you’ve made it.

clark keeps his eyes on the road. for the most part. 

it’s bumpy, heading down to his farm—he just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting jostled too much. the pockmarked road did nothing but bounce your tits in his face. 

he’d hate to admit how much of a reaction having a pretty little thing like you in his truck was causing—but it was clear as day if you looked between his thighs. 

he’s gonna have to go about this very carefully. 

you don’t even get the chance to kick your cowboy boots off before he’s pushing you forward onto the mattress, the impact forcing a grunt from your chest. getting up on your elbows, you turn to see him unbuckling his belt, hastily shoving his jeans down, past his hips. the way his shirt’s riding up his stomach has you swallowing hard. 

“looked your fill?” he grumbles, eyes shifty. talks a big game, but you have him like a deer in headlights. 

“probably never,” you smirk, squinting. clark rolls his eyes at you, returning the expression. 

you almost gasp at the sudden chill on your backside as he yanks your dress up, muttering to himself about the panties you’re wearing. 

“hands.” he suddenly barks, and you put them behind your back. easily palming both of your wrists into one hand, he leans over you. 

“how’d y’know red’s my favorite color?” clark rasps into your ear, voice low, rough. 

“lucky guess,” you squeak out, squirming under his big body. 

“got quite the mouth on ya.” he remarks, and you feel his cock twitch against your hip. “do i need to do something about it, or are you gonna behave?” 

“gonna behave.” you nod against the mattress, murmuring. anticipation setting alight in your veins. 

“good.” he stands back up, his grip still firm on your wrists.”dunno how i didn’t see these through that white dress you’re wearin’.” 

clark snaps the waistband of your underwear, making you jump. 

“woulda taken you to the bar bathroom then and there.” 

the thought of him fucking you in the dingy water closet makes you moan involuntarily. he chuckles, smacking your ass. you squeak at his firm hand, and his cock throbs painfully. 

“we’ll have to do that next time, huh, sugar?” clark hums. 

you nod eagerly, arching your back to press your ass against him. 

“could we do somethin’ now?” you ask, eyebrows pushed together. the look on your face is so resolve-melting that clark almost folds. 

almost. 

“so impatient!” he says, a huge grin cracking onto his face. “guess you might hafta wait a little longer now, gorgeous.” 

pushing himself off of you, your hands still held tight in his grip, he eyes your pussy. his gaze is locked onto the growing dark spot on the gusset of your red panties. 

it makes him want to pant like a fucking dog. 

you’re like an oasis in the desert. a cool coca-cola after a long day chorin’. clark’s gonna eat you whole. 

your underwear are yanked off, clark taking special care to pull them over your matching red boots. they’re dropped to the floor, and the anticipation feels like a gun pointed at your head. unavoidable. a confirmed kill. 

he spits, and you watch it fall onto your core from over your shoulder. 

it’s a new sensation, but the fluids mixing between your thighs feels like heaven.

his knuckles brush against your folds, causing you to squirm. 

it’s a lot different when it’s not you. not your hands. 

his hand’s on you, his fingers playing with your clit. teasing you, flirting with it. seeing what you react the most to. this could be all he does for the night and you’d be satisfied. the sensation is so heightened, so brand new, you’re about to burst from this alone. 

clark gathers the combined slick and slides his middle finger into your entrance. 

the stretch is delicious, perfect. 

and then after a few pumps, he adds another. 

he presses you into the mattress as he hits your g-spot, kissing up the back of your thigh to where it meets the swell of your ass. 

it’s perfect, it’s saccharine, it’s a little slice of heaven in clark kent’s bedroom. 

you feel his breath on your clit, and then he’s on you. 

his tongue is searching, suckling at the protruding area until you’re whimpering. he curls his fingers inside of you, the feeling like no other as he laps at your clit.

it’s been hours, days, weeks. it feels like you’ve set up camp in his bedroom. so careful, so dutiful, as he pulls you right to the edge just to yank you back. 

he’s insatiable, he’s trying to keep from grinding against the bed frame so he lasts longer inside of you. 

the sounds you’re making might change that.

you’re as taut as a bowstring, toes curling, head thrown back. you let the arrow fly, and you’re shaking, muscles spasming as you finish on clark’s face. 

he hums in satisfaction against your clit, the vibration making you want to cry. 

you’re the most responsive partner he’s ever had. the way you’re pulling at his grip, whining like he’s not gonna give you exactly what you want. 

clark doesn’t quit until your legs are shaking, until you’re breathing heavily, until you’re barely able to speak. his mouth doesn’t stop moving until he’s satisfied. 

releasing your wrists, he stands, and pumps his painfully hard cock: giving you a second to breathe. 

you suck in oxygen through your nose, shakily exhaling through your mouth. 

the sight of him over you, hand gripping his length, has you drooling. 

clark pats your ass, pinching your hip. you meet his eyes, and he raises a brow. 

“ready,” you say, a little surprised at how weak your voice sounds. it’s a lot different when it’s someone else doing it. you return your wrists to his hand, your shoulder muscles complaining. taking them back into his palm, he nods to you again. you nod back. ready. 

“thank god,” clark rasps, biting his bottom lip as he lines himself up with your entrance. his tip breaks through, stretching you far more than his fingers ever were

you try to breathe, your chest shuddering as he pushes in.

it becomes a little too much:

you gasp, and clark’s eyes fly to yours. your face is pinched in pain, your lips pressed tightly shut. 

he doesn’t pull out. 

“you’re a virgin.” 

said, not asked. 

you nod, grimacing. that gonna change things?

“didn’t feel like sharin’ that w’me before we started?” clark asks, accent thicker. tone dangerous, sharp like the edge of a knife. like the fangs of a rattlesnake. 

you shrug your shoulders the best you can with your wrists still in his palm. 

“guess not,” you start. “does it sweeten the deal?” 

clark scoffs, looking disgusted. looking away. 

he doesn’t respond. 

“tell me if you need to stop.” 

it’s unbearable, it’s all you ever want for the rest of your life. he bottoms out, and the stretch has your most delicate muscles stinging with exertion. 

you could die happy. 

clark kent just took your virginity. 

he moves his hips, resetting, actions careful. eyes on your reaction. 

you don’t say a word, and clark takes that as a green light, yanking at your wrists to arch your back. it has you lifting off of the bed, moving against his cock, moans falling from your mouth involuntarily. 

“there you go, sugar,” he growls, the look on his face enough to make you come again right then and there. 

clark snaps his hips up into yours, pace relentless from the beginning. he snakes his hand around to your front, pinching your nipple. you whine, and he cups your tit, his rough palm kneading the smooth skin. 

every one of your nerve endings feels like it’s on fire, your sensitivity heightened in ways you’ve never felt before. 

“please, clark,” you cry out. 

he grunts behind you, the sound scraping through your ears and dropping straight to your belly. you moan in response, and he moves, bracing himself against you as his hips piston into yours.

“oh, please, just like that,” you whine, his hips snapping into yours. the sight of your ass rippling under him has his teeth clenching. 

“keep talkin’ like that,” he grits out, “and this is gonna be over real soon.” 

he pumps into you, the friction sending pleasure bursting through your body. you would’ve started fucking a lot sooner if you knew it was this good. 

maybe it’s just clark. 

smiling to yourself, you deepen your arch, pulling at his grip. 

“whatever you say, mr. kent.” 

clark lets loose a noise of surprise, and then you can feel his load emptying into you. deep satisfaction settles into your bones, and you use the leverage of his hold on you to pound back into him. 

he groans, almost whimpering, as you milk every last drop. 

clark flops down beside you on the bed, breathing labored. 

“you’re gonna be the death of me.” he mutters, slinging an arm over his eyes. 

“promise?” you reply, a cheshire cat smile pulling at your lips. 

༄ inspired by father figure by george michael, but got pretty have love will travel by the black keys soon after.. you guys get it.

༄ thanks for reading, and a big thanks to bee for formulating with me about our big man.. there might be future installments of this just to please her.. who knows.

divider: @enchanthings

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

amortentia

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: He smells like trouble — and you’re violently allergic.

A/N: Just a cute lil drabble for us girlies with rhinitis lmfao

credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider!

Your friends and family could definitely attest to the fact that you weren’t a morning person. They knew just how much effort it took for you to drag yourself out of your comfortable bed and get ready for a day of classes.

In fact, you loved sleep so much that you often skipped breakfast just to stay in bed a little longer. But on days like today, even that luxury had to be sacrificed. You had a double Potions lesson on these unfortunate mornings, and you knew that if Snape heard your stomach growl in the middle of class, he’d turn his greasy gaze on you in an instant. You didn’t need that kind of humiliation before 8 a.m.

So, just for those insipid Thursdays that cursed you with a front-row seat to Snape’s scowl, you forced yourself to have a full breakfast.

You were halfway through your meal when someone slid in beside you, your thigh pressing up against theirs due to the crowded table—but you paid it no mind. You were still drowsily chewing your croissant and washing it down with sips of coffee, half-awake and wholly uninterested in morning socialization.

But as it turned out, you didn’t even need to look up to recognize who had sat beside you. His scent drifted over immediately, invading all your senses.

Smoke. Menthol. Grass.

The offensive combination was a direct attack on your sinuses—an allergy trigger—and you sniffled, trying your hardest to suppress the inevitable.

"Achoo—!"

You barely managed to grab a tissue in time before a sneezing fit hit you, harsh and rapid, making your head pound and clogging your ears. It was like a full-body betrayal.

Finally, you lifted your head, eyes watery, and glared at Mattheo, who was watching your misery with far too much amusement.

“It’s six o’clock in the bloody morning. Why do you already smell like an ashtray?”

He chuckled, low and raspy—his signature brand of self-destruction. The sound made your stomach flip unpleasantly, “How else am I meant to survive double Potions this early?”

“Salazar, I’m about to sneeze up my lungs. You need to get away from me.” You groaned, digging through your bag with one hand while clutching a tissue to your nose with the other. You finally found your allergy potion, added a few drops to your water, and knocked it back like a shot. The relief was still a few minutes away, but your sinuses were already starting to throb.

“Aw, don’t be like that, darling.” Mattheo teased, leaning in closer with that infuriating smirk.

You had no idea how it was physically possible to trigger another sneezing fit when you couldn’t smell a damn thing—but somehow, he managed.

He winced this time, genuinely, and passed you another tissue as your nose turned an alarming shade of red and your chest began to burn from the exertion.

"You think this is funny?" You rasped, your voice nasally and sharp as you blew your nose yet again. Your eyes were watery and puffy now, and your headache was blooming behind them like an angry sun.

He shrugged and leaned in just a little closer, the glint of mischief in his eyes glimmering brighter when you instinctively leaned away to escape his scent, “You’re cute when you’re dying.”

You gave him a deadpan stare, unimpressed, “You think this is flirting?”

“Is it not working?”

You sneezed again in response, grabbing another tissue as your shoulders sagged from the force of it, “I hate you.”

Mattheo chuckled, clearly not offended in the slightest, “I’m growing on you.”

“Like mold.” you muttered, blowing your nose again.

The dungeons were even colder than usual.

You sat stiffly at your table, arms folded and a tissue still clutched in your sleeve just in case, glaring daggers at Mattheo, who had somehow managed to plant himself at the same workstation as you—again. He was leaning back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction, while you were trying to remember if it was possible to drown someone in a cauldron without magic.

Snape stood at the front, his voice as dry and lifeless as ever, “Today we will be brewing Amortentia—the most powerful love potion in existence. I’m aware that most of you have heard of it.” His eyes swept the class lazily, lingering on a few particularly chatty Hufflepuffs until they fell silent, “I do not need to warn you not to drink it. If you are foolish enough to do so, I suggest you be prepared to serve detention for the rest of the year.”

That certainly wiped the grins off a few faces.

Snape gestured toward a swirling silver potion that sat in the center of the classroom, steam curling up from its surface like silk threads, “Amortentia has a distinctive smell for each individual. It reflects what attracts you—your deepest desires.”

You already knew what was coming next.

Snape gave an exhausted sigh, “Yes, I will allow you to approach and smell it. No, I will not tolerate dramatics or extended monologues. State three scents. Then return to your seat.”

Of course, the class erupted into excited whispers, and students immediately began lining up like it was a trip to Honeydukes, a buzz of excitement threading through the usual tension. You ended up somewhere near the back of the line, still sniffling lightly but feeling mostly human again.

Mattheo turned toward you with a grin, “Wanna guess what I’ll smell?”

"I couldn't care less." You muttered, rubbing your nose.

One by one, your classmates stepped up and murmured their answers:

“Fresh parchment�� ink… cedarwood.”

“Rain on concrete… treacle tart… and, um, lavender?”

When it was Mattheo’s turn, he moved to the front casually, hands in his pockets, and leaned over the potion with a laziness that was either theatrical or just him being annoying. Probably both. You saw his expression shift slightly—his mouth twitching, a flicker of surprise in his eyes—and then he smirked, catching your eye.

“Cinnamon,” He murmured, almost lazily, “Smoke… and something sweet. Like a cherry lip balm.”

You blinked. Your lip balm was cherry. But before you could even begin to convince yourself there was absolutely no way he was talking about you, it was your turn.

You stepped forward cautiously and leaned over the cauldron, letting the shimmering steam curl toward your face.

The scent hit you all at once.

Warm coffee in the morning. The crackling scent of firewood. The sharp sting of winter air. And— that godawful combination of cigarette smoke, grass, warm leather, and that absolutely striking menthol that jabbed you right in the back of your head.

Your entire body rejected the information at once.

"Achoo—!!"

It was so loud it echoed. Your eyes flew open, already brimming with tears as another round of sneezing overtook you—loud, rapid, unstoppable.

You barely managed to reach for your tissue as your chest tightened painfully, the sneezing fit threatening to overwhelm you.

Snape’s expression didn’t soften, but his voice dropped just enough to be heard only by you, “You are excused. Go to the bathroom and handle this... nuisance.”

You nodded gratefully, gathering your things in a flurry and stumbling out of the dungeon. At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had to stop by the hospital wing or take a stronger dose of your allergy potion.

Mattheo bloody Riddle.

Well, this was just great.

Later that afternoon, you found a quiet spot just outside the castle, where the sun filtered softly through the leaves and the cool breeze carried scents that—thankfully—didn’t assault your sinuses. You sank down onto the warm stone steps, closing your eyes and taking deep, deliberate breaths, willing your throat and chest to stop burning.

You barely had a moment to relax before you heard a familiar voice—smooth, teasing, and annoyingly persistent.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my biggest admirer.”

You opened your eyes to find Mattheo leaning casually against the wall nearby, arms crossed, a smug grin playing on his lips. His dark eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Don’t let it get to your head, Riddle. I’m literally allergic to you. Now, if you could kindly leave, I just managed to get over the allergic reaction. I don’t need you triggering another one.”

But, of course, he didn’t listen as usual. Instead, he sat down beside you again. But instead of being suffocated by his usual scent, you were welcomed by the smell of fabric softener and soap. You sighed in relief, glad you weren’t about to send yourself into your third allergic fit of the day.

“I showered and put on clean clothes,” He explained, nudging your shoulder with his, “Didn’t want the girl I fancy to have a near-death experience every time I’m around her.”

You breathed in deeply and exhaled, “So, I suppose the cherry lip balm you smelled was mine.”

He nodded. “And your shampoo. And,” he laughed at this, “your allergy potion.”

Your eyes snapped open, “So you’re saying the scent you associate me with is the bloody allergy potion?”

Mattheo smirked, clearly enjoying your shocked expression, “Well, it’s... memorable. Besides, it reminds me that I’m capable of stealing your breath away.”

You raised an eyebrow, “That’s supposed to be romantic?”

Mattheo’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Maybe not traditionally romantic, but definitely effective.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile, “You’re impossible.”

Mattheo’s smirk softened into something almost sincere as he shifted closer, eyes locked on yours, “So… how about this? Let me take you out sometime. A proper date.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. Your heart did a little skip.

“Okay,” you said easily, without hesitation.

Mattheo blinked, caught off guard. “Okay? Just like that? No lecture? No conditions?”

You grinned. “Nope. I’m just going to wear the strongest, most suffocating perfume I own and cuddle up to you all day. Then you’ll know what I’ve been living through every time you light a cigarette.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “If you’re cuddled up to me, I think I’d die happy—no matter how sneezy and snotty I get.”

You couldn’t help but smile, cheeks warming as you looked at him. “Guess we’ll test that theory soon.”

Mattheo reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face with an unexpected tenderness, “Looking forward to it.”

The sun dipped a little lower, casting a golden glow over the two of you—and suddenly, the world felt a lot brighter.

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Harry Potter Taglist:

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Slytherin Boys Taglist:

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[pillbaby]

camboy!sukuna is a terrible roommate. you should've known better, especially after that first visit to his apartment. it was a disaster. even though he knew you were coming, he hadn't bothered to tidy up. the place was littered with empty pizza boxes, half-empty energy drink cans, and an absurd number of socks.

camboy!sukuna's rent, though, was undeniably cheaper than anything else you could find. it was a choice between this messy, chaotic apartment and having nowhere to sleep at all. you really didn't have much of a choice.

camboy!sukuna who constantly has women over. he doesn't even try to be discreet about it. the walls are paper-thin, and trying to sleep through the loud moans and the rhythmic banging of his headboard against the drywall is nearly impossible.

camboy!sukuna, when he doesn't have company at night, seems perfectly content to go solo. you can hear his groans and the muffled words that sometimes escape his lips. you can never quite make out what he's saying, but the low, vulnerable sound of his voice is enough to stir something in you.

camboy!sukuna who, you hate to admit, has you slipping your fingers past the hem of your pajama pants. it's a little mortifying, getting off to the sounds of your roommate pleasuring himself. but you can't help it. he's incredibly attractive—over six feet tall and built. if he's that big, what about his dick?

camboy!sukuna and those dirty thoughts won't leave your mind. you press a hand over your mouth; you'd be damned if you let him hear you. you close your eyes, pretending it's his cock you're clenching around, coming in sync with him, your sticky release spilling onto your sheets. you know he's climaxing, too, because you've noticed he gets significantly louder when he orgasms.

camboy!sukuna's door is open one day. he's not in his room, but in the shower down the hall. you had just needed to talk to him about something. you'd never actually been inside his room, only caught glimpses when he slipped in. he's not much of a conversationalist, for some reason, but he has no problem walking around the apartment half-naked.

camboy!sukuna who's bedroom you walk into, your curiosity getting the better of you. there's not much to it: a messy bedspread, some rock band posters on the wall, and a pile of clothes on the floor. not as bad as you expected, honestly. you're about to leave when you notice his laptop is open, and you squint at the screen.

camboy!sukuna who's screen reads livestream ended. you had no idea he was a streamer, and you certainly didn't know he was a porn streamer until you read the url of the site. shocked doesn't even begin to cover what you're feeling. your roommate's live stream was a camshow? he's a camboy? that same overwhelming curiosity takes hold of you, and you click on his stats.

camboy!sukuna who had almost 500,000 viewers tuned in to his latest stream. your eyes widen, your jaw dropping. stunned, you stumble backward, hitting the wall. (except it's not the wall. it's your six-foot-something, built roommate.)

camboy!sukuna watches you with amusement as you babble about needing more time on the rent, tripping over your words, your face burning. you're just trying to explain you're a little short on cash this month.

camboy!sukuna just grins, telling you he knows a good way for you to make a quick buck. his gaze drifts to the laptop, and yours follows. and because you're just a good roommate who doesn't want to delay her rent payment, you slowly nod.

camboy!sukuna who's right. this is a good way to make a quick buck. his viewers are enthralled, spamming him with donations, all wondering who this pretty girl he's fucking so passionately is. his head is buried in the crook of your neck, and your legs are wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him even closer.

camboy!sukuna who fucks you so well the stream could never truly capture it. his strokes are deep and fast, almost desperate, as he chases his orgasm. his teeth sink into your shoulder, and he murmurs about how well you take him, how good you look on camera, how he can't believe he's never brought you on before.

camboy!sukuna has you cumming over and over again until you're dizzy and can't take any more. even then, he doesn't stop. he just keeps fucking his seed deeper into you. you're an overstimulated mess of tears and wet release, and he just might be in love.

camboy!sukuna who's looking at you with heart-eyes at the end, brushing hair out of your face, making sure you're okay. his fans realize he's completely smitten before he even does.

[lemonanddeepspace]

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Summary: Toji refuses to wear glasses.

Warnings: MDNI! Suggestive content

Toji will refuse to acknowledge it, but it’s that time. It’s clear to anyone but him. He squints at every corner, you can’t even hand him a menu to read. He puts damn near a mile distance between him and whatever he needs to read. 

He needs it. It’s vehemently clear. He needs reading glasses.

“Toji, baby, I have a gift for you.” You hide the box behind your back, trying to play it off. He might need the reading glasses, but he’ll refuse the gift each and every time. Toji doesn’t like to admit that he’s getting older, even if that comes with the consequence of not seeing.

“Hmmm…? Gift?” You’ve piqued his interest. He furrows his brows, trying to decipher what you’re hiding behind your back. What could you possibly be holding in your hands?

“Promise me you won’t get mad.” You begin, holding out one hand, sticking out your pinky. Now he doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“What are you up to?” He asks, hesitantly sticking out his pinky. He enlaces it with yours before you show him the box. Immediately, he hates it because he knows. He snatches the box from your hands and tosses it. “I don’t need them.”

“Toji!” You yell, grabbing the box again. You open it, grabbing the glasses and attempting to put them on his face– A meek attempt when you’re up against Toji.

“No! No! I don’t need them!” He yells, trying to fight you off as you try to put them on him.

“Yes you do! I’m sick of this!” You yell back, and by a miracle, you succeed. You get the glasses on Toji, and you try to restrain his hands. He won’t take them off.

“I’m sick of you, woman! I don’t need these damn glasses!” He tries to argue, but you quickly look for something that will prove him wrong. Your eyes finally land on a magazine that lays around, and you try your best to grab it before he can take off the glasses.

“Read this!” You shove it in his face, and he shuts his eyes.

“No.” He refuses.

“Please.” You drag it out, trying to sound as sweet as possible. “New glasses means you can take a better look at the twins.”

“What twins– Oh.” The mood shifts, and Toji bites his tongue. He lets out a sigh before letting out a nod. “Fine.”

Except he tosses the magazine to the side. He doesn’t need a magazine to test them out. He lifts up your shirt to prove your point, and he cocks an eyebrow. He doesn’t like to prove anyone right, but perhaps this time you had a point.

“What do you think?” You ask, a hint of amusement in your voice.

“I’m never taking them off.” 

[miange1]

I WANNA TALK TO YOU✷

owners dish. . . : ceo x male reader

side dishes. . . : jealous boss, toy uses, unprofessional themes, overstimulation, sir kink, punishments, semi public sex, vouyer(?) kink, slight spanking(on the thigh), bondage, barely any plot, one sided angry sex, complicated relationships

owners note. . . : i never proofread. miangel hate needs to stop🫩. more sugar daddy fics soon

ceo, who has a very interesting relationship with you. he was very adamant about keeping everything perfect and professional, even the hairs on your chin. he was sure to be an annoyance, especially since half of it was certainly directed to you no matter what you did. he would tell you to fix your tie, your hair, your shoes, slacks, face? everything.

ceo, knew he had you frustrated but it was his habit of straightening you up and pointing out everything because he couldn't say a normal conversation. unless normal conversations were bending you over his desk, spreading your legs wide in front of the buildings large windows, or having you suck his dick in the archive room. sure, all he could truly do was annoy you.

ceo, who had made the first mistake of his entire career. he never made mistakes until this, not ever. but hiring that man— that boy who was a disgrace to breathing the air you did? he would never make a mistake like that again. the constant side touches, the leers he'd give you each time you walked past him and his eyes would gaze down. constantly finding excuses to stay close to you. how could you not notice?

ceo, who truly had no issue if you didn't notice. he would simply make you notice and the problem would be solved. his fingers quickly typed along the keyboard, papers swishing, his shoes tapping against the marble tiled floor. the lovely sound of the nights birds tweeting, the printer shuffling, and the low hum of vibrators.

ceo, had you perched up on his desk like some cheap whore. your legs were tied with rope, forced to bend and have you sit on your heels. your arms were tied behind you, two toys connected to your body. he had taped the vibrator to your leaking cock, watching it move from aching so. the other was shoved up your hole, bigger than you usually handled. you hadn't known what you did, he never punished you without a reason, you didn't understand!

ceo, who slapped your thigh a different shade when you answered wrong. oh, he wanted you to guess what you did because he believed you did it on purpose. "p–please sir, im sorry.." his hand rested on your thigh, not even turning his head towards you. "for?" you shook your head, sniffling. "for upsetting you.." "and how did you upset me?" you squirmed, a whine cracking out of your throat. "i don't know!" a harsh thwak to your thigh had shut you up. it was a message. wrong answer, try again.

ceo, let you go after you had cum god knows how many times. two..three? five? you were crying, eyes too blurry to even see much at all. "sir please.." you had to beg, beg him for him to even consider listening. "im sorry, i didn't mean to." didn't mean to what? fuck, you still didn't know. he let the toys turn off, roughly untying those forsaken ropes that dug into your soft skin. "be here early tomorrow. no excuses.

ceo, who made sure you never saw that guy again.

[harrysfolklore]

i am having severe future wife withdrawals ,, please spare crumbs 🤲🤲😔

a little something to end the day! here lando and our russell girl are around 20 👀

"I am not jealous," you mutter, aggressively organizing papers that don't need organizing.

"Really?" George says smirking. "Because you've been glaring at Lando's new girlfriend for the past hour."

"I have not," you protest. "I've been working."

"Right," he drawls. "That's why you've sorted that same stack of papers three times."

You flush, setting the papers down. "I just... don't think she's right for him."

"And why's that?"

"She laughed at his papaya orange jacket," you say defensively. "Everyone knows he loves that jacket."

George raises an eyebrow. "You hate that jacket. You told him it looks like a traffic cone threw up on him."

"Yes, but I'm allowed to say that. I'm his..." you trail off.

"His what?" George prompts, looking far too amused.

"His friend," you finish lamely. "And friends can make fun of each other's terrible fashion choices."

"Uh-huh," George grins. "And this has nothing to do with the fact that she's sitting next to him right now? Where you usually sit?"

"No," you say too quickly. "Why would that bother me?"

"I don't know, sister dear. Why would it?"

You're saved from answering by Lando's laughter drifting over from where he's sitting. You try not to look, but your eyes betray you.

He's showing her something on his phone, his new girlfriend pressed close to his side where you usually sit. She's pretty, you note bitterly. All blonde hair and perfect makeup and designer clothes.

"You're staring again," George sing-songs.

"I am not," you snap. "I'm just... concerned. As a friend. She seems very... clingy."

"Unlike you, who only sits in his lap during hang outs?"

"That was one time!" you protest. "And there weren't enough chairs."

"There were three empty chairs."

"Well... they were uncomfortable chairs."

George laughs. "You're ridiculous. Just admit you're jealous."

"I'm not—" you start, but cut off as the girlfriend's high-pitched giggle carries across the garage. "Did you hear that? Who laughs like that? It's so fake."

"Not like your laugh," George says innocently. "You know, the one Lando always says is his favorite sound?"

You flush deeper. "He doesn't say that."

"He literally said it yesterday. Right before he went on about how your eyes sparkle when you're happy and how cute you look when you're concentrating and—"

"Shut up," you hiss. "Someone might hear you."

"Would that be so bad?" George asks more seriously. "Maybe if someone heard, they'd finally tell you both to get your heads out of your—"

"George!"

"I'm just saying," he holds up his hands. "You've been in love with each other since you were teenagers. Everyone knows it except you two."

"That's not... he doesn't..." you sputter. "He has a girlfriend!"

"A girlfriend he's known for two weeks," George points out. "As opposed to you, who he's been half in love with since he was sixteen."

"He has not."

"YN," George says patiently. "He tells everyone you're his future wife."

"As a joke!"

"Is it though?" George raises an eyebrow. "Because he sure doesn't look very happy right now."

You glance over again to see Lando looking distinctly uncomfortable as his girlfriend tries to feed him something from the paddock café.

"He hates being fed," you say without thinking. "He says it makes him feel like a baby."

"And you know that because...?"

"Because I'm his friend!"

"Right," George smirks. "Just his friend. Who knows all his likes and dislikes and sits in his lap and makes him laugh more than anyone else and—"

"Don't you have something to do?" you cut in. "Like, I don't know, your actual job?"

"This is more fun," he grins. "Watching my baby sister pine over her future husband."

"He's not my future husband!"

"Yet," George winks. "Give it time. And maybe stop glaring at his temporary girlfriend before someone notices."

"I'm not glaring," you mutter, but you force yourself to look away. "And she might not be temporary."

"Please," George scoffs. "She laughed at his papaya orange jacket. Everyone knows that's a deal-breaker for Lando."

Despite yourself, you smile slightly. "He does love that hideous jacket."

"Almost as much as he loves you," George says casually, dodging your swat. "What? It's true. Just wait - I give it two weeks before he realizes no other girl compares to you."

"You're delusional."

"We'll see," he sings. "But when I'm right, I expect to be best man at the wedding."

"There's not going to be a wedding!"

"Yet!" he calls over his shoulder. "Yet!"

You shake your head, trying to focus on something else. But your eyes keep drifting to Lando, his girlfriend is now taking selfies with his helmet.

"He hates people touching his helmet," you mutter to yourself. "It messes with his pre-race routine."

"What was that?" George's voice echoes.

"Nothing!"

"Sounded like jealousy to me!"

"I'm not jealous!"

But even as you say it, you know it's a lie. Because the truth is, you are jealous. You're jealous of the way she can touch him freely, of how she gets to call him her boyfriend, of how she's sitting in your spot next to him.

Not that it's really your spot. Because you're just his friend.

Right?

Two weeks later, when Lando breaks up with the girlfriend and immediately comes to curl up in your lap complaining about how she never understood him like you do, you steadfastly ignore George's knowing smirk.

[landossnorriss]

Pairing: lando x she. Summary: a small series of lando loving his girl through her life when her endometriosis is being a pain. Word Count: 1.4k Warning: health mentions , then just fluff. AN: this was requested and i tried to do it justice with as much research and realism as i could! i hope you enjoy it.

it was two in the morning when lando felt her shifting beside him again . she lay curled in on herself , a small knot under the duvet , her breathing shallow and shaky . he knew that sound by now , the way she tried not to wake him . he hated it more than any DNF he’d ever had .

“hey,” he murmured , his voice thick with sleep as he rolled closer . he slid a warm hand over her hip , careful and protective . “ you hurting again ? ” she didn’t answer right away , just nodded , eyes squeezed shut . her pyjama top was damp near the collarbone . silent tearss. he hated that too . he pressed a kiss to her temple . “ alright , love . let’s get you more comfortable , yeah? ”

he had a routine now , the little things he could do when he couldn’t take the pain away .

he slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom for her heat pack . he rubbed his eyes while it hummed in the microwave . back in the bedroom , he helped her shift , draping it over her lower belly with gentle hands . she let out a tiny hiss at the heat, but he knew it helped .

sometimes she tried to apologise , “i’m sorry, you’ve got to be up early, i’m sorry , ” , but he cut her off every time . he cupped her cheek and wiped away a tear with his thumb . “ don’t be sorry ,” he told her, like it was the simplest truth in the world . “ it’s my job to look after you. "

when it was really bad , when her whole body seemed to lock up with the pain , he sat behind her . he let her curl into him like a comma, her back pressed to his chest . his hand slid under her top , resting over the warm pack. his palm was steady and warm , and she always said it helped , just that tiny weight , his thumb tracing lazy circles near her belly button.

he murmured soft nonsense into her hair , stories about next week’s race , what they’d do when she felt better , how he’d make her pancakes in the morning if she wanted them . he would have read the dictionary to her if it would keep her breathing through the pain . not that he was sure he knew how to read that many words . still , he would try .

lando couldn’t fix it , couldn’t pit stop her pain away , couldn’t trade places with her , but he would always be there in the dark , heat pack ready , hands steady , heart breaking and mending for her every time .

there were times when she hated needing his help . when the fact she was this young and needed him for more things than she should got him down . the bathroom was steamy and warm , but the heat did little to dull the sharp ache curling through her lower abdomen . she sat in the tub , fingers gripping the slick edge , trying to will the cramps away .

when she tried to stand though ? the pain hit like a punch — sudden, fierce, and unrelenting . her legs trembled , and she faltered , heart sinking with the helplessness she hated so much .

a soft knock at the door startled her .

“ love? you okay in there?” lando’s voice was gentle, filled with quiet concern , the way it always was when he knew she wasn't asking for the things that she needed from him . she swallowed hard , cheeks flushing with a mix of shame and frustration . “ i.. i don’t think i can get out.”

the door creaked open , and he stepped in , careful not to slip on the wet tiles . without hesitation , he eased down beside the tub , offering his strong hands . “let me help you,” he offered. of course , she hesitated for a moment , embarrassed to need him like this , but her trembling hands found his . there wouldn't be a way to do this without him so instead , with his steady support she used his hands to help lift herself out of the tub .

her legs wobbled , but lando held her firm , guiding her carefully out of the bath and onto a warm towel on the floor . she pressed her face into his chest, a whispered apology catching in her throat.

he shook his head, brushing damp hair from her forehead . “ no apologies . you’re not alone in this . ”

" but it's so embarrassing lando . " her huff came as she looked up at him , there was nothing sexy about this , nothing appealing for him , she had seen the girls that went after him . she was pretty sure none of them had to fight their bodies every day but lando wouldn't hear any of it if even if she tried to tell him so she clung to him instead .

he wouldn't ever let anyone else say anything about it either.

they were at a friend’s birthday, just a small gathering, people they trusted , lando had still told her not to come when he had realised she had been masking her pain all morning but she had insisted . now she was curled up on a garden chair , a blanket pulled over her legs , laughing at something carlos was saying when one of the newer team guys , young , eager , clueless , leaned over and said , " she’s always tired , huh ? must be nice , using you as an excuse to skip stuff. ”

lando’s eyes flicked up , sharp . he didn’t raise his voice — he didn’t need to. several other drivers moved their heads towards lando waiting for his response , braced for impact. but lando ? he just tilted his head, one arm dropping protectively along the back of her chair. “ it’s not an excuse ,” he said , his tone calm but leaving no room for argument . “ she’s in pain . a lot of the time , actually. ”

the kid went pink, stumbling over a half-apology , lando didn't care . she reached for lando’s hand under the blanket , squeezed it once . the driver squeezed back . when the kid slunk off to the bar , she exhaled , cheeks warm. “ you didn’t have to do that. ”

“ yeah, i did, ” lando said. he kissed the side of her head , low enough that only she could hear . “ i’ll always do that.”

she hated it most when it interupped his world . when the focus was pulled from where he really needed it to be . the roar of engines and the buzz of the paddock felt distant to her , like a world she was only half part of . race weekends were supposed to be thrilling . sometimes they were , sometimes she stood at jons side and hoped the older male could keep her propped up whilst her man did his thing .

the pain flared unpredictably , sharp and exhausting , stealing energy she needed to just stand , to smile , to be present . she was great at masking now , she had to , to nod when others spoke , to catch lando’s eye when she absolutely needed a moment .

he never missed those looks . always there , steady as the lap times ticking down on the screen , his hand finding hers in the crowded garage, a quiet anchor amid chaos.

one evening , after a particularly rough day , they sat together in their hotel room . she traced the curve of his scar across the bridge of his nose with tired fingers, voice low . “ i hate how this steals moments from us ” she admitted.

lando shook his head , pulling her close . “ you don’t have to carry it alone . we’re a team . on and off the track .” she let herself lean into him , relief softening the edges of her pain . no matter how hard the race , no matter how relentless the ache , this was their victory , holding each other through it all .

landonorris just posted:

liked by, maxverstappen1, lilymhe, herusername, quadrant and 342,134 other people.

not all battles are on the track . my girl is a true warrior .

@hotforleclerc: a warrior AND putting up with you? give that woman a trophy 😂❤️ @sophie_gasly: true love is dragging each other through the pits and paddock. Queen behaviour! 👑 @carlos55: Mate, she deserves a medal AND a lifetime supply of snacks for dealing with you. @maxverstappen1: True warrior — she’s even braver for choosing you. Respect! 😂 @pitlane_paul: strongest girl in the paddock and lando’s personal champion. we love to see it! @crazyf1fan69: If she’s a warrior, you’re her emotional support driver 😂 @trackside_tina: she deserves a championship ring for surviving the cramps AND you, king! @unhingedf1fan77: when’s the parade? we need a ‘queen of endo warriors’ float immediately. @george63: I think we’re all agreeing she’s out of your league, bro. Well done 👏😂 @f1wagclub: you two = ultimate paddock power couple. she’s iconic. @speedy_sam: protect this woman at all costs. and give her all the snacks.

[mooningningg]

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (3)

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

parts. chapter 02, chapter 04

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.90k (???)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megumi. Fucking Megumi Fushiguro.

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

You hated that.

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

It terrified you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miwa.

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

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

You’re just being ridiculous, you told yourself.

But your thoughts didn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

Why does it matter?

But you couldn’t help but wonder:

Why don’t I matter like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, as if on cue,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, but—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megumi.

How would he react to this?

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

So why did it matter so much?

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

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

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

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

And maybe, just maybe, Megumi would notice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. "Who?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, there he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded once. “Try harder next time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But how could you do that now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it was time you admitted that.

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

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

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

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

What the hell is this place?

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

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

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

But then why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

The gym was empty.

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

What was Megumi doing here?

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

You didn’t expect to see him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t Megumi.

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

It was scrutiny.

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

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

Your brows pulled in. “What?”

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

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

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

You blinked. “How do you—?”

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

And so you did, no answers. No explanations.

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

The sound came before the sight.

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

And you—holy shit.

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

Not him. Shirtless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gave him a side-eye.

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

Your gaze snapped back to the ring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was relentless.

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

He was smarter.

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

Then he snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stayed silent.

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

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, and?”

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

Your jaw dropped.

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

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

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

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

Yoshinobu tilted his head. “No?”

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

But your eyes said otherwise.

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

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

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

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

You said nothing.

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

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

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

Focused. Controlled.

It hit you all at once.

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

You hated this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinched slightly. “I’m not—”

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, you hated him for that.

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

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

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

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

You opened your mouth to speak— He turned around.

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

Not a question. A warning.

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

You swallowed.

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

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

“Leave.”

He didn’t even glance at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he turned, and walked.

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

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

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

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

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

That made him freeze.

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

You nodded. “I need to talk to you.”

“And I need you to get the fuck out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The locker room was too quiet now.

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

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

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

You didn’t know what else to say.

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

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

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

That caught his attention.

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

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

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

You looked up finally. “Please.”

Silence.

Then—

He moved.

Fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hips moved on instinct. The friction was dizzying.

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

No more rules. No more distance.

Just heat. And tongue. And teeth.

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

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

Your hand dropped to his shorts.

His breath hitched.

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

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

Slow. Tight. Jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fuck. Yeah.”

You sank to your knees.

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

So right.

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

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

“Fuck me…” he breathed.

You glanced up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moaned around him instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was shaking now, barely holding back.

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

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

“Fuck—fuck!”

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

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

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

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

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

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

A few minutes later, the door creaked open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You seriously brought all this to a gym?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toji. Your blood went ice cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thought I heard voices,” he muttered.

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

You looked up. He was already looking at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He groaned. “Don’t start—”

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I meant it,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

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

The words hung between you. Still. Gentle.

Your chest tightened.

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

You stayed quiet.

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

Your breath hitched.

To you.

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

You blinked fast.

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

He frowned. “That’s not the point—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the words were still in your throat.

“…I’m sorry too,” you said quietly.

Megumi looked up.

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

He was quiet.

Then, “It’s okay.”

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

A pause. You looked at him again.

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

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

You blinked. “Really?”

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

That made you smile—just a little.

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

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

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

Megumi groaned. “Here we go—”

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

“Please stop talking,” he muttered.

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

He frowned. “I don’t—what?”

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

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

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

You blinked.

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

Your teasing faded.

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

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

“…That’s really sweet,” you murmured.

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

“It is,” you said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Deal.”

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

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

Just Megumi.

Back in his clean-cut, honor roll disguise.

You walked up slow.

Like prey turning into predator.

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

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

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

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

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

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

Megumi looked you up and down—slow, unimpressed.

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

You snorted.

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

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

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

You hesitated.

Just a beat.

Then: “My house.”

His head tilted. Just slightly. “What?”

“You heard me.”

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

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

There was a long pause, then Megumi nodded once.

“Alright.”

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

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

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

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

Megumi Fushiguro? The nerd in the glasses? Him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turned slowly.

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

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

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

You just stared.

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

Silence. Dead, heavy silence.

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

Aiko’s smile faltered. “Say what?”

“Call him that again.”

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

That was it.

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

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

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

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

She practically bolted.

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

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

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

You shrugged. “I was being nice.”

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

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

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

What the fuck about it, bitches?

The car ride over had been quiet.

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

Not… whatever it had started to feel like lately.

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

“This is where you live?”

“Disappointed?”

He shook his head. “Just… surprised.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megumi immediately straightened. “Good afternoon, sir.”

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

You groaned. “Daddy, don’t start.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wound me, princess!”

“Go work or something!”

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

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

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

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

You shot him a glare.

He shrugged. “In a terrifying way.”

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

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

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

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

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

“…So mitochondria is not the nucleus.”

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

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

“They are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Which was?”

You hesitated. “They… do shit.”

He stared.

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

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

“Fuck you.”

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

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

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

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

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

Just at you.

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

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

Silence.

“Megumi?” You looked up.

He was staring.

“What?”

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

Then, finally—

“I want to do something to you.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

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

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

Your lips parted. “What—like—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t.

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

God.

You weren’t expecting the kiss.

Not one like that.

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

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

He pulled back. “Okay?”

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

He did.

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

“You’re warm,” he murmured.

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

But your voice broke halfway through.

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

“Can I?”

You lifted your arms without speaking.

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

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

Your panties stayed on.

He stared at the damp patch darkening the center.

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

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

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

You shivered.

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

But this?

This felt different.

“Are you nervous?” you whispered.

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

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

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

Your throat went dry.

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

He stared.

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

He looked hungry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he didn’t. Not once.

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

And then you did. Hard.

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

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

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

“…Did I do it right?”

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

He blinked. “You came.”

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

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

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

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

Thud. Thud. Thud.

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

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

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

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

You threw a marker at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s because Gojo’s an idiot.”

You snorted. “Takes one to know one.”

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

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

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

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

You stood up immediately. “Bitch.”

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

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

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

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

“Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

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

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

He just smirked. “You first.”

And fuck, you were in trouble. Real trouble.

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

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

“Eat shit, Fushiguro.”

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

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

“Barely.”

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

“You’re five-two,” he said flatly.

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

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

“Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Dodging! That’s fucking cheating!”

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

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

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

You gasped. “Megumi!”

He blinked, deadpan. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You perverted little freak—!”

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

“I WILL BITE YOU.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then— Silence.

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

“You gonna tell me what that was?”

You turned your head.

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

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

But he didn’t move. Didn’t smirk.

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

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

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

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

“You like him.”

You scoffed. “He’s just my tutor.”

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

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

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

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

“Go easy on him..”

You blinked. “What?”

Yoshinobu turned, half-glancing back at you.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t know how long you stood there.

But the echo of his words didn’t leave.

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

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

parts, chapter 04

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

[meowabunga]

Super! - 1

Superman!Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: Late nights and looming deadlines are part of the job when you’re a journalist at the Daily Planet. But getting mugged on your way home wasn’t in the assignment list. When Metropolis’s favorite hero swoops in and saves you, what starts as a scraped knees and shared soup slowly becomes something deeper when you find yourself caught up with two versions of the same man.

authors note: I just saw the superman movie and were so back

You always told yourself you’d stop working late.

But here you were, 12:37AM, bag clutched tightly against your side, heels clicking against the pavement. The Daily Planets towering glow fading behind you as you turned down the familiar side street shortcut.

The street grow darker the more turns you took. The usually bustling streets now quiet as the pale moons cast conveniently stopped at the narrow sidewalks between buildings.

It happened fast. A sharp voice behind you, “Purse, Now.” And cold metal pressed against your back.

You turned, breath catching in your throat. A tall man in a black hoodie and jeans. Mask covering the bottom half of his face.

You didnt think. You just ran.

Heels clicked against the ground before catching on a crack in the pavement. Shit!

The concrete dug into your knees. Skin peeled off and blood quickly soaking the open wounds. The mugger caught you quickly, steel toed boot meeting your side forcefully. “The purse, NOW!”

You blinked back tears, and heard a whoosh. As you opened your eyes he was gone. A loud band came from the alleyway a few feet away from you and you could vaguely make out papers fluttering to the ground around the dumpster at the end as the lid slammed shut.

A sigh escaped your lips.

The wind came back, this time next to you.

“You’re safe now ma’am. Are you alright?” A hand expended out next to you. Superman.

You blinked up at him, too stunned to move. Or speak. Or think.

Minutes later, you sat on a bench near the corner of 8th and Morris St. The streetlights flickered. Bits of concrete were still stuck in your bloodied knees. And superman, the actual superman, was crouched in-front of you, brushing it away with delicate fingers that somehow felt too soft for someone that could punch through meteors.

You hated crying in-front of anyone, let along a living legend. So you tilted your head back and blinked furiously. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and you were trying to control your breathing so you wouldn’t have an anxiety attack.  You cracked your knuckles, once, twice, trying to distract yourself.

“Im okay,” you managed to choke out, voice embarrassingly wobbly.

He gave you a look. Not quite buying it.

“I can get home myself, really. I just..”

“Nope.” He said, gently but firmly. “Hang on”

You barely had time to object before his arms were scooping you up, lifting you effortlessly against his chest. Warm and solid. Safe.

You buried your face in his shoulder and hoped your tears would stain his cape too much.

—

You weren’t entirely sure how he knew which building was yours. You pointed halfway through the flight, and he murmured, “got it.”

He didn’t just drop you at the door. He walked up six flights of stairs, because your elevator was broken, and stopped outside your apartment, waiting as you fumbled for your keys.

“I can’t thank you enough,” you mumbled as you nudged the door open.

He still hadn’t left.

The hallway somehow felt warmer with him inside.

“I, um…” you rubbed your arms, looking everywhere around the hallway but at him. “Are you… hungry? I don’t know if aliens eat human food..” You cut yourself off “I mean, sorry, that sounded..”

Superman laughed. “No offense taken. And yeah, I do. Not everything, but I can try.”

“Ah, okay. I have chicken and rice soup. Its my dad’s recipe, your more than welcome to stay. It’s good, I promise.” You stepped inside holding the door open for him.

The two of you shuffled inside and moments later you had scooped leftovers into a pot and began stirring over the heat of your stove. Superman sat politely at the end of your couch, looking wildly out of place and yet perfectly comfortable.

A few minutes later, you were both cradling mismatched bowls, the scent of warm oily broth and herbs filling the small space.

He took a bite. Paused, and smiled softly. “This is amazing”

“See?” You said, shoulders held a little higher, “my dad knows his stuff, I told you.”

You didn’t realize how much your were smiling until your cheeks began to ache. The tension in the room was slowly easing.

“So…” you rolled the spoon between your fingers. “I know this is totally unprofessional timing, but… how do you feel about interviews?”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“Not right now! Obviously, but someday. I work at the Daily Planet. My friend… well, coworker, Clark always gets interviews. I swear he has some telepathic link or something. He’s always on scene, Gets the best photos too.” 

You rolled your eyes and switched the bowl between hands with a laugh. “I swear he’s trying to one up me.”

Superman leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “he’s trying to impress you.”

You blinked. Spoon paused halfway to your lips. “What?”

He smirked. “Ill tell clark to let his friend…”

“(Y/N).”

“Right. I’ll tell clark to let his friend (Y/N) get more interviews. Just don’t tell Lois.”

You let out a real laugh this time, “Deal.”

[supremehavok]

Cake and Ice Cream | m.r

plot: Robby’s teenage daughter comes in with stomach pains and puts all her trust in you, her father’s girlfriend. No pressure!

category: fluff and a little bit of angst

c/w: surgery (appendicitis), inaccurate medical depictions (I’m not a doctor I just play one on tv), IVs (not descriptive), no use of y/n

w/c: 3.1k

a/n: girldad!Robby yayy! I loved the idea of Robby with a teen daughter who’s like 5’10” (I come from a family of a lot of tall women and they’re awesome), athletic and independent but still needs her dad to sing to her when she’s afraid and hold her hand. The story is a bit split between the readers involvement and the b-plot of the relationship between Robby and his daughter and I’m really sorry if it feels like I got too into the b-plot. Also I’m sorry I gave her a name and I’m sorry if you hate it it just felt slightly silly to try and work around no one ever saying her name. Jess Robinavitch sounded fairly natural to me so I hope it’s not too egregious lol. And yeah I know there’s already a Jesse in the show but it’s fine lol

You didn’t get to see the sun rise that morning; early shifts in the wintertime skewed your perception of time. It was awful when an hour passed, but never getting a chance to glance out the window ends up tricking you into believing half of the day had already passed. After discharging your third patient of the day, you took a minute at the hub to sit down in front of an empty computer and rest your eyes. You didn’t bother to check your watch; it would just disappoint you.

You kept your head limp in your hand, slow breaths that betrayed how drained you already were. Every time footsteps pattered around behind you, you hoped and prayed they didn’t ask for you. In your little moment of rest, you were in bed, a warm bed beside a very warm man. It was wishful thinking since you woke up alone this morning; Robby had to be at an attending meeting and budget conference for the entire morning, and frankly, you were just missing him. You became so accustomed to seeing him every other night, seeing him almost every day shift as you both crossed paths and stood across from one another in trauma rooms. It felt silly, missing him when you were just in his bed a few hours ago, but love had a way of overriding all that seemed logical and rational at times.

When someone finally tapped you on the shoulder, you groaned, your shoulders falling slack for just a moment before straightening up and swinging around on your chair. 

“You got a patient in exam two,” Donnie pointed over his shoulder. 

You wordlessly nodded with a tired smile, your hand sluggishly moving to rub the back of your neck, stalling for a moment. You finally stepped out of the rolling chair and took the patient chart from Donnie. You took a quick glance and nearly tripped on your own two feet.

Jessica Robinavitch.

The ink smeared writing was waiting above the horizontal line at the top of the chart. You looked over at Donnie walking beside you towards the exam room, a slight raise of your eyebrow evident. “Does Robby know she’s here?” you asked.

“Doubt it. She didn’t even want Dana seeing you walk in,” he muttered just as he reached out and pulled the curtain back on the room. 

Jess lay back on the exam bed. Light blue and silver volleyball uniform with the big 10 on the front of the jersey. Her arms were crossed over her stomach like a protective shield, her features curled into a mix of wince and grimace. The second your amber eyes stopped focusing on the floor below and looked up, both you and Donnie reached back and closed the curtain around you all and perked up. 

“Hey Jess,” you took a seat on the stool behind you. Your eyes roamed her patient chart. “You’re having some abdominal pain? Feeling warm too?”

“Already took her temp; 102.8°.”

“Where does it hurt right now?”

Jess moved her hand down the length of her stomach and gestured carefully around the area of her right side, just beside her navel. You pushed your foot to budge your stool closer to the exam bed. After snapping on some gloves, you hovered over Jess’s stomach before pressing on the spot; even the slightest pressure made her jolt upright and hiss. You took her temperature again, the number slowly creeping to 103°. 

You gave Jess a soft look, taking in how her skin looked slightly sallow under the hospital lights. “Your dad’s upstairs; I can go get him if you want,” you offered. 

You were unsure; you could go forward and ultrasound her and order the necessary tests, but it felt wrong. You had the feeling Jess was only just getting used to having you around, and you were trying to push your luck considering you and Robby spent so much time together even outside the hospital: dinners with Jess at home and going to her games whenever possible. You wanted her to like you; she wasn’t ever rude or uninviting, but before you came along, Robby was raising her all on his own, and you understood how close they were. You didn’t want to be the thing that swooped in and removed the fleeting quality time she had with Robby. 

To your surprise, Jess shook her head. “No. I don’t want him to freak out. Mia’s mom brought me in because my fever spiked this morning. I’m hoping I just ate something bad at her house.”

You scribbled a line for labs on her chart as you nodded in understanding. “Then your secret is safe with me. We’re going to run some tests just to rule out a few things. I’ll do an ultrasound on your stomach as well. I’m more worried about the placement of your pain than anything. If it’s anything more serious than food poisoning or intolerance, I might have to get your dad down here. He’ll need to sign consent forms,” you explained before adding, “Or else I’ll end up on his shit list indefinitely.” 

Jess snorted, her hands still clutching her tender abdomen. “I hate the shit list. A few weeks ago I ate the last Biscoff cookie in the pantry, so he moped around the house like a depressed ghost, and then that same night he just so happened to cook my least favorite food for dinner.”

“That really thick buckwheat pasta?”

“Yes,” you could actually see Jess’s lip curl in disgust for a split second, “for a man pushing fifty-five, he’s real petty sometimes.”

“But you love him.”

“But I love him.”

It took a solid hour and a half to get all of the labs back, and after you did an ultrasound on Jess’s stomach, you came to a clear diagnosis. Appendicitis. Her appendix hadn’t burst, but it definitely needed to come out as soon as possible. You sent a nurse to tell Garcia up in surgery to schedule an OR by the end of the day for Jess, and just as you were about to leave and find Robby, you came face-to-face with him as you pulled the curtain back. 

“Appendicitis, OR is getting scheduled,” you said immediately but calmly. You could see the storm in his eyes, that special kind of worry he felt when it came to Jess. “Nothing burst. She’s just a little bit uncomfortable.”

Robby glanced over your head at his daughter in the bed, phone in her hand and scrolling. He gave your shoulders a little squeeze and an appreciative curl of his lips, mouthing a sincere “Thank you,” before stepping around you to sit beside Jess’s bed. 

“Hey, kiddo. How are you feeling?” Robby muttered, his hand resting on her free hand and rubbing lazy circles with his thumb.

“A bit disappointed. They don’t give you the good stuff for the pain unless my appendix bursts,” the sixteen-year-old joked with a tight smile. Upon looking back at Robby’s unamused stare, she softened, playful guilt in her eyes. “Kidding. I’m fine, just want to get this over with. Feels like there's a lead ball in my stomach.”

“We’ll get you into the OR as soon as we can,” he assured.

There was a twitch in his foot, a restlessness that was betraying the sureness he was giving off to Jess. Outside this exam room was a busy ED with no attending in sight; he’d already been gone all morning in meetings, and the waiting room was packed with patients still pinging about in exam rooms awaiting beds upstairs. You could tell he knew he needed to get back out there and run the show, but he also didn’t want to make any sudden moves that would lead to him leaving Jess sitting around waiting for her surgery alone. 

“I can stay with her for a bit longer,” you spoke up in the withholding silence. “Princess will be back around to do her pre-op IV, and she’ll keep an eye on her while I’m away. I’ll page you when she’s ready to go upstairs for surgery.” 

There was only a brief flash of hesitation swimming in Robby’s eyes before he squeezed Jess’s hand and kissed her forehead, whispering against her hairline before standing up to leave the exam room. Just as he walked past, you felt his hand grasp yours, a gentle acknowledgment and a tired yet loving look for you before leaving to join the circus outside as paramedics burst through the doors with a fresh trauma waiting for care. 

You stayed with Jess until Princess walked in with the antibiotics for the IV. You felt like your tongue was tied, trying to create appropriate parting words. After Robby had left, you watched Jess become a bit more anxious; the inevitable event of an OR being ready was looming, and that knowledge seemed to put the girl on edge.

Going under the knife was no joke, even for a routine procedure, and the mind always had a way of making someone feel like they're the one in a million that won’t recover. You didn’t know Jess as well as you’d like, but she never seemed like the type to be afraid easily. She always stood tall, sure of herself, and loved to take up space happily. She would stand next to Robby sometimes, and you’d see how alike they were; even if you were just talking about appearances, it was uncanny—she could nearly match him in height, and they had the same dark hair and eyes. You could see all of the values Robby tried to instill in her for years; it was all still present, but it was overtaken by her discomfort and fear that were shrinking her right before your eyes.

You tentatively moved your hand out, hovering near hers to see if she’d take it. She barely glanced at your hand before taking it tightly, her palm clammy with anxiety. 

“We’re going to take care of you, yeah?” you said softly. “When you’re ready to go up, I’ll make sure your dad’s head is with you.” It’ll be all over soon, and then you’ll get to eat day-old hospital food in a recovery room.”

Jess closed her eyes and allowed herself to resign to a smile as the back of her head rested against the stiff pillow behind her. “Can’t wait.”

You were in the middle of signing off on some tests for a patient when Dana told you the OR was ready for Jess. You paged Robby a minute later just as they began to move Jess out of the exam room and towards the elevator. Robby gave the brief “Listen to the senior resident while I’m gone” speech to anyone who was around before stepping into the elevator.

While the surgeons scrubbed in the other room, Robby sat on the sliver of stiff mattress. He mindlessly adjusted the flimsy surgical cap on Jess’s head, tucking in nonexistent loose strands. 

“How long am I going to have to take it easy after this?” Jess muttered.

“Six weeks. Maybe a bit more, and you might end up having to sit out the rest of the season.”

“Is that the medically accurate estimation or yours?” she raised an eyebrow skeptically, the tone in her voice indicating she already had an answer in mind. 

“There’s an MD by my name, isn’t there? All of my answers are medically accurate—“

“Until proven otherwise.”

“You’re going to have a lot of healing ahead of you. You don’t need to put any unnecessary strain on yourself and risk breaking open your stitches or aggravating your body after it’s been through something like this.” Robby’s words held a subtle plea, the plea of a man who was used to arguing with his hardheaded daughter, who practically took joy in making an argument out of thin air just so she could practice making her case. 

“Yeah, but the whole season? C’mon, this isn’t even—” the words stopped short.

“We’ll talk about this afterwards. Can you live with that?”

Jess relented with a sigh and a nod. She tossed her head back on the pillow to try and relax, but Robby knew better. He could see her fingers trembling, her eyes darting, and the restlessness in her legs under the thin blanket.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, a bit rhetorically, but he pushed that notion aside. 

“A little, I guess,” Jess tried to shrug, but the motion felt ridiculous given her much more sincere body language. She let her head lazily turn away from her father and glance at the tubing of her IV before turning back to face him. Her eyes focused just above his head as she sheepishly asked, “Don’t laugh, but could you sing the song?”

Robby raises his eyebrows, surprised but not so much that he even thinks to question it any further. He nodded before moving slightly closer and putting his arm over Jess’s shoulder to keep her to his side. He cleared his throat in an attempt to delay for a moment. 

“If I go a million miles away, I'd write a letter each and every day. Because honey, nothing can ever change this love I have for you,” his voice came out in a near whisper just shy of an actual tune, as if he was afraid of anyone hearing him except for Jess.

“Make me weep, and you can make me cry. See me coming and you can pass me by, but honey, nothing, nothing can ever change this love I have for you.”

Jess let her neck rest and dropped her head fully down on her father’s chest. The rumble of his softly spoken tune vibrating against her ear and making her feel like she was six years old again, being comforted under the glow of a nightlight in a dark bedroom.

“You're the apple of my eye, you're cherry pie. Your cake and ice cream. Your sugar and spice, and everything nice. You're the girl of my dreams.”

The door to the room opened, but the sound seemed to fade into the background as Garcia stepped inside to tell them the OR and surgeons were ready. The scuff of her shoes stopped rigidly; she felt like her back was glued to the door and her words were caught in her throat. Her surgical mask was thankfully still pulled up so it covered the expressions she was glad to keep hidden.

“But if you wanted to leave me and roam. When you got back, I'd just say, welcome home, because honey, nothing, nothing, nothing can ever change this love I have for you.” The lasting lyrics felt final, Robby’s voice as quiet as a passing breeze. He felt his daughter’s shoulders release obvious tension; he even suspected her jaw stopped clenching. 

Garcia cleared her throat. “Ready?”

Sixty minutes. Routinely performed, and a clean scar on Jess’s abdomen is proof. Garcia let out a long groan as she scrubbed out because even though Robby stayed in the viewing gallery the entire time, she could feel his eyes on her and the team like a sniper laser after every incision and every pull of thread afterwards. It was a relief to not feel like she was burning up under a protective paternal microscope anymore. 

You waited outside the recovery room, your pager on your hip staying silent—for now. You shuffled your feet around awkwardly until the door opened and Robby slinked out through the small sliver he opened for himself. “She’s still pretty out of it. She’ll probably nod off in a few minutes,” he said as he carefully closed the door.

“Everything went well then?” you opted to confirm.

“Everything went great,” he nodded. Robby glanced around at the still scene of the surgical ward before speaking again. “Thank you so much for everything you did today. You’ve been amazing, more than I could ask for.” 

You felt taken aback but definitely not unappreciative. A warmth spread to your cheeks, and you smiled without truly meaning to move the muscles. “You don’t need to thank me. I was happy to help.” 

Robby looked at you as his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. You could practically see the cogs turning, the creases around his eyes telling you that he was most likely overthinking.

“I love you so much.” The words were quiet, intimate, and powerful as they left his lips. “I mean it. You were everything today. Jess said you made her feel safe when I wasn’t there. I can’t explain how much that fucking means to me. She’s grateful, and I’m grateful.” 

“Grateful enough to rub my back after this shift is over?” you teased, but the slight tremble in your voice betrayed your true feelings.

“Oh yeah,” he chuckled softly.

You swallowed thickly, “I love you too. Jess is so special to you, and I hope she knows how special she is to me too. You two are a family, and I don’t ever want to intrude on that or force myself into the dynamic you and she have, but I do really love you, and I hope one day I can find my place within that dynamic.” You never thought it would feel so scary and suffocating to wear your heart on your sleeve like that, but the lump forming in your throat showed you otherwise.

“You never have to force your way into anything. You’re always welcome. If you’d have us, that is.”

“Of course I would.”

Everything felt settled like dust after a crash. Robby’s eyes softened in a gaze, a gaze he reserved only for you and one you were only used to seeing in the amber light of a dim bedroom and not here under terrible fluorescent shadows. It was a look you wished you could capture and look at forever, but your current environment was still so painfully obvious. The pitt consumed all that entered until they spit them all out for shift change.

“I should get back in there,” Robby said, glancing at the closed door behind him. “She’s still a bit hazy from the anesthetic. She kept saying she wanted to keep the appendix and put it in a jar on the mantle above the fireplace.”

“Right next to all that Indiana Jones shit you keep there beside all those Christmas cards,” you raised an eyebrow.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just call my childhood collection ‘shit,’ and I’ll see you later tonight.” Robby reached out and cupped your cheek in his hand, letting the touch linger before pulling back and leaving back into the recovery room. 

The warmth on your cheek seemed to stick around even as you went into the elevator. You glanced regretfully at your watch, grimacing at the time and hitting the floor number for the ED. The fuzzy feeling of hearing Robby say, “I love you,” hopefully keeps you motivated to make it until shift change.

[sixeyesonathiel]

a sunset ferris wheel ride turns into a minor disaster when satoru unknowingly tests your fear of heights—thankfully, he has a very… hands-on way of calming you down.

the thing is—you really thought you could power through it.

you love him. he said he wanted to ride the ferris wheel. he looked so excited with his stupid beaming face and that oversized soda in hand like a golden retriever getting a treat. you’d ridden high-speed trains, drones, even elevators with glass walls. how bad could a ferris wheel be?

the answer: horrific.

you’re sitting stiffly across from him in this tiny swaying metal cage, twenty feet up and climbing, while he’s sprawled across the seat like he’s in a massage chair. legs wide, head tilted back, sunglasses on (it’s sunset), sipping his drink like this is peak romance.

his hair—christ, his hair—catches the dying light like spun platinum, each strand moving independently in the breeze that rocks this death trap. not silver, not white, but something rawer, like moonbeams tangled in morning frost. it shifts and falls across his forehead as he moves, and you hate how beautiful it looks even when you’re about to die.

“babe, look,” he points lazily, gesturing out the clear window with fingers that are too long, too graceful for someone who’s basically a human weapon. “you can see the whole fairground from here. the cotton candy stand looks like a little ant. that’s crazy—”

“don’t point,” you snap, voice tight as piano wire. your knuckles are bone-white where they grip the safety bar, tendons standing out like cables under your skin. “every time you move, this thing swings.”

he freezes mid-gesture, arm still extended, and his sunglasses slowly slide down the bridge of his nose. those eyes—god, those eyes—peek over the rim like arctic lightning trapped in glass. not just blue. blue doesn’t do justice to the way they seem to hold their own light source, like staring into the center of a glacier where the ice burns coldest.

“…are you scared?”

he sounds genuinely confused, head tilting with that puppy-dog bewilderment that makes you want to strangle him and kiss him simultaneously. like the idea never even occurred to him that you—his unshakeable, razor-sharp girlfriend—could be anything less than invincible.

you glare at him with every ounce of the dignity you have left—which is rapidly crumbling as the wheel climbs higher and the ground shrinks away beneath you.

“no. i’m fine.”

you are not fine. you are gripping the metal bar so hard your knuckles are white and your shoulders are hunched up around your ears like you’re trying to disappear into yourself. your legs are glued together, pressed so tightly that your thighs ache, and you can feel sweat beading along your hairline despite the cool evening air. your breath comes in shallow, measured sips like you’re rationing oxygen.

“wait,” satoru says, sitting up straighter. the movement makes the cart rock slightly and you flinch so hard you nearly bite your tongue. his sunglasses slip further down his nose, revealing more of those impossible eyes that seem to see straight through you. “you’re actually—oh my god. you’re scared of heights?”

“shut up.”

“but you’re like… the scary one!”

“i said shut up.”

he stares at you for a long beat, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. the ferris wheel stops—god knows why—and sways slightly in the breeze. you flinch again, a full-body shudder that you can’t control, and your bottom lip starts trembling despite your best efforts to keep it together.

suddenly his expression shifts. the teasing light in his eyes dies, replaced by something softer, more serious. his mouth—usually curved in some variation of a smirk—goes slack with realization.

“…baby.”

you don’t answer. your eyes are glued to the floor of the cart like it might open up and swallow you whole, anything to get you out of this nightmare. he reaches across the gap between your seats and takes your hand—firm, warm, grounding. his palm is slightly callused from training, and his fingers are impossibly long as they wrap around yours.

“you should’ve told me,” he says, quieter this time. his thumb traces small circles on your knuckles, and you can feel the slight tremor in his usually steady hands. “i wouldn’t’ve dragged you up here.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation of swaying, of being suspended in nothing but air and prayer. “i was fine. i was fine. until we got stuck.”

“ohhh. yeah. that’s on me. this is kinda high, huh.”

he peers out the window again, and you make a sound that’s half whimper, half growl. your free hand shoots out to grab his wrist, nails digging into his skin.

“okay, okay, i’ll stop looking. you’re okay. i’ve got you.”

you’re not even sure when he moved, but suddenly he’s sliding next to you on your bench, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight as he presses flush against your side. his thigh is warm and solid against yours, and you can smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that makes your head spin in ways that have nothing to do with the altitude.

“hey,” he murmurs, nudging your cheek with his nose. his breath is warm against your skin, carrying the sweet scent of the soda he’d been drinking. “look at me.”

you shake your head, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “i can’t. i’m going to cry.”

“then cry,” he says, and there’s something in his voice—something tender and raw that you’ve never heard before. “you still look hot when you cry.”

you make a choked sound, equal parts laugh and sob, and his thumb brushes your jaw with a touch so gentle it makes your chest ache. his skin is warm and slightly rough, and you can feel the callus on his index finger from how he holds his phone.

“you want me to distract you?” he asks softly, voice dropping to that low register that makes your stomach flip. “i can make you forget we’re even up here.”

you turn to him finally, wide-eyed and a little breathless. your vision is blurry with unshed tears, but you can still see the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way his lips part slightly as he waits for your answer.

“how are you going to do that?”

he grins—stupid, bright, dangerous—and for a moment the dying sunlight catches in his hair again, turning it into a halo of white fire. his eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s something wild and reckless in his expression that makes your heart skip.

and then he kisses you.

you yelp against his mouth, nearly jerking away, but he’s already cupping the back of your head with one large hand, fingers tangling in your hair. his other hand finds your waist, thumb pressing against your ribs through your shirt. his lips are soft but insistent, and when his tongue sweeps across your lower lip you part for him automatically.

it’s not gentle. it’s not shy. he kisses you like he means to erase every thought in your brain—including the part that remembers you’re dangling two hundred feet in the air in a metal death trap.

his tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you can taste the sweetness of his drink, the slight salt of his skin. he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and you feel his teeth graze your lower lip before he soothes it with his tongue.

your brain turns to static.

his hands are everywhere—one still tangled in your hair, tugging slightly at the roots in a way that makes you gasp, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip. his thumb finds the sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up, and the touch of his skin against yours sends electricity racing up your spine.

“better?” he murmurs against your lips, but doesn’t wait for an answer before kissing you again, harder this time. his hand slides under your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you onto his lap in one smooth motion.

you go willingly, straddling his thighs with your knees on either side of his hips. the new position brings you closer, chest pressed against chest, and you can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat against your ribs. his hands span your waist, thumbs tracing the line of your ribs through your shirt.

“that’s it,” he breathes against your mouth, voice rough with something that makes your core clench. “just focus on me.”

his mouth trails to your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the line of your throat. you can feel the heat of his breath, the slight scrape of his teeth, and when he finds that sensitive spot just below your ear you arch against him with a soft moan.

your hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle through his shirt. he’s broader than he looks, all lean strength and sharp angles, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds himself back.

“satoru,” you whisper, and his name comes out breathier than you intended. he makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl, and his hands tighten on your waist.

“say it again,” he demands, mouth moving against your throat. his teeth graze your pulse point and you shiver.

“satoru,” you repeat, and this time it comes out as a whimper. his control snaps.

he drags you closer, eliminating any space between your bodies, and claims your mouth again. this kiss is hungrier, more desperate, and you can feel his need in the way his hands roam your body, the way his hips shift beneath you.

your fingers tangle in his hair—god, his hair—and it’s softer than you expected, like silk threads between your fingers. he makes a sound of approval when you tug gently, and you file that information away for later.

his hands slide under your shirt, palms warm against your skin, and you arch into his touch. he traces the line of your spine with his fingertips, each touch leaving fire in its wake, before his hands settle on your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer.

you’re lost in the sensation of his mouth on yours, the way his tongue moves against yours with practiced skill, the way his hands map the curves of your body like he’s memorizing them. time becomes meaningless—there’s only the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the way he whispers your name like a prayer.

you forget. you genuinely forget. about the height, the sway, the goddamn ferris wheel. there’s only satoru—his hands, his mouth, his body pressed against yours.

when the cart finally jolts and resumes its descent, you pull back with a gasp, eyes wide and unfocused. your lips are swollen and tingling, your hair is messed up, and you’re sitting on his lap like you’ve lost all sense of pride.

he’s grinning at you—flushed, breathless, but still managing to look smug. his hair is disheveled from your fingers, sticking up in impossible directions, and his lips are dark and slightly swollen from your kisses. his eyes are bright with satisfaction, like he’s just won some kind of contest.

“better?”

you want to kill him. you want to kiss him again. you want to do unspeakable things to him in the privacy of your apartment.

instead, you try to salvage what’s left of your dignity. “that was... adequate.”

he laughs, the sound rich and warm, and his hands squeeze your hips. “adequate? baby, you were practically purring.”

“i do not purr.”

“you absolutely purr. you purred when i did that thing with my tongue—”

“shut up,” you hiss, but there’s no real heat in it. the ferris wheel is descending steadily now, and you can see the platform approaching. your heart rate is finally starting to slow, though whether that’s from the impending return to solid ground or the lingering effects of his mouth on yours, you’re not sure.

when the ride ends and the doors open, you both stumble out—your lipstick smudged beyond repair, his collar askrew, and a family in the cart behind you definitely saw everything. the teenage daughter is staring at you with wide eyes while her mother tries to shield her view.

a teenage girl side-eyes you as you pass. her friend whispers, “they were in there for like ten minutes.”

you practically bolt, face burning with embarrassment. satoru just strolls after you with his hands behind his head, looking proud of himself like he’s just accomplished some great feat.

“you’re not getting laid tonight,” you hiss over your shoulder.

“what?!” he chokes, long legs eating up the distance between you. “after i just saved your life with tongue?! that was like—emergency mouth-to-mouth but romantic!”

you glare at him, but it lacks your usual venom. he’s right, and you both know it. if he hadn’t distracted you, you probably would have had a full panic attack up there.

he grins again, that stupid, beautiful grin that makes your knees weak. his hair is still messed up, and there’s a faint lipstick stain on his collar that he hasn’t noticed yet. he looks thoroughly debauched and entirely too pleased with himself.

“…next time we do the haunted house instead?”

despite yourself, you feel your lips twitch upward. “next time, we’re staying on the ground.”

“deal,” he says, then adds with a wink, “but if you change your mind about tonight—”

“not happening.”

“we’ll see,” he says, and the confidence in his voice makes you suspect he might be right. again.

you hate how well he knows you. you hate how easily he can unravel you with just a look, a touch, a kiss. you hate how much you want him, even now, even after he just thoroughly embarrassed you in public.

mostly, you hate how much you love him.

but as he slings his arm around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your temple, his lips warm and familiar against your skin, you think you might be okay with that kind of hatred.

“love you too, babe,” he murmurs, like he can read your thoughts.

and maybe he can. maybe that’s just another one of his many annoying talents.

you lean into his side despite yourself, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something that’s purely him. “you’re still not getting laid.”

“we’ll see,” he repeats, and this time you don’t argue.

after all, you both know he’s probably right.

[m-robinavitch]

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, soft dom!Robby, p in v sex, orgasm denial

Summary: Trying to shower before work but Robby has other ideas

“Michael-“ you were whining into the feeling of his teeth and lips just grazing over your neck because he knew it would make you whine for him, “I’m gonna be late.” You were technically already late. Exhausted after last night, you didn’t exactly clean up afterwards so you needed to shower before you left Robby’s. But he also needed to shower and innocently slipped in to join you under the hot steamy water at first. Hot and steamy it was, but now for an entirely different reason.

“Yeah?” He asked, not caring about your words much, pulling your back flush against his chest with one hand holding your jaw to tilt at a slight angle so he can nip and kiss easily- the other hand gripping at your own chest, soapy and easily gliding over your perked nipples- scratching just lightly to hear your sighs. “Is your boss gonna be a jerk about it?”

“He can- fuck, he can be such an asshole,” you nod- moaning slightly while pushing your ass into his hips to try and entice him for a bit more stimulation, “but he’s kinda cute, so it makes it worth it.” He chuckled at your words, now biting the lobe of your ear while the hand that was teasing your breasts slid down your body. He was more than half hard, woke up that way because you move so fucking much in your sleep that you had been rubbing against him all night. Just enough to cause an aching feeling but not enough for a release.

“Doesn’t sound like you make it easy for him,” you sigh when his fingers finally breached the top of your pussy- slowly starting to rub your clit with scarcely enough pressure to make the ache really go away, “being late, lusting after him on the job- maybe you stress him out?” Robby pushes his hips into your ass and slides his thick cock between your thigh- teasing through the crease of your wet folds to help the throbbing ache dissipate for a moment while he rubs slow circles on your clit with calloused fingers.

“Can’t- fuck, can’t help it-“ the feeling of his heavy cock gliding between your wet lower lips is too much- you wish he’d just slip inside you but, fuck it was so good at the same time. “Looks so good when he’s mad.” Wasn’t a lie- Robby’s voice when mad was deep and rough, akin to a fucking growl and you hated how even when he yelling at you and Langdon for poaching patients from the urgent care clinic across the street- you got wet. You’d bite your lip as he crossed his arms, or when he’d pull off his glasses in frustration. It was your fault and in those moments you accept whatever punishments he decided for you. And he’s doling out a punishment now, fingers working achingly slow against your wet pussy and fucking laughing as you whimper. You’re squeezing your thighs together as much as you could, trying to stop the pressure from his fingers but it just makes it’s so much better as he fucks the space between your legs, wetness from the shower and your own body mixing to help the slide. Every drag of his cock- each back and forth motion he made would have you sigh and whine because you swear you feel him at your entrance a little more each time. If you could just angle your hips- he’d slide in perfectly. It would feel so good and you’re already fucking late- there was no reason to hurry now.

“I knew you did it on purpose,” he groaned, the hand that was holding your jaw lowered and began to pinch and pull your nipples, pulling away for a moment to slap at your breast before turning to push you against the cold tile wall. The contrasting feeling biting into your skin, ice cold tile pebbling your nipples and fire along your back from Robby’s chest. “Love to piss me off on purpose. Is that what gets you off sweetheart?” Fuck- so he wasn’t going to let it go. You had teased Robby within an inch of his life yesterday. You were off from work and bored and missed him so much. But that was besides the point. You forgot to set an alarm last night amidst Robby fucking you into the mattress- so you woke up and realized you had 10 minutes to get ready. It was not nearly enough time. He knew that. That’s why he’s here now- rutting into the space between your thighs and groaning when you try to close them because it’s just adding to the tightness and pleasure. “I asked you a fucking question angel.” He notched himself at your entrance- teasing the hole while he waited.

“Y-yes, fuck I like getting you ma-” you were cut off with a gasp, he gave you no time to adjust. Robby slammed into you so hard you’re sure the air from your lungs was pushed out due to the force of it. You couldn’t breathe and there was nowhere to go besides into the tiles as he started at a brutal pace. One of his strong arms comes around your waist so he can keep you still between him and the wall while he fucks into you. He doesn’t make any noise besides grunts and the occasional ‘fuck’ while he shoves his cock up into you. The water was hot, the steam rising in the air and it choked you more as you felt yourself be rearranged by him. The pressure and force was too much- and Robby was getting annoyed by having to bend a little to get his dick inside your cunt so the arm around your waist pulled tighter as he straightened out. You were barely on the tips of your toes- but in reality you were mostly being held up by Robby and his relentless pace while he fucked you. You felt your walls flutter and spasm around his thick cock while he kept dragging himself in and out of you. But with a harsh slap to your ass he spoke-

“No one said you can cum, you’re not fucking cumming yet. You need to ask me first sweetheart.” If you could fucking ask you would- but he was so deep and every thrust shoved you into the tiles that the pressure on the top of your pussy just affected your clit ever so slightly. It was so much. It was so good that you tried to claw at the walls for something to hang on to because your thighs started to shake from the force of him inside you.

“Please- baby please I need to cum. Let me- fuck let me fucking cum-” he laughed- Robby fucking laughed at your words and he felt himself start to pull at the string deep inside of his gut. He was close and one disastrous clenching of your tight pussy around him was enough to push him over the edge. He came with a growl- something low and deep and painful almost while he spilled deep inside you and released the hold he had around your waist so you were fully touching the tiles under your feet now. You were dazed- breathing heavy and almost seeing stars from the heat of the steamy water and embers of the denied orgasm smoldering in your gut. You whimpered- fucking whined because Robby’s hand dipped down to collect him dripping from down your thigh and shove back inside you with a kiss to your temple.

“You came enough last night- maybe later.” What. Oh- he’s being mean. “And don’t try to use the shower head either- we’re gonna be late angel.” An endearing slap to your ass and he’s out the shower- leaving you breathless and needy. Oh okay- fine. He’s playing a dangerous game. He will be dealt with today- he can’t hide the red face he gets no matter how hard he tries. Good.

[anotheraccountonthisapp]

Never got when people misgendered trans ppl just bcs they didn't like it. An ex-friend did that once and I was so confused. He justified it by saying "well she's a bitch so it doesn't matter" like yes it does? Idc if they suck he's still a guy and he still deserves that basic respect. I don't get mad at Jeremy and start calling him Jessica or saying she/her do why would I do that if he was trans? It's just straight up transphobia.

Just shows you only think that respecting them is conditional. Very two faced and fake. No matter how much I hate someone I ain't gonna misgender them bcs what's the point? Their gender has nothing to do with why I hate them. It's also why I try and steer clear from insulting people's appearance. Not tryna equate appearance with morality bcs guess what? That's not how it works. If I'm gonna bitch about someone it's gonna be because of what they've done. I'll talk about their actions and personality and shit they have control over and not how they look or their gender or shit. This should not be a hot take.

"Trans women are actually women for real, not in a metaphorical sense, not in a "anyone can be anything" sense, but genuinely actually make more taxonomic sense to classify in the category of women than any other group" is a position you'll find is pretty radical even in queer spaces

[godmadeaterribleerror]

It's Between the Words

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, fluff, friends to lovers, light angst, love confessions, lotta smut (fingering, body worship, oral f!receiving, p in v sex)

Summary/Warnings: One sided love hurts. Burns. Eats you alive. But it might not be one sided. It might just be hard for Dean to say he loves you back.

Author's Note: Emotionally Constipated men it's okay. I got you a laxative. 

Word Count: 10.7k

“You got sauce on your nose.”

You frown at Dean, watching you oddly across the dinner table. “Huh?”

He taps the tip of his own nose, and you’ve never seen that expression on his face before. It’s oddly focused, for someone just telling you about stray bits of dinner. And his whole body is tensed, the same ways as when he’s hunting.

Like this is critical. Vital. People will die, if you don’t get the sauce off your nose. 

You wipe with your napkin, mimicking where he’s pointing to. “Did I get it?”

“No.” He grunts, brows furrowing. “Here."

He taps the exact same spot, and you sigh. “Dean-“

Your words die in your throat as he leans over the table, holds your gaze, and swipes his thumb over the tip of your nose. It sends little bolts of lighting up your spine and burns in your lower stomach. He touched you. He’s touched you before, but now he’s touching your face, and the tiny point of contact between his thumb and your nose is going to be branded for the rest of your life. He sucks the bit of sauce clean as he leans back, and it’s not reasonable to tackle him over the table and scream that you love him. Also not reasonable to dump the rest of your dinner on your head and see if he’ll clean that too.

So you settle for clearing your throat and whispering, “Better?”

“Yeah.” Dean mutters, still watching you. 

It truly is a strange expression. Brows pinched, tight-lipped, jaw clenched. You’d think he was angry, if you couldn’t see the softness in his eyes. They’re almost glossy, as if he’s going to start crying. 

But before you can ask if he’s okay, the look vanishes, and his voice returns to normal.

“Better.”

———

It’s quiet tonight. 

It’s quiet most nights, in the bunker. The days can be filled with chaos and shouting and loud bangs—followed by another shout, this one from the garage as Dean decides he’s okay and doesn’t let anyone check in to verify that—but then the day moves on, and the night is quiet. 

Sometimes you’re home alone. Sam will pack up for a few days to visit Eileen for a few days, and the last loud noises are Dean teasing Sam about having a girlfriend, then the rumble of an engine as Sam pulls out of the garage. Dean then groans, gives you a strange look, then grumbles that he’s going out.

He never asks you to go with him. It’s a small mercy, but one that only turns bitter in the morning, when he returns with a mark on his neck and the smell of cheap perfume. 

Those are the nights you hate the most. Sam has Eileen. Dean has anyone he wants, but he doesn’t want you, and you’re alone. You lie in the silence of the bunker alone, and try not grab your gun at every single creak down the hall, or start crying when the pain hits your just right. When the darkness of the night gets under your skin, and you don’t have anyone to help you chase it away. 

You always wipe your tears before Dean comes home. 

He doesn’t need to worry about more things. If you can love him in one, silent way, it’ll be never making him worry. 

That’s why you love these types of quiet nights. There’s no pain or worry. At worst, all of you are tired, and energy is something you’ll need to save for the morning. Sam goes to do yoga—because he’s insane—and you and Dean watch a movie. 

“Don’t eat the ice,” Dean mutters your name as you both move around the kitchen for snacks, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re not my dad, Winchester-“

“It always makes you cold-“

“And that’s my right as an American.”

Dean snorts. “Pretty sure we’re both enemies of the state, sweetheart.”

“So?” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak as he tries to grab the glass from your hands. “Hey-“

“Calm down, I’m just giving you the maple syrup.” He holds up the bottle, and you eye him suspiciously. “C’mon, I’m not gonna try and take it from you-“

“Yeah, you are- Dean-“

He grabs you by the hook of your elbow, tugs you forward, and hold your gaze as he pours the syrup into your ice. Your lips are parted, and your knees are weak, and he’s not even really touching you. You need to get it the fuck together. 

“Thanks.” You mumble, and he shrugs. 

“Don’t.”

He shuffles off to the Dean Cave, and you sway uselessly for a second before scrambling after him. And when the movie starts, you try to pay attention to the screen instead of Dean’s thighs. But he always spreads his legs, tips his head back slightly, and throws his arm around the back of the couch.

It's not fair. He’s just there, and now you have to swallow and pull your knees to your chest. 

“You cold?”

You blink at him in the dark, and Dean’s looking at you. He should be looking the TV. He’s always looking at the TV. You’d know. 

You’re always looking at him. 

“No.” 

Dean frowns. “You look kinda cold, I can grab a blanket-“

“I’m not cold, Dean.” You force yourself to stop rubbing your calves. “Do you want a blanket?”

“Nah,” he gives you another odd stare. “I actually feel kinda hot. You sure you’re good? If you don’t feel well, we can go to bed-“

“I’m okay.” You cut him off with a voice that’s too soft, and you know he hears it. 

But we.

He can’t say we can go to bed, when you know it’s just going to be you.

“I’m just tired.”

He shrugs, frown still tight on his handsome face. “Then we’ll finish in the morning-“

“No- Dean-“ You grab Dean’s wrist before he can take the remote, and he raises his brows. 

“You’re tired, sweetheart. And it’s just Batman. You know what happens.”

“Not that kind of tired. I wanna finish.” You swallow, and give him a tiny, nervous smile. “Please.”

Dean lets go of the remote, leaning slowly back on the couch, and you must have gotten away with it. You love him, but he’s not the most emotionally perceptive, and there’s no way he’d be able to hear the desperation to be close to him—just for a few more minutes—painted all over your voice. He’s never heard it before. You’re probably safe-

“You sure you’re okay?” He mutters, his attention now fixed firmly back on the TV. “You’re kinda acting like I’m poison or something.”

Fuck.

Your eyes fall on the large gap between your bodies, an invisible barrier you set for your own sanity. It’s too much, to be close to him while doing something like this. It’s one thing to be pressed into a closet with him on a hunt, feeling his bulge near your ass and his body all around yours. That’s necessity. 

This would just be sitting in the dark, glued to his side, with a million other places to go but no desire to be anywhere but here. 

But he said it like a joke. With a dry, hollow chuckle that you know too well. You know Dean too well. 

Love him too much. 

So you put on your best, exasperated mask, and scoot closer. Until you’re not molded into his, but you’re leaning at little into his side. Your feet are brushing his thigh, as you keep them to your chest. You can feel the heat from his body. See every color in his eyes and all the shifting shadows from the TV, cast over his handsome face. 

“Better?”

He rolls his eyes, but gives you a bright grin. “Yep. You want that blanket?”

You shake your head and he shrugs, looking back to the TV. 

His throat is bobbing. Jawline firm. If you reached up, you’d be able to trace the shape of his lips. 

And he’s not a dog. He won’t be able to smell the wetness forming between your legs, when he groans about something or his big, rough fingers accidentally brush your arm. He’s not going to taste arousal on the air when he scoots closer, and you can feel the heat from his body. 

You always try to make yourself small anyway. There’s a fairly large part of you that knows, if you gave in and climbed into his lap, he’d let you. Kiss you like you’ve always dreamed, let you ride his muscled thigh until you were whining for more, then give it to you. Flip you over and fuck you into the couch.

Be the best of your life, then walk away. 

You’d lose all your dignity and break your own heart—Dean can’t be breaking it, he doesn’t even know it’s in his hands, so you’d be the one taking a hammer and smashing it to tiny, fractured pieces—and then need to learn how to walk and breathe again. Because you will have to learn. Your legs don’t know how to move away from Dean, and your lungs don’t know how to breathe if it’s not air you’re sharing with him. 

It will be a lot of work. Not impossible, but too much. You know yourself. You’ll love Dean until you’re in a grave unless you teach yourself not to. And you really don’t want to learn how to hate Dean. Don’t want to learn how to be indifferent to him, either.

You like loving him. It makes apples taste sweeter and water feel cooler. It’s a new kind of heaven, to be able to look at Dean and love him at the same time. He’s a force of nature. 

So you stay at his side. And when you do start to get cold—eating ice will do that, but you always seem to think this time will be different for some fucking reason—you keep your gaze fixed firmly on the TV as you tuck your arms between your legs and try to keep yourself warm. 

Then something warm wraps around your body. Soft and warm and-

A blanket. 

Dean barely moved. He’s still looking at the TV. But the glass somehow moved from your hand to his, and now you’re tucked into a blanket. 

He doesn’t say told you so. 

When he feels your gaze, he turns and gives you a challenge look. Daring you to call him out on it. 

You really don’t want to. It’s too good a selfish opportunity, to lean a little closer and let out a soft sigh when Dean fully moves his arm over your shoulder. 

He’ll rip you apart, if you ask him nicely. 

That’s not a burden you want to place on him. Certainly not one worth disrupting Sam’s yoga over.

The quiet falls again. Dean doesn’t say a word about the blanket, or ice, or how his hand is relaxed against the bare skin of your arm. But you don’t tell him that you feel like you’re on fire. 

This is a silence you could live in. Drown in, if Dean let you. 

Fuck, it doesn’t matter if he lets you.

You’re going to drown in him—even if he never gives you anything at all—no matter what. 

———

It gets worse, after the blanket. It’s like he’s living in your head. Like he knows you well enough to never need to ask what you need, always seeming to pick up on it before you even can.

First there’s the diner. You go to the bathroom while they’re ordering, and when you come back Dean is gone.

“Where-“

“Got a call.” Sam shrugs, and you nod, frowning around the table. 

“Did they take our menus?”

“Yeah, we ordered while you were gone. Don’t worry, Dean got yours.”

You swallow, give a weak nod, and focus your attention on the crayons and children’s placement they set at the table, despite none of you being kids. Sam starts to ramble about hunting ideas as you try to color in the black and white farm picture, looking up only when the diner doorbell rings, to check it it’s Dean.

Eventually, after a few disappointments you’re never going to admit make your stomach feel like a hollow pit—you’re a grown woman coloring like a child in a diner and talking about killing vampires, you don’t need Dean to come back—he reappears. 

It’s like watching the sun climb over the horizon. Everything is brighter and warmer, when he walks back into your view. There’s a bubbly little high that rushes your body, when his eyes meet yours and he grins.

“Dean, I think there’s a nest in Nebraska-“

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean slides back into the booth, right at your side. “You like the crayons, sweetheart?”

You flush, your gaze dropping back to the placemat. “I- Um- Yeah. I know it’s for kids, I just-“

“Helps you focus.” He shrugs. “I know. ’S why I asked for them.”

You blink at him, at the soft, crooked grin and light in his eyes, and chew on your lower lip to stop it from crashing into his. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He bumps his shoulder with yours, then looks back to Sam. “Dude, I think we gotta drop the vampire thing-“

“It’s a nest, Dean, we can’t just ignore it-“

“There’s a demon problem in Mississippi.”

“Shit.” Sam sighs, frowning back to his laptop. “We can do that, then Nebraska?”

“Sure. That sound good?” Dean says your name, and you blink at him a little dumbly. 

He can’t see it now. The love written all over your face. He’s never seen it before. 

But something still flashes over his features, when you nod. He swallows, hand curling on the table. 

“Awesome.” He grunts, almost tearing his gaze away, and whatever he and Sam keep talking about is lost to your ears. 

Because the food is delivered only seconds later, and Dean ordered for you. 

He got it all right. 

His hand is lingering on your shoulder again, as he stretches his arm over the booth. 

And it only gets worse from there.

Your leg starts to bounce in the car, and he pulls over so you can go to the bathroom. Your head starts to hurt after the demon hunt, and he passes you water and an Advil before you can even rub your temple. On the vamp hunt he’s always right around the corner, swinging his machete before teeth can even be bared in your direction. 

You get the shower first, when you get back to the motel. Dean’s covered in more guts and grime, but he opens the bathroom door, and makes a dramatic, sweeping gesture with an almost sweet and boyish grin. 

“Ladies first.”

Sam groans from across the room. “Wait, Dean, I smell like shit-“

“We all smell like shit.”

“Dude, I’m literally covered in literal shit-“

“So is she.” Dean snaps, and you sigh. 

You are. Somehow, every fucking hunt on a farm always end in someone covered in shit. But Sam got the worst of it. He took a full topple into the pile. Dean caught you before you could join him, and it’s mostly on your shoes—which now have to be burned—and hands after you helped Sam to his feet. 

“Dean, it’s alright.” You sigh, giving him a small smile. “Sam can go first.”

Dean stares at you for a second—not quite a glare, closer to that strange look from the kitchen—then grunts.

“Whatever. I’m gonna go find a drink.”

He leaves, looking back once with that same, odd expression, then vanishes out into the dark. 

If he’s mad at you, you didn’t mean it. It’s just a shower. But the door slams, and you want him to come back, and if he’s drinking that means he’s looking for company. Company that’s not you. 

It aches, all over your ribs. 

But he doesn’t know. 

So you’re not allowed to chase after him and beg him to come back. 

“You think they’ll serve him covered in blood?” You ask Sam, gaze still trapped on the door like Dean might return. 

“Dunno.” Sam sighs. “Thanks for letting me shower first. I’ll- Uh- I’ll be quick.”

You hum, and Dean doesn’t come back. When it’s your turn to shower, the water is warm, but your bones feel cold. You miss him. It’s been twenty minutes, and you miss him. 

It’s been like that the entire time you’ve known him. You love him, and miss him, and he drifts in and out, never understanding that you’re trying to drag him up to shore. He doesn’t have to keep drifting. You’re right there. If he asked you to fall into the ocean with him, you’d go in a heartbeat. If he crawled out of the waves and told you he didn’t want to drift anymore, but didn’t know how to stop, you’d sit in the water with him until he was ready. You’re always waiting. 

Even when he’s out, and it’s all quiet, you’re waiting for Dean to break the silence and tell you something. Anything. 

You’re just waiting to hear his voice all the time. It doesn’t have to be I love you too. 

Just something, telling you that this doesn’t end the way you know it’s doomed to. You in a silence that’s never going to be broken. Dean walking out a door and not coming back. 

When you pass out , you somehow manage to sleep through the whole night without being woken up by Sam and Dean coming and going from the bar. And you expect him to not be there in the morning. This is the exact type of bloody hunt that usually ends with Dean chasing comfort at the bar, Sam going for a ten-mile run, and you sleeping for about twenty hours straight before you can make yourself move. He’ll be back later, and your heart will stutter in your chest with the pain that he didn’t want you to help him forget, then you’ll keep going, and say nothing. 

You’ve gotten really good at choking on the sore feeling of not being the one Dean wants to help him, and saying nothing. 

But when you wake up, Dean’s on the couch. Feet kicked up on the table, watching TV on low volume and glancing over his shoulder when you try to sit up. 

“Shit-“ You groan. “What time is it?”

“Noon, sleeping beauty.” Dean almost appears in front of you, passing a coffee into your hands. “Sammy’s on a walk, he wanted to check out the park. They got a butterfly garden, if we wanna catch up.”

“I like butterflies.” You mumble, and Dean’s lips twitch. 

“Yeah, I know. Eggs?”

“Wha-“

“You gotta eat,” he says your name with a shrug, and maybe it’s the lingering sleep, but you sort of feel like you’re floating. He’s not looking at you—attention focused on the coffee in your hands, like it’s the most important object in the world—but he is standing right over your body. Blocking the sun leaking through the blinds, mixing with the dust of the motel room to give him the appearance of a halo.

You could just still be dreaming. Dean offers you his hand to help you up, and when you take it, his grip is firm. Gentle, but firm.

It’s too easy to imagine that grip on your hips, or throat, or thighs. Spreading your legs apart for him to take whatever he needed from you, until you have nothing left to give. 

“C’mon.” He keeps his hand in yours for a second too long, eyes darting back up to meet yours. “Breakfast.”

You nod, he moves his hand away, and you can’t chase it. You know how to walk alone. 

But you don’t want to.

And when you walk to breakfast, Dean slows his pace to match yours. Like maybe he doesn’t want to either. 

There’s a soft bird song in the air. The rush of morning wind past your ears. And when you trip on a crack in the pavement, Dean’s arm wraps around your waist, and he pulls your right up. 

He stares at you for a moment. So close. Your heartbeat in your ears and his large hand settled easily on your hip. 

You don’t tell him to move away. He doesn’t ask if he should let go. 

The birds keep singing. The sun is soft, melting through morning fog, and he looks like he has a halo again. 

Neither of you say a word. 

Dean’s hand stays on your hips. 

———

This is the kind of silence that kills. That sinks into things and erodes them, unless you scream and force it away. 

But you don’t know how. You can’t be the one to break it. Dean’s the one that brought it into the car. The one who’s driving with a white-knuckled grip, who hauled you into the car once he was sure your stitches would hold, slammed the door without a word, and took off with only a glare through the rearview mirror. Your throat is too dry to speak, and he’d passed you a water, but he’d done that in silence as well. He’s not even turning on the radio to drown out your ragged breaths and the engine. 

That’s how you know this is the horrible, poisonous kind of silence. 

Dean’s fury is only still and quiet when it’s getting ready to burst. Like the air right before a storm. Electric and empty. Promising wreckage soon, but not now. Now is about the dread. Now is about watching Dean glare at the road, and trying to guess exactly what he’s going to say so you can keep your own footing when he explodes. 

There are too many options. You don’t even know why he’s that mad. It wasn’t a good hunt, but it was far from the worst. You’d gotten hit, but you’d made it out. There was a deep gash in your stomach, but Dean treated it quickly. Picked you up with barely a grunt, carried out to the car, and laid you down on the hood without a word. You’d whined a little as he a pushed your shirt up and disinfected the wound, but he grumbles more when you’re just treating his knuckles. And you hadn’t even said anything. The silence had already started to settle, everything had been painting in pain, and all your focus had gone into focusing on Dean.

His hands, skimming over your sides and resting on your abdomen for better stitch work. His attention, focused entirely on you, splayed out below him. It had been far too easy to pretend you were there just to be touched. That his hands were promises of more, and he was scanning over you not to see if you needed the hospital, but because he was trying to work out where he wanted to start. If he was going to kiss you fully and deeply, latch his mouth onto your breasts, or kiss down your stomach and between your thighs. 

So easy to pretend, when you couldn’t feel the silence choking you, too lost in warm hands on your hips and your heartbeat in your ears. 

But now silence is all there is. 

And it’s going to bury you alive. 

He won’t even look at you, when he parks the Impala at the bunker. You get a stiff hand to guide you out of the car, but he’s staring right over your head. 

It could not be about you. Maybe he’s just tired. He was out late last night, and he came back smelling like booze and flowers, and that was fine. Not your business what he does at night, even if he’d spent the whole day before grinning at you over diner tables and indulging in a long rant about your favorite book. Even if he’d held your hand, when you’d had a random breakdown only a night before.

Maybe that was it. Maybe you’d pushed the boundary of your friendship right up to the line, by crying in his arms. 

But you’d been choking on the air, and hadn’t asked him to hold you. He just had. He’d fallen to his knees and tugged you into his arms, stroking his hand through your hair and keeping you folded gently into his chest. 

“I- I’m sorry,” you’d whispered, still sniffing and clinging to his shirt like a child. “I’m just- ‘m tired, and I’m so- It feels so big.”

Dean had hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Big?”

“Yeah. All of it.” Your voice had dropped to barely a breath. “I- I don’t- It’s lonely. I’m alone.”

He’d pulled back, that odd expression back on his face. “You think you’re alone?”

You’d swallowed and nodded, and he’d sighed. Pressed a soft kiss to your brow, and pulled you a little closer to his chest. Another weak sob had torn through your body. 

But he hadn’t let you sit in it. 

Dean had muttered your name, his own voice filled with an odd strain you couldn’t quite place. “You’re not alone, you know. You got me.” He’d paused, then added, “and Sammy. We’re here.”

“Thanks.” You’d mumbled, and he’d let out a long, slow sigh. 

“Course. I- I’m here. Whenever you need.”

You’d fallen asleep there. In his arms. And then neither of you had spoken about it, and he’d gone out the next night like you didn’t need him next to you all the time. 

You did something wrong. You had to have done something wrong. Maybe it had been the breakdown. Maybe you’d stared at him a little too harshly, when he’d gotten back last night. You’d been able to taste your own bitterness, that someone else got to have him the way you dreamed about. It might have been tangible in the air, and now he was pissed at you for thinking you had any right over him or his heart. 

You didn’t.

You just love him, too much to ask anything of him, but also too much to not hate him for doing this to you. Making you love him, then fucking off. 

It could be something else. He passed you rubbing alcohol back at the house, to ease the pain of the stitches. Maybe you had said something. Maybe your head had been fuzzy, and Dean fingers had brushed the soft skin of your stomach, and you’d moaned. Maybe you’d been thinking about him touching you aloud. Maybe you’d done something without remembering, and now he was never going to look at you again-

“Woah.” Sam shoots to his feet as Dean half-carries you inside—why is he still helping you when he’s never going to look at you again—and gapes between you. “What the hell happened? I thought it was just a salt and burn-“

“It was.” You mutter, wincing as you start down the stairs, and a new, white-hot pain shoots through your body. “Strong ghost.”

“Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You give Sam a tight smile. “Nothing bad.”

Dean tenses around you, but still doesn’t speak. 

Sam notices. Of course he does. He knows, just as well as you, that Dean’s never this quiet. “You alright, Dean?”

He grunts, settling you down into one of the chairs, and Sam raises his brows at you. All you can do is shrug in return. But the motion makes spots cloud in your vision, and a high moan of pain escapes your throat. 

Dean shoots you a tight look, and when you try to stand up, he crowds over your body and glares down at you.

Sam clears his throat. “Dean-“

“I told you to wait for me.” 

You blink up at him, blocking almost all the light. He looks more like a shadow than a man right now, and you shouldn’t want him to come closer. To maybe drop over you and smother your body. His body is broad enough to take up your whole vision, and it’s all tensed muscle and a handsome glower, searing right over your skin and making the air almost hum.

This is the hunter monsters and demons fear, not the man who watches cartoon and movies with you, bringing you ice and wrapping you in soft blankets when you get cold.

Really, truly angry. 

With you.

“What?” You blink at him, trying not to feel dizzy—for the pain or his attention, you’re not sure—and his nostrils flare. 

“I said wait.” His words are pushed through his teeth, fist clenched at his side. “You told me you’d fuckin’ wait until I got off the phone to go inside.”

“I- I did-“

“No, you didn’t.”

“Dean, I-“

“You have to fucking listen to me.” His voice is rising, gaze narrowing, and you might start crying again. “When I tell you do something on a hunt, you goddamn do it-“

“I did do it!” You scream, but your voice is too high. Too weak. “You hung up! It’s not my fault you started fucking texting someone and didn’t follow me into the house-“

“I followed you! I always follow you-“

“Then why weren’t you there, Dean?” You hiss, and you can’t control it. He can’t just hold you one night, fuck off the next, then act like he cares when you know he was texting someone else. You did the job. And you did it alone, with nothing but creaking stairs and the wind. He doesn’t get to be pissed at you for that. He fucking doesn’t. 

And he’s gone still again, his gaze almost predatory. He can’t bite back. It’ll hurt you a lot more than anything you could do to him. 

“I went in after you hung up.” You snap, all the fight already starting to drain from your body. “You don’t get to be pissed about that when you’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

His jaw ticks, his voice dropping to something low. Dangerous. “You think I wasn’t paying attention?”

Sam clears his throat from the background. “Guys, maybe now isn’t the best time to-“

“You weren’t there.” You mutter, ignoring Sam, and Dean’s lips curl. 

“You weren’t there.” He sneers. “I looked up, you were gone, and when I find you again, you’re bleeding out on the fucking floor because you couldn’t listen-“

“So? I got the ghost-“

“You got hurt!” 

He’s shouting again. You don’t have it in you to shout back—your head is starting to swim, and if you try, the sting in your eyes will overflow and you’ll fall apart—so you just sigh, and give him a tired look. 

“It happens, Dean. You get hurt all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because you’re a big man? Because chicks dig scars?”

He scowls, grunting your name, but you push on. 

“At least they didn’t get my face, right? Nobody would want me if I got a big scar on my face. God, I’d be useless, wouldn’t I? I mean, it’s not like anyone wants me now-“

Dean’s face flashes with that odd expression again, and you’re going to cry again. You can feel it coming. Hear it in your voice, tight from the lump in your throat.

“Who could want a girl hunter, Dean? I should just follow your every order, shouldn’t I? It’s not like I can hunt alone. Go off alone. Go anywhere without you telling me what to do then dropping me the moment something better comes along? Right? You just want your fucking lapdog?”

Dean takes a step back, like he’s been hit. Just staring at you. And Sam’s frozen somewhere in the background, looking between you with wide eyes, and you can’t do this. Can’t cry in front on both of them. Not when you’re already so tired. 

You push up on shaking feet, and Dean lurches slightly. Takes a stuttering step forward, then freezes as you level him with a glare. 

“I’m going to bed.” You tell the air, not really caring if they hear.

Neither of them say anything. Dean doesn’t try to grab you, or chase after you to argue more. 

You wish he would. 

But the silence follows you down the hall, broken only by your door slamming behind you, and the sound of your own fractured sobs as you fall into the bed, alone. 

———

“Don’t.” 

Sammy sighed from somewhere behind Dean, and when he turned, the kid had his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything, Dean-“

“You were gonna.” He grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t wanna hear it. I know.”

Sam raised his brows. “Do you?”

“Sam-“

“No, Dean. Tell me what you think I was gonna say.”

Dean scowled. “That it’s my own damn fault she’s pissed at me.”

“And?”

“Shut your face-“

“Why?” Sam didn’t waver, and he was asking to get punched. “What else is there? I mean, if it’s your fault, that should be it, right?”

Dean’s scowl deepened. “I don’t know what they hell you’re trying to say-“

“Don’t you?”

A heavy lump was forming in Dean’s throat. He couldn’t do this not now. 

Not when he could still hear Her words, ringing his ears with every moment of silence. 

Not like anyone wants me now.

Dean wanted Her. 

More than anything. 

He could feel it in his chest, with how it glowed and swelled with light whenever She smiled at him. He could feel it over his skin, with how every other touch felt sickening when it wasn’t Her hands. It turned in his stomach when he kissed another woman, and told himself it was for the best. 

She deserved better. Everyone deserved better than Dean, but She more than anyone else. 

Sometimes, Dean would lean over a bar counter, and dream about Her getting out. Having that apple pie life with some normal, boring asshole who’d never let Her put herself into harms way, who’d know exactly what to do when She cried in his arms, who’d know how to say it.

The thing. 

He’s tried to tell Her, all the time. That when he walked, it was always because he was trying to march in some time to Her heartbeat. He cleared Her plates because he was there for Her. He paid attention to Her, knew Her, and tried to make her feel it like that. 

But he couldn’t even think it. That within itself felt like a curse. If he thought it, some angel or monster would hear and try to take Her away. And it wasn’t denial. He knew. Dean damn well knew why it lived behind his eyes, when he fucked some random chick and moaned the wrong name. Why there had been a broiling, cold, consuming wrath in his muscles, when he’d seen Her bleeding on the floor. Why part of him was shattered on the floor when She called Herself his lapdog. 

He was Her lapdog. He was the one who followed and waited for Her. Who, if She ever left him, would stare at door and wait at the foot of Her bed until she came back. 

And he’d fucked this. All on his own. He shouldn’t have been pissed, but She was right. He hadn’t been there. He’d gotten distracted trying to dismiss the girl from last night, because she didn’t get the one-night thing, and wasn’t deterred by Dean’s eyes been closed the whole time—even as he’d fucked her from behind—and the way he knew he’d groaned Her name when he came. 

Then She’d gotten hurt. Dean couldn’t afford to have Her hurt. He wasn’t worth much, but he knew how to be a shield. How to stand in the line of fire. 

And She’d still gotten hurt.

“You should talk to her-“

“No.” Dean grunted, ignoring Sam entirely. “She’ll get over it.”

She would. She was strong, and resilient, and-

Alone.

Her voice echoed in his again, right between the echoes of his steps in the hall. And he could see it. Her face flushed, cheeks shining with tears. He could feel Her in his arms, warm and soft and curved so damn well against his chest. She’d smelled like flowers. 

Sounds so fucking sad, when She’d said she was alone. 

Dean flopped down on his own bed, and stared at the ceiling. If he closed his eyes, he’d see the pale expression on Her face, and he just wanted to goddamn sleep. To wake up and be back at yesterday. He’d ignore the texts this time. She’d be safe, and—bonus—they wouldn’t be fighting. 

But he kept hearing it. 

Soft sobs that sounded an awful lot like Her’s. And he might be imagining them, but Her eyes and been glossy and Her voice had been strained. 

Alone.

Dean was more alone than She was. She could have him however She wanted, but he had to settle for placeholders that never fit Her shape. 

He couldn’t sleep. 

He kept seeing Her face. Hearing Her voice. 

A drink. 

A drink would help.

Dean shuffled down the hall, trying to keep as silent as possible—She needed the sleep, and he didn’t need another lecture from Sammy—and found the liquor cabinet already hanging open.

There was a whole bottle of vodka missing. 

Son of a bitch. 

He didn’t run. He wasn’t so pathetic as to sprint to Her room. But he did walk fast. She shouldn’t be drinking with fresh stitches, it would thin Her damn blood and make her recovery worse. He’d only given Her a little bit to ease the pain before, and it had barely taken a sip to make Her head loll back, eyes flutter, and body turn to putty below him. 

And Dean wasn’t a good man. He’d taken in the sight of Her—shirt riding up, relaxed and spread out on the hood of the Impala—and memorized it for later. For when She’d tuck Herself against his side on the couch, and he’d have to excuse himself to go chase relief in the bathroom. 

But now She was drinking. Because of Dean. And She was going to hurt herself even more, and he wasn’t a good man, and she deserved better, but- 

He raised his hand to knock on Her door, and it swung open.

She squinted up at him, lips in a pretty pout, and he swallowed. It was too quiet. He’d been planning to storm in and demand She just go to bed. Braced to take any of Her insults or fists pounding on his back as he tucked her in. The noise would keep the thought from his head. The one that meant he’d let Her goddamn shoot him, if it made Her happy. 

He hadn’t been ready for the silence. For how She was swaying slightly, Her hand drifting up to press on Dean’s chest with a small frown, shoving him lightly. 

“You’re here.” She mumbled, words already slightly slurring together. “Big.”

Dean blinked at Her. “Huh?”

“You’re big.” She took an unsteady step forward, and She’d touched him first. 

Dean let his arms shoot up to catch Her, and She giggled slightly, leaning Her head against his chest. 

“And strong.” Her fingers raised up, poking his chin. “Pretty.”

Jesus Christ. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

She snorted, rolling Her eyes. “So?”

“So, you’re injured-“

“You get drunk and injured all the time, Dean-“

“That’s-“

“Different?” She dropped Her voice to mock his, and pushed suddenly off his chest. “Shut up, if you’re just gonna yell at me again I’m not telling you my secret.”

“What secret- Shit-“ Dean lunged forward, grabbing Her before she could slam into the sharp corner of her dresser. “Slow down, baby-“

“Baby.” She hummed, hands suddenly grabbing Dean’s face and he swallowed. That was Her focus, analyzing face that She used in interrogations. A little dazed and soft from the drinking, but still sort of terrifying. Dizzying and scary and beautiful, keeping him frozen in place like She’d cast some sort of spell. “I’m not your baby, Dean.”

That drove right between his ribs. Damn near made him double over. But this wasn’t about him right now, so he choked on the broken sound of pain, and pushed on. 

“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry, just slipped-“

“Do you call them baby?”

He frowned. “I- Uh- Who?”

“Them.” She whispered, leaning against his chest. “The others.”

“Ba- Kid, I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Kid.” She scowled, and shit, even that was enchanting. “‘m not a kid.”

“I know-“

“Is that why it’s not me?” She asked softly. “Cause you think I’m a kid?”

Dean said Her name slowly, and he wasn’t sure when he’d grabbed Her hips. She wasn’t moving him away.

He’d take it. 

“I don’t think you’re a kid-“

“But you’re comin’ to tell not to drink.” She mumbled, Her face dropping fully against Dean’s chest. “And you don’t think I can hunt alone.”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself-“

“You don’t care.” 

Dean frowned. “Of course I care-“

“But you were mad.”

“I-“

“You don’t need to be here.” She muttered. “I’m not a kid. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Dean sighed Her name, and let his hand tangle in Her hair. “But I told you. You’re not alone.”

It felt right. Like where he was supposed to be, even if he knew he shouldn’t be allowed there. And She melted into him. 

Dean had been the one that hurt Her. She wasn’t his. 

But Her arms were wrapping around his neck, and she hummed softly, taking a deep breath, turning to bury Her face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

“You smell good.” Her words were half mumbled against Dean’s skin, lips brushing on his throat, and damn him, he wanted to stay here forever. 

“Thanks-“

“And I love you.” She whispered, voice drifting off as lighting hit Dean’s whole body.

She was drunk. She couldn’t meant it, she was drunk and tired and pissed at him-

“Sorry.” She breathed. “Love you.”

Dean held Her firm as She became a slack, dead weight in his arms. 

It was quiet again, save for the sound of Her breathing. 

The only sound in the world that mattered. 

It sounded sort of like hope. 

———

Your head doesn’t hurt as much as it should, when you wake up. There should be a migraine. A pounding pain, reminding you that you’d tried to drink away all your pain, only for it come knocking on your door right as you’d been ready to stumble and plead for it to keep hurting you. 

Because not only is there no pain, but you can remember everything so damn clearly. Talking yourself into chasing Dean, and seeing if he’d do you a favor and beat your heart a little further into the ground. Maybe you’d manage to salt the earth, and that would be the end of it. 

Deep down, you know it would only have bloomed again. It always does. 

But Dean fighting you more would’ve meant he cared enough to shout. He had cared enough to shout. 

And the details of him being in your room are a blur. There’s a feeling of warmth, and a phantom sensation of arms around your body, but all you can really remember is the ache. The hunger to have him, and the pain as you remembered you couldn’t. 

But you had. 

There’s a haze of being wrapped in him, and a low voice right in your ear, and the room spinning but around the same center of gravity. And he’d held you back. You’d grumbled and hit his chest, but he’d held you and put you to bed. 

Maybe put you to bed. You don’t remember getting in bed yourself. 

But you also don’t remember there being a heavy weight, on the other side of the mattress. 

“I know you’re awake,” Dean mutters, and your fingers curl into the sheets. 

He’s here. 

He’s still here. 

And you can remember a little more of what he said. What you said. 

You told him you love him. 

Aloud.

Fuck.

“You don’t have to get up.” Dean lets out a long breath, and you feel sort of sick. 

You’ve lost him. You’ve never even had him, but you lost him. This is the part you’ve dreaded from the moment you looked at him, and realized it really was never going to be better than this. Then Dean. Humming to himself and drumming on the wheel. Loud in a way that makes the rest of the world seem to quiet. That makes you want to make things louder to match him, rather than let him force himself to drag down. 

And he’s not going to ask you to leave. He would never. 

But he will turn you down. Tell you that he doesn’t do relationships, and it will be the end. Worse, he’ll say he doesn’t love you, but if you want something without stings, he can offer that. And you’ll take it. You’re weak, so you’ll take it. 

You hope he doesn’t offer it. You’ll overflow with love. It will start to weed, with nowhere else to go. 

Dean takes in a sharp breath, and you brace yourself for the blow. It’ll be better if you take it lying down. You don’t really want to look him in the eyes.

“You, uh-“ He clears his throat, the sound oddly tight. “You don’t have to get up. Or say anything. Just listen. Okay.”

You don’t answer, trying to breathe evenly through your nose, and Dean lets out a dry chuckle.

“Alright. I did say you didn’t have to talk, guess that’s on me. I- Uh- I’m sorry.”

Here it comes.

“Sorry for yelling at you, sweetheart. You’re never anything but good to me, and I know you weren’t trying to get yourself hurt. I just- Son of a bitch, I can’t lose you. Won’t survive it. I need you. More than damn near anything, I need you here, with me. And I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t leave. I’ll- Shit, I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t stay pissed at me, baby. Please.”

Oh.

You don’t know how to move or speak or react, because oh. That wasn’t an I don’t want you. Wasn’t an I don’t feel the same. 

It was an oh.

Dean coughs. “I, uh- I know I said you didn’t have to say anything, but it sorta- Can you say something? Even if it’s telling me to go to hell-“

“I don’t want you to go to hell.” You mumble, words muffled in your pillow. “And I’m not that pissed. I just- I can do things myself-“

“I know you can, sweetheart-“

“Do you?” You roll over, trying to give him a firm look, but it doesn’t work that well. 

The asshole can sit on your bed all night, and still be the most attractive man alive. It makes all the—albeit pretend—anger die within a few seconds. He looks desperate. Short hair messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. He’s in a thin, tight shirt, frowning at you like you’re the most important thing in the world. 

“I do.” He mutters, his voice rough in a way that rushes right into your core. “I promise I do, baby. I just- You looked so freakin’ small. You were in pain. And I-“

“Can’t lose me?” You finish for him, sitting fully up on the mattress, and he gives you a tight nod. “You could never lose me, Dean.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “In my experience, that’s not exactly something you get to decide.”

“Maybe.” You shrug, drawing your knees to your chest. “But they’d have to drag me away.”

He raises his brows. “They would.”

“Yeah. They would.”

Dean nods slowly, giving you that odd look, then clears his throat. “You sort of- You said a thing.”

Fuck. 

“I know.” 

You fidget with your fingers, trying to hold his gaze, but it’s hard. He looks sort of like a cornered animal. Making himself bigger while preparing to be kicked all the same. 

“Did you mean it?” Dean whispers, and you give him a tiny nod. “How long?”

“Two years.” 

“Son of a bitch.” He runs a hand over his face, giving you an almost exasperated look. “And you didn’t think to freakin’ say something-“

“You didn’t say anything! And you slept with- I- I know I don’t have a say in what you do, but-“ You swallow, trying to prevent your voice from getting too high and needy. “I’m not going to tell you when I think you don’t care, Dean.”

He sighs, grimacing slightly. “Yeah. Fair. Does it matter if I tell you I don’t- That they’re not the same? As you are?”

“Not the same?” 

“It’s not- I don’t care about it. With them.” He sighs. “With anyone but you.” 

“Oh. Okay.” You give him a small smile, and there’s a spark in your chest. It’s dangerous. It’s going to let you fall into this, even if it’s a lie, but you don’t think it is. 

With Dean looking at you like that, it couldn’t be.

“Okay?” He mutters, and you shrug. “Alright. Do you still- Y’know-“

“Love you?”

He nods, and you frown.

“Of course I still love you, Dean. It’s- I’ve put up with a lot more of your bullshit than this and still loved you. One fight isn’t changing that.”

He swallows, eyes wide on yours and voice to soft. “Can you say it again?”

You don’t have to ask what he means. “I love you, Dean.”

His throat bobs, and he leans slightly forward. You can see the dilation of his pupils. Watch the tip of his tongue, flick out over his lips.  

“Can I kiss you?” 

His voice is hoarse, you can almost feel the hunger in it. Written all over handsome features, mirror in your own hands curling on your knees and thighs pressing together. 

“Yeah.” 

There’s nothing else to say. 

Dean leans forward, wrapping a hand carefully around your neck and resting the other on your knee, then kisses you softly. Slowly. It’s already more than you know how to handle. His lips against yours, moving carefully as he angles your face back, finding a gentle, dizzying pace that already sends you into a high that’s better than anything before. His hand slowly dragging your knees down, letting him lay you flat onto the mattress as his tongue traces over your lips. 

He presses down lightly. Asking for permission, right as rough, calloused fingers brush your sides, and he settles between your legs. 

You open for him, letting out a soft sigh down his throat as he sucks on your lower lip, and it’s still soft, but something shifts. 

First it’s the kiss. Deeper. All the way into the mattress until you’re breathless, and his weight over your body somehow becomes not enough. You need to feel him. Feel more. Then his hand trails under your shirt, a knuckle brushing against your breast, and your back arches off the bed. Dean groans, his mouth starting to trail down to you neck—sucking tiny bruises as he kneads the skin of your waist—and when you moan his name, you can feel him. Hard, pressed right against your inner thigh. It just builds another, louder moan, and god, he knows what he’s doing. 

Just kisses, possessive marks and touches, are unraveling you in a second. And the shift is heat. There’s so much building heat, in every moan and wet sound of Dean’s lips on your neck, and he’s moved above you. Kissing the base of your throat, his bulge pressed right over your core, and you need more.

“Jesus,” Dean grunts, pushing on his forearms to scan over your face. “Baby, please don’t start a game you can’t finish.”

You blink up at him slowly. “What if I want to start?”

He swallows. “Don’t-“

“Do you want to start?”

Dean sighs, dropping his brow down to yours. “More than anything, baby.” He rolls his hips against you, grabbing your back and kissing the side of your head when you shiver from the feeling. “You got no idea, how bad- how much-“

“Can you show me?”

Dean stares at you, and you hold his gaze. You want it. More. All of it. Whatever he’ll give you, and if the blown out, starved expression on his face is any sort of promise, he’s going to give you a lot. 

“Yeah?” His voice is low, deeper than you’ve ever heard it, and you were already ruined. It’s a little unfair how just loving Dean ruined you. 

Touching him might remake you. Or wreck you all together. 

You’d really like to find out. 

So you grab his jaw, tugging him back to your level, and kiss him. Slow and long and fir, biting his lower lip and trying not melt when he groans. 

“Yeah.” You whisper against his lips. “You care about it? With me?”

He nods, trying to chase you when you lean back, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. 

“Prove it.”

It’s not a shift anymore. 

It’s a snap. 

Dean’s eyes darken. Narrow. His lips from a tight line, and he nods to himself. Like a challenge accepted. 

And he’s still so slow. Taunting. Pressing you back down into the mattress with a heated kiss, going and going until you’re breathless, hands roaming anywhere he can reach as you cling to his neck. One grabs your breast, palming if for a seconds before rolling a nipple between his thumbs, right as the other wraps around your hips and gives a tight squeeze to your ass. 

“Dean-“ You gasp, and he grunts, nipping your lower lip. “More- please-“

You start to tug on the hem of his shirt, and he rises up, ripping it off and tossing it away. But you barely get a second to reach up, let your hands wander the muscles panes of his chest or take in the virtual god towering over you—muttering your name, somehow muttering your name—before he’s tracing over your shirt, and raising his brows. 

“Take it off,” he grunts, and you’ve never listened to an order faster. 

The clothing flies off both your bodies, Dean’s hands both playing with your tits for barely a second before he’s yanking off his own underwear. 

And Jesus. 

Someone must have owed you a favor. 

He’s everything. Strong and firm, but soft too. Broad. And you’ve see him flexing as a joke, or when he fought hand to hand, but that’s nothing compared to the view of him shedding his pants, towering over you, and slowly starting to stroke his own cock as he holds your gaze. 

Even his dick looks sort of like art. Big and thick and heavy in his hand, standing proud, close enough for you to touch if you reach up.

“Hey.” He swats away your hand, shooting you a firm look. “I’m touching. You’re taking.”

You’re taking. 

Dean wants you to take. 

And you’d have to be insane to tell him no. 

“Okay.” You whisper, and he smirks down at you. 

“Good girl.”

Oh, god. Your thighs try to press together, but he shoves them apart. You’re still in your pants, but when he presses his palm over your pussy, there might as well have been nothing between you. Your hips jerk, and you try to grab his wrist, but he bats you away and starts to rub. Slow and firm, still beating his own cock as you fall apart for him from nothing.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” He moves his knuckle to press over your clit, and a high whine leaves your throat. “Gonna take what I give you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, trying to wiggle to get just a little more friction. “Dean, just- Why-“

He laughs at your high whine, his hand gone from your pussy and slowly starting to trail down your thigh. 

“Relax, baby girl,” he mutters, pulling your legs up into the air. “I’ve got you.”

You melt into the mattress, and nod weakly. He’s got you. 

Dean helps you out of your pants and underwear before kissing the inside of one ankle, then the other. He slowly starts to make his way up your legs, kissing every bit of skin he can find. Leaving a small bite on your knee before kissing it better, right as he grabs your hips, massaging his thumb in firm circles. 

Every breath starts to hitch, as he makes his way to your inner thighs. Another tiny bite, another wet kiss, then a heavy breath over your clit. A soft kiss. 

“Dean,” you moan, your whole body burning with need. “Dean, I-“

You squeak as he lands a sharp slap on your cunt. 

“Take it.” He grunts, teasing two fingers on your dripping pussy. “So fuckin’ wet- I’m taking care of you, right? Told you, baby, all you gotta do is settle down and take it.”

You nod, trying to lay back into the sheets, but it doesn’t last long. 

A loud, desperate moan leaves you as Dean dives between your legs, and you’re going to fly out of your skin. He’s good. So good. And you might be screaming that, as his tongue fucks in and out of your cunt, it’s impossible to hear yourself over the sound of Dean devouring you. His nose rubs your clit, the stubble of his beard burning your thighs, and when you scream something that’s probably his name, he groans right into your pussy. It vibrates through your whole body, sending you so high so fast, and he senses it. 

Dean starts to lick your clit, quick and small until you’re a bucking, moaning mess below him. Gasping for air as his forearm over your stomach pins you to the mattress, tugging his hair in a silent plea to come, then making a high noise as he groans again. 

Finally, his lips latch around you, and he sucks, tongue never ceasing its movement. 

Your orgasm hits you with fireworks and light, eyes rolling back in your head and body going limp, and Dean doesn’t stop until you’re floating down from the high. Then he kisses your hip, up your stomach, and pauses at your breasts. Takes one nipple into his mouth while playing the other between his fingers, switching the moment you start to grind below him, then kissing back up your chest. You get a wide, boyish grin for half a second, then his lips press back over yours. 

Demanding. 

Still so soft.

“Taste like heaven.” He mutters, and you hum, scratching at his shoulder. He chuckles. “Need more, baby girl?”

You nod, and he grunts. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. Haven’t fucked you yet. You’ve got some words for me in that big brain-”

“More.” You gasp. “More, Dean. You- Your cock. Need your cock. Please.”

He groans, kissing your deeper. “There she is. Good girl.”

You whine, and he pulls back slightly, giving you a small frown. 

“Protection-“

“Are you clean?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah, but-“

“Pill.” You mumble, spreading your legs. “If you’re okay, I- Please. Wanna feel you.”

Dean stares at you for a second, then crashes back down into you. This kiss is feral. Hungry and messy and teeth, only broken after Dean rolls you over his body.

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, slowly guides your down his chest, and raises your hips. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he helps you sink down onto his cock. Splits you open so gently, looking up with such awe as he rubs your thighs and lets you adjust. 

You’re full. So fucking full.

And you need more. 

You squeeze around him, rolling slightly and whining when he presses that spot deep inside you, and Dean groans your name.

“Shit- Take what you need, baby.” He grunts. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, nails digging into his chest, and start to ride Dean’s cock. It feels so good. Your clit rubs over your abdomen, all the noises in the world just the wet sound of his dick buried in your pussy, and every whine from your throat as you start to climb up again. 

Dean groans when you squeeze around him, head thrown back and fingers teasing over your nipples, but it’s still not enough.

“Dean,” you gasp, squirming over him as your legs start to burn. “I- I need you-“

He moans, hips jerking up, and takes over without another question. Firm hands grab your hips and start to bounce you on his cock, and all you can do is feel it. The dizzying high of Dean inside you, the warmth of him under your hands, the sounds from his chest rolling through your whole body until you’re hovering back on the edge. 

And he knows, before you can plead with him. That you still need more. Dean pushes up on one hand, crashing his mouth back against yours, and pins your down on his cock. You’re trapped against him as he starts to fuck up into you, hitting so deep in your body you might be seeing stars, every groan from his mouth into you like lightning through your blood. 

He’s close. You can sense it, in the way his movement are growing harsher. Hear in his every moan.

“Dean- Dean, I’m-“

“I know.” He growls, slamming against your g-spot with every thrust. “C’mon, baby. Cum for me.”

The coil in your gut snaps, and your mouth falls open as your vision goes white. It’s maybe the most powerful orgasm of your life, only doubled as Dean just keeps fucking you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and groaning your name as he paints your cunt white with his own release. 

He collapses with a groan, still slowly grinding up into your pussy, and you’re only still upright because of his hold on your hips. 

Dean’s thumb wanders slightly. Flicks over your clit, making you both moan as you spasm around him.

“Dean.” You grumble, and he grins up at you. 

“Sorry, baby.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah.” He laughs. “I’m not.”

He’s laughing. Grinning. Relaxed below you, and still sheathed inside you. Then Dean rises up, and you meet him halfway. Wrapping your arms around his neck as he kisses you, slow and deep, and slowly roles you under his body. You whimper when he pulls out, and he just softly kisses your neck. 

“Be right back.” He mutters, taking your hand and squeezing it gently. 

You hum, letting your eyes flutter closed as his weight vanishes over your body. This is a warm, comfortable silence. There’s no need to speak. You can feel Dean anyway. There’s a dip in the mattress and a kiss on your ankles, then a warm sensation between your thighs, as he cleans you up. 

“C’mon.” He mutters after a second, pulling you into his arms. “You gotta pee.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck, and when he sets you down on the toilet, you somehow manage to keep your brow pressed to his. Then it’s just even, easy breaths, gentle hands guiding you back to your bed, and Dean tucking you back against his chest. 

He’s holding you like you’re fragile. His voice in your ear is still soft. 

Nervous.

“Can I stay?” 

You nod, twisting in his arms to press your face back against his neck, and he sighs. 

“Are you-“

“‘m sure.” You mumble, wrapping your arms around his torso. “Love you. Want you here.”

His heart stumbles slightly. “Thanks.”

You hum, tangling your legs together, and he sighs, rubbing circles on your back as he shifts you comfortably in his arms. 

He mutters your name, soft in your ear. “I feel it too.”

You smile against his skin. “Okay.” 

“I- I just can’t-“

“Dean-“

“I’ve never- It’s not you, I just-“

“Dean.” You make your voice firm, leaning back to meet his gaze. “It’s okay. I know.”

And you do. You can see it now, in how he looks at you. See it before, as well, when you really look. In every blanket at ordered food and slower step. It might be there longer than you’ve loved him.

But it’s all the same, anyway. You’re still here. Whispering in the dark. Together. 

“You do?” He mutters, and you smile. 

“Yeah. I do.”

End Note: I don't like how my fyp knows how down bad i am for this man. If I get one more jackles Countdown shower scene, i'm gonna... write more horny stuff.

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[telephoniii]

Tying a ribbon around Leona's bicep

He stared at you with sharp, narrowed eyes. If you didn't know him so well, you might've melted under his gaze. This went on for a few more minutes before Leona let out as scoff, sitting up from where he laid. "Where'd that idea come from?"

You shrugged, scissors and a roll of pink ribbon in your hands.

"Watching you at Spelldrive practice?"

Leona let out a small chuckle at your answer, amusement clear in his gaze. He crossed his arms with a lazy grin. "And what do I get out of this?"

You should've expected the question given the fact that you go to NRC. Everyone here is always looking to get something for themselves. Nonetheless, the question still made you groan.

"My love and affection?" "Already got that, herbivore."

There wasn't much that you could offer that Leona didn't already have. With a disappointed sigh, you stand up and get ready to give up. Before you could walk away, Leona swiftly wraps his tail around your ankle.

"Hold it."

You pause at his command, shooting him a confused glance. His grin widens.

"Sit. I'll let you do it."

A small huff of resistance leaves your lips before you sit down. "So demanding..." You mumbled, causing Leona to raise a brow. "You wanna do it or not?" That caused you to rapidly nod your head, scooting closer to the beastman. He let out a laugh.

Leona stuck out his arm in front of your face before flexing. "Then get to tying."

And you did. Sitting up straighter, you grab the scissors and ribbon.

With how lazy he was, it was easy to forget just how strong he was. His bicep felt as hard as a rock, unmoving as he kept it flexed with ease. You ran your hands over the muscle, putting the ribbon over it. The pink color of the ribbon contrasted with the black ink that painted part of Leona's arm.

"You're really taking your time with this, huh?"

The familiar voice snapped you out of your daze. You blink up at him, a smile soon making its way onto your face. "Yep. Gotta milk the moment."

Leona shook his head with a smirk, entertained by your comment. "Go ahead. I'm not stopping you. Touch as much as your needy little heart desires."

A part of you hated how smug he sounded. A louder part of you loved it.

Measuring the ribbon, you soon cut it and began tying the bow. As you worked, you kept sneaking small glances at Leona. Of course, he caught on to you doing this but decided not to comment. Soon enough, you broke the silence yourself. "So... What're you trying to get by letting me do this?"

"Your love and affection." "You've already got that, dork."

He laughed, rolling his eyes. His tail moved to wrap around your thigh. "You'll find out once you're done."

The vague comment was irritating, but you were used to not getting direct answers out of him. That damn tease.

Soon enough, the ribbon was done. The small bow laid pretty against him arm. Leona stuck out his arm, observing your handiwork.

"Cute." He murmured. You nodded in agreement.

Leona flexed again, the ribbon straining on his bicep. Before you could stop yourself, you impulsively leaned forward and kissed the ribbon.

The beastman felt his heart flutter at your action but made an effort not to show it. The only signal was the small flicker of his ear.

"Alright, you've had your fun."

Suddenly, he flexed his arm harder. So hard that the ribbon snapped. Your eyes widened as a small whine escaped your throat. "Leona! All my hard work!"

He grabbed the now broken ribbon with a scoff. "Quit complaining. It's my turn."

Leona dragged you closer with his tail. His hands soon when to your thighs, measuring the size with the ribbon. The action caught you off guard. "Wait, are you gonna—?"

You were cut off by Leona swiftly cutting a new piece of ribbon from the roll, wrapping it around your thigh tightly. It wasn't tight enough to hurt of course, but it was tight.

His hands were gentle as they worked, lingering for a few moments. Although you wouldn't admit it, his bow was definitely more neat than yours.

Leona pulled away once he finished, taking in the sight. His eyes held absolute adoration as he stared at the ribbon he tied around your thigh. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the skin.

"I hate to say it, but you wear it better than me, herbivore."