#been looking for this damn thing for MONTHS

[musingsofheaven]

standford!art having a huge crush on the women's volleyball team captain with plump thighs, soft and curvy in all the best places who giggles and makes fun of his stuttering when he tries to talk to her and when he finally gets her in hes bed he doesnt even know what to do with all that 🍑😛

CAPTAIN’S ORDER

summary: Art just got dragged to watch the women’s volleyball team practice and he didn’t expect to see you. Didn’t expect to keep showing up like it wasn’t obvious. Keeps telling himself he’s just supporting the university, which is bullshit, because his eyes stay locked on your thighs every time you move. And when you look at him? Game over.

pairings: stanford!art donaldson x vball captain!reader

warnings: 13.9k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. cunnilingus. tongue fucking. creampie. cockwarming. dacryphilia. overstimulation. praise kink. breast play (sucking/groping). semi-public teasing. implied somnophilia. light d/s dynamic. read responsibly.

note: another ask that’s been sitting in my inbox for over a month but never forgotten. i hope this fic brings to life exactly what you were imagining when you sent it in, anon, because when art finally gets between reader’s thighs, he really does cry about it.

It starts with your thighs. Thick, strong, impossible not to stare at. He doesn’t even mean to stare. But it’s the kind that flexes when you move and bounces when you laugh. Most of the time, it’s half-visible beneath shorts that never quite stay put when you play. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He’s too tired to go… but his teammates are annoying as hell. So only came because the guys were going. Not because of you. Someone mentioned a late-night volleyball practice and the whole crew was already lacing up. He doesn’t even pay attention to what they are saying when they’re joking like idiots, half-bored and desperate for anything that wasn’t another silent evening in the dorms. Art just shrugged, and dragged himself along. He wasn’t expecting anything. He wasn’t even paying attention.

But then he walked into the gym and saw you. You were on the court, hand braced against your hip, and holding a volleyball like you weren’t even thinking about it. You are barking instructions to your teammates without raising your voice. The authority is there, and he can feel it in his spine. And don’t get started with the shirt you wore because it was damp at the collar, clinging to your lower back, sleeves shoved up past your elbows. Hair is fixed and tied with a scrunchie. Shorts are tight and snug across your hips, it’s hugging your body curves. Pacing along the court lines, pointing to each mistake your team makes, and calling formations like you own the whole goddamn space.

And maybe you did. That- that kind of person does not come easily to other people. Authoritative. Leading. Intimidating. Confident. You didn’t look like you were trying to be impressive. It’s not like he feels threatened, no… he feels like he’s been enchanted, honestly. You weren’t showing off to those eyes who are watching you. Just moving with the kind of natural authority that made it impossible not to watch. Even when you smiled, it was focused- half-distracted, half-mocking. Like you had bigger things on your mind than being stared at. Like you knew they were there and didn’t give a shit. Maybe you don’t, but it doesn’t stop people from watching you. Then you dropped low into a crouch and called for a set, Art thought he might actually forget how to breathe. Or he might have seen God and gone to heaven. Your legs coiled under you, tense and clean and perfect, then released as you sprang up and swung. Damn, look at that… The sound of your spike echoing sharply against the gym walls.

He was already sitting by then- front row of the bleachers with a Gatorade bottle loose in his hand that was warm by now. His hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, still slightly damp from his own practice- but he hadn’t even registered the feeling of it in his skin. He didn’t remember walking over. It’s like the last thing he can remember is being at the tennis court and now he’s in the gym watching you. Didn’t hear whatever dumb thing the guy next to him said. All he could do was watch. Like target locked. He’s like Cupid who can’t let go of someone until he gets them.

He thinks he’s going crazy because he can’t even form clear thoughts when you turn. Jogged a few steps. Adjust your shorts with one hand, your shirt with the other. Glanced up. Just once. Just briefly. But it’s enough to scan the bleachers where half the tennis team sat slouched in their t-shirts, hoodies, or whatever they are wearing, and yeah don’t forget the backward caps as if they’re pretending not to ogle. Your gaze passed right over them- right over him- without slowing. You didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge a single one of them. But okay, you might stare a little at that blonde boy who looks like he just pissed his pants. His flushed cheeks that can pass like someone slapped him. Cute.

It literally took him three seconds from squashing the bottle he’s holding when he gets a glimpse of you turning your head to their side. You hadn’t even looked at him directly. Might not have seen him at all. Well, that’s what he thought. But it didn’t matter. He could already feel the image sinking under his skin- especially the curve of your ass jiggle when you jump, and the way your thighs moved when you walked back into position. He saved and locked the whole thing into memory like it’s his storage which has a lot of space for it. Just for you. You can’t really blame him, right? He’s just a guy! He’s blonde and maybe he’s also a little dumb when it comes to girls. And… he’s just admiring, that’s all. You have a good… thick… thighs… big… ass… of course, he will appreciate them.

From watching your practice because his teammates forced him turned into a pattern. A routine. It was just supposed to be one time thing, just him sitting there with the guys, pretending he didn’t care, pretending you didn’t fuck him up a little and make a mark in his mind. But then it happened again. And again. A few days later, he just happened to be walking past the gym after eating outside the campus. The next week, he quickly finished his workout at the gym and the doors were open. Eventually, he just started going. Not with the guys. Not with anyone. Just him. Alone in the bleachers. Always in hoodies. He’s just quiet. Just watching the team. He told himself it was nothing. It was relaxing. At some point, it is because it’s not his own practice being watched on, but others. Well, that’s almost the reason. That he liked the pace of the drills, the echo of sneakers on hardwood, the slap of their hands on the ball. He liked studying athletes outside his sport. Which was bullshit. He knows he’s not fooling anyone but himself. Because all he really did was track you on the court. He doesn’t give a fuck about other girls in the court.

Eyes just stuck on you. The way you moved. The way you drink your water. The way you stood when you weren’t thinking about it- hip cocked, one leg bent, hands loose at your sides. The way you glare at your teammates when they do something stupid for multiple times in a row. The way your shorts never quite stayed put when you called plays. The way your shirt clings to your body when you are sweaty. You always looked a little flushed. A little shiny from the sweat. Your thighs flex when bent a little as you wait for the ball. Your ass shifted when you turned. And he watched. Silently. Obsessively. Dumb as hell about it. It’s like he’s having a massive crush on you. He didn’t think anyone noticed. But they did. They just walk up to gang him up and ask why he’s always here. But maybe they notice his attention is always on their captain- always looking at you.

It actually started with small things. One of the middle blockers nudges you during the water break, muttering something under her breath, and both of you snickering behind your bottles. Another girl glanced toward the bleachers while they stretched. The new recruit smirked as you spiked, yelling “someone’s watchingggg you.” And you- you said nothing. Of course you didn’t. You don’t have time for guys. Until one night, when practice was ending, and he was still sitting there, hands folded over his knee, pretending to scroll on his phone even though the screen was black.

You walked straight over him. He looked up too fast when he saw you were already halfway to him. Hair sweaty. Face glowing like a glazed donut. Breath was a little uneven from the last round of drills you did with the girls. Shirt clinging to your back, and shorts hugging every inch of your ass. You looked confident. Effortless. Beautiful. Sexy. Hot. He would suck the shit out of your thighs and bite your ass if you gave him the chance. Because how can he not when you are curvy in the best places he can imagine? It’s proportioned just right. Like it really fits you. You are a girl who knows how to carry it with confidence. He must be in heaven right now because you just stopped in front of him with your hands on your hips and your eyebrows are slightly raised like you are asking him something he doesn’t know. He blinked like he was buffering. He’s thanking all the gods existing for this moment brought to his feet. Thank you. Thank. You.

“I know you,” you said. Your tone is casual. He blinked, too stunned to say anything other than a “Huh?” Why are you talking to him? He’s not prepared. He’s not mentally ready! He looks like shit. It’s not like he doesn’t want you here… but it’s just surprising. He didn’t actually think he would face you like this. “You’re a player too,” you added and cocking your head like you were already teasing him. “I-uh. Tennis,” he stuttered, nodding too fast. You chuckle. God, it was unfair how easy it sounded. “Thought I recognized you. You’ve been watching practice for days, right?”

He hesitated. Maybe it’s been weeks already but you are just being a kid by just saying days as if he only watches you for three days and not longer. “No-I mean-I just happened to be” He can’t even form a proper sentence and he’s stuttering like a fucking kid who’s in front of his whole class for the first time. “Mmhm.” You took a half-step closer. “You’re cute when you lie.” His face burned. Oh, shit. Please, is he already blushing just because you said he’s cute? Anyone, save him.

He dropped his eyes to your shoes like they could save him. You smiled like you’d already won. “You coming next week?” He nodded. Then panicked. “I mean- if you don’t mind.” Saying this only to make him not look like he’s too eager to come next week and see you again. “I don’t,” you said. “See you, tennis boy.” After making him stutter and blush you just walk back to your team with the same confident sway he’d been watching for two weeks straight- only now he had permission.

Oh, boy and then it happened… after that interaction, you started wearing the tighter shorts. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just a subtle shift- fabric that clung a little closer, hem that sat a little higher, waistband that hugged your hips just right. They were still athletic, still comfortable, still your best pair to move in. But they moved differently. They rode up when you crouched. Bunched when you served.

Showed more of your thighs when you paced. And every time you reached for the ball cart, it felt like just a little more of your ass peeked out than it should’ve. The girls didn’t care. It was off-season, half the team was showing skin, and you were all just trying to survive the sweat. But when they noticed you tugging the waistband up before warmups? When they caught you adjusting the tightest pair right before water breaks? That’s when the comments started.

“Shorts getting smaller?”

“He’s already looking, babe.”

“Make it bounce. Just once.”

And maybe you did. Not for them. Not even to be mean. But because he kept showing up. Quiet. Hoodied. Alone. Sitting in the same spot near the front with his knees apart, fingers clenched around a bottle he never drank from, eyes locked to the court like he wasn’t even aware he was staring.

He thought he was subtle. He wasn’t. You started watching for it- those little flickers of panic when your eyes met his, the way he’d immediately drop his gaze, sometimes all the way to the floor, sometimes straight to your legs like it made things worse. The flush on his neck gave him away every time. It would rise slowly, just under his jaw, spreading red until his ears burned and he had to shift in his seat like that would make it go away.

You never called him out for it but you turned in his direction just to see if he was still there. And every time? He was. He didn’t say a word. But he kept showing up. Watching like he couldn’t help it. Like the way your ass bounced when you landed a jump set was going to kill him slowly. And you let him. Every single night. Because if he wanted to look? You were going to give him something to remember. And the worst part was, you knew. You always did every time he came to the practices. And now? Now it’s over.

You’d won the whole thing- the NCAA championship, the final match, the fucking moment-and campus feels like it’s glowing. The house is packed, music shaking the walls, and the rest of your team is already half-drunk. Everything smells like sweat and sugar and noise. And he’s here, too. Of course he is. It’s not hard to spot him. He’s just in the corner with someone else, maybe his friends or his teammates, not that it matters.

He’s holding the red cup with alcohol in it, and he’s in his typical hoodie that covers his neck like it’s calming his nerves. Legs spread too wide for your liking and it’s definitely taking up much space for someone who doesn’t want to get noticed. Curls are damp and a little flattened at his forehead which have not fully dried off after he showered. Just staying there and he hasn’t moved in a while ever since he sat down. Just sips from his drink and watches the crowd like he’s still on the sidelines.

But his eyes keep coming back to you. Every time you laugh. Every time your medal catches the light. Every time you raise your arms and your shirt lifts a little- he’s looking. And then he’s not. But you know he is. So you take your time getting there. You weave through people slowly, nodding, laughing, swaying with the music until you’re close enough that your thighs brush his knee when you stop. You lean one shoulder against the couch arm beside him and look down like you didn’t plan it.

“You hiding?” you ask. His eyes snap up, wide. His cup dips slightly in his hand. “No- just, um. Sitting,” he says. His voice is soft. Almost careful. “Congrats. You were… insane tonight.” Your lips twitch. “Yeah?” He nods. Quick. A little nervous. “Yeah. I mean-you always are. But tonight-yeah.” You let your smile show. Slow. Knowing. “You watched?”

“Of course.”

“Cute.”

His gaze drops to his drink like it might help. You don’t move. Just let the music thump around you while the silence between you gets heavier. His cup shifts in his hands. His fingers tap once against the rim. “God you are drunk already, aren’t you?” you tease him. Smirk on your face and lashes flutter as you look at him. “I’m not drunk.” You laugh softly. “You are.” He doesn’t argue again. Just looking at you. Really look this time. You’re still flushed from the win, still glowing, your legs pressed close to his, your medal glinting against your chest. You don’t say anything else. You just let it hang there- like you’re giving him space to figure out what he wants to do about it.

He doesn’t move. You do. You don’t wait. You don’t ask. Don’t hesitate. Don’t even give him time to shift his cup out of the way. You just move in one slow, easy motion, medal tapping against your chest as you drop straight into his lap like it’s the most obvious seat in the room. The couch dips hard. His breath stutters. And then he just… freezes. One hand was still holding his drink. The other stiff against his thigh. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares straight ahead like he can’t trust his own body. You’re warm in his lap. Solid. Real. Pressed against him in a way that feels permanent.

Your back settles comfortably to his chest as if you've done this before, like you just have your own seat on his lap. Like you belong there. Like he belongs to you. He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes bounce from your shoulder to your hand to the empty space across the room like maybe it’ll swallow him. But his neck is already flushed. His jaw’s tight. The tension under his hoodie is so loud to the point you can feel it vibrate straight into your system.

And then someone sees you. “OH MY GOD!” one of your teammates screams across the room, slapping another girl’s arm. “She actually sat on him,” another gasps, fake shocked. “You’re so done for, babe,” a third adds, giggling as they start crossing the room like sharks smelling blood. You don’t look at them. You don’t even blink. Instead, you press a little closer, leaning back against his chest just enough that your hips shift in his lap, and lift your drink to your mouth with a lazy smile.

“Hey,” you call out casually, waving over someone you know near the edge of the couch, “did you see that last point? Setter almost tripped over me.” They laugh, sliding into the conversation like nothing’s burning beneath you. You keep your voice light. Breathless. Like sitting on Art Donaldson’s lap in front of ten people is just another end-of-season ritual. “Oh my god, yeah,” someone else chimes in, “you looked pissed.”

“I was,” you hum, grinning as you take another sip. “They would’ve blamed me if it went out. And I’m the one carrying the whole backline, apparently.” The girls laugh again. One of them crouches next to the couch just to whisper, “Is he breathing?” loud enough that you know he can hear it. You still don’t flinch. Instead, mid-laugh, you slide your hand down and take his free one gently from his thigh- like it’s just been waiting and place it directly onto yours. His palm lands warm on your skin. Just above the knee. You leave it there.

He twitches, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. But you keep talking. Smiling. Turning your head to the conversation without moving anything else. His hand stays. And god, the way he’s holding his breath? Like it might all vanish if he shifts too hard. Like one wrong move might wake him up. But this is real. You’re glowing. He’s still not going anywhere. The conversation doesn’t stop. Someone’s halfway through retelling a point from the second set-badly- while another girl keeps waving her drink for emphasis, sloshing liquid over her hand with every exaggerated detail. Everything is loud, flushed, and breathless. Post-championship high. But in that corner of the couch, you’re still pressed into his lap, drink in hand, posture easy like you’re not doing anything at all. Like this is just comfort. Like his thighs weren’t tensed under you from the second you sat down.

You keep your smile soft, eyes tracking the group in front of you, nodding along like you’re listening. But your weight shifts slightly- just enough to adjust your seat, just enough to reposition the hem of your shorts, just enough that your hips roll forward in the smallest, slowest arc over his lap. It could pass for nothing. It probably does. No one flinches. No one calls it out. You’re laughing at something someone says across the couch, your drink raised, your medal still cold against your chest. You look relaxed. Still glowing. But under you, his body reacts like he’s been struck. He stiffens. Breath stutters. His hand tightens just slightly on your thigh- barely there, more instinct than decision and you feel it. The way his legs shift. The way his jaw clenches. The way his eyes flick downward like looking anywhere else might help.

It doesn’t. So you do it again. Another soft shift. Another innocent adjustment. Another drag of pressure that’s barely anything-but still enough to make his cup tilt in his grip. You glance down, watching his knuckles go pale where he grips the rim. Then you lean in. Not dramatically. Just enough. Your head dips toward his like you’re reacting to something someone said, like you’re about to whisper a joke. Your mouth grazes the shell of his ear. And without looking at him, without breaking rhythm, you murmur: “I can feel how hard you are, you know.” Soft. Easy. Like it’s a fact.

And before he can even begin to answer, you’re smiling again. Turning slightly, laughing at something across the couch, like nothing happened. You take another sip from your cup. Your free hand presses lightly against his thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your own skin, grounding the heat between you like you don’t even notice it. But he does. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. You feel the tension ripple through him- contained, barely managed, and absolutely wrecked. You can feel the way his fingers twitch on your leg as he lays them there to rest.

His breath is shallow like he’s trying to keep himself together like a puzzle piece. You don’t have to say another word. Not really because you don’t need to. His body says everything for him. You couldn’t leave early. Of course not. You were the captain. You had speeches to give. Teammates to hug. People to thank and photos to smile through and drinks to toast. You had to carry the trophy into the second location and take ten thousand blurry selfies and act like your legs weren’t already tired from the five-set match and hours of celebration.

But he waited. Quiet. Patient. Still buzzing from the way you’d whispered in his ear like it’s some secret he needs to keep. Still hard beneath the waistband of his jeans long after you stood up from his lap and vanished into the crowd. He didn’t follow you. Didn’t ask. Just watched you walk away with your medal still swinging and your voice echoing in his head like you’d dropped a match into his lungs. He waited until the lights were low and the house started emptying. Until someone tossed him a bottle of water and a spare sweatshirt and told him to “get out of there before you combust.”

Now he’s here. On his knees. Face buried between your thighs like he’s praying. His hands grip the back of your legs as if it’s the only thing keeping him motivated to be here. And you’re still wearing his goddamn hoodie he gave you in the middle of the party because of your soaked shirt. You’re still wearing the medal. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. And his mouth is slow. Careful. Worshipful. Like this is a favor you’re letting him perform. Like he’s just lucky to be allowed here between your thighs, under your fingers, lips dragging wet across your skin as he licks and kisses and breathes you in like this is the win he’s been chasing all year. You let your head fall back against the pillows. Fingers curling in his hair. He groans low when you pull quietly, desperate, like he loves it and you feel it all the way through you.

You haven’t said a word since you let him in. You didn’t have to. He’s now where he wants to be and he’s been dreaming of this moment ever since he saw you the first time. He waited. Through the noise, the bodies, the championship high that kept everyone buzzing long after the final whistle. Through photos and toasts and too many sticky drinks, through the sweat clinging to your skin and the way your shirt had started to turn see-through beneath the lights-clinging where it shouldn’t, sheer enough to show everything beneath. You hadn’t noticed. You were still laughing, flushed and sparkling from the win, from the way everyone was looking at you like you’d won it alone.

He noticed. He always noticed. He was still quiet, still sitting off to the side like he didn’t want to take up space, but he got brave, just once. Pulled his hoodie off over his head, walked over without meeting your eyes, and held it out like a peace offering. “You look cold,” he mumbled, even though you didn’t. Even though he was the one shivering. You took it anyway. Slipped it over your shoulders, your sticky shirt bunched underneath, the sleeves falling past your hands. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. The look you gave him- tired and soft and knowing. It was more than enough. It stayed with him all night.

And now you’re in his dorm. Your back against his pillows, his hoodie still on, legs bare and spread over the sheets like you’ve always belonged here. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. Your hair’s a mess. There’s a fading smudge of glitter near your collarbone from someone else’s celebration. He’s on his knees in front of you, his eyes wide- beautiful blue eyes gazing up to you with full adoration behind them. He can’t believe this is happening, that you are here, perfect and real.

Because he can't, not really. Sure, he imagined what the possible things could happen when you’re in front of him but this isn’t part of it. He definitely has fantasized how about having you, to touch you, to have you in his bed, to press his lips on your thighs. And now you are open and waiting for him with that big smile of yours like this isn’t breaking the shit out of him. Like this is not a big deal. Didn’t even know where the fuck he should begin with all of this. There’s so much of you. So much thigh. So much curve. Your ass spilling over the edge of the mattress when you shift, soft and devastating. He doesn’t speak. Just moves closer. Places both hands on your legs and strokes slowly, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

Then he leans in. Presses a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Then a third, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s trying to prove he deserves this- every inch, every breath, every second of it. You sigh, tilting your hips slightly toward him. “Hey,” you murmur, lazy, playful, and voice curling under the low hum of the dorm fan. “You good down there?” He looks up, dazed. Swallows. “I just…” He shakes his head, almost laughs, eyes dropping again to your legs spread in front of him. “I don’t even know what to do with all of you.” You smile. Really smile. It’s a little smug. A little sweet. You lean back further, stretching out in his hoodie, your medal glinting faintly against the fabric. “Then take your time,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.” And neither is he.

He still hasn’t touched your panties. Not really. Not yet. If someone asks him how he’s doing, his answer will be 50-50. He will be the happiest man in the world right now, but he’s also the one who’s so fucked up and going spiraling inside. Why? Because he’s been kneeling between your thighs and just staring like he’s processing all of this before he touches and tastes you for the first time. His hands are warm and shaking when he moves them slowly towards your thighs, tracing their flesh and curve as if he’s memorizing the feeling and the shape of them in his palms. Both of his hands move to squish and squeeze it once… feeling and testing the water first. Then again, nails digging a little into the flesh and both of them gripping your thighs fully like he doesn’t want to let go.

There are no words that can be found in his mouth. Eyes not looking up at you, he just keeps kneading and gently stroking the softest parts of them, where no one gets to touch unless you let them. His thumb slides up inside your inner thighs, and it’s close enough where you want him to touch you. When he exhales, it’s shaky as if he’s getting triggered by just holding your thighs. Then came the kisses. They’re soft at first. Careful. Barely there. Just slow presses of his lips along the edge of your thigh, then a little higher, then lower again. He’s not trying to tease you. He’s not playing a game. He’s just trying to understand you through touch. Through taste. He doesn’t want to take it because he’s scared to take it so fast, and it will be gone in the blink of an eye.

You watch him as you lean back slightly while being propped on your elbows. Didn’t even notice how the fabric of your panties got a wet patch in the middle and is clinging more to your cunt with a sticky feeling. But it’s frustrating because he still doesn’t touch you. He just keeps kissing your thighs, your hips, and the very tops where skin gets soft and sensitive, his mouth dragging slowly and softly like he’s praying. You thread your fingers through his curls. Tug gently. Tilt his face just a little closer to where you want him. And he moans. Not loud. Not for anyone but you. Just a low, helpless sound against your skin that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach pull tight.

You wait a beat. Let him breathe. Then, sweet and quiet: “You like my thighs, baby?” He stills. You feel it- every inch of him freezing for just a moment, like he forgot how to answer. His breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t even take off his lips off your thigh when he nods. So afraid to let go when he doesn’t even get all of the taste he can get. His voice is low and a little cracked when he speaks, like he’s thinking of many possible responses he can give to you, but this is the only one he can give and probably enough: “Yeah. Fuck. I- yeah.”

That made you smile. Can’t help it. You tilt your hips just a little closer to his face and let your knees fall wider. “Thought so.” He hums like he might fall apart. Kisses your thigh again, slower this time, then noses gently against the edge of your panties, still not pulling them aside. His hands move up to your hips, holding them steady, like you are the only thing grounding him right now. You’re still wearing his hoodie. He’s still on his knees. And he hasn’t even tasted you yet. But god- he already looks wrecked. He doesn’t move until you let him.

You let him take his time kneeling between your thighs, and his lips drag slowly along your skin. You just let him even though his breath is warm and uneven. You let him even though he’s almost breaking himself by just doing this slowly just to ground himself and not get so lost in it. You let him hold your hip with his hand while the other one is grazing his thumb on your outer thigh. You let him even though what you want is for him just to eat your pussy out. You’re still in your panties- thin, soaked, and clinging- and he’s close enough to feel everything but hasn’t touched the center of you yet. Not really. Not until you say so.

When he finally looks up, he’s flushed. Eyes wide. Jaw slack. He doesn’t speak, but you feel that he’s asking. Needing. Like he wants it so bad it hurts, but he’s still too careful to assume. You nod. Just a little. Your fingers slip into his curls, light and gentle, and you guide his head forward- not forceful, not rushed, just there. Letting him know. “Go ahead, baby,” you say quietly. “I want you to.” That’s the key to open the gates, and the floods flood in quickly.

He takes a breath before he leans in. The mouth found the fabric first, lips parted, and moved against the soaked panties. Tongue dragging flat and licking it softly and slowly like he doesn’t care if there’s a barrier or not. He can taste you still. He doesn’t push. Don't bite. He exhales like he’s smelling the scent of you, and this is making you feel a little shy even though you are a confident person. He’s making your knees weak by just doing that through the fabric. God, you even feel the way his hand tightens in your skin, the way it presses deeper in the flesh. You feel it in the way his moan rumbles low and soft into your heat, his mouth working a little more intentionally now- open kisses, wet and steady, dragging through your folds beneath the fabric.

It’s not perfect. It’s not practiced. But it’s hungry. It’s real. He licks again, slower this time. Tongue flat, broad, and firm. Then again. Each one a little deeper, more sure. And when he starts sucking softly through the fabric, you tug his hair just enough to make his eyes flutter closed. “That’s it,” you murmur, voice low. “Right there.” You’re not teasing. Not guiding out of pity. You’re just showing him what you like, but you are showing him what he’s doing right. Because he is. And you want him to know it.

He moans quietly against it and even grunts there like the sound came straight from his abdomen, and you can feel how it vibrates right and straight to your pussy. It makes your breath catch with just that action he made. Hips rolled instinctively, and he likes the way it’s benefiting him that you grind into his mouth because he can taste more of you; it also means you feel good, and he’s going to enjoy it more, which he shows by pressing his tongue harder, dragging his lips, and burying his face deeper like this is the most important thing in the world. He doesn’t ask for more. But he’s aching for it. Still licking you through your panties, sloppy and slow and completely gone for it- hands gripping, thighs flexed, body trembling just slightly from how long he’s been holding himself together- he looks like a mess. And you haven’t even let him take them off yet.

He’s not as gentle anymore. Still slow, still careful, but there’s something deeper in the way he moves now- like need is starting to win out over hesitation. His mouth presses harder. His tongue drags with more weight. Each kiss sinks lower, each stroke of his tongue lingers longer, and when you shift under him, hips rocking just slightly into his face, he moans like it hurts. It’s all through the fabric- your panties wet, clinging, soaked with how long he’s been teasing, but it doesn’t stop him. If anything, it makes him greedier. Hungrier. He licks right through it, like he wants to memorize your heat before he’s ever allowed to feel it bare.

And then he finds it. Right there- your clit, swollen and sensitive under the thin cotton and the second he locks his mouth around it, everything gets hotter. He doesn’t rush. He just sucks. Open-mouthed and slow, the fabric darkening with every breath, his lips wet and shaky as he pulls soft sounds from you without ever touching skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s trying to hold you steady, keep you right there, and keep himself from going insane. You arch your back for him. You whimper but barely audibly. And then he pulls back. Just a little. Just enough. But his mouth is still parted. His lips look shiny, and his breathing is unsteady, with his pupils blown widely like he’s love-struck by it. “Can I?” he asks, voice raw, barely there. “Please?”

You don’t speak. Hands just reach down gently, and you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties to drag the wet panties slowly to the side. Hold it there for him. The second you do, he exhales like it’s a relief. Like gratitude because he’s been waiting for this moment- to lean in, to part his mouth against it, to lick it directly without any fabric from it. He’s not teasing; he just continues what he’s doing- licking and sucking your pussy. He doesn’t even care if the fabric is just pulled aside; his hands still come up. It’s steady and soft when he brushes yours to push them from holding your panties.

He didn’t even second-guess or hesitate to do it; he just did. He replaces your grip with his own to hold your panties now. Fingers slip beneath the band like it’s some instinct he has over you. Didn’t even yank or fumble over it. He just takes over gently, like this is something to be careful with. Something he should do, not you. And it shows in how he holds it tightly and how his thumb is tucked against your hips and how his knuckles graze your skin when he leans in. The look in his eyes is low, and it even rolled behind when he dragged his tongue in full length to your pussy lips in one slow stroke. That one is not slick or sloppy, nor is it hurried, but it’s deep and intentional to be like that. It’s a continuous movement that starts from the bottom end, and it doesn’t stop until his tongue reaches your clit, and he doesn’t tease you.

He carefully licks and enjoys the moment like he’s trying to understand and learn how you taste and feel in his mouth. The sounds released against your cunt are barely audible; it’s a quiet groan, but it vibrates through your body, and he does it again when he notices that you reacted when he does that. It doesn’t take long before he gives another slow stroke of his tongue, thicker and firmer this time, before it flattens and spreads each pass of it from the base up to the clit. The other hand settles on your thigh, and fingers that hold you are grounding him as he eats you deeper, like pulling him away will be more of a fight than just pushing his head out there.

He keeps holding your panties to the side. His grip is firm now, not letting them slip even as his tongue moves in long, languid motions- up and down, again and again as if he wants to open you with his mouth alone. His nose nudges your clit, and he doesn’t even flinch. He leans into it. Stay there. Letting the pace be guided by how your hips move, your breath hitches and catches, and the way your thighs can’t help but close around his head without your control. And he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses in closer. He’s not licking anymore. His tongue is fucking you now, steadily thrusting it beyond the slit and inside of you, which makes your body twitch.

He’s not messy with what he’s doing; he’s gentle and doing it softly, which makes you want to cry because all you want is for him to eat you like he’s hungry for it. But there’s an appeal to how controlled the pressure he’s doing is, how each stroke drags through the slick like he’s syncing his body to yours. His grip tightens around the panties he’s holding to the side while his other hand remains on your thigh to keep your legs open before he guides it to his shoulder and you let him without any hesitation. You also did the same to your other leg so you can wrap it around him. Locking him in place where he belongs, and you are sure he likes it in the way he groans when your ankles cross behind his back.

The sound is low and deep as if he's been suppressing it ever since he latched his mouth there. His tongue thrusting slowly, rolling it, and focusing on getting it deeper if that’s even possible. Your hips roll up to meet it, fingers tangled in his hair, breath breaking against your lips, and you can feel the heat climbing fast now, climbing hard. It’s too good. Too much. You can’t stay quiet. “God, baby…” You breathe, one hand sliding down to cradle the back of his head. “You’re really doing that, huh?” He moans into you, deeper this time, and it shakes through your core. You feel it all the way down. You let out a soft laugh, breathless and messy, and your voice dips low as your thighs pull him closer. “Using your tongue like it’s your cock,” you murmur, lifting your hips right into his face. “Is that what you wanted?” Your fingers tighten. “Wanted to fuck me like this?”

Another thrust of his tongue, firmer this time, slower. You gasp. Try again. “Do you feel how wet I am for you?” He can’t answer. He doesn’t even try. He just groans- long and drawn out and devoted- and keeps going. His tongue sinks deeper, mouth dragging, face flushed and buried, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re open for him, shaking under him, and he just keeps fucking you- tongue pushing in, lips catching on your clit, hands gripping tighter now, holding you open like he needs to feel you fall apart around his mouth. His hips rock subtly into the mattress, like even his body can’t take it anymore, like he’s getting off just from the sounds you make. And still- he doesn’t stop. He holds your panties aside with a hand that’s almost trembling, rubs softly against his sheets, and fucks you with his tongue like he’d die if you told him to stop. Thighs start to squeeze his head instinctively, body responding to how he’s thrusting and moving his tongue in your cunt; he also does it fast. Switching from shoving inside and sucking it.

You like how steady his mouth is and how devoted he is to what he’s doing and how fucking real this feels now. Sounds were released and made by him when you do it, not because he’s overwhelmed but because this is exactly what he wanted. He’s proving that with how his fingers dig into your hips to keep you down in place while his tongue is still licking, slower now, deeper at your entrance. And then he sucks. Not a tease. Not a pass. A full suction. Lips sealed around your pussyhole, tongue still inside you, sucking like he’s trying to pull you open, like he wants to drink from the source.

His moan breaks against you, low and guttural, and it doesn’t stop. His mouth stays right there, sealed and locked and obsessed with the heat and taste of you, the wet swell of your hole fluttering against his tongue. You can’t even breathe- you just stare down at him, mouth open, chest rising fast, and he keeps sucking you like your pussy’s the only thing he’s ever needed. His tongue pushes deeper while his lips pull back- just enough to draw again- soft, wet suction, like he’s kissing your hole, like he’s trying to inhale it. He breathes through his nose, desperate and steady, jaw moving as he tongue- fucks you in rhythm with the sucking, like this is how he wants to get you off. Mouth full of your hole. Tongue buried. His whole face was soaking in it.

“Oh my god- fuck… right there- don’t stop-” Your words don’t even sound like words anymore. Your thighs lock tighter. He shifts to fit better beneath them, tilts his head to stay sealed against you, sucking, sucking, sucking, the pressure tender but unrelenting, and every time his tongue strokes in deeper, your walls flutter around him and he moans like he feels it in his cock. He’s not even thinking anymore. Just sucking your pussyhole like he belongs there. Like he wants to taste you to come. Like he wants to swallow it.

And when it happens- when you start to shake, when your hands tighten in his hair, when your body starts to give- he doesn’t pull back. He sucks harder. Because that’s his reward. And he’s starving. You don’t mean to beg, not really- but it slips out anyway. Breathless, cracked, barely a whisper between gasps. “Don’t stop, baby. Please, don’t stop.” And he doesn’t. Not when you sound like that. Not when you’re pulling him tighter with your thighs like you’d drag him inside if you could.

He groans the second he hears it- low and deep, like something inside him breaks- and seals his mouth tighter over your pussyhole, lips locking around your entrance, tongue still pushing slow and deep inside you like he’s trying to fuck you open with his mouth alone. It’s not messy, it’s not hurried- it’s focused. Hungry. Every movement exact, every kiss purposeful, every slow suck like he’s trying to drink the orgasm out of you.

And then it happens. Your body starts to give in, hips stuttering against his face, hands fisting in his hair, and thighs trembling so tight around his head. He moans into it again- louder this time, like he’s grateful. Your pussy pulses around his tongue, and he just stays there, still sucking your hole through it, slow and deep and perfect. He wants to feel every twitch with his whole mouth. Your breath catches. Your muscles tighten. You feel yourself fall apart around his tongue, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t ease up. He just stays locked in place, licking and sucking through every flutter of your cunt like he’s not finished until you’re empty. You breathe out something like a laugh, ruined and shaking, head falling back against the pillow as your thighs slowly loosen around him. “You’re going to kill me,” you whisper.

He groans again; it’s low and desperate before he sucks your pussyhole one more time. Like he’s still not full. He almost looks disappointed when he pulls back because he doesn’t speak at all. His breathing is hard, his face is flushed, his lips are wet, his gaze looks like he’s lost before he stands up with all of that, and his hair is a little damp, and he’s just there on the edge of the bed like he’s not sure what to do next. But when you nod at him, he starts taking off his shirt, and his sweats are shoved down to the floor along with his boxers in them. Cock sprang out at the action, and it’s already flushed and soaked at the tip. It’s hard and looks painful because it’s so red and leaking. You managed to pull your panties away from your body, and he took a deep breath at the sight.

He climbs to the bed without saying anything, and his hands cage your body, hovering over you with his shallow breathing. Legs automatically parted for him without even thinking, just welcoming and ready. He leans forward slowly, not guiding himself inside yet and not pushing. He is just lining up and letting the thick, leaking head of his cock drag through the mess he made of you. Not fucking. Not teasing. Just pressing himself along your slit like he needs the friction just to stay alive.

His hips rock gently, slow and unsteady, and his cock slides wetly between your folds- bare, deliberate glides that catch on your clit just enough to make him shiver. He didn’t even look at you; he just buried his face in your neck the moment his cock made contact with your pussy. Breath hot against your skin, and his voice could pass as a whisper, how low or shy he sounds when he’s fucked up and speaking through the strain stuck in his throat. “Fuck- I don’t- I can’t… this is-”

He doesn’t finish. Just hides there, panting, letting the length of his cock rub again and again against your pussy like he’s afraid to go further, like this alone might undo him. You feel the tip drag up over your clit and down again, slick and thick and so careful, like he’s savoring every inch of pressure he gets without fully slipping inside. You smile into his hair, fingers running down his back, soft and slow, as you press your lips to his temple. “You feel so good,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “You’re okay, baby.”

He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a moan, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he needs to hide from how much he feels. His cock drags down again- thick and hot and heavy- grinding softly against your clit until your breath hitches. “You’re shy now?” You tease, you say gently, still breathless, still smiling. “After everything you just did to me?” He laughs, but it’s ruined- broken into your neck, quiet and trembling- and he just keeps moving. Not pushing in. Not yet. Just rubbing slowly, back and forth, dragging the head through your folds like he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be this close. Like, this is the whole thing. Like you’re already enough.

And all you can do is hold him. Let him rut into your cunt like you’re his first and last. Let him feel it. Because he’s not fucking yet. He’s falling. You shift under him, just enough to let your hips tilt and your thighs open wider, guiding him in closer with the softest squeeze of your legs. His cock slides through your slickness as if it belongs there, thick and hot and already flushed deep, the tip catching at your entrance before gliding back up to your clit again- slow, shaky, almost desperate. Breath shaky against your skin, warm and making you shiver. Your neck could feel how he’s shaking and the way his arms get tense on either side of your body like he’s holding back from being fucked up completely.

“Put it in,” you tell him, commanding even. Your lips brushed against his ear when you told him that. “I want you.” But he doesn’t move. Not in the way you expect. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t look at you. He just thrusts forward again, dragging himself through your folds like he can’t stop, like he’s too far gone to do anything else. His face stays hidden in your neck, lips parted, breath catching as his cock glides through your slick with slow, shaky pressure.

“I-I can’t,” he whispers, and it breaks right out of him, raw and low. “Your thighs…” He grunts against your skin with his hips twitching and the head of his cock sliding between your wet slit every time he rocks forward, but it’s slower this time. He’s trying to feel every skin and shape with each thrust while his whole body trembles above you, yet he still keeps going. He keeps rubbing his cock between your folds, enjoying the press and drag again and again.

“They’re so soft,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You’re so warm- I can’t think- fuck, you feel too good…” Each glide is heavier than the last. His cock pulses every time he passes over your clit, and still, he doesn’t lift his head. He just stays there, breath stuttering, mouth hot against your throat as he keeps rutting into you like your thighs are going to make him come. But he feels overwhelmed and flushed over you regardless of how he stays still but loses and goes crazy about how you feel.

“Just- just a little more,” he says, but it’s not really towards you but to himself, as if he’s trying to justify how his cock keeps chasing the friction you can give to him. “Just… like this. Just a little longer…” You can feel it- the way his cock slips and stutters along your entrance, how your pussy clenches around nothing with every pass, and how his whole body’s begging for you to pull him in. But he won’t do it until you ask again. Or until you guide him. Because right now? He’s too deep in it. Too shy to look at you. Too obsessed with your thighs. Too gone to stop.

He keeps rutting between your folds, cock dragging slowly and soaked through your slick, trembling above you like he’s trying so hard to stay composed, but his body’s already begging. His breath breaks into your skin, face still tucked into your neck like he can’t look at you, like he’s too shy to see what he’s doing to you. The tip of his cock catches against your clit and then slides down again, dragging over your entrance in a slow, sticky glide that makes you ache- and still, he doesn’t push in. He just keeps rocking, lost, murmuring into your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Feels so good… I can’t- fuck your thighs- your pussy is so…” It’s too much for him. So you help. You reach between your bodies without saying anything; your hand is steady and slow before your fingers wrap around the base of his cock. You feel him twitch and shudder the second you make contact with it, and there’s also a breathless gasp muffled into your shoulder while you guide him down. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just be careful. Sweet. Like you’re lining up a child’s spoon to their mouth. Like he needs help eating.

“Shhh,” you whisper, hand soft over his cock, guiding the head back to your entrance. “Let me, baby. I’ve got you,” he whined. He buries deeper into your neck, one hand fisting the sheets, the other slipping under your back like he’s holding on for dear life. And when your pussy flutters as the tip of his cock finally nests right against you, ready to sink in, that’s when you feel everything in him falter.

“You don’t have to think,” you murmur, rocking your hips up just slightly to help. “Just let me do it for you.” He nods. It’s tiny and slow, and he follows your hand. And then he pushes. Just an inch. Then another. That made him moan. Loud, desperate, shaking. The sound breaks into your throat, echoing into your skin like he’s never felt anything like it before, like it’s too much, like you’re too much, like being inside you might kill him.

But you just hold him there. Your hand was still wrapped around the base of his cock, and your other arm was around his back. Keeping him close as his body sinks slowly into yours like this is how he learns what love feels like. And when he bottoms out, trembling and silent, stuffed full into the wet heat of you. Then you feel him fall apart- without moving.

Just shaking, moaning, hiding, and finally… finally inside. He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried as deep as he can go. His cock is thick and warm and pulsing inside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to fit somewhere like this. His face is hidden in your neck with his breath shaking, skin damp. The rest of his body feels like it’s trying to remember how to exist. He isn’t tense- he’s soft all over, like just being inside you has taken something out of him. You hold the back of his head as his hips stay still. His full weight is against you as his chest presses to yours, and you don’t rush him. You just let him feel it and let him just take his moment there.

“You did so good,” you praise him like your breath almost catches. You make sure your voice sounds soft against his ear with your hand still cradling him like he’s some precious diamond that might fall apart and break if you stopped holding him. “You’re doing so good, baby.” He exhales like it hurts to hear that. A sound low in his throat, muffled by your skin, but real. His fingers push deeper to the point his nails dig into your waist, but not painfully enough to leave a bruise, just enough to grip you like you are the only one grounding him. You could feel the tremble run through his system before he said something again.

“Thank you,” he mutters before repeating the same words again and again like he can’t just stop himself, “Thank you- f-fuck, thank you-” Your lips touch his hair and hum while you let him keep hiding there. Let him fall apart gently, slowly, and all the way inside you. He’s so deep. You can feel every twitch of his cock that makes your breath catch, but he’s still not moving- just holding. Just staying. And when your hips shift up ever so slightly, when your walls flutter around him from just the weight of it, he moans. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s helpless.

“Feels good, baby?” you ask him. It’s like you are rocking him in your arms, the way your words are warm and slow. When he nods, it makes you smile, and it’s so endearing how he still presses into your throat like he’s not ready to do that yet because he might cum quickly. “So good,” he whispers. “You’re so warm. I didn’t know- I didn’t know it could feel like this.” He starts to move. Not much. Just a slow roll of his hips, the tiniest drag of his cock inside you, but it’s enough to make both of you gasp. He does it again, just a little deeper, and you tighten your arm around him like he’s about to slip through you.

“That’s it,” you murmur. “You’re doing so well. You feel so good inside me, baby.” He breathes something that isn’t even a word- just a noise, a broken sound caught halfway between a moan and a prayer- and rocks into you again. Slow. Careful. So present it aches. And still, he thanks you. “Thank you,” he murmurs again. “I want to make you feel good. I just want to make you come. I just want to be good.”

“You are,” you assure him, brushing your lips against his temple. “You are. You’re so good. You’re perfect, baby.” He makes another sound into your neck, and it’s almost a sob but soft. Grateful. His cock pulses as he starts to move a little more, hips finding rhythm, but it’s slow and shallow, like he wants to make love to you with every inch he has.

And the whole time, you hold him like he’s yours. Because he is. The moment you let him inside your world, you consider him yours. You know he’s not just fucking and pushing his cock inside of you. You know he’s thanking you for letting him be here, and it’s not hard to pick up by the way he’s acting. He figured out how you like the rhythm, and he has this attitude where he wants to please people, so he wants to match it. There’s something gentle in the way he moves. It’s still restricted because, you know, he’s shy in the way you can feel it, like he’s not certain if he’s allowed to want you this much as he does. His hips rolled, and he thrust smoothly and deeply. You can feel each stroke of his cock; it’s enough to make your back arch into him and moan your lungs out to show him that you like it.

He responded with the way he holds you, like he’s asking for something, but not with words. With his whole body. With the way he keeps you wrapped up. The way he trembles. He doesn’t pull back to look at you. He stays close, mouth brushing your cheek, breath caught in his throat as he starts to move a little deeper. His cock slowly thrusts inside of you. You can feel its thickness and size filling you up, and you can feel it every time he pushes it inside. His voice is shaky and low. “Does that feel good?” And then he asks another, but it’s barely louder than a breath. Thankfully, you are skin to skin, so you heard it: “Am I doing it right?” You gasp, clenching around him, hands sliding down his back to hold him closer, and you nod into his skin as you whisper,

“Yes, baby. So good. You fuck me so good.” That breaks something open in him. It’s like your praises are fucking him up but not in a loud way. It shows the way his hips stutter every time he hears it, as your words land exactly and hit what he wants to hear. His cock goes deeper, if that’s even possible, but it kisses your cervix because the angle is just right. It earns a low groan from him before he thrusts another again and repeats what he did. One of his hands remains beneath your lower back while the other is resting at your waist. Both hands holding you gently and firmly at the same time to anchor himself to your body.

“S-shit. You’re so tight,” he mutters when he feels you clench around him, and he doesn’t even care if he doesn’t sound in control anymore. “Feels like you’re pulling me in.” It’s obvious how he’s trying hard to keep everything under control and slow, to make everything last, and how he wants to stay in the moment. Every thrust is deep, full, and intentional. There’s no rush. Just this overwhelming need to stay connected, to do it right, to make you feel everything he’s too shy to say out loud. He lets out a shaky breath, and then- “Can I go a little harder?” It comes out hesitant, like he’s asking permission for something he already aches for.

He doesn’t move until you give it. “Yes, baby,” you breathe, tilting your hips for him. “Take what you need. I’ve got you.” He moans into your skin and starts again, but this time with a little more pressure behind each thrust of his hips. Not fast. Not rough. But with more rhythm and not sloppy. His cock pushes in and out of you with steady movements before he kisses your jaw down to your neck like he’s dreaming and can’t believe that you let him do this. “I love how you feel- p-please- mhngh-” he moans out softly even though he’s not really starting yet, and his words feel dreamy. “I love being inside you. I love how you wrap around me…”

How he moans, how he breaks, how he twitches, and how his movements stutter just drive you to purposely squeeze him tighter just to earn another sound from him, and his body even reacts. He’s so fucked out already, and you don’t even care at this point if you will cum or not because just watching the way he thrusts, the way his breath catches, and the way his cock stays inside like he never wants to leave is enough for you just to get pleasure out of it.

You can even feel how close he’s getting, but he’s still holding it. There’s already tension bubbling through his stomach and the shake that traveled down to his thighs, and how his hips twitch when your pussy grips around him. But he doesn’t let go. Not yet. Not until you tell him. Because even now, even while he’s fucking you perfectly, filling you completely, thrusting deep and soft and full like he’s learning what devotion feels like, he still needs your voice to carry him through.

He continues to rock and move inside you. His hips rolling with a slow but focused rhythm and his cock dragging deeper with each roll of his hips. It’s like his cock has already imprinted the shape of him inside of your pussy by now, and he certainly knows your body now too. He’s hitting the right angle, how to press it right, and how to stay deep like he’s cock-warming from your pussy for a few moments before he pulls out and pushes again. And you moan just from the stretch alone he’s giving you. Warm breath stays against your throat, and arms hold you carefully as his pace gets faster and heavier.

Then he pulls back a little, just enough to see you better. His eyes flick down, lips parted like he’s been thinking about it this whole time, and his hands slip to the front of the hoodie still wrapped around your body. His hoodie. It’s yanked up halfway and damp with sweat, and he can see how your shirt underneath is still clinging to your skin. Lips found your jaw as his hands pushed up the hoodie from your body more, and it exposed the shape of your body underneath. He takes his time with it and doesn’t rush even though he’s already inside of you. It’s like taking it off his intimate area and resting his cock there in your pussy.

It doesn’t take long before his fingers find the hem of your shirt after your hoodie. He pushes it up too, but inch by inch until it’s bunched above your bra and shows the swell of your chest. He also slides that up too, just enough to let go of your chest and show your nipples to him. His palms cup your tits while he continues to fuck you. And when he sees them- when his thumbs brush over your nipples, and your back arches into his touch- he groans. “God, fuck- look at you…” His voice is unsteady and cracking.

His head lowers, and his mouth is warm against your chest, just hovering above it while he’s still inside of you and still moving. Besides your thighs and ass, your tits are also the ones that always caught his attention, so he’s not forgetting about them today, of course. So he drags his hips forward and deeper and pulls out just enough until it reaches close to the head of his cock while he gropes your tits like he’s been dreaming about it. Hands are big and a little clumsy because of the eagerness to touch them, but he’s also starved for it, so his thumbs keep brushing back and forth. His fingers are curling and gripping under the swell as he continues squeezing it softly like a stress ball, and he wants to feel every part of you in every way he can.

His cock doesn’t stop moving inside of you; he keeps thrusting and pressing, but the difference is he’s watching you now. Eyes on your breasts and how they bounce with every roll of his hips. He likes the way your lips part or how you bite your bottom lip. And he loves the way your legs wrap around his body to pull him deeper and lock him in. “You’re perfect,” he compliments you, voice low but obviously sounding like he’s already pussy-whipped. “So fucking perfect,” he adds before he leans in again and his mouth latches onto your right chest. His tongue licks softly around your breast before he starts sucking your nipple and licking it as he does so. Each suckling earns a groan from him, and it's also because of how your pussy clenches more around him when he starts doing that. And even then- even inside you, even shaking- his hands stay soft.

Because he’s not just fucking you. He’s worshipping. And he wants all of you in his hands. He continues moving inside of you, liking how deliciously his cock drags deep with each thrust and how his mouth is hot on your nipple and wrapped around it like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. Hips rolling with focused and steady movements, and each thrust was thick and heavy. It presses right into your cervix while everything about what he’s doing feels careful… gentle… attentive… grateful. He’s the kind of boy who knows how to fuck but still puts the person’s pleasure above his and still listens with his whole body, and right now? He’s waiting for you to tell him he’s doing it right.

And then it happens. One thrust lands just a little harder, hips catching the curve of your ass at just the right angle, and the sound it makes- wet and full and sharp- claps. It echoes. He freezes. Just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting it to sound that loud. Like he didn’t realize how noisy it could be. And then your pussy clenches around him- tight and needy- and your ass jiggles against his hips as he rocks back in..His breath breaks on your neck. And then he groans. “Oh my god-” And he does it again. Another thrust. Deeper. Harder. Just to hear that sound again. Clap. Clap. Clap. The slap of skin-on-skin, the way your ass bounces into him with every push- it wrecks him.

He starts moving faster, hips snapping forward with a rhythm that’s still tender but filthy underneath, all guided by the sound of your body against his. “Fuck- your ass- shit- it’s so- god-” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just moans into your chest and keeps fucking you, deep and steady, and clap clap clap with every stroke, the rhythm filling the room like he’s addicted to it. His hands slide down to grab the curve of it now, fingers digging in, guiding you into him, watching the way it moves, feeling the way your pussy pulls him in tighter with every sound.

“Feels so good- feels so fucking good- you’re so soft- can’t stop- want to keep watching it- please-” He’s moaning into your skin now, sucking at your tits between each thrust, fucking you harder but still holding you like you’re precious. Like you’re his. His cock presses deep and thick inside you, your body bouncing into his hips over and over, the wet slap making his hips twitch like it’s too much and still not enough. “Thank you- thank you- your pussy’s so warm- I don’t want to come yet- I’m trying- fuck- I’m trying to be good-” And he is. Even now- slamming into you harder with every clap of your ass, breath breaking against your collarbone- he’s still trying to hold back. Still waiting. Still need you to say it’s okay. Because he won’t come until you tell him to. Because you own him now.

Hands travel up to his chest without thinking; it’s warm and steady. Your hand stays there while the other rests on his jaw, and fingers curl around his jaw while his hips move deep. Wet skin slapping against each other echoes in the room, and you guide his face up until his eyes meet yours. He looks completely fucked out when you take a look at him; his eyes are glassy, his lips are parted, and his brows are knit closely as if he’s going to cry because you hold him like that. He’s still moving inside you, slow but hard, cock dragging deep as his breath catches, hips twitching like he’s trying not to fall apart with every thrust. “I-” he gasps, voice already breaking. “I need it… I need your pussy… please…” It’s barely a sentence. Just a tangle of want and panic slipping past his lips like he thinks you might take it away.

And it doesn’t even make sense- he’s already inside you, fucking you so deep your toes curl, the clap of his hips against your ass echoing through the room- but he still asks like he hasn’t earned it. Like he needs permission to feel this good. You tighten your grip on his face, cradling his jaw with both hands, not rough- just firm, grounding. Like you’re keeping him here. Like you want him to feel it. “You’ve got it, baby,” you whisper, voice warm, steady, and made for him. “You’re inside me. You’ve been inside me this whole time.” His eyes flutter shut while he shudders at your words. It took him some moments before he looked at you again, eyes so beautiful and blue, wide, and lashes standing out, the corner of his eyes tearing a little, and he looked like he was not even in the moment and so gone.

Thrust grows faster, deeper, and heavier. His hips snap into your body with a deeper rhythm of his movement. It’s like your words trigger something and unlock the reason for him to let go. It’s not like this with other girls; he’s not this messy. He’s not the one being fucked up. But when it comes to you, he couldn’t just help to press closer and mouth your jaw like he’s some kind of person who’s afraid of distance. Hands grips your hips tighter to keep himself together, but he’s not succeeding with that plan either. “I love your pussy,” he dumbly says, not even realizing what he’s saying. “I love how it feels- I love how it holds me- I don’t want to stop- please let me-” His words got cut off with a whine when you shut him up with a kiss, and it’s slow and deep. Lips sliding together as your thighs wrap tighter around his waist to suffocate and make him closer to you.

You rock up to welcome and meet each thrust he’s doing. His whole body is shaking and trembling now, but you enjoy every thrust he gives because it’s making your pussy flutter even more, and you clench so tight that his cock can barely breathe. He’s pulling back enough so he can rest his forehead against yours. He can’t even form a proper sentence with the way his breath is hitching and voice is shaking: “Please… I’m gonna come. I can’t- I can’t hold it- can I come inside? Please- please tell me I can…” And he means it. Not just the words. Not just the ask. He’s eager for your permission, and it shows in the way he says it and looks at you while he begs. He’s asking for trust. For you. And you owe him.

Your hands are still on his face, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes as his hips move, slow but firm, cock dragging deep with every thrust like he’s scared to stop. His face is hot and red, soaked with sweat, and his eyes are closing from the pleasure, but it still looks like he’s pleading for something. He’s completely gone. You know he’s closer than before because his hips falter and get more sloppy, and his grip on your body tightens like he needs something to hold. His moans soften and break into little sounds that make you crazy inside when you feel his hot breath on your neck and hear it so close.

Pussy squeezes and clenches around him. It’s tight and unintentional; it goes quickly to his system, and he gasps, hips jerking, and cock twitches deep inside your cunt. Eyes open quickly and find yours again. It’s teary, wide, and desperate. That made you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before you spoke against it. The voice sounded so sweet and tender, teasing him. “Inside or outside, baby?” The question is messing with his head. He takes a deep breath like it hurts just to think which option is the best, but pulling out and busting it in your stomach is the option he likes the least.

He nods even though the question does not require a yes or no answer; his body shudders, and he’s literally a wreck, like he’s about to cry when he starts speaking, “Inside. Please. Inside- please, please.” Your smile is soft, nearly cruel in how sweet it sounds when you murmur back, “You want a creampie, baby?” And that’s all it takes. He whines into your skin, shuddering as his hips stutter, cock throbbing at the edge. Forehead pressed to yours when his head falls forward like he needs to make contact and can’t hold himself together unless he feels you right there keeping him from fucking up more. “Please let me- please- I want to come inside- I want to feel it- I want to fill you up.”

“Are you going to come for me?” you whisper, voice just above a breath. “Gonna fill me up just like that?” He nods again- frantic now, voice trembling as he moans against your mouth. “I need to- fuck- please- I’m trying- I need you-” And you don’t make him wait. You wrap your legs tighter around him, pull him closer, your lips right against his ear as you breathe it out. “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.” And he does. Right then. His whole body jerks, hips slamming forward as his cock throbs inside you, thick spurts spilling deep, soaking you with everything he’s been holding in. He moans into your neck, long and low, shaking as he presses as deep as he can go, whispering over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you-” You don’t even realize you’re close until his voice breaks again. Until he whispers ‘Thank you’, like it’s all he knows how to say, his cock throbbing deep inside you, hips stuttering like he’s holding back tears.

And then it crashes all at once- the tight clench of your pussy around him, the ache deep in your belly, your thighs locked around his hips as your orgasm gushes out of you, hard and wet and so full. His voice barely held together. His body was trembling. Your pussy clenches around him as he comes so hard he whimpers. And still- he doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t stop kissing your cheek, your jaw, or your shoulder. Because you let him have it. Because he asked and you said yes. Because he’ll never want anything else again. He gasps like you just pulled the air out of his lungs, crying out as his cock jerks inside you, spurting hard, filling you, pushing so deep it feels like he’s trying to live inside your body.

And then he collapses. Not away. Not off. But forward. Into you. Face buried between your tits before he groans. His breath is warm against it, and his lips are parted and wet like he’s drooling as he stays there like it’s a safe haven. “Thank you,” he whines, his voice sounding so small and his breath shaking when he says that. “Thank you- fuck- thank you.” You cradle his head gently, your fingers running through his damp curls, your body still fluttering around him as he keeps thrusting- small, slow, aftershock rolls, messy and deep and needy. And then his lips find your nipple again. He sucks. Slow. Soft. Like a baby. Like he needs it. Like it soothes him. His mouth wraps around you, tongue moving gently, cock still twitching inside you, still leaking into your cunt while he moans low and broken.

“Feels so good,” he whispers against your skin, suckling like he can’t stop. “You feel so good- so warm- I don’t want to leave-” His hips rock forward again- shallow, weak little thrusts- as more comes spilling out of him, slippery and wet between your thighs, your bodies pressed so close there’s no space left for anything else. Just his mouth on your tits. His cock is still inside you. His voice said thank you like you saved his life.

And you did. Maybe at some point you do, but God, he feels so blessed right now. His hips continue to move and keep thrusting through it even if it's slowly, weakly, and sloppily. He just doesn’t know how to stop because his cock keeps pulsing before he gives one last slam of his cock inside before he can feel it thick, hot, and pull and settle inside. It feels good and makes your clench and clit pulse. His breath stutters against your chest before he slows down. The pace falters. The tension in his thighs gives way. His moans soften into sighs.

And he drops. Full weight. Skin to skin. Still inside. His body settles into yours like he’s finally come home. Like he belongs there. His chest presses to your breasts, sticky and flushed, his cheek against your skin, and he doesn’t move. Except his mouth. He keeps sucking your nipple- soft now, slower, not even for arousal anymore. Just comfort. Just closeness. Lips parting around you like he’s calmed by the shape of your chest in his mouth, and you just let his tongue brush lazily on your skin. Let his cock twitch and soften while he’s buried inside. Let him, even if it’s heavy, thick, warm, and wet from the mixed cum from both of you.

He groans quietly, like he knows he should pull out but can’t. “Don’t- don’t make me leave,” he murmurs, voice thick and dazed, breath spreading across your chest. “Wanna stay right here…” You hum and pet through his hair, your fingers gentle along the nape of his neck, and he melts. All over again. Just drips down into you like he’s yours now. Like he always was. He shifts once- barely- just to press his body closer, thighs flush against yours, sticky warmth seeping between you where he came so hard it spilled out. “Feels so good,” he whispers. “Feels so safe. Just let me… just like this…” And his mouth stays there. Still suckling like you’re his. Still there inside of you, just cock-warming, and he’s acting like he can’t bear to pull out.

So you let him, and you stroke his hair while his breathing starts to calm down and slow. You could feel the tension ease from his shoulders, system, arms, spine, and whole body. He slowly sinks into yours, naked and warm. Liking the way you both warm each other and how he stays inside you even though it’s softened now, thick and heavy and resting where he emptied himself, warm come leaking around him, between your thighs, seeping into the sheets- but he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try. Just continuing to suckle at your nipple despite his mouth slackening a little, but he feels more hungry. His mouth parted softly, and it lulled him deeper into your chest like it’s not even about sex anymore.

It’s about comfort. About staying. About being allowed to have this. You feel him sigh against your skin- long and low- and then he mumbles something that barely makes it past your skin. “Don’t move… I want to sleep like this…” You smile into his hair, wrapping your arms tighter around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Okay,” you whisper. “Stay right here, baby. I’ve got you.” He hums contentedly, dazed, so sweetly tired. His mouth doesn’t move and stays in the same place. It’s latched gently while his cock also rests inside of you despite how it’s softening because he loves having you around him like it belongs there.

He also feels a sense of possessiveness as he does this because he feels like you were made to keep him warm. And he falls asleep like that. Breathing against your chest. Held in your arms. Loved in the deepest, wettest, and fullest way. Still inside. Still touching. Still yours. You close your eyes, one hand stroking his back, the other holding his head to your breast, and let him rest. Because you know. He’s not going anywhere. He can’t. Because you’re his home now. And he never wants to leave.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[sevikasbbymama]

i’m constantly thinking about repressed, scientist wife!reader/councilor!sevika.

(drabble, 18+ NSFW, minors + men DNI!)

——————

she meets you at a gala, one of the fancy ones that she hated going to, sobbing into your hands out in the garden.

your husband had cheated on you, and now you didn’t know what to do. you had just moved here for opportunity, yet now you were apparently in a loveless marriage.

sevika comforts you, and it’s as awkward as you thought it’d be. but still, it’s comforting.

she spends time in your lab often, saying it’s to “watch your progress”, but turns out she really enjoys your company. the day she walked in and the silver ring was missing from your finger, she just held you in her arms.

you only felt worse because your husband had cheated with his childhood friend. of course you were the in between girl, even in your own marriage.

months, you hadn’t been fucked properly, kissed the way you liked, touched, held— yet he could happily do it with that woman.

you were spiraling. was it you? your curves where she was petite, the small pudge on your stomach where she had been fit…

sevika noticed, she had begun to notice a lot of things about you lately. when she had visited your new apartment, she saw the bags under your eyes, and it didn’t make her happy.

“you gotta talk to me…what the hell’s going on? your friends threw you a damn divorce party but your sulking?”

“it’s not that, sev. i…” your hand subconsciously grazed your stomach and sevika immediately understood.

and that definitely didn’t make her happy.

she walked around the island of your kitchen, coming up behind you. she was careful, slow, giving you the chance to stop or push her away if you wanted to.

god, you didn’t want to.

“you tellin’ me you’re losing sleep because, what, you don’t think your attractive?”

her hands rested on your hips as she pressed her chest against your back, her nose nudging your neck softly.

“i know you saw her sev…she’s beautiful—”

“she’s a damn homewrecker. that makes her ugly. you…you are a damn work of art.”

your breath hitched as her hand ran up your arm, her mech one shifting under your shirt. she adored the small noise you let out when the cool metal of her hand touched your warm skin.

“you don’t have to say these things…”

“i want to. need to tell you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

you could feel your pulse racing under her touch. fuck, this was really happening. you had thought about this before…occasionally…when you were lonely and all you had were your fingers and your imagination. but damn the real thing was better, so much better.

you were throbbing between your legs. each word she mumbled into your ear while her hands roamed your body only added to the slick collecting on your shorts.

“can’t believe you’re comparing yourself when you look like this…these fuckin’ tits…” and you moaned at the way her hand rested under your breast, waiting.

god, she was making you prove you wanted this.

you arched into her touch, your hands gripping the marble in front of you. “please…sevi, keep talking…”

her hand fully cupped your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between her fingers as she pressed soft kisses along your neck. “look at you…filling my hand perfectly.” her thumb yanked down your tank top, letting your breasts spill out over it.

she traced your areola before taking another handful of you. she switched over to her mechanical hand so that she wouldn’t hurt you with what she was about to do.

“and this pretty pussy…” she said, her hand slipping into your shorts as she kissed your cheek. her middle finger slid through your folds, and you could feel her chuckle against your back. “fuck, baby, you already made a mess and i haven’t even fucked you properly. wait till i make you cum…gonna have you soaking the sheets…”

oh fuck, she was getting to you. “vika…” you turned your head slightly, wanting to look at her. her mech hand moved up to cup your face. “want me to kiss you?” she asked, her voice tender compared to her rough finger over your sensitive clit.

“y-yes, please…” you didn’t have to ask twice. her lips were rough against yours, and it felt so fucking good. she was eating you alive, but it wasn’t sloppy, it wasn’t too wet. it was perfect. the way her tongue slid against yours— it had your hips rocking against her fingers.

“fuck—” kiss “take what you need baby” kiss “shit- your cunts so damn tight…it’s a fucking sin that this pussy hasn’t been stretched properly…” you moaned, your hand coming up to grip her forearm. the harder her fingers pumped into you, the more you gushed against them, and the louder the sound was.

“vika…” you pleaded.

“wait till i get you in that bed…you got toys here baby?”

you nodded eagerly, your pussy clenching hard on her fingers at the thought. sevika laughed, adding a third finger to your desperate cunt.

“i’ll take that as a yes.”

“vika…’m gonna cum…please, can i?”

the way she growled into your ear made you realize that asking for her permission did more to her than you expected.

“course you can, let me feel it.”

and with her permission, your legs were shaking as you struggled to keep yourself up. you were a mess, drool falling from your mouth as your release slipped down your inner thighs

“that’s it baby…breathe…i got you.”

——————

pt.1 maybe? also if you can tell, the more you read, it wasn’t supposed to be this long. literally was supposed to be a paragraph and a photo. turned into this. i love this.

[wonbyyou]

hii I love ur work may I request something for jay? Maybe some angsty stuff like an argument and then him apologising or wtv you'd like in angst!

<3

Hope its not too much thank youu

hey anon, thank you for your ask and don't worry at all, it's never too much, you can send as many asks as you like, i'd love to write them all. it's such a great prompt plus, i haven't written angst before so it was very fun writing this piece. i hope you'll enjoy it.

for @onlyywwon

-

The muffled roar of the departing crowd outside was a dull counterpoint to the silence crackling between you and Jay. He slumped on a worn couch, damp hair plastered to his forehead from the encore, a half-empty bottle of water dangling from his fingers.

His stage clothes—black jeans and a threadbare band tee soaked with sweat incongruous against the cheap velvet. You stood near the door, your overnight bag already slung over your shoulder, the weight of disappointment heavier than the luggage.

"You cancelled again, Jay," you stated, your voice flat, devoid of the usual warmth reserved for him. It was the third time this month.

"Dinner. Reservations I made weeks ago. You said soundcheck ran late, then the promoter needed you, then…" You trailed off, the excuses tasting like ash. "You didn't even call. Just a text. 'Can't make it. Tour stuff.'"

Jay rubbed his eyes, exhaustion etching deep lines around them. "It was tour stuff, babe," he mumbled, his voice raspy from singing. "The label rep showed up unannounced. Had to schmooze. You know how it is." He gestured vaguely towards the door, towards the fading noise of his adoring fans. "This… it takes everything right now."

"Everything except me," you shot back, the dam breaking. The cool detachment vanished, replaced by a sharp, aching hurt. "That's what it feels like, Jay. Like I'm the last item on a checklist you never get to. You blow into town for 48 hours, sleep most of it, play the show, and then…" You swallowed hard. "You barely look at me. Barely talk to me."

He looked up, a flicker of defensiveness in his tired eyes. "That's not true. I'm just… wiped. You saw the show. That energy's gotta come from somewhere."

"And where does my energy go, Jay?" Your voice cracked. "Waiting? Hoping? Planning things you cancel? Feeling like a groupie you occasionally sleep with?" The accusation hung heavy. "I saw you tonight. After the set. Laughing with that photographer, Liv. Leaning in close, whispering jokes. You had plenty of energy for her."

Jay's head snapped up, his exhaustion momentarily replaced by indignation. "Liv? She's taking promo shots! It's work! Jesus, are you seriously jealous of work?"

"It's not jealousy!" you fired back, stepping closer, the air thick with unshed tears and frustration. "It's evidence! Evidence that you can engage, you can be present… just not with me. Not anymore. You give your best to the crowd, to the band, to the label reps, to the damn photographer… and I get the exhausted scraps."

You grabbed the strap of your bag tighter, knuckles white. "I feel invisible, Jay. Like I'm just… background noise to your main event."

He pushed himself off the couch, swaying slightly. "That's bull, you know what I'm building! This band… it's finally happening! It's for us!"

"For you, Jay!" you countered, your voice rising. "It's always been for you! Your dream, your schedule, your exhaustion! Where's us in that? Where's the us that existed before the tour bus became your whole world?" Tears finally spilled over, hot and humiliating. "I can't keep living on crumbs of your attention and then watch you light up for everyone else. I need more."

You turned towards the door, the cheap metal handle cold under your trembling fingers. The roar of the departing crowd was almost gone now, leaving an oppressive silence.

"Fine!" Jay's voice ripped through the quiet, raw and ragged, fueled by exhaustion, guilt, and a sudden, terrifying panic. "If I'm such a fucking burden, if my dream is such an inconvenience, then maybe you should walk! Go find someone whose life isn't so damn demanding!" The words were meant to wound, a desperate lash-out from someone cornered by their own neglect.

The cruelty of it stole your breath. You didn't hesitate. You yanked the door open, the cacophony of roadies breaking down equipment hitting you like a physical blow.

You stepped out into the chaotic backstage corridor, the harsh fluorescent lights stinging your wet eyes. You took one step, then another, heading towards the exit sign, the weight of his words a crushing stone in your chest. The sound of your own choked sob echoed in your ears.

Then, footsteps—frantic, heavy—pounding the concrete floor behind you. A hand, calloused from guitar strings, shot out and grabbed your arm, not to pull you back roughly, but to anchor you, to stop your retreat. You whirled, ready to shove him away, but the sight stopped you cold.

All the defensive anger, the tour-bus bravado, was gone. His face was pale beneath the stage makeup smudged with sweat, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and filled with a raw, undisguised terror. He looked utterly shattered, the rockstar persona evaporated.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, his voice a broken whisper, rough from singing and now thick with remorse. His grip on your arm tightened almost imperceptibly, a plea. "God, I'm so sorry. That was… vile. I didn't mean it. Not a word." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You're right. I've been… gone. Even when I'm here, I'm gone. Lost in this… this fucking machine."

He gestured helplessly back towards the green room, the symbol of everything consuming him. "I see you waiting. I feel you pulling away… and I just get scared, so I bury myself deeper in the noise." His thumb brushed over your wrist, a tentative, desperate touch. "Don't go. Please. I'll… I'll cancel the damn acoustic tour next week. I'll make time. Real time. Just… please."

His voice cracked completely on the last word, the apology hanging fragile and absolute in the grimy, chaotic air, the roar of the departing crowd finally silenced, leaving only the ragged sound of his breathing.

His hand on your arm felt like a brand, burning with the ghost of every missed dinner, every half-asleep conversation, every time you’d watched him laugh easily with someone else while you felt like a stranger in your own relationship.

His eyes, wide with raw panic and slick with tears mixed with stage sweat and rainwater, searched yours desperately. The offer hung there—I'll cancel the damn acoustic tour next week—but it landed like a stone in stagnant water.

It wasn't about next week. It wasn't about cancelling one thing. It was about the thousand little cancellations of you that had already happened. The way your shared dream had become solely his, leaving you standing on the periphery, waving from the shore as his tour bus pulled away, again and again.

You looked at his hand on your arm, then slowly, deliberately, you lifted your other hand. Not to touch him, but to gently, firmly, peel his fingers away. Your touch was cool, final. The warmth of his skin against yours, once your sanctuary, now felt like a painful reminder of what was slipping through your fingers.

"No, Jay," you said, your voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor deep in your chest. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the backstage clatter and his ragged breathing like a knife. It held no anger now, only a bone-deep weariness, a profound, aching sadness.

"Cancelling the tour won't fix this. It won't give us back the time that's already gone. It won't make me forget how it feels to be... an afterthought."

You saw the hope die in his eyes, replaced by a dawning horror as he truly understood you weren't bargaining, weren't waiting for a grand gesture. You were stating a fact.

"It's too late," you whispered, the words catching on the sob building in your throat. You took a deliberate step back, putting precious, irrevocable space between you. Your hand found the cold metal of the exit door push bar. "For us. It’s just… too late."

You didn't wait for another plea, another broken promise. You pushed the door open. The chaotic noise of load-out—the clang of equipment cases, the shouted instructions of roadies—surged in, a stark, indifferent counterpoint to the silent devastation in the corridor behind you. You didn't look back. You walked straight into the chaos, weaving through the cables and flight cases like a ghost, heading for the cool night air outside the venue's service entrance.

The moment the heavy metal door swung shut behind you, cutting off the noise and the sight of him standing broken in the corridor, the dam burst. A ragged sob tore from your throat, loud and ugly in the quiet alley.

Tears, hot and relentless, streamed down your face, blurring the harsh glare of the security lights. You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking violently, to call a ride. The cold night air bit through your thin jacket, but it was nothing compared to the icy void opening up inside your chest.

The taxi ride home was a blur of streaking city lights and stifled cries. You pressed your forehead against the cool window, shoulders shaking, trying to muffle the sounds escaping you. The driver glanced nervously in the rearview mirror but said nothing. Every red light felt like an eternity, each one a fresh wave of crushing grief.

You saw Jay’s shattered expression every time you closed your eyes—the panic, the tears, the desperate grasp on your arm. You heard his ragged apology, his offer to cancel… and your own quiet, devastating pronouncement: It’s too late.

Unlocking your apartment door felt like entering a tomb. The silence inside was oppressive, heavy with the absence of him. No discarded guitar picks on the coffee table. No familiar scent of his cologne lingering.

Just… emptiness. You dropped your bag, the sound echoing in the stillness, and sank to your knees right there in the entryway. The sobs came harder now, wracking your whole body, great heaving gasps that left you breathless and aching. You curled in on yourself, arms wrapped tight around your middle, as if you could physically hold the broken pieces together.

Too late. The words echoed in the hollow space, bouncing off the walls of your grief. It wasn't just about tonight's fight or the cancelled dinners. It was about the slow, insidious erosion of you within the relationship. The way you'd shrunk yourself to fit the margins of his demanding life.

The way the vibrant connection you'd once shared had faded into static, drowned out by the roar of the crowd and the relentless grind of the tour bus engine. You’d tried. God, how you’d tried to be understanding, supportive, patient.

But patience had curdled into resentment, understanding into invisibility. The love was still there, a raw, bleeding wound, but the foundation it was built on—mutual presence, shared attention, simple time—had crumbled to dust.

He’d seen you walking away. He’d chased you. He’d apologized. But the chasm was too wide, the neglect too deep. Fixing it would require a fundamental shift, a dismantling of the very thing driving him—the band, the success, the dream.

And you knew, with a certainty that felt like a death knell, that even if he tried, the resentment would fester. His dream had cost you yours—the dream of us. And that cost was simply too high. You cried until your throat was raw and your eyes burned, kneeling on the cold floor of your empty apartment, the silence broken only by your ragged breaths and the crushing, undeniable truth: it was over. The tour bus was moving on, and you were finally, irrevocably, left behind.

The deep, velvet blackness of night pressed down on you, heavy and suffocating. Sleep, when it finally came after hours of crying curled on the cold floor, was thin and haunted.

You drifted in a fog of exhaustion, the phantom ache in your chest a constant companion. Then, a shift in the air. The faintest creak of the bedroom door. Soft footsteps crossing the carpet. The mattress dipped beside you, the cool sheets rustling.

You didn’t startle. Didn’t panic. Some deep, instinctual part of you recognized the rhythm of his breathing, the familiar scent of him beneath the lingering traces of stale smoke and stage sweat—a scent woven into the very fabric of your memory.

Jay.

He slipped beneath the duvet silently, his movements hesitant, almost reverent.

Then, strong arms slid around you, pulling you back gently against the solid warmth of his chest. His forehead pressed against the nape of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. The dam you’d barely managed to shore up crumbled instantly. A fresh wave of silent tears soaked your pillow.

Slowly, painfully, you turned in his embrace. The faint moonlight filtering through the blinds caught the tear tracks gleaming on his face. His eyes, usually so bright with charm or fierce with stage energy, were red-rimmed, swollen, and swimming in raw, liquid sorrow.

He looked utterly wrecked, the confident singer stripped bare, leaving only a man drowning in regret. Seeing him cry, really cry, tore at something deep inside you.

He lifted a trembling hand, his thumb brushing away a fresh tear trailing down your cheek. His touch was infinitely gentle, a stark contrast to the desperate grip backstage.

"I know… I know I don’t deserve to be here. Shouldn't have come in without…" He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in the dim light. "But I couldn't… God, I couldn't stay away. Not after…" His voice hitched, breaking completely. He buried his face against your shoulder for a moment, his shoulders shaking with the effort of containing his own sobs. When he lifted his head, his eyes held yours with a desperate intensity.

"I was wrong," he whispered, the words heavy, carved from guilt. "So damn wrong. Every word I said… every accusation… it was poison. Lies I told myself because I was too chickenshit to face what I was doing to you."

His hand cupped your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your jawline with aching tenderness. "I took you for granted. Like you were… something that'd always just be there. My anchor. My safe harbor. And I…" He choked, fresh tears welling and spilling over. "I treated you like background noise. Like something that could wait. While I chased something shiny and loud." He shook his head, the movement frantic.

"I missed dinners. I cancelled plans. And when I was here…" His voice dropped to a shattered whisper. "I wasn't here. My head was still on the bus, on the stage, on the next damn thing. I wasn't giving you me. Just… the tired leftovers."

He took a ragged breath, pulling you closer, his arms tightening around you as if afraid you'd vanish. "I saw it," he confessed, his voice thick with self-loathing.

"I saw you pulling away. Fading. And instead of fighting for you, I got defensive. Angry. Blamed you. Because it was easier than admitting I was failing you. Failing us." He pressed his forehead against yours, his tears mingling with yours on your cheeks.

"I let the best part of my whole damn world slip through my fingers because I was too blind, too selfish, to see what I had right in front of me until you were walking out that door."

He paused, the silence heavy with the weight of his confession. His dark eyes, still swimming, held yours with unwavering sincerity, stripped of all pretense, all rockstar bravado.

"I love you," he breathed, the words raw and profound. "More than the roar of any crowd. More than any stage. More than this whole damn dream. It ain't worth a thing without you beside me." His thumb brushed your lips softly.

"I swear to you, on everything I am, I won't do it again. I won't take a single second with you for granted. I'll be here. Present. Every damn time. I'll cancel whatever I gotta cancel. Rearrange whatever needs rearrangin'. The band…" He swallowed again, the words costing him, but he meant them.

"I'm nothing without you. Please…" His voice cracked, a broken plea. "Please give me a chance to prove it. To be the man you deserve. I can't… I can't lose you. Don't make me live in a world where I drove you away."

The raw vulnerability in his voice, the utter devastation on his tear-streaked face, the desperate sincerity in his promises—it shattered the last of your defenses. The love you thought was buried under layers of hurt and neglect surged forward, potent and undeniable.

You saw not the neglectful singer, but the man you’d fallen for, broken and pleading for redemption. You didn't want a world without him either.

Slowly, tremblingly, you lifted your hand, mirroring his gesture, cupping his stubbled cheek. His skin was warm, damp with tears beneath your palm. You leaned in, closing the scant distance between you.

Your lips met his—not with fiery passion, but with a profound tenderness, a desperate affirmation. A silent acceptance of his apology, a promise of your own. A mingling of salt from both your tears, a sealing of the fractured space between you.

His arms tightened convulsively around you, pulling you flush against him, a shuddering breath escaping him as he returned the kiss with equal parts desperation and reverence. It was a kiss born of shared grief, profound remorse, and the fierce, unyielding determination not to let go.

His body, warm and solid against yours, felt like both an anchor and a lifeline.

The desperate kiss sealing his apology had settled into a fragile truce, but a deeper hunger stirred—a need for tangible proof, for skin-on-skin absolution. You shifted, turning fully into the shelter of his arms. Moonlight caught the lingering dampness on his lashes, the profound remorse etched beside the fierce devotion in his dark eyes.

Your thumb traced the rough line of his jaw, feeling the tremor beneath your touch. "Jay," you breathed, your voice husky, thick with a yearning that went beyond mere desire. "Make love to me. Show me you're really here. All of you."

His breath hitched, a ragged intake of air. He searched your eyes, seeing the lingering shadows of hurt beneath the desperate hope.

"Sweetheart," he rasped, his voice rough with emotion. "Always. Only ever for you." He didn’t pounce; he approached you like sacred ground. His lips met yours in a kiss that was achingly soft, a slow exploration laced with reverence. His calloused hand, familiar and beloved, slid down your side with infinite care, pushing up the thin cotton of your sleep shirt.

Each inch of skin revealed was met with the brush of his lips—your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the swell of your breast.

His hand journeyed lower, skimming your hip, coming to rest on the bare skin of your inner thigh. His touch was a question whispered against your pulse point. You arched silently, a sigh escaping as his fingers found the damp heat of you through your panties. He palmed you gently, a slow, circling pressure that made your hips lift. "So ready," he breathed, nuzzling your neck.

"Soaking for me already?" With agonizing tenderness, he hooked a finger under the elastic, easing the fabric down, his eyes holding yours captive. Cool air kissed your core, but his touch returned instantly, sliding through slick folds with a reverence that stole your breath. He groaned, gathering your wetness. "My sweet girl. Always so sweet for me."

He took infinite time opening you. One thick finger traced your entrance, circling maddeningly before sinking in with exquisite slowness. The stretch was profound, a deep filling ache that drew a gasp from your lips. He watched your face intently, his thumb finding your clit with feather-light precision.

"That's it," he soothed, his voice low and hypnotic. "Just let go, baby. Let me love you like you deserve." He worked you open with one finger, then two, each shallow thrust deeper, each twist deliberate, building the sweet tension strand by strand.

His whispers were a constant benediction: "Never rushing you again… gonna learn every inch… worship this perfect pussy every damn day… always present for you… always…" By the time he withdrew, you were trembling, open and slick, aching for the fullness only he could give.

Shedding his clothes was a quiet, focused act. His cock, heavy and hard, nudged against your thigh. He positioned himself between your legs, bracing on his forearms, cradling you.

The broad head pressed against your entrance, slick with your arousal. He pressed forward with infinite slowness, letting you feel every ridge, every thick inch as he stretched you, filled you, reclaimed the space that was uniquely his.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he commanded softly, his voice strained with restraint. "Look at me while I love you." You drowned in the depths of his gaze—love, remorse, adoration swirling in the moonlight.

He sank deeper, deeper, until fully seated with a groan that vibrated through both of you. "God… yes," he gasped, forehead dropping to yours. "This is home."

He began to move. Not fast, not hard, but with a deep, rolling cadence that felt like a vow written on your skin. Slow, deliberate thrusts dragged his length against every sensitive place inside you, each withdrawal an exquisite emptiness, each return a profound relief.

His hips moved with a gentle power, his body blanketing yours. He kissed you deeply, his tongue mirroring the languid push of his cock. His hands roamed—cupping a breast, thumb grazing a taut nipple, gripping your hip to anchor you closer. "Never taking this for granted," he whispered against your mouth. "Never making you feel second best… right here with you… feeling every tremble… every sigh… you're everything… everything…"

The pleasure built like dawn breaking—slow, golden warmth spreading from your core outward. You clung to him, legs locked around his waist, meeting each deep stroke with a roll of your hips.

The intimacy was staggering—shared breath, shared skin, shared heartbeat. As the coil inside you tightened unbearably, as the slow burn ignited into white-hot need, the words tore from you, raw and true, gasped against his lips: "I love you, Jay… Oh God… I love you…"

Hearing it, feeling your body clench fiercely around him as you confessed it, shattered his control. His rhythm faltered, then surged deeper. His eyes locked on yours, wide and burning with intense emotion as his own climax seized him.

"I love you!" he cried out, the words ripped from his soul, rough and fervent as his hips drove into you one final, deep time. "I love you so damn much… almost lost you… love you… love you…" His body shuddered violently against yours as he pulsed deep within you, spilling with a heat that felt like a molten seal on his desperate vow.

He collapsed onto you, his weight a grounding comfort, his face buried in your neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps against your damp skin.

He didn't pull away; he held you impossibly closer, still buried deep inside the warm clasp of your body. The silence was thick with the aftermath—the slowing thunder of hearts, the mingled scent of sex and salt tears, the profound sense of a rift finally bridged.

"I'm here," he whispered hoarsely against your ear after long moments, his voice thick with unshed tears and absolute conviction. "Not leavin'. Not ever again. You're my world." He lifted his head slightly, his dark eyes glistening as they met yours. "I love you," he repeated, softer now, but no less fierce.

"I love you too," you murmured back, the truth of it settling deep into your bones. You kissed him softly, sealing the words, sealing the promise in the quiet aftermath. Tangled together, sweat-slicked and breathing as one, the ghost of neglect dissolved entirely.

Only this remained: the solid warmth of him inside and around you, the steady beat of his heart against yours, and the profound, unshakeable certainty echoed in their shared whispers—I love you. The tour bus was silent. The only destination that mattered was right here.

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Prairie madness-Yandere outlaw x fem reader

Contains- violence, abuse, threat of noncon, gun violence, age gap, manipulation, set during American westward expansion 1865-85, reader is explicitly an Irish immigrant to the us, I am enforcing the yandere cowboy agenda.

It's your own damned fault for smiling back at the tall stranger who rode alongside your wagon. You didn't say nothing, only lifted your gaze to meet him with a fleeting smile when he called you a pretty gal. You liked his accent, nothing you ever heard before coming here, there's been lots of new discoveries.

You missed home something fierce, that cottage always smelling of the dried peat in the fireplace. You never thought that would be the smell you missed most, but when the evenings are spent searching for dry buffalo muck to fuel the fire, peat is a distant memory. You missed the closeness of it all, everyone knowing everything, when one person coughed the doctor would practically already know. That's the funny bit, the familiarity you once thought you would suffocate under, compared to here where you companions barely speak the same as you, and some don't take too kindly to folk like you. When your family got off the boat in New York, you couldn't begin to count all the “Irish need not apply” signs that littered the walls, not to mention how you heard some of the others on the trail loudly talk about how your kind bring nothing but disease with their lazy godless ways. After that you stopped trying to find friends amongst the other families, sticking close to yours.

So you smiled at the stranger, glad to be found pretty after three months on the trail, not to mention the six weeks on the coffin ship to get to this vast country. You only catch glimpses of your face in the reflection of rivers as you bathe or cross them, vanity doesn't do much out here where your body is already worn through.

And when your Mam tutted and told you to lift up your shawl you let it slip lower, wanting him to see more of your face, trying to be noticed for something good for once. He seemed kind, gentle even with how he handled his horse, cantering beside you at a steady pace while your mam drove the oxen. Was clean too, a great difference between him and many other men. It wasn't as though you even knew other men, sure there were the boys in your village, but those were but the elder brothers of your friends, but this cowboy was a man. Not quite your father's age but between yours and your father's you assumed, he looked practical, sure of himself and the sweet words he said to you.

When you camped for the night he asked you your name, giggling gently as he stumbled on the Gaeilge. He only lifted his stenton hat up in response, showing you the flash in his stormy eyes.“I reckon rather than butchering a pretty name I'm just gonna call you little bird instead.” His voice measured and deep. With your cheeks blushing you don't know what possessed you to talk back to him to ask him why he was choosing that of all things to call you. He only smiled back with sharp teeth, “cause I think that little Irish lilt of yours is the sweetest song I've ever heard.” Your voice got caught in your throat as you practically ran away, mumbling some excuse about needing to watch over the children. No matter what, he saw the red in your cheeks, heard the stammer of your voice, you were never smart enough to wear your emotions anywhere other than your sleeve. He wasn't the only one to see, despite how well you thought you hid yourself. Your mam pulled you off to the side one night to lecture you about how to act right around the men. Telling you nothing more to mind yourself and not get into any trouble, confused you asked for clarification about what kind of trouble she thinks you'd fall into. The only answer she said was to never mind the details and just to not be foolish. Without her letting you have the truth you posed the question again to the only other person you could.

“My Mam is telling me to not get into trouble, but I didn't think I was troubling you, was I?” You turn to him earnestly wondering if perhaps the fact that you followed him about like a duckling was bothersome. He didn't need to accompany you and the little ones out to go berry picking a ways away from camp, but when you told him of your plans he simply followed suit, gun on him in the case for bears. He snorted hearing your genuine worry, trying not to laugh in your face as he responded.

“Little bird, I don't quite reckon that was the kinda trouble she was meaning, but I'll let you know now that you are the opposite of troublesome when I see your sweet face,” before you can question what he even means by that your attention is pulled away, back to the littles you're meant to be watching over. Leaving him to watch over you. Sometimes now you wonder why no one said nothing, if anyone else could have seen the way he looked at you. Perhaps they were all so smitten as you, or they let you make your own bed with the expectation you'd have to lie in it eventually.

It was warm that day, a cloudless kind of heat where the sun almost makes you feel ill. The men having all ridden ahead of their family's, scouting for camp while the rest stayed by the lazy riverside. No use for all of you to ride when washing had to be done, with the absence of the men it was almost freeing the way the women congregated. Turns out months of the same dust do wonders for those who think they are better based on the language they speak.

You didn't expect to see your cowboy come riding over. Funny how then you thought of him as yours, no longer a stranger but as yours in a way. Only this time it felt odd, he was alone, with a hardness in his gaze once he dismounted. When he approached you, there wasn't even a sensation of anything wrong till he had one arm round your neck so tight you lost the air to scream, and the other pressing his pistol against your head, barking out as everyone else screamed.

“Now we don't need to stop being civil, cause if anyone tries something I'd have to blast her pretty little head open and we don't want that do we?” receiving a round of terrified nods, you trash trying to break free only to be hit across the temple with the barrel, over and over until you still against him, “now if you don't stop squirming I'm gonna do something I'll regret to you, so I'd appreciate if you'd calm the fuck down.”His voice has never sounded like that before, gone was the easy softness about himself. In its place was a coldness you had only ever seen in the eyes of little boys throwing rocks at penned dogs, knowing the poor things can do nothing but take the violence in hopes it will stop. You can barely register his words, ears ringing and head throbbing. You understand nothing as all the other women frantically hand over what little valuables they have, only somewhat aware of a dampness trickling down your forehead. He has never touched you before, and now all of a sudden he's done it with such violence you can't begin to separate the dissonance of it all. Where have all those sweet words gone, dripped into the dust like the blood down your face?

Suddenly you're being yanked backwards, you can't understand a thing that he is doing, everyone did as he said. Why won't he release you? Your Mam lunges forward, only freezing when he quickly moves the gun from your head to shoot in the ground, the sound as the bullet ricochets from the floor deafening you further and sobering everyone else. “I won't want to do it, but I will if you make me, and where would that leave me? If you make me shoot her I might have to go for someone else next to make sure you understand how I feel.” You can't move, can't breathe, only slump with a dead weight as he pulls you with him, throwing you atop his horse with the rest of his loot. Turning back to the terrified corral of women he just tips his hat with a smirk, “I can promise you I'll take care of her at the very least.” Before he mounts his steed and rides off, the last you see of your Mam and the littles clouded by the kicked up dust.

You don't know how long it takes before the thoughts come back to you, before you realise the man you always made sweet eyes with was nothing short of a rotten bastard.

“Aren't you gonna tie me up?” Your mumble is only received with a snicker, why is that the first thing you say to him after what he's just done. You say no word of his violence, curtsey and thieving, no word of the fact he's just stolen you from all the family you have left and he's riding deeper into territory unknown to not just you but to civilisation.

“I don't need to. You'd be smart not to run unless you want the wild to eat you right up little bird.” His light and easy demeanor is back, at first you thought these could have been two different parts of him, but you know violence comes just as easy as his smile, the only difference earlier was that he showed you the smile.

He only rests at nightfall, pitching the horse and building a fire for your sake. He makes a big to do of giving you his bedroll like a gentleman, that he will sleep on the cold ground and ruin his old bones further, you find no humour silently wishing his sleep is fitfull, without any rest.

“Why did you do it,” you ask quietly over the glowing flames, knees tucked to your chest. He looks at you as though you are soft in the head.

“Because I wanted too, sweet bird, I was always gonna rob you folk, that was a given. I ride alongside for a few days, gain trust and have you think I'm just a fellow traveller, then I rob the women when the men are far away. The only difference this time,” he outreaches a firm hand to lift up your chin “was you, and suddenly I began to think how nice it would be to hear your lilt every morning when I wake and every night when I sleep. Fuck, if I was a worse man I would have just had you out in the woods like a whore and left you with your skirts about your head.” The casual way in which he speaks of such a thing makes your stomach turn and you taste bile in the back of your throat. You know nothing of what goes on between couples, nothing but the hushes spread by other girls, or the mumbling of your Mam that marriage is first.

“You can't do that, we aren't married.” You don't know what even possesses you to find that is where the problem lies, not his threats, his easy violence, or the very fact that if you didn't respond back to him that awful morning you wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be bruised and torn from all those you've ever loved. Your voice is pitiful but he howls as though you've uttered the greatest joke.

“You'd like me to marry you little bird? Can't say I've heard any other women say that to me, but you ain't a woman are you? Just a sweet girl who doesn't know a thing of what she's gotten herself into, but I quite like the idea of having a wife. Might find some traveling reverend and make it proper like one day.”

“I'd need a priest, I'm Catholic” you don't even understand why this is what you're fixated on, the absence of a priest as though God wasn't looking away from you right this moment. But when you've lost everything else it's only the meaningless things you've been left with.

“Sugar, I think I'm doing enough by entertaining your proper ass, what the fuck would it matter out here for the specifics? This is godless country, you don't realise how good you have it that I'm such a gentleman to you.” he smiles despite his words, leaning down to give you a kiss atop your hair. “But I'll be a good husband to you, give you little trinkets and treats when I come home to you. You just got to be a good girl to me like you were a good girl to your family, maybe in time we will have littles of our own running about.” The thought made you feel ill, curling up on yourself further and refusing to give him an answer. He just sighs and tells you to get to bed before the fire dies out.

You wake sometime in the dead of night, confused about where you are when you open your eyes to see stars rather than the canvas tent that has been your bedroom all these months. Until it all comes crashing back to you, your forehead has scabbed over, strands of hair stuck to the dried blood. Other than the hoot or howl of some far off creature the prairie night is silent. The outlaw is silent too, turned on his side, his chest rising and falling with each breath he takes, doesn’t seem like the hard ground causes him to lose any sleep. You get up slowly, like a kicked dog slinking its way to the barn. He's left his belt off, close by his head but you could grab it, it would only take a few seconds to steal his gun. Without it he couldn't hurt you, or do worse.

Steadying yourself you crawl over, both hands reaching for the holster, it is heavier than you expected. Almost like a newborn, the same kind of warmth to it too. The moment you have it you start sprinting, the entire ride he only went north, facing far from the sun, with the moon gloaming above you only hope you're making your way south. Hopefully to some farmstead or town or anything. Anyone even who could help you, who could keep you safe from his wrath when he wakes to find you and his gun gone. You still, catching your breath. It is cold, you have no food nor water and are exhausted after barely half an hour at most. And your lost, lost in this stupid land of false promises and nothing but the fucking prairie for company. You should go back, crawl on your knees and tail between your legs and beg for what mercy he can give to you. Go back before he finds you and gives you an answer to those veiled threats. Perhaps he will forgive you, it wasn't as though he couldn't be kind, he made those promises like he meant them. Between death and the devil at least the devil offers you warmth, you turn around.

You hear him before you see him, the horse galloping as fast as it can, searching for you. The dust clouding up his silhouette as he comes into focus, before you can say a thing he is atop you. A hand wrapped tight on your throat pushing you further to the dirt, his eyes are a whirlwind of anger and fear fighting over each other, with the faintest flicker of relief.

“What we're you thinking?” He hisses, spittle hitting your face, he's that close. “You don't even know where you are and you thought to fucking run from me? You stupid little girl, you could have gotten yourself killed.” He is heavy atop you, hand squeezing sharper as if to punctuate his points. “Did you think I was just teasing when I said that you would die if I was not there? You know nothing of this land you little fool!” He heaves above you for breath, his free hand making its way up your skirt, grabbing onto your bloomers. “What will it take for you to learn huh? Should I fuck you in the dirt to teach you a lesson? Break your legs and cripple you? Ruin you so badly you'd never think something so stupid as this!” He screams with only the cicadas to hear you two.

“I'm sorry!” You howl with tears streaming down your face, he is so startled he drops his hand from your drawers, “you were right, I was stupid and so scared I didn't know what else to do. Please I'm sorry it won't happen again, please! I was stupid and ungrateful and you were right.”

He pauses, hands moving to wipe your face and his eyes turning tender once more as it was before all this. Your heart settles in your throat like a jackrabbit

“Come now sweet bird I only was worried for you, that's why I'm upset. When I woke to find you and my gun missing why, you made me mad. I can't lose you to the land or two some other man who wouldn't treat you as gentle as me.” As you babble your apologies over and over he slowly relaxes, dropping his shoulders and holding you tight. “Now now let's stop the waterworks, I understand you were scared but you still did the right thing to understand that without me there's nothing for you. I forgive you this time, but if you ever try this again I will need to take matters into my own hands.”

He helps you back up, climbing behind you on his horse as you soberly renew your journey. Eventually you come across it- a small homestead in a clearing. Surrounded with nothing but great trees as far as the eye can stretch. If you squint you could almost pretend it was the whitewashed cottage you left far behind you, how long has it even been since you've had the safety a house can provide? It is dusty and disused but he looks at you with pride in his eyes as he opens the doors. “Now I finally have a reason to return home so long as you're here.” He leans in again, a chase kiss upon your cheek as though the past few hours never happened. But you know there's no one to blame but yourself for giving up and accepting this as yours. For accepting those easy eyes and quick smiles without peeling them back to understand what could be underneath. For smiling back at a strange man who rode up one day alongside you.

[widowsdoll]

── undo me (bucky barnes x reader)

cw: praise kink, dom!bucky, slightly possessive bucky, soft aftercare, mild angst

m.list

The safehouse was quiet—too quiet. Rain beat gently against the windows while you sat on the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, nursing a bruised shoulder and a heart full of things left unsaid.

"You okay?" Bucky's voice was low as he walked in from the other room. He hadn't taken off his tac suit yet, and the way it clung to his chest shouldn't have made your stomach flutter. But it did.

"I'm fine," you muttered, not meeting his eyes.

"You're not." He crossed the room and crouched beside you, brushing your arm lightly. "Let me help."

You finally looked at him. "With what?"

He didn’t answer—not at first. Just studied you. “You always push me away after missions.”

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I see the way you go quiet. The way you avoid me. The way you look at me like you're scared of what might happen if you let go.”

Your breath caught. “And what would happen if I did?”

His jaw tightened. “I'd ruin you.”

Your eyes locked, tension snapping like a live wire between you. One second passed. Two. Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was months of built-up need, frustration, longing, all crashing into you at once. His hands were on your waist, then under your shirt, then pushing you back onto the couch, lips trailing down your jaw, your throat.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, hovering over your lips again. “And I will.”

You hooked your fingers in his belt. “Don’t even think about it.”

Clothes were everywhere—your top flung across the floor, Bucky’s jacket tossed aside. His dog tags swung over your bare chest as he hovered above you, hips grinding slow and deep against your core as he kissed your neck.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he groaned against your skin. “Always walking around like you don’t know how bad I want you.”

“Then show me,” you gasped.

He pulled your panties down slowly, almost reverently. “You’re perfect. So damn perfect.” Fingers brushed through your folds, teasing. “This what you wanted? Me touching you like this?”

“Y-Yes—Bucky, please—”

He pushed two fingers in, slow and firm, curling just right. You moaned his name, legs already shaking.

“Good girl. That’s it. Take it. You’ve been so patient.” His metal hand gripped your hip while his flesh hand worked you open. “God, you’re so wet. You were thinking about this, weren’t you?”

You nodded, breathless. “I always think about you.”

That broke something in him.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, fingers fucking you faster as your body arched into him. And when he finally sank into you, thick and slow, stretching you perfectly—his groan was filthy.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Wanna see your face when I make you come.”

You clenched around him, body trembling. “Then don’t stop—please, Bucky—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He fucked you through it, praising you the whole time, whispering how good you felt, how much he needed you, how long he’d waited for this.

And when you collapsed against him, spent and shaking, he pulled you into his arms like you were something precious.

“You okay?” he murmured against your hair.

You smiled sleepily. “Better than okay.”

He kissed your temple, holding you tighter.

“You’re mine now,” he said softly. “You always were.”

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

But you did—curled up against Bucky’s chest, wrapped in one of the threadbare blankets from the safehouse linen closet. His hand rested over your lower back, thumb brushing circles into your skin as if to remind himself that you were still there.

You woke up to the soft press of his lips against your shoulder. A kiss. Then another. Then another.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep—and something else. Hunger.

You stretched slowly, feeling the ache in your thighs and the soft throb between your legs. “You didn’t.”

His hand slid up your bare side. “You feel too good. Couldn’t stop touching you.”

You turned onto your back, looking up at him. Hair mussed, lips slightly swollen, dog tags still resting against his chest. He looked… beautiful. Wrecked. Yours.

"You never said what this was," you said softly, searching his eyes.

Bucky’s expression didn’t waver. “It’s real.”

“Just for tonight?”

His jaw clenched. “No. Not just tonight.”

You kissed him, slow and sweet—and just like that, the tension between you shifted again. From soft… back to hungry.

It started slow—your fingers brushing over his chest, down his abs, dragging across the band of his boxers. Bucky’s breath hitched, his hand catching yours.

“You’re sure?”

You nodded. “I want all of you. Again.”

That was all it took.

He was on you in seconds—mouth hot, eager, tongue licking into yours like he couldn't get enough. He kissed his way down your body, stopping between your legs, spreading them gently with both hands.

“Let me taste you again,” he rasped.

You gasped as his tongue slid through your folds, slow and greedy, sucking your clit into his mouth while his fingers dug into your thighs. He moaned like you were the one giving him pleasure.

“You’re so sweet, fuck—never gonna get enough of this.”

You tugged at his hair, your hips lifting to meet his mouth. “Bucky—God—please—”

He didn’t stop until you were shaking again, crying out his name, grinding against his face until he finally came up, chin wet, eyes dark.

“Turn around,” he whispered. “Hands on the headboard.”

You obeyed before you even thought about it—back arched, legs spread, body thrumming with need.

He slid into you from behind, slow and deep, his metal hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You were made for me,” he groaned against your ear. “Look how easy you take me.”

Your walls clenched around him, greedy. His pace was brutal, controlled—like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore.

You reached back blindly, and he caught your wrist, pinning it to your lower back with his flesh hand while his metal one slipped between your legs, rubbing tight circles against your clit.

“Come for me again. I wanna feel you squeeze me.”

You shattered—again—your vision going white, legs trembling, sobbing his name as he fucked you through it. He wasn’t far behind, hips stuttering before he finally spilled inside you with a broken moan, forehead pressed to your back.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

“𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃” — 𝐟𝐭; 𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐲𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ; it was just something as simple as putting feelings into words; it really shouldn’t be this hard. and yet the burning sensation won’t stop.

𝐜𝐰 ; gn!reader, childhood friends

𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 ; no. 1 party anthem by arctic monkeys (i’m obsessed rn)

𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐲𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢

“you’re pretty damn thick skinned, coming back here after casually becoming a millionaire with a famous club offer while i’m stuck in high school for another year.”

yoichi glanced at you. “oh yeah, you are. but i’ve never done too well in school anyways, so it’s probably a good thing.” he laughed, juggling the soccer ball with his knees. you were both on your neighborhood’s small soccer field, and of course yoichi was playing soccer even on break.

“but seriously, you insulted one of the most popular players in the world. you’re cooked.” you muttered, thinking of the blonde haired blue eyed striker.

he tsked, the thought of kaiser pissing him off. “he deserved it. plus, he was the one who called me a clown first. all i did was pay him back.” he huffed. wow, he really did hate him, didn’t he?

yoichi gritted his teeth with wide, almost cartoonish eyes. you laughed, although you couldn’t shake the uncertain feeling in your chest. “you’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”

he hummed. “yep. to europe to observe some world class matches. tomorrow.” at his own mention of soccer, his eyes lit up. “oh, and did you know about meta vision? i don’t know if i ever texted this to you, but basically, meta vision is…” he began enthusiastically, waving his hands around and such as he explained.

you gazed at him, biting the inside of your cheek. you didn’t want to ruin his mood; you really didn’t. but you’ve been waiting for days, months, years. and now that he’s in blue lock, you probably won’t have many future chances for this.

“hey, yoichi?”

he paused his rambling instantly, his eyes meeting yours. “hm? is something wrong?” his hands dropped to his sides, waiting for your response.

sweat beaded your palms, and suddenly, you were at a loss for words even though you were the one who stopped him from talking in the first place. “i, uh,” your eyes found their way to your feet as you thought of what to say.

you’ve loved him. for years now.

whether it was through his fear of everything.

or whether it was through his constant failing grades.

or whether it was through his passion for soccer.

or whether it was through revealing both of your deepest darkest secrets as kids during sleepovers.

or whether it was pranking him every year on his birthday, which was also april fools day, while still giving him a gift.

you’ve loved him through it all.

“…i love you.”

now you’ve done it. you couldn’t bring yourself to look up at him, but you were expecting rejection. maybe an apology and that he didn’t see you that way or something similar.

yoichi stared at you, heat creeping up from his neck to his cheeks. his mouth opened, then closed again. what was he supposed to say?

he had always viewed you as his friend. his close friend. his best friend, even.

at least, that’s what he always told himself.

that’s what he told himself through nights of thinking of you and your voice and your smile and your eyes.

that’s would he told himself through years of constantly finding ways to be near you.

that’s would he told himself through weeks of harsh training of blue lock, with thoughts of you plaguing his mind.

and what he told himself was wrong.

because he was in love with you—hopelessly so. so much that it made his chest hurt. so much that it made him experience hundreds of sleepless nights.

“i love you too.”

[sweetonsin]

Hi. I’m begging for a reader at a party with Joel holding a baby and him taking her home to put one in her because it’s so domestic it makes him hard and he has to contain himself until they get home. She can tell something is up tho cause he’s acting a little weird and wants to leave early. Mix of fluff and breeding kink Joel taking control? My kinda man. Daddy Joel 🥵

FULL OF YOU- ONESHOT

pairings: breedingkink!joel x you

warnings: nsfw, 18+, breeding kink, no outbreak, creampie, orgasm, short oneshot, piv unprotected, dom!joel, swearing.

wc: 970

The party’s loud, a little too many people packed into a backyard too small, but Joel’s standing off to the side in the shade, baby on his hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It shouldn’t hit you the way it does. Not when it’s not even his kid.

But it does.

His flannel sleeves are rolled up and his forearm is bracing the little boy’s back, steady and warm. The kid babbles happily and Joel’s got that soft, almost shy smile on his face—the one he doesn’t give just anyone. He’s swaying a little, murmuring something low that you can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the image of it. Joel—big, strong, always a little gruff around the edges—holding someone’s baby like it belongs to him. Like you belong to him.

He glances up, catches your eye, and that’s when you see it.

The shift in his expression.

It’s subtle. A muscle jumps in his jaw. His hold tightens ever so slightly. The smile fades into something quieter, darker. His eyes don’t leave you, even when the baby tugs at his beard and giggles.

Something’s off. Or maybe not off. Just… different.

You make your way over, sliding your hand up his back, pretending not to notice the way he stiffens slightly under your touch.

“You good?” you murmur, brushing your lips close to his ear.

He gives you a short nod. “Yeah. Thinkin’ we should head out soon, though. Too loud.”

“Joel…” You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “You’ve been holdin’ him for fifteen minutes. You look like a damn Pampers commercial.”

He huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t let go of the kid either. “You ready to go or not?”

You are. If only because there’s that look in his eyes now, one you know. He’s trying to keep it together, trying not to let on just how much he wants to drag you out of here like a caveman and ruin you in the truck.

Yeah. You know your man.

You don’t even make it past the front door before he’s on you.

“Bedroom. Now.”

You barely kick off your shoes before he’s pressing up behind you, arms snaking around your waist, mouth hot on your neck.

“I tried,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. “Tried to be good, baby, but seein’ you watchin’ me like that—with him in my arms—fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

You turn in his arms, cheeks flushed, breath catching when he presses a hand to your stomach possessively.

“That supposed to do somethin’ to me?” you tease breathlessly.

He growls—actually growls—and you feel it in your chest. “You know what I want, sweetheart. Know what I need.”

His mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth and heat. You’re already aching for him, thighs clenching, brain gone dizzy with the thought of him losing control like this because of you.

“Joel—” you gasp as he lifts you effortlessly, carries you to the bed like it’s nothing. “Tell me.”

He settles over you, presses his hips into yours. You can feel how hard he is, the desperate throb of him against your thigh.

“I wanna fill you up,” he says lowly. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout it for months now. The way you’d look, round and heavy. All mine.”

Your head spins. “Joel…”

“You’d take it so well, wouldn’t you? Always do. Always so fuckin’ good for me.” His fingers are already dragging your panties down, his voice thick with hunger. “Let me give you what you want, baby. Let me give you all of me.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

You don’t remember pulling his jeans down. Don’t remember the exact second his cock slid into you—just that you were already soaked, already begging, and he didn’t waste time teasing.

He’s deep now, so deep it hurts in that perfect way, hips pressing flush to yours, one hand wrapped tight around your throat, the other resting over your lower belly like he feels what he’s doing to you.

You moan, arching, trying to move, but he holds you down.

“Stay still. Gotta make sure it takes,” he murmurs, slow rolling his hips, grinding so deep you see stars. “You feel that, sugar? That’s me fuckin’ it into you.”

Your breath catches, head thrashing as your legs shake around his hips.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear.

“Gonna fill you so full, it’ll drip outta you tomorrow. Gonna walk around with my cum between your thighs, knowin’ you let me put it there.”

“Joel—please—”

He kisses you, messy and rough, hand still firm on your throat but never hurting.

“I saw you watchin’ me,” he pants. “Knew you were thinkin’ the same thing. Knew you want me to give you a baby.”

You nod, desperate, nails clawing at his back. “I do—I want it—fuck, Joel—please—”

“Then take it,” he growls. “Take every fuckin’ drop.”

He pushes you over the edge with that. You clamp down around him, crying out as you fall apart beneath him. He follows you, hips stuttering as he presses in deep, spilling into you with a low groan of your name.

“Fuck,” he breathes, body shaking as he sinks fully into your warmth. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

—

Later, you’re half-asleep, legs tangled with his, skin still damp with sweat. He’s got one hand on your belly again, thumb brushing absent circles.

“You meant it?” you whisper, voice small in the quiet.

He kisses your shoulder, his voice soft.

“Every word. You were made for me, baby. All I wanna do is fill you up. Again and again.”

[itopellabs]

OBSESSED (PART 2) (ellabs, NSFW, stalker!abby, volleyball!AU)

Abby's obsession put her in a place she never thought she'd be: at Ellie's mercy. (3.1k words)

(part 1)

warnings: lesbian sex, stalker perv abby, stalking, humiliation, finger sucking, face riding (e), slight d/s.

After that night – after Abby came undone in Ellie’s dirty jersey, moaning for her like she was being worshipped and ruined all at once – things didn’t go back to normal.

How could they?

Abby hadn’t even touched Ellie. Not once. Not properly. Not like she wanted. That was the real torture. 

She’d been devoured, used, humiliated in the best possible way – and she hadn’t even gotten to return the favor. To show Ellie what her hands could do. To prove herself.

It was her biggest dream and her worst nightmare at the same time.

She wanted to taste Ellie. Worship her. Ruin her. Hear what she sounded like when she broke.

But that one time – that perfect, disgusting, incredible night – felt like a punishment. A one-off. Her price to pay for being a stalker.

She didn’t expect it to happen again.

Didn’t deserve it to happen again.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

She still didn't quit. The stupid jersey, looking at her every story.

It's like Ellie did it on purpose now, a thirty second video of the guitarist rolling and closing a joint, updated Friday, 11pm, recorded by a laughing Dina. Probably high already.

Those fucking fingers and tongue. She knows exactly what she's doing.

Abby would like to pretend that it didn't affect her, but now, once she'd had her, it was impossible to ignore.

She wanted Ellie again, even if she knew it couldn't happen. Even if she knew she should hide and never leave her room again.

And only two days later, Abby walked into the gym an hour early – just like always – and nearly tripped over her own feet.

Ellie was there.

Already. Sitting on the bleachers, hoodie up, leg bouncing like she was barely holding still.

Ellie? Early for practice?

Abby stopped cold. Her heart stuttered.

Ellie looked up and grinned. “Damn, Cap. You get here an hour early? I knew you were a try-hard, but shit.”

Abby swallowed, slow. “You’re also an hour early.”

Ellie tilted her head, grin sharpening. “That’s ‘cause I wanna have a little chat. With my favorite stalker.”

Abby’s face went red immediately. “Don’t call me that in public–” She glanced around, stepping closer, voice low and urgent. “What if someone hears?”

Ellie didn’t flinch. Just stepped into her space and brushed Abby’s hand away from her mouth with casual defiance.

“I don’t think you get to make demands,” she murmured. “You’re the one who stole my clothes, remember?”

Abby’s throat tightened.

“Ellie, enough.”

She pulled her wrist back. Her skin felt hot and clammy. The gym was cold, but she couldn’t stop sweating. The way Ellie was looking at her – amused, smug, still fucking interested – it made her want to crawl out of her skin.

Without another word, Abby turned and stalked toward the locker rooms.

Ellie followed. “Abby. Hey. Anderson– c’mon.”

“Can’t you just leave me alone?”

Abby shoved open the locker room door. Ellie slipped in behind her.

Abby yanked her locker open and tossed her bag in hard enough to rattle the hinges. The slam echoed through the empty room.

Ellie closed the space. “Hey. I’m serious. I wanna actually talk about what happened, okay?”

Abby didn’t move. Her fists were clenched.

At least she doesn't look high.

Ellie hesitated. “I know I was kind of a dick the other night.”

“You weren’t a dick,” Abby said, voice tight. “You were right. I am a creep.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“I stole from you, Ellie,” Abby snapped. “I watched you. For months. I jerked off to your pictures, I knew your schedule, I–”

She stopped herself. Breathed hard through her nose.

“I’m a fucking freak,” she said, quieter now. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

Ellie’s mouth opened. Closed. She looked… off balance. Like she hadn’t expected any of this.

Abby looked down at the floor. “Forget it,” she said. “I have to set up.”

She walked out.

Ellie followed again.

Out in the gym, Abby moved like a machine – dragging net poles into place, avoiding eye contact. Her jaw was tight. Her muscles were tense. She looked like she was being held together with tape and rage.

I shouldn't have done this. Shouldn't have shown you that.

“Abs,” Ellie called. Nothing. “Please.”

Now that was just unfair. Calling her Abs like that, like she could possibly ignore Ellie Williams for much longer.

Abby paused. Just slightly. Her hands stilled on the net.

Ellie stepped closer. Softer now.

“If you’re a freak,” she said, “then I’m fucked, too. Because I liked it. I liked you like that."

Abby’s breath hitched.

“And the way you look at me? It’s hot, Anderson.”

Abby made a noise. Something half-broken. “Ellie. This… isn't funny–”

Ellie's voice didn't falter. “It's not supposed to be funny.” She stepped closer. “You’re ashamed now? After stealing my stuff, stalking me, asking me to use you the other day?”

Abby was ashamed. She was flushed, sweating, but she knew that wasn't all of it. “I shouldn't have–”

“I don't give a fuck what you should've done. I know what you did. And I know you still got a lot to pay me for it.”

Abby would've replied. But then came the sound of chatter, echoing through the gym. The messy footsteps of their teammates.

They stepped apart. Instinct. Habit. Like nothing had happened.

But Ellie wasn’t done. Not even close.

Abby avoided her for the rest of practice, eyes down, focused and mechanical. She called out plays like usual, corrected stances. But it wasn’t the same. Her voice was too tight. Her movements, too sharp. Like she was trying to exorcise something.

And Ellie watched her the whole time.

Smirking. Lazy, but competent in court. Dangerous.

Abby caught her staring three separate times and almost fumbled the ball on the third.

She told herself she wasn’t going to look back. That she needed to get her shit together. That this – whatever this was – had already gone too far.

But then practice ended. People filtered out, laughing, tired, buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

Abby stayed behind to clean up. She always did. But this time, her hands were shaking as she rolled the net up, stuffed balls into the rack, locked up the cart.

Her thoughts were a mess of shame, regret and desire.

She couldn't even touch herself wearing the damn jersey anymore. It just wasn't as good as Ellie. Nothing felt the way she did.

When she finally stepped outside, the gym lights off behind her, the evening air heavy and damp – she didn’t expect Ellie to be there.

But there she was, leaning against the back wall. Hoodie up. One foot planted against the bricks. A joint glowing between her fingers.

Fucking beautiful.

Abby’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart dropped, and she thought of running.

Ellie didn’t look surprised to see her. She took a slow drag, let the smoke curl out of her mouth, and tilted her head.

“Hey, Cap. Good practice.”

Abby stopped short.

Ellie’s eyes dragged over her – the tight tee, the bruises forming on her knees from drills, the way her chest was still rising fast from leftover adrenaline. And Abby could tell – Ellie wanted her like this.

Tense. Guilty. Submissive.

“You ignoring me now?” Ellie asked, voice light. 

Her eyes were watching Abby like a hawk, still. How could she not, when the blonde looked so damn good.

“I’m not,” Abby said, quiet.

Ellie took another drag, then held the joint out between two fingers. “Wanna hit?”

Abby hesitated. She knew Ellie was a trap she couldn't risk getting too close to. But she took a step forward. Then another.

She didn’t take the joint. But she was close now, close enough to smell the weed and sweat and Ellie’s skin. Close enough to see her smile twist, smug and knowing.

Ellie let the joint hang at her side. Her voice dropped. “... Gonna run again?”

Abby’s jaw clenched. Her fists were balled at her sides. “I’m not running.”

Ellie smirked. “Yeah. Good girl.”

Abby’s brain short circuited. She didn’t think. She just surged forward, grabbed Ellie by the hoodie, and kissed her. Hard.

Teeth clashed. Ellie made a low, pleased noise in the back of her throat and pulled her closer by the hips, the joint forgotten, flicked somewhere onto the pavement.

It was hungry. Messy. Desperate.

Abby kissed like she was dying. Like kissing Ellie was the only way to breathe again. Like she could drown in the taste of her and not even care.

Ellie’s hands slid down her back, greedy. She was grinning into the kiss, gasping into it, already half-laughing from how needy Abby was.

“You missed me?” she asked, voice rough.

Abby didn’t answer. She pressed their foreheads together, panting, nodding.

“I can feel you shaking,” Ellie whispered. “You’re so fucking easy, Anderson.”

Abby’s breath stuttered. “I’m not–”

“Yes, you are. You’re my little pervert who wants to be told what to do.”

Ellie kissed her again – bit her lip, sucked it between her teeth until Abby moaned. “You like it when I say that shit, don’t you?”

Abby gasped. “Ellie…”

Ellie’s hand slid up, under her shirt. “You’re team captain. Strong as fuck. Everyone listens to you. And here you are… whimpering just for me, like a goddamn puppy.”

Abby shut her eyes. Her forehead pressed to Ellie’s collarbone. She was going to lose it. A lean hand found her jaw. Tilted it up.

“But you’re pretty when you’re like this,” she murmured. “You know that?”

That cracked something open. Abby moaned – quiet, muffled – and kissed her again. Rougher now. Hungrier.

Ellie grabbed a handful of her ass and grinded into her, their height difference contributing to the perfect fit of their bodies, like pieces of a puzzle.

They kissed like they were trying to win something. Like they could fuck each other open just with teeth and tongue, and Abby could feel the familiar heat coming up between her thighs.

Neither of them stopped, because fuck shame. Fuck guilt. Abby didn’t care anymore.

Ellie had her pinned against the brick wall a second later, both hands under her shirt now, cupping her tits, biting her throat, whispering filth in her ear.

“You like being my little secret, perv?” Ellie muttered, grinding up into her. “My strong girl, who cums when I say so?”

The delicious mix of humiliation and praise had Abby biting on her lip. “Yes– yes, fuck, I–”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.” She obeyed, pulling her impossibly closer. “Please...”

Abby didn't even know what she was begging for, but she didn't care. She could feel the cold air against her sweat slicked skin, cooling the heat.

Ellie grinned, dragging her mouth down her neck. “Damn right you are.”

The streetlights buzzed somewhere in the distance. The gym was quiet. And they knew whatever they were doing couldn't end there.

“Come on, Abs. Gotta take care of you, don't we?”

And she'd be actually crazy to say no.

Ellie didn’t even ask. Just grabbed her wrist and started walking.

Abby followed.

It was quiet between them, except for the sound of their sneakers against the pavement, the shuffle of their breath. Abby could feel her heartbeat in her throat, in her fingertips, in the ache between her legs.

She was trying to be calm. Collected. To hold it in.

She failed.

Ellie’s dorm door slammed shut behind them, and Abby was already on her. Her hands went to Ellie’s waist, then up her back, then into her hoodie like she couldn’t decide what to touch first.

Ellie laughed into her mouth. “Fuck, you’re eager.”

Abby didn’t care. “You brought me here.”

“Yeah I did. Didn't tell you to stop.”

Ellie kissed her again, rough and messy, pushing her back toward the bed.

But this time, Abby didn’t just take it.

She pushed back.

Their teeth clicked. Their lips crushed. Abby grunted and turned them, pushing back until Ellie was the one hitting the mattress, sitting back on her elbows, looking up at her with a crooked smirk.

“Ohhh,” Ellie drawled. “Someone’s got ideas?”

Abby dropped to her knees. Ellie raised her eyebrows.

“I didn’t get to touch you last time,” Abby said, voice rough. She pulled Ellie’s legs apart and settled between them, big hands sliding slow along her thighs. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

Ellie blinked. Her mouth opened like she was about to make another smartass comment – then closed again when Abby pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee.

Then another, higher. Ellie’s breath caught, forgetting she was supposed to be in control, for a moment.

Abby grinned. “Like my mouth, Williams?”

Ellie swallowed. “Shut up.”

Abby didn’t. She nuzzled into the heat of her, slow and reverent, like a worshipper kneeling at the altar. And she still hadn’t even really touched her, she was taking her time, like Ellie was something sacred.

Ellie stared down at her. “You’re such a fuckin’ perv.”

“I know.” 

Abby said, eyes going down Ellie's arms, to those veiny hands. Her eyes darkened with unspoken intent.

But she didn't have to say it.

Ellie's eyes followed. “You want my fingers in your mouth?”

Abby’s eyes flicked up. She nodded.

Ellie held out her hand, fingers splayed. Her smirk returned. “Then earn it.”

Abby didn’t hesitate. She took Ellie’s wrist, brought it to her mouth, and kissed the tips of her fingers like they were holy.

Ellie inhaled, sharply.

Abby’s tongue came next. Long, slow licks between each knuckle, wet and hot and shameless. Then she took two fingers into her mouth and sucked, slow and deep.

Ellie’s eyes went heavy. “Jesus…”

Abby let them pop out with a soft sound. “You like that?”

“You know I do.”

Ellie leaned forward, pulled her hoodie off, then tugged at her own tank top until it was off too. She was bare underneath – of course she was – and Abby just… stared.

For a second, she forgot how to breathe.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” she murmured, dazed.

Ellie grinned, flushed and cocky. “Keep talking like that and I might let you cum tonight.”

Abby climbed over her, hands on either side of Ellie’s hips. She kissed her collarbone, then lower. “I don’t care about that right now.”

“Oh?”

“I just want you.”

That landed. Ellie’s smirk faltered. Her head tipped back, throat exposed.

Abby mouthed at it. Bit it. Licked a stripe up her pulse and kissed her jaw.

Then lower, all over her chest, nipples hardening against her tongue.

She hooked Ellie’s waistband with her thumbs and pulled down, slow.

“You gonna pray before you go down on me, baby?” Ellie asked, a playful smirk on her lips once again, trying to regain control.

Abby didn’t break eye contact when she said it. “I already am.”

And then her mouth was on Ellie — slow, reverent, filthy. Her hands gripped her thighs, held her open, anchored her. She licked her cunt like it was sacred, like she’d been starved and this was the only thing that could keep her alive.

The taste of her was strong and Abby didn't care, tongue alternating between flicking her clit and sliding into her soaked hole. She clearly liked it much more than she showed, and Abby let out a moan against her core.

Ellie groaned, head tipping back again, arm draped over her eyes. But not for long. She had to see those hazy blue eyes, peeking at her from over her bush as her tongue made her feel like her pussy was melting.

“Fuck, look at you,” she murmured, voice rough with smoke and something sharper. “You’re fucking starving, huh?”

Abby moaned against her again, unable to stop herself, feeling her boxers drenched already.

Ellie’s fingers tangled in blonde hair, tugged gently – not to guide, just to feel her. “You like it? Like being a mouth for me to fuck?”

She grinded her hips against her face.

Abby nodded. Couldn't speak. Couldn’t stop. She lapped at her with newfound vigor.

Ellie watched her, watched the way her lashes fluttered, the way her eyebrows pulled up like it hurt to go this long without tasting her. Her cheeks were flushed, wet, and perfect. Worship turned into desperation, and it was glorious.

“Shit,” Ellie breathed, tightening her grip in Abby’s hair. “You’re shaking, baby.”

Abby whimpered against her. Her hands clenched on Ellie’s hips. Her whole body buzzed, lost in it, like she’d drown in Ellie if she wasn’t careful – but wouldn’t mind if she did.

“You're perfect like this,” Ellie said, voice breaking into a laugh. “God, what would your team think? Big, strong Captain Anderson on her knees, crying for it.”

Ellie's dirty mouth didn't stop, but her voice was shaky too. Abby sobbed into her. It wasn't from pain.

She was pussy drunk, doing it for her pleasure over Ellie's.

The auburnette just watched, biting her lip, her own breath turning shaky from how hard she was pulsing against Abby’s mouth. She was really fucking close.

“Fuck, Abby. Gonna cum–” she jerked, taking a sharp breath. “Gonna cum on your pretty mouth. Don'tfuckingstop–”

Abby nodded, not changing a fucking thing, tongue abusing the bundle of nerves.

And when she came – hips jerking, voice low and cracked – she didn’t let go of her hair. “Shit, Abs, fuuuuck…”

Ellie didn’t let her move, just pressed down on the back of her head, kept her pinned between her thighs.

Abby didn’t resist. Didn’t want to.

Only when the waves passed and her thighs twitched, oversensitive, did Ellie finally pull her up.

Abby blinked, dazed. Her lips were swollen. Her chin slick. She looked wrecked. 

Ellie sat up slowly. Pushed her hair out of her face. Studied her.

“You didn’t even try to touch yourself,” she said, a little surprised.

Abby shook her head.

The other tilted her head. “Why?”

“You didn’t say I could.”

Ellie groaned. Such a good girl. Heat bloomed again, fast and deep.

“Goddamn,” she muttered. “You’re so fucking obedient, baby.”

She kissed her. Deep and slow and possessive, and Abby tasted herself as she sucked on her tongue. Then, Ellie grabbed Abby’s face in both hands.

“Y’ever been strapped before?”

Abby’s eyes widened slightly. She swallowed. “N-Not yet.”

Ellie’s grin turned feral. “You want to?”

Abby nodded fast before she could ask twice.

She shoved her gently but firmly onto her back, reached over to her nightstand, and opened the drawer.

A leather harness. Long, girthy and navy blue – didn't even look like it'd fit.

Ellie strapped in slow, deliberate. Not to tease. Just so Abby could see it, and she could.

“You’ve earned this,” she said, voice low. “But don’t think I’m gonna go easy, little perv.”

Abby’s legs trembled as Ellie climbed over her, green eyes shining with purpose.

“Spread your legs for me, baby?”

So Abby did. Happily. 

Over and over again.

Turns out the wasn't the only one obsessed.

[shatteredblissxx]

── ♱ If you meant it.

tags: frat!gojo x fem!reader, college au, on-and-off situationship, toxic exes, emotional damage, slow burn, angst, mutual pining, EVENTUAL SMUT, mndi, signs of depression, gaslighting, alcohol use, party culture, miscommunication, suggestive themes, eventual smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), creampie, pet names (baby), slight choking, fingering, overstim, HEAVY PWP, a lot of plot (sorry)

synopsis: you swore you were done with him, but five months later, gojo texts you at the end of september claiming he’s changed—and like a fool, you believe him. he was your first love, maybe your only one. now it’s winter, your dorm feels colder than ever, and his memory clings to you like a bruise. you and gojo were never meant to last—he was loud parties and broken promises, you were soft edges and quiet hopes. when it ended, it wasn’t dramatic, just a slow, aching silence where he stopped showing up. still, you check his page sometimes. maybe he checks yours too. you never expected to see him again—not at another party, not looking at you like he still remembers, and not asking for one more chance like it still belongs to him.

word count: 13.6k

authors note: first fic in 6 years... and it's finally out! i hope this is up to everyones expectations :,D

monday mornings had their own rhythm. you liked them quiet, still air, soft clothes, the comfort of a routine that made you feel just a little more in control. you took your coffee black now, not because you liked it that way, but because sweetness reminded you too much of him. you sat in the back of your lecture hall, half-listening to the professor drone on about things that didn't matter while your mind drifted to things that did.

everyone says you're doing better. and in alot of ways, you were. your grades are solid. you wake up on time, most of the time. you've started doing your skincare routine again. you show up, laugh when you need to, and you've learned to exist without waiting for his name to light up on your phone. you're doing the damn thing. but sometimes when the day slows down and you're alone in your dorm—when the noise stops—there's a heaviness that settles in your chest. quiet, familiar.

you never used to believe in first love. you thought the idea was romantic nonsense. but then he showed up with that crooked smile and chaotic charm, and ruined that certainty. you didn't mean to fall for him. but there was something about the way he looked at you, like you were the only real thing in the world, that made it impossible not to.

he wasn't perfect. far from it. there were nights he didn't call, parties he didn't leave early for, promises he made with all the right words but none of the follow-through. he hurt you. over and over. and still, when he texted you after five months of silence last september, you answered. you shouldn't have but you did.

you gave him another chance, even though something deep down told you not to. he swore he changed. told you this time would be different. that he was ready. and maybe he meant it, part of him did, but it didn't stop him from vanishing again. from proving that nothing had really changed. you still remember the date. november 14th. the last time you heard from him.

and now? now you exist in the after. you tell yourself you've moved on, and maybe you have. but there are nights you still check his. page, still scroll through old texts, still wonder what it might've been if he'd just shown up like he promised. you wanted to hate him. god, you should. but you dont. because he was your first love. and no matter how much he messed it up, some pieces of him still live inside you.

what he doesn't know, what he never let himself say out loud, is that he loved you. he really did. but he was scared. of what? you never got the answer. maybe of being known. maybe finally having something real. or maybe... of you.

the thought slips down your spine like cold water, dragging you out of the haze you didn't even realize you'd sunk into.

buzz buzz

you glance down at your phone.

'you good?'

another message follows immediately.

'you should come with me and yuji to get food after. my treat. you look like you're going to pass out mid-lecture lol'

its nobara, obviously. no one else texts with that mix of blunt concern and thinly veiled affection.

you stare at the screen. the words don't sink in right away. you feel too heavy for language. too stuck inside your own silence.

you really don't want to go out. the idea of sitting across from someone and trying to form coherent words feels exhausting. but then again, maybe that's exactly what you need, someone loud enough to shake you back into the present.

you type out simple:

'sure. where?'

you don't even have to look to know she smirked at that. probably leaned back in her chair like she just made something happen.

The lecture continues around you—cognitive development, memory, retention—but your mind is elsewhere. november 14th still circled in your planner. still untouched. still loud.

you're fine.

you're so fine.

you have friends.

you're doing well in school.

you're healing.

but it shouldn't ache this much.

the ache sticks to your ribs even as the world shifts around you. now, its a greasy booth. a sticky table. fryer oil, sugar and artificial vanilla clinging to the air.

you blink, realizing you missed the first half of whatever nobara just said.

she's mid-sentence, waving her fry like she's underlining a sentence.

"anyway," she says, dropping it onto her tray. "thats enough about me." her voice softens as she reaches for her drink, but she doesn't look at you right away.

"how've you been holding up since the whole.. you know."

her eyes flick up. the question doesn't need to be finished. you both know what she means.

you dont answer right away.

because for a second, you're not in the booth.

you're back there.

that goddamn night.

the memory hits before you can stop it.

the shouting. his voice rising, yours right behind. “you always do this!” “oh, so now it’s my fault you can’t show up when it matters?”

it spiraled. words neither of you meant were thrown like knives. he slammed the door behind him. or maybe you slammed it after kicking him out — you can’t remember anymore. just the silence that came after.

the memory knots itself in your thought.

"hey." nobara's voice cuts through the noise of clattering trays and a group of frat boys laughing two booth over. "you okay?"

you blink, the scene recalibrates—grease-stained wrappers, crumpled napkins, the salt-sharp scent of fries lingering in the air.

"yeah," you say quickly. "yeah, i'm fine."

she doesn't believe you. you can see it in the way her brow tightens slightly, but she doesn't press.

"just been.. busy," you add. "classes. work. you know."

"mm," she hums into her straw. "you're doing that thing where you're one inconvenience away from spiraling."

you snort, which helps. "that obvious?"

"painfully." she pops another fry into her mouth. "but also relatable."

you try to smile, try to lean into normalcy. it helps. a little.

outside the window, the sky is soft and gray, the kind of muted backdrop that makes fluorescent lights feel too harsh. inside, the world moves on—music from the speaker above the soda machine, yuji complaining about someone stealing his fries, nobara picking the sesame seeds of her bun like they've personally wronged her.

and you?

you sit there, heart still hollow, forcing yourself to be present.

because heartbreak doesn't mean the world stops turning.

it just means you have to pretend it doesn't hurt as much as it does.

the crinkle of a burger wrapper cuts through the quiet of your thoughts. yuji leans forward, lips shining from his bite, eyes lit with that familiar chaotic energy.

"oh! did you guys hear?" he says with too much enthusiasm for someone who just inhaled an entire double cheeseburger. "there's a. party saturday—sukuna, geto and gojo are throwing it."

you don't react right away.

but your heart does.

it thuds—just once, sharp and low—and your jaw tightens so slightly it might go unnoticed. might.

nobara looks up from her fries. "the hell for?"

yuji shrugs. "i dunno, some fundraiser-slash-rage hybrid. knowing those three? probably just an excuse to get blackout drunk and make it tax deductible."

nobara raises an eyebrow. "you mean like last time, when we had to carry your ass out because you tried to fight a house plant?"

"it looked aggressive!" yuji defends.

"you tried to arm wrestle it."

"..okay but i won."

their bickering barely registers. you're still stuck on the name, gojo, still trying to unhear it.

yuji turns towards you mid-sip of his milkshake. "you gonna go?"

you blink

"what?"

"the party. you coming?"

your stomach tightens.

"oh, no," you say, a little too fast. "i think i'll just stay in."

yuji frowns. "c'mon, it might be fun. you need to get out more."

"im fine, really."

"you're always saying that."

you inhale quietly, willing yourself not to snap. but his persistence scratches at something raw.

"i said i'm not going."

yujis smile drops. "shit. sorry."

the silence is sudden and heavy, like someone turned down the music of the world.

you soften. "shit—i'm sorry. that wasn't fair. i'm just.. tired"

"yeah," nobara says softly, "we know."

the conversation shifts. it always does. you all return to safe topics—classes, professors, which cafeteria food might kill you. but the part lingers in the back of your mind like a storm cloud.

the evening slips by in a blur of static and small talk. you go through the motions—thank them for the ride and walk into your resident hall, unlocking your room door, dropping your keys in the bowl by instinct.

you're not sure how long you've been lying there.

but your dorm feels colder than usual.

not freezing. just.. quiet. like the walls are listening. like the air is waiting for something that isn't coming back.

you're curled up on your bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, phone glowing dimly in the dark. you know you should sleep. you have an early class. a quiz, maybe. or a lab. who knows. who cares.

but your thumb hovers.

instagram. burner account. you know the routine by heart.

you swipe to the side, open the page, and there he is.

gojo satoru.

your thumb twitches, almost like muscle memory. you dont even have to think about it anymore. tap, hold, view story.

there's no adrenaline. no butterflies. just that dull, awful pull in your chest like someone tied a string to your ribcage and keeps yanking it, slow and cruel.

the first slide: a repost. him and geto at the gym. he's not even facing the camera fully, but you'd know the back of his head anywhere.

the second: his own post. some trendy bar downtown. a drink in his hand, rings glinting. that smug, too-perfect smile. the one you used to kiss between laughter and eye rolls. the one he'd flash at you after saying something that made you want to punch him in the chest and kiss him at the same time.

you stare for a second too long.

your chest tightens.

there's no tag. no caption

still. you know that look. that ease. that comfort.

he's doing fine. of course he is.

meanwhile you're—

"fucking rich asshole," you mutter under your breath, the words catching at the edges of your throat.

the screen dims. you turn your phone off and set it beside you with a quiet thud.

you sigh—not angry, not sad, just tired in a way that sinks bone-deep.

"god. grow up."

you shift onto your side, facing the wall. the quiet presses in.

no music. no city noise. just the faint buzz of your mini fridge and that goddamn ticking clock.

you're fine

you're so fine.

you've said it enough times to almost believe it.

but then:

if you're so fine, why are you checking his page from a burner account?

you shut your eyes. hard.

it wasn't—

it wasn't stalking. it was just curiosity. just checking.

just making sure he's okay.

thats what you told yourself. closure. right?

the silence doesn't let you lie.

you turn again, dragging the blanket up to your chin like it might shield you from your own thoughts.

you remember the voicemail.

the way he would say you're my girl like it meant forever.

the way it all fell apart.

god, i should hate him, you think.

i should

but you don't, and that's the worst part.

you stare at the ceiling like it might give you answers.

why does forgetting him feel like grieving someone who's still alive.

and why, no matter how many times you try,

does it feel like its never enough?

your alarm blares like it's pissed off at you specifically. you groan, dragging the blanket over your head like it might shield you from the world.

no such luck.

your phone buzzes from somewhere across the bed, like it's got something urgent to say.

you roll over with a half-hearted grunt, arm flailing until your fingers brush against cold glass.

8:05

you blink.

again.

damn

9am class.

your thumb hovers over snooze. you could skip. you really could.

you'd still pass. probably. maybe.

maybe no one would notice.

but then the thought comes—quiet and cruel: if you don't go today, you won't go tomorrow either. or the day after that. or the day after that.

you sigh.

push yourself upright

your body aches—not from anything specific, just the kind of heaviness that lives in tired people it's not sharp. just there.

the bathroom tiles are cold under your feet as you shuffle in, still swaddled in sleep. you turn on the shower, let the water heat while you splash cold water on your face. it stings, in the best way— reminds you you're still here.

still trying.

you reach for your phone again, this time to check the weather:

snow. of course.

you step out to open your closet. gray pants, a white long-sleeve tee, your thickest black puffer, and maybe a scarf, if you're feeling generous.

you lay everything out neatly on your bed—just like you used to before life got messy. its your routine. you way of saying i'm trying. even if it doesn't feel like enough most days.

back in the bathroom, the mirror fogs as you undress. you step into the water like it might wash something away— him, the ache, the burner account, that stupid smirk in last night's photo.

it doesn't. but you scrub anyway.

after, you towel off in silence, pull on your clothes, zip up your jacket, and sling your backpack over one shoulder. you stare at the door for a second. just a second.

then a deep breath. a promise to yourself.

you can do this. just get through today.

the world outside is still and white, snowflakes drifting from a pale sky. it's too quiet. like the morning is holding its breath.

your shoes crunch the path as you walk across campus, scarf pulled up to your chin. the wind bites, but you keep going. the walk to the psych isn't long.

but today, like most days lately, it felt like a thousand miles.

the lecture hall hums with the low buzz of laptops, shuffled paper, and half-whispered side conversations. you sit somewhere in the middle, surrounded by bodies but completely alone.

the professor's voice weaves through the room, explaining attachment theory or maybe something else, you've stopped really hearing it. the tone blends into background static, the kind you only snap out of when silence falls or someone calls your name. your pen hovers above your notebook, a few phrases of half-caught information scattered across the page, filling the gaps with lazy spirals and jagged hearts shaded in black ink.

you look up.

9:47.

you look again.

9:46?

you frown. did the clock just tick backwards?

a sigh slips out before you can stop it. it pulls something from your chest, like the heaviness you've been carrying is trying to escape in the little exhales.

you're tired

not in the "i need a nap" way, but in the kind of way that seeps into your bones, that follows you from sunrise to long after the lights are off and campus has gone still.

you're tired of pretending you're fine. tired of dragging yourself out of bed for lectures where none of the words feel like they matter. tired of smiling when someone walks by and says, "hey, you good?" like it's not the hardest question you've had to answer all week.

the professor's voice breaks through again, sharp and clear.

"—and that's why heartbreak is often considered a form of trauma. the brain reacts similarly to physical pain. loss triggers the amygdala, the fight-or-flight response. and no, it's not just in your head."

you glance up.

damn. right on the nose.

you didnt mean to say it out loud, but it slips through anyway—soft, sardonic, barely above a whisper.

it earns you a glance from the guy sitting next to you. you duck your head, lips tugging into that kind of smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

your phone vibrates once on your desk, the screen lighting up with a text from yuji.

'you alive???'

another buzz

'also this meme is you rn'

you tap the notification. it's a picture of a cat— small, gray, slumped against a windowsill like it's given up on life entirely. its eyes are half-lidded, barely awake.

you huff out a soft snort through your nose, thumb already typing.

'shut up. im here physically, at least'

yuji's not even on campus today — no classes on tuesdays. nobara, on the other hand, was supposed to meet you after this one for stats. just as you think of her, another text rolls in.

'cant make it to stats. stuck in lab. wish me luck before i throw this beaker at my partner'

your shoulders sink. that means you'll be on your own the rest of the day.

figures.

you drop your phone back into your bag and glance toward the board. but your eyes aren't really following the lesson. they drift to the empty chair in the far right corner of the hall. it's always empty, ever since he dropped the class. but sometimes, in your head, he's sitting there—legs spread too wide, hoodie half on, grinning like he knows you're looking.

you chose criminology as your major because you wanted to understand people —or at least, the things they do when they think no one's watching. there's something fascinating about how people unravel. how decisions build on top of each other until you can't tell where things went wrong. you used to think behavior could be mapped out. explained.

but gojo satoru proved otherwise.

if human beings were unpredictable, he was the thesis. the embodiment of chaos theory in one annoyingly pretty package.

you still remember telling your advisor during orientation: "i just want to understand why people do the things they do."

you didn't mean to be that honest, but it slipped out like most truths do — fast, quiet, irreversible.

and now here you are. sitting in a psych class that's supposed to help you understand attachment styles, but really all it's doing is reminding you that your favorite person is a stranger again.

the professor's voice trails off and the lights flicker slightly as students start packing up their bags.

you blink out of the haze, tugging your jacket tighter around your body. the room's gone colder — or maybe you just noticed it now.

the snow had slowed, softening into a lazy drizzle of flurries that melted the second they touched the salted sidewalks. the clouds hung low, tinted silver, casting everything in that dull winter glow that makes the day feel slower than it really is.

the air as still sharp, but bearable now—cold enough to sting your cheeks, not enough to stop you. you pulled your scarf tighter as you made you way toward your next class: statistics.

your shoes crunched faintly over the slush, breath curling in front of your face in soft, ghostlike wisps. you didn't mind walking in the cold anymore. in some strange way, it reminded you that you were still here. still moving.

your fingers stiffened from the wind, so you tucked them deeper into your jacket pocket. that's when you felt it—a buzz.

then another.

you fished your phone out without thinking. one thumb swipe across the screen:

new email: statistic midterm grade available.

you stopped walking.

right there, between the half-circled sidewalk and a bed of frost-covered rose bushes, your stomach twisted. you had completely forgotten that you took midterms last week.

you hadn't look at the test since after you turned it in. you couldn't.

you remembered the way the questions blurred together, how your eyes had stung from nights spent crying instead of studying. you remembered submitting it and walking back to your dorm, crawling under your blankets and not resurfacing until the next day.

a slow breath escaped your lips, visible in the cold. you tapped the email open.

wait. what?

you blink.

91%

you read it again. 91. still there.

for a moment, you just stand there, phone still in hand, the cold biting at your fingers. then slowly—so slowly it almost feels unfamiliar—you mouth lifts at the corners. a real smile. quiet. but yours.

you didn't fix everything.

it didn't erase the ache.

but it was something. a reminder

you were still here. still showing up. still moving. still you.

and maybe that was enough.

you remember sitting at your kitchen table years ago, watching true crime documentaries until the credits blurred together, fascinated by the psychology of it all. how someone could become a monster. how the system worked to stop them.

you remember reading case files late into the night, whispering facts under your breath like prayers.

you wanted to understand people, even when they were cruel. even when they broke the things they swore to protect.

especially then.

human beings were the most unpredictable, volatile force in the word.

satoru was living proof of that.

your smile faded—just a little at the thought—but you let yourself have this one. even if it was small. even if the light always seemed to flicker before it faded.

you adjusted your scarf again and kept walking. the path to the stats building curved left, tucked behind the line of evergreens just past the student union.

your fingers were starting to warm.

and then—

wham!

you rounded the corner and slammed into someone. hard.

the impact knocked the air from your lungs and jolted your steps back. before you could even register what— or who— you hit, a sudden searing warmth splashed across your chest.

"shit—"

a voice. low. familiar.

his phone hit the pavement with a heavy clack, followed by the paper cup that tumbled from his hand and landed, half-crushed between your shoes. hot cocoa, thick and steaming, pooled out over the sidewalk and soaked through the front of your white shirt—right under your half-zipped puffer. the burn didn't sizzle, but it stung the universe needed you awake for this moment.

and oh, you were awake now.

you didn't have to look up. not yet. your body already knew.

the voice.

the height.

the scent underneath the sugar and chocolate—warm cedar and some overpriced cologne.

your eyes traced the ruined hem of a sweater, gray and now drenched in cocoa. you didn't dare look higher. not yet. because the moment you did, it would be real.

but you did anyway.

and there he was.

satoru.

the name thundered through your head. loud. immediate. unforgiving.

he stood there, shoulders stiffened, mouth parted like he was halfway between a curse and an apology. his rounded sunglasses had slid slightly down the bridge of his nose, revealing the sharp, clear blue eyes of his underneath. eyes that used to look at you like you were his entire world.

now? they just looked surprised.

the white of his hair framed his face like you remembered. slightly messy, effortlessly perfect. a strand hung over his forehead and stuck to his temple, damp from the drink. his sweater clung to his frame, warm cocoa spreading across the fabric like a blooming bruise.

he was still beautiful. still magnetic. and still.. him

the silence stretched. your pulse roared in your ears.

he took a half-step forward. "I—"

his voice cracked. "I didn't see you."

then softer, like it was involuntary, he said your name.

not loud. not desperate. just quiet. like a prayer he didn't mean to say out loud.

your throat went dry. you were still frozen, chest damp, heart pounding, mind screaming.

you didn't speak

couldn't.

if you opened your mouth, you weren't sure what would come out.

so you zipped up your jacket, covering the stain—and him—with one swift motion.

and you walked. past him. away. fast.

no glances back. no deep breath. just movement.

back to your dorm.

back to silence.

you toss your backpack onto your bed and peel off the cocoa-stained shirt like it was poison, like it burned more now than it did on the sidewalk. your fingers trembled as you drop it into the hamper, the brown stain blooming across the fabric like rot.

you sit on the edge of your bed, eyes locked onto the floor.

satoru

you weren't ready, not for his voice, not for his eyes, and definitely not for the way he still looked at you like you were unfinished business.

your heart thumps violently against your ribcage, like it's trying to say all the things you didn't.

maybe today wasn't going to be so good after all.

the thought lingers longer than you want it to.

and then—

like water seeping through a crack you didn't know was there—

it starts.

the memory.

the last time you saw him before today.

it was late.

too late for visitors, and too late for apologies. but he was there.

a knock on your dorm door, light and almost playful.

you didn't expect it to be him—not after the week you'd had. not after the ignored texts, the missed calls, the night he promised to take you out and never showed. no excuse. not explanation. nothing.

but when you opened the door, there he stood. satoru.

his stupidly soft white hair falling into his eyes, a lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth soft white hair falling into his eyes, like none of it happened, like everything was fine.

"hey, baby," he said, grinning the way it used to make your heart ache the best way. "missed you."

you didn't say anything right away. just stepped aside and let him in. because what else were you supposed to do? he leaned in to kiss you, arms looping around your waist like he hadn't make you feel small all week. you kissed him back, barely mechanical. hollow.

he didn't notice.

or maybe he just didn't care.

you ended up on your bed. him lying halfway on top of you, one hand idly playing with the drawstring of your hoodie, the other scrolling endlessly on his phone.

it was like watching someone fall out of love in real time.

and maybe he had already.

"hey," you said after a few quiet minutes, brushing his bangs back just slightly. "wanna go grab food? like, actually like the room and eat something that isn't ramen or granola bars?"

he didn't look up at you, but smiled. "yeah, sure. you're lucky im starving."

you laughed lightly, slipping on your sneakers at the edge of the bed.

and then his phone lit up.

he paused mid-scroll

a message from suguru.

'yo party @ mine tonight. pull up'

satoru stared blankly at it for a beat. then sighed.

"actually.. i might not be able to go. suguru's throwing something. it's kinda important"

you froze. "seriously?"

he blinked. "what?"

"this," you gestured vaguely, a tension starting to build in your throat. "this is what im talking about, satoru."

he raised his brow. "you're really gonna start this again?"

you tried to swallow it down. you did. but it rose anyway.

"you said yes. you were right in front of me and you said yes. and now, because suguru's throwing a party, i get replaced. again."

"im not replacing you," he scoffed, sitting up fully up now. "its one night."

"its every night," your voice cracked. "every time i need you, you're gone. and every time you need something—fun, distraction, noise— im expected to understand."

"oh, come on," he rolled his eyes, laughing bitterly. "you never want to go out. all you do is hole up in this room. its depressing."

you flinched. "so now im depressing?"

"i didn't say that—"

"yes, you did." your arms were crossed, chest tight. "you make all these promises, and every single time, you break them. you keep saying you've changed, but then it's just the same shit over and over again."

he stood up now, anger flickering in his gaze. "maybe this was a mistake then."

there it was.

that sentence hung in the air, slicing through your ribs like glass.

you nodded slowly, trying to breathe around the sudden lump in your throat. "get out."

his eyes widened. "what? no, come on. baby, i didn't mean it like—"

"get out, satoru."

he took a step toward you. you stepped back.

"don't do this," he said quieter now.

"i said get out." your voice rose, shaking. "gojo, get the fuck out!"

you didn't even call him by his first name. that was the final blow. his jaw clenched. his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"fine" he muttered, pushing past you.

the door slammed behind him, shaking the frame.

you stared at it for a second. two.

and then you dropped.

right there on the floor, knees tucked to your chest, your breath coming out in broken sobs as your shirt absorbed the tears you didn't mean to cry.

that night burned into your memory like a brand.

and now, after all this time, he was back.

like nothing had changed. like he hadn't left pieces of you behind when he walked out.

you're sitting on the edge of your bed now—present day. same dorm. same room. same air. and yet everything feels completely different. or maybe too much of it still feels the same. maybe thats the problem.

the silence stretches around you, thick and pressing. the kind that seeps into your skin if you let it.

you eventually get up.

you go through the motions like muscle memory. the soft thud of your feet against the floor. the creek of the bathroom door. the hiss of water splashing against tile as you twist the knob and let it heat up. steam curls around the mirror, your reflection slowly blurring out of focus.

you step under the water and close your eyes.

you don't sob. not the ugly kind. not the loud, earth-shattering kind. just a slow, steady ache behind your eyes. a few tears slipping past your lashes and mixing with the water. hot against your cheeks, gone before you can even acknowledge them.

you wash your body like it's something you owe yourself. not tenderness, just obligation. you wrap your arms around yourself at one point, just to stay upright. just to make it through the rinse.

afterward, you towel off in silence. pull on the first oversized t-shirt you find. you don't bother with stats. you don't even check the time. you crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head like a child hiding from a nightmare—except this one followed you into the daylight.

you don't move for hours. maybe it's grief. maybe it's rage. maybe it's just.. him. all of it slamming back into your chest like the day you kicked him out.

everything you thought buried clawing its way back up.

why couldn't he have just stayed?

why couldn't he have just been better?

but thats the thing about people— you can't force change out of them. you can't love someone hard enough to make them different. no matter how badly you wanted to.

you dont go to class the next day. or the day after that. or the day after that.

by friday, the texts from nobara and yuji have started to pile up unread. calls you let ring until they go quiet. a few voicemails, maybe. you haven't listened.

your room is a mess again. not chaotic—just disarray. clothes draped over your chair. empty cups on your desk. your planner untouched on the floor.

you haven't even left to get food. just small snacks hoarded in drawers, half-eaten and stale. you've been surviving on whatever's close. watching old shows on your laptop without really paying attention. letting the noise fill the space where your thoughts used to be.

but you still miss him.

you hate it, but you do.

you miss the version of him that only existed in your head. the could've been. the what if.

and it hurts more now—somehow—than it did when you watched him walk out.

it's midday now.

you're still in bed. same shirt. same sheets that now feel like they've absorbed every ounce of your grief. the laptop beside you plays the next episode of a show you're not watching. your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling—until a knock comes.

it's soft at first. one, two. a pause.

you ignore it, burrowing deeper into your blanket. maybe they'll leave.

then it comes again—louder. firmer.

and then, a voice.

"open up! we know you're in there!"

nobara.

you groan, dragging yourself upright with a grunt as if gravity tripled. you shuffle to the door, peek through the peephole.

yuji's there, too.

great.

you crack the door open just enough for the blinding hallway light to sting your eyes. you wince, squinting. the brightness feels offensive.

nobara's eyebrows immediately pinch, eyes sweeping over your face with a mix of concern and frustration.

"where the hell have you been?" she asks softly, like it physically hurt her to ask.

"been busy.." you mumble. "with things."

they don't answer right away, they just look at you. your oversized shirt clings to one shoulder, the collar stretched from wear. your sweats are wrinkled, like you hadn't changed them in days. your eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that lingers, heavy and dull.

your room is dark, like the sun's been politely kept out for your sake. you haven't been to class in three days. haven't answered their texts. haven't been seen.

yuji steps forward. "can we come in?"

"no, its messy."

"too bad," nobara says flatly—and then pushes past you.

she flips on the light with the flair of a judge delivering a sentence.

the room isn't a disaster. not apocalyptic. but it reflects your mind, scattered. half folded laundry, empty ramen cups, notebooks everywhere, some papers on the floor.

"we'll help," nobara says, already crossing the room. she grabs a few cups and tosses them in the trash.

and then out of nowhere she hugs you.

tight.

you don't move at first, but something flickers.

they don't ask questions, they clean beside you. with you.

yuji makes dumb commentary about your hoodie collection, nobara critiques your snack drawer. they toss wrappers, fold clothes, laugh at stupid notes you forgot you wrote to yourself.

you could cry. god, you could cry right now. you love them, you have such good friends.

when it's done, when the air feels breathable again, the three of you sit on your bed. you're all quiet for a beat—until nobara speaks.

"okay," she says gently. "talk to us. what's going on?"

you breathe in deep. deeper.

and then, "i saw him."

yuji gasps like it's a scandal. "what?! did you guys kiss? talk? makeup? what happened?!" he fires off like a machine gun.

nobara smacks his arm. "shut up and let her finish, dumbass."

you actually laugh. a small one, but real.

"i bumped into him." you say. "literally. like—full-on impact. his hot cocoa spilled all over both of us."

they wince in unison.

"he said something," you continue. "but i sort of forgot. It felt like my thoughts were colliding with each other. i just.. panicked. it scared me. it brought up everything from that night."

your voice gets small.

"the breakup."

they dont interrupt. they just lean in and hold you. no fixing. no advice. just warmth and presence.

"you can't do this again," nobara whispers after a while. "you can't just lock yourself in here for days and pretend like nothing happened. you're allowed to feel everything. but you cant disappear."

you nod.

and something in you shifts again.

they make you change. nobara helps you pick an outfit that says "im alive" and not "i just rose from the grave." yuji waits outside the door like a bouncer. when you emerge, he whistles dramatically.

you head out into the city with them—your friends. real ones. the kind that drag you back into the world when you've forgotten how to exist in it.

you go to a thrift store, then a boba shop, then some offbeat boutique nobara's been dying to visit. you try things on. eat too much. laugh at yuji when he chokes trying to inhale a dumpling whole. he almost dies, actually.

and for a few hours..

you forget.

you forget gojo's name.

you forget how it felt to fall apart.

you're just.. living again.

even if its brief.

even if it wont last.

you return to your room, arms full of shopping bags, the city chill still clinging to your jacket. you kick the door shut with your heel, cheeks warm, a real genuine smile still curling at the corners of your mouth. you dont even notice right away—not until you're hanging up the new sweater nobara helped you pick out, fingers smoothing the sleeve like it deserves care.

your room is clean.

not just physically, but energetically. no wrappers on the desk. no laundry on the floor. no gloom choking the air. it smells faintly of that lavender plug-in you forgot you even owned. you turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. its the first time your space has felt like yours in weeks.

you nod to yourself, just a little.

yeah.

maybe this is the start of something new.

you don't need him.

you dont.

he can go on and enjoy his life—messy, dazzling, chaotic as ever— and you'll enjoy yours. quiet and steady and healing.

you shower. fix your hair. slip into your comfiest tee and socks with the little hearts on them. slide under the covers and plug in your phone, locking the screen without even thinking about checking his profile.

that might be the most progress you've made in months.

and tonight?

you sleep.

no chest-tightness.

no late-night staring at the ceiling.

just rest.

the next day is a slow, good kind of saturday. you meet up with nobara and yuji at that ramen place they love so much—yuji's already on his second bowl before you even sit down. they try convincing you (again) to go with them to the party tonight.

"you sure?" yuji says, mouth full. "what if i get drunk again and leave nobara leaves me for dead like last time?"

nobara glares. "i told you to sip, not chug."

you laugh. you really do.

you hold up your hands. "no party for me. but watching you two argue about it is honestly more entertaining anyway."

yuji dramatically clutches his chest. "wow. betrayal."

nobara nudges your elbow gently. "if you do change your mind.. we're leaving at 9:45"

you nod. "I wont. but thanks."

you head back to your dorm. sit down at your desk. open your laptop for once, it's not mindless scrolling or doom-looping on social media. it's your actual assignments. stats. psych notes. criminology readings you've been putting off. you're behind—but not drowning. not anymore.

7:47

you close your laptop and lean back in your chair, spine aching, fingers sore from typing. you stretch, arms overhead, and let out a long sigh exhale.

you're okay.

everythings okay.

the silence settles. just the hum of your desk lamp and the distant noise of someone playing music two floors up. you stare out the window at the black sky, the campus below dotted with golden lights.

and then the thought comes.

check his page.

just one time.

you fight it. for maybe two seconds. but your fingers are already reaching for your phone.

not your main account. god, no.

you log into the burner. the one you swore you wouldn't touch again.

the screen loads.

a new story.

you tap it.

at first it's nothing. a flash of light. music. a quick pan of suguru pouring drinks. laughter.

then the next slide.

satoru.

smiling. loose. careless. his arm slung around a girl you don't recognize.

the way he's holding her?

intimate.

his hand resting on her hip. her cheek pressed to his collarbone like it's a routine comfort. no tag. no caption. just vibes.

your stomach drops

what. the. fuck.

you stare at the image, blinking hard, waiting for it to morph into something else—some innocent version, some mistake in your eyes. but it doesn't change.

you don't cry.

you don't scream.

you just pace.

your breath catches, your mind tumbling through memories and words and questions with no answers. the heat crawls up your neck, wrapping around your ribs like barbed wire. you clench your phone, knuckles aching.

what do you even do with this?

then nobara's voice echoes in your head, soft but clear.

"we're leaving at 9:45. if you change your mind."

you glance at the time.

7:50

you have time.

yeah.

you have time.

you glance at the mirror. you heart pounds. the ache is back–but this time, it fuels you. you meet your own gaze like a challenge.

you know exactly what you're going to do.

you're going to that fucking party.

your body moves before your mind can second-guess it. you storm to the closet, ripping open drawers like they owe you money. buried deep beneath your oversized hoodies and lecture-day leggings, you find it.

a black, tight, slightly cropped shirt—one you haven't worn since.. god, who even knows. A black leather skirt, clingy in all the right places, riding that line between flirt and danger. you toss them onto the bed, pulling out your heeled black boots next. the ones that add height and attitude.

all black.

you pause, staring at the pieces you've laid out. clothes you haven't touches in ages. you can't even remember the last party you went to—not really. the last one left a bitter taste in your mouth, tainted with disappointment and drunken regret. but tonight? tonight isn't about parties.

it's about reclaiming yourself.

you dart into the bathroom, stripping down for a shower thats short but scorching hot, scrubbing away the heaviness that's been clinging to your kin for days. once you're out, your towel barely stays on as you move back into the room. you start your makeup with precision. soft. beat, but deadly. clean brows, lashes that could slice glass, and lips lined just right.

then the jewelry.

a single gold chain with your first initial glinting under the light, and gold hoops that catch the edge of your cheekbones. you lift your head at yourself in the mirror, hair done, face done, outfit clinging to your curves in the way it was designed to.

you barely recognize yourself.

but damn, you look good. too good.

you sling a white shoulder purse over your body, then toss a hoodie over your shoulder just in case. one last glance at your phone.

9:38

you head straight to nobara's room, heart drumming in your ears.

you knock. firm. final

for a beat, nothing..

then—

that telltale shift of light at the peephole. a shadow moves across it.

a whisper. muffled.

"..is that her?"

"wait—check, check—open it—"

scrambling.

the door swings open fast.

yuji's the first thing you see.

his mouth drops open. "oh my god."

nobara appears over his shoulder, eyes widening as she takes you in.

"no way," she breathes.

yuji lets out a short laugh, stunned. "finally. you're actually coming out with us?"

you smirk, casual. "you'll see."

they don't press. they don't have to. nobara grabs her keys, yuji steps aside as she moves past him, and the three of you file out together—no questions, no commentary, just a quiet shift in energy.

you're not performing. you're not proving.

you're just going.

realistically the house isn't far—walkable on a warmer night—but tonight, the wind bites like it has something to prove. so you all pile into the car, bass already thumping down the block. music spills into the street before you're even parked. cars line the curb bumper to bumper, strangers weaving in and out with red solo cups and clouds of breath.

the house glows—chaotic warmth leaking from every window. people are dancing on the porch like heartbreak doesn't exist.

you breathe in deep, then shrug off your hoodie in the car. the cold snaps at your arms the moment you step out, but you don't flinch. you stand taller. your boots click against the pavement like a damn warning.

inside, it's loud. alive.

if the cold hadn't sobered you, the strobe lights and raw energy would've. the air smells like cheap weed and cheaper intentions.

in one corner, someone's passed out on a beanbag. girls are dancing on coffee tables. a couple sucking each others faces off like they're on a timer. the whole place buzzes like it runs on impulse and tequila.

yuji catches sight of the jungle juice and disappears into the crowd with a mumbled, "pray for me," over his shoulder.

nobara rolls her eyes. "he'll be face-downed in twenty."

she grabs your hand, tugging you toward the kitchen, the real action sits lined up on the counter: pink whitney—you wince— casamigos, fireball, smirnoff, and other bottom-shelf regrets. you pour yourself and nobara a shot in red solo cups and clink them together.

"you're diving in fast," nobara teases.

"just need to loosen up."

the first one goes down like fire. the second, smoother. enough to dull the ache sitting at the base of your skull. for a moment, the buzz is good. the warmth creeps through your veins like a long-lost friend. the world blurs at the edges in a way that feels manageable.

nobara finds maki near the back door and immediately disappears into the conversation. you wave her off, letting her go, assuring her you'll be fine. alone now, you lean against the wall just outside of the kitchen, watching the crowd move like waves in a storm. your thoughts drift before you can stop them.

you haven't seen him.

until now.

the music shifts to something louder—bass-heavy, intoxicating. a few cheers erupt from the living room where a round of pong is heating up you follow the noise with your eyes, and there they are.

sukuna. geto. and—

your breath catches.

satoru.

he stands there, cup in hand, laughing at something geto says. loose white curls frame his face, slightly disheveled. his black tank hugs his chest, arms flexing subtly as he raises his drink. grey cargos hang low on his hips like sin. it's infuriating how good he looks. how your body reacts before your brain can even process what you're seeing.

you're about to turn away—just breathe, get another shot, distract yourself— when she appears. the girl from his story.

she's bold pressing into him with too much familiarity, whispering something in his ear. her lips brush his cheek, too slow to be friendly, and her hands linger on his chest. you can see the smirk on her face. she knows what she's doing. knows who you are.

your teeth clench. you turn, the ache in your chest burning hotter than the liquor as you make your way back to the kitchen.

getos nudges gojo. "holy shit. she's here."

he blinks. "who?"

"your ex. she's here."

gojo's heart drops. "you're fucking with me. she doesn't go out."

"see for yourself."

he turns just in time to catch the bounce of your hair and curve of your back as you disappear into the kitchen, boots clicking against the floor.

he freezes.

the girl next to him looks confused. "whats wrong?"

"nothing," he mutters, swallowing hard.

but it's not nothing. it's you.

in the kitchen, your fingers tremble slightly as you pour another shot. you're just trying to hold it together. trying not to unravel. the cup shakes a little in your hand before you steady it against the counter.

"rough night?" a voice besides you asks.

you glance up—and then double take.

choso.

long dark hair pulled into a loose bun, eyes soft but focused, leaning slightly against the counter with a blunt in between his fingers. his lip ring catches the light when he smirks, just a little.

you blink processing.

"i—wait," you say, voice a little hoarse from disuse. "we have class together. psychology."

he nods. "yeah. tuesday and thursday. you usually sit in the back"

you're caught off guard by how observant that is. you want to say something witty back, something like, oh, so you've noticed me, but your mind's still too fogged by liquor and memory.

you offer a small smile. "didn't think you were the party type."

"i could say the same about you," he says, not unkindly. he lifts his cup. "guess we're both full of surprises."

you chuckle quietly, still not really looking at him—still trying to look past him, through the doorway, back into the living room.

but he's easy to talk to, in that calm, non-intrusive way. a grounding presence, even now. the warmth of the last shot hasn't even settled in your chest yet, and already the ache in your ribs feel just a little less sharp.

you find yourself smiling more than you have in days. there's a gentle flirtation there—not overbearing, just something warm flickering between you like a candle in a quiet room. you touch his arm lightly as you laugh at something he says, your fingers lingering just enough for it to be noticed.

across the room, it is.

you and choso are knee-deep in a conversation now, tucked into the corner of the kitchen. you're closer than before. close enough that when he leans down a bit, you noses are almost touching.

"you look beautiful tonight," he says, voice lower than before.

you blink at him, then grin, lips tugging upward. the compliment lands softer than you expect—softer than gojo's ever did, even at the best of times.

"thanks," you murmur, tilting your head. "you don't look too bad yourself."

and maybe it's the buzz from the shots. maybe it's the dim lights or the way the bass thumps beneath your feet. maybe it's that ache in your chest begging to be filled with anything other than memories. but when his hand gently lands on your waist, eyes locked on yours, you don't stop him.

your heart's thudding in your ears. you're not thinking. you're floating.

it's midnight now.

the party isn't dying down—it's mutating.

louder, sloppier, stickier.

beer-slick floors and shirtless boys yelling over bass line that long stopped making sense. someones crying on the stairs, someone is arguing in the backyard, someones throwing up in the guest bath.

but you dont feel any of it.

you're tucked into the corner of the living room with choso, his hands low on your waist, thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles against the curve of your hip like he's memorizing it. his voice soft in your ear, and you're laughing—not forced, not fake, but careful. polished

your back is arched subtly into him, shoulder blades grazing his chest, like this is something natural. like it's normal.

you're aware of your posture.

your angles.

your timing.

your fingers brush the base of his neck once.

maybe twice.

it's dangerous. it calculated.

but it doesn't feel like a performance.

not yet.

across the room, satoru hasn't moved.

not in a while.

he's been leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room for the past hour, he hasn't touched his drink since you walked in.

he never expected you to show tonight.

not really.

he'd joked about it earlier, sure—when geto had laughed and said, "watch her actually pull up." gojo had scoffed. "yeah, right. she never comes out."

he didn't want to drink.

didn't want to numb this.

he could've done what he usually did when you would pop into his mind, drink until he numbs that pain. but tonight?

tonight, he'd feel every bit of it. every spark of jealousy, every ounce of regret. tonight he'd sit in it—the consequences, the loss, the ache.

the girl on his arm tries again to get his attention. she says something flirty, something loud. her nails trail down his shoulder. he flinches.

why did he even bring her?

she doesn't feel like a distraction anymore, she feel like a mistake.

chose leans in, mouth near your ear, hands trailing a little lower now. you laugh again—lips parted, breath soft— and when your fingers brushed his collarbone, satoru's entire body tenses.

he's watching your every move like its life or death.

and maybe to him, it is.

he thought he was mad before. he thought he was jealous when choso first touched you.

but now?

now you're giggling with your head thrown back, face flushed, eyes glassy—and choso's leaning closer, closer, mouth just inches from yours. one more breath and he'll kiss you.

satoru's teeth clench so hard his jaw aches.

he shifts uncomfortably.

his drink forgotten on the table next to him

the buzz of the room fades into static.

he's not just mad.

he's fucking livid.

and just when he thinks it can't get worse, choso's eyes flick once, past your shoulder.

brief. quick.

toward him.

choso doesn't smirk.

doesn't wink.

doesn't say anything.

but he knows.

and still, he doesn't pull away.

his hands stay firm on your waist, the space between you barely even air. your breath stutters, caught somewhere between the buzz and the tension—until it all crashes.

a hand wraps around your arm.

you jerk a step back, lips parting in confusion.

"what the f—"

you turn.

satoru.

there's no grin, no teasing in his tone. just clenched jaw and those piercing blue eyes storming with something unreadable.

the warmth drains from your face.

"the hell is your problem?" you snap, yanking your arm from his grip.

he doesn't answer right away. doesn't even look at you. his eyes are locked on choso.

hard. icy.

"pick someone else," he mutters, voice low.

choso's brow lifts, slightly unfazed. "didn't realize she was taken."

"shes not!" you cut in, sharper than you meant. "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"i need to talk to you," he bites, and before you can protest, his hand curls around your arm again—not hard, not rough, but firm. like he's done letting you slip through his fingers.

you hiss out complaints and curses, stumbling a little as he pulls you out of the living room, through the crowd.

he doesn't stop. not even when nobara calls your name. not when the girl he came with tries to grab his shoulder. he doesn't turn back.

you fight his grip halfway up the stairs.

"are you serious right now?! let go of me—"

he doesn't stop. he keeps going.

because he knows this house. gojo satoru always has a backup plan—and yeah, maybe its geto's place, but he's got a room here. for nights like this. when he didn't want to go home.

he pushes the door open, pulls you inside, and shuts it behind you. lock clicks. final.

you spin on him, the buzz of the liquor fanning your anger.

"have you lost your fucking mind?"

he doesn't respond. he stands with his back to the door, chest rising and falling, trying to get the words out before anger does it for him.

"my issue," he says, slow, low, "is you being downstairs. letting him put his hands all over you like that."

you bark a disbelieving laugh. "letting him? what, am i a goddamn dog now?"

"thats not what i meant—"

"then what did you mean, huh? you mad because i'm trying to move on? because someone touched me like i meant something?"

his jaw tightens. he doesn't speak.

"oh, thats rich," you sneer. "you've got a whole bitch downstairs begging you to fuck her, don't talk to me about letting anyone do anything."

"don't bring her into this."

"why not?" you shoot back. "you brought me into it the second you dragged me up these god damn stairs like you owned me."

his hands ball into fists at his sides. "because it's you. thats why."

"what does that even mean?"

"you're not just anyone, alright? and you know that." he grits out. "you think i give a shit if it were some random girl i barely knew?"

your laugh is sharp, bitter. "oh, so now you care? now, when its inconvenient for you? when you're not the one holding me?"

he flinches, barely—but you catch it.

"i didn't see you dragging your new bitch out of any rooms," you spit. "didn't see you saying please to her. didn't see you looking like you were about to fall apart."

"stop," he says, quietly. "just—stop.

"no. fuck that." your voice cracks. "you don't get to be mad now. not when you were the one who walked. not when you're the one who always leaves."

he's silent

"why did you even come out tonight?" he asks finally, voices strained.

"why does it matter?" you shoot back.

"because i hate when you get like this," he mutters.

"and i hate how you walk around like the world owes you something," you fire back. "like it owed you something."

that hangs in the air, hot and sharp and final. but something inside you stirs—the ache behind your ribs the one you've tried to drink away, laugh away, forget away. it pulses now, steady and painful.

satoru is still silent.

you glance at him again, expecting some stupid rebuttal, some smug quip. but he's not moving.

he looks like he's unraveling.

his jaw flexes once. his lips part, but no sound comes out. words scratch at his throat, but they don't form. he swallows, hard. he can't meet your eyes.

that's when it hits you.

this isn't the satoru, you remember—not the cocky one who always had an answer. not the one who walked out without looking back. this is someone stripped bare, someone trying to figure out where the hell everything went so wrong.

your shoulders drop slightly. still tense, but.. tired now. you're tired.

"i just.." you start, voice lower. softer. "you could've just stayed. you could've just.. been better."

it comes out quieter than you expected. a confession wrapped in resentment.

he exhales, like he's been holding his breath since the second he touched you. "I know," he says, barely above a whisper.

you look away, jaw clenched, trying not to let it show. the hurt. The disappointment. the echo of all the times you let yourself believe he was different.

"you said you wanted to stay," you murmur, eyes locked on the floor.

"if you meant it.."

your voice cracks, just silently.

"you would."

silence. it crushes the air between you.

"i did," he says, suddenly. "I meant it. I just.. didn't follow through, and im sorry."

you laugh once, humorless. "that's what you said last time. and the time before that."

"I know," he says, stepping closer now, the gap narrowing. "and i don't expect you to believe me. i broke that."

he reaches out, slow, like touching you too quickly might shatter you. his hand finds your arm, gentle. warm. real.

"but it fucking kills me that you think i didn't care. that i never cared."

you glance up. his eyes are red-rimmed. honest.

"i did care. i cared so fucking much i didn't know how to hold it without ruining it."

your throat tightens. you want to speak, but the words feel stuck. a lump rising, thick and unbearable. you blink, once, twice—trying to hold it in.

"i was just.. stupid," he continues. "and scared. i didn't know how to keep something real. something that meant everything to me.

you don't respond.

the room is too still. too close. your hands are trembling. you don't know whether you want to scream or fall into his arms or disappear entirely.

"i don't know if i can trust you," you finally say, and it's barely even a voice anymore. it's air and ache. "i dont know."

and satoru, for once, doesn't try to fix it.

he just stands there.

holding you like he's terrified to let go again.

you're quiet, you can't say anything.

you can't.

the room feels overwhelming, too warm. his hands still on your arm, thumb brushing soft, absent circles like he doesn't realize he's doing it.

and then

his other hand rises. slow. careful.

he brushes his fingers along your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn't realize had fallen.

you lean into the touch before you can stop yourself.

it's muscle memory.

it's everything you've been aching for.

it's too late to pull back now.

his eyes flick to yours. bare. blue. searching.

"i've missed you," he says, voice ragged. "so much."

you swallow. your throat burns.

"when we ran into each other the other day, i wanted to say something—anything—but i didn't want it to be like this."

"i did too," you whisper.

you can't stop trembling.

he notices.

he lets go of your arm, not to walk away, but to find your hand instead. he slides his fingers into yours, anchoring you. steadying you.

the trembling slows.

and then, something shifts.

his thumb brushes over your knuckles. your breath catches. his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes.

and that's all it takes.

when he kisses you, you melt.

there's no thought. no logic. no shouldn't. no what ifs. just heat. just him.

just months of ache spilling over in the quietest, surest way.

your fingers thread through his hair, desperate to pull him closer. to the gap you've been pretending wasn't there.

the kiss deepens.

it's slow. messy. familiar. a million things neither of you could say aloud, all poured into one breathless, aching kiss.

he tastes like regret and want and something you swore you wouldn't let yourself miss.

and you don't care.

you don't care.

you're tired of running. tired of pretending. tired of being strong when all you've wanted was this.

you fall into him like it's the only thing that's ever made sense.

one hand finds your waist, firm and certain, the other bracing the small of your back as he slowly guides you down onto the bed behind you. the kiss breaks—just barely, just long enough to breathe—and then his mouth is on your neck.

and that's when everything else disappears.

 his mouth trails down your neck, hot and unrelenting, leaving grazes of teeth and open-mouth kisses that makes your pulse stutter. his hands roam like they're remembering every inch of you— like they're reclaiming what was once his.

satoru’s fingertips glide along the sliver of exposed skin just beneath your cropped shirt, warm and deliberate. his touch trails upward, slipping beneath the fabric until his hand cups one of your tits, palm hot against your skin.

he pulls back from your neck, breath brushing your ear as he murmurs,

"I missed my girl."

the words barely settle before he pushes your shirt up, exposing your chest to the cool air — and to him. he doesn’t hesitate. his mouth finds your already-sensitive nipple, tongue teasing slow circles as a low hum vibrates against you.

your back arches, a soft gasp escaping your lips. you needed this. needed him. It didn’t matter whether you trusted him or not — not right now. not in this moment. all that mattered was the way his hands were on you, his mouth everywhere at once, like he was trying to make up for every second lost.

“satoru… please…”

the name leaves your lips like a whisper, soft and desperate — and to him, it sounds like prayer. reverent. delicate.

he pulls back from your nipple with a soft pop, eyes hooded as his fingers tease the slick skin he just left behind.

“patience, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and laced with heat. “i’m gonna take my time with you.”

And he does.

his mouth lingers, tongue drawing slow, lazy circles over your nipple — not rushed, not eager. just savoring. he hums low against your skin, and the vibration sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

he pulls back just enough to nip at the sensitive peak, then soothes it with a warm swirl of his tongue. your hand tangles in his hair, breath catching in your throat.

he sucks on them without abandon like he’s starving — switching between gentle suckles and sharp, teasing grazes of his teeth. one of his hands keeps your shirt bunched up, the other slides along down your waist, massaging in between your thighs.

he groans softly, almost to himself, lips still latched around your nipple like he could stay there forever.

only after he’s traced every inch of skin he can reach, only after he’s made sure you’re trembling — only then does he move on.

his kisses trail lower, then back up again, one last swirl of his tongue over your aching bud before he finally pulls away, lips shiny, pupils slightly blown.

his hands trail down, slow and deliberate, until they reach the edge of your skirt. fingers toy with the hem before slipping underneath, dragging the fabric up inch by inch like he has all the time in the world.

one hands slides in between your thighs, gently guiding your legs apart, holding you open for him, warm, steady—almost reverential. the other hand moves in, fingertips brushing over your clothed wet cunt with the lightest pressure. barely there.

your breath hitches.

he watches every twitch, every gasp you try to suppress. his thumb start to move, not fast, not rough—just slow, deep circles pressing into your clit like he's memorizing how you fall apart.

the rhythm is maddening. not enough to tip you over, but just enough to make your body beg for more. you squirm beneath him, trying to chase his touch, but he doesn't let up.

"you're so sensitive," he murmurs, almost smug, eyes never leaving your face.

his movements stay slow—torturously slow—like he wants to draw this out for as long as he can.

you whine, begging for more, the tension in your stomach tightening with every second he stalls. it's almost painful, the way he toys with you, like he's enjoying every second of it. which he is.

"shh," he hums, pausing just to play with the lace of your panties. "let me take care of you, yeah?

his fingers slips beneath the fabric, trailing slow and deliberate. everywhere but where you need him. you twitch under his touch, your breath catching, the tease driving you halfway to madness.

"satoru, please!" you gasp, voice shaking. "i need it.."

he doesn't respond. just keeps playing with the lace like it's the most interesting thing in the world, eyes flicking down to the damp patch spreading beneath his hand. his jaw flexes. his mouth practically waters.

when he finally decides you've had enough of his games, he hooks two fingers around the crotch of your panties moving it to the side. your cunt glistens with slick under the low light and he can't hold back anymore—dipping his head, lips brushing against your clit, soft and gentle. the touch sends shivers down your spine.

he starts slow, calculated���pressing tender kisses that make your eyes almost roll. but your hips buck up into him, craving more, chasing every bit of contact like it's all you've been waiting for.

and finally, finally, he gives it to you.

unrelenting.

he dives in, devouring you as if he were starving. the filthy, moist sounds of his tongue against your cunt fill the room as he licks, sucks, teases you until you're a writhing, panting mess underneath him. he eats you like this is pleasurable for him as it is for you.

as your pussy drools on his chin, he teases, "you're so worked up." you quiver and twist your hips up on his face with every movement as he licks long, lazy strips across your entrance to clean up the mess you're creating.

you cry out his name when his nose nudges against your clit while his tongue slides inside of you, the warm, moist muscle probing your slippery walls as you scream out his name in choking sobs. every time you buck against his face, he sighs into you, yearning for more touch and a release. but he continues to tease you by sucking your lips and circling your clit with his tongue until his face is covered in your slick.

"you taste so fucking good."

he moans, his eyes closing as he loses himself between your legs. he rolls his hips against the mattress to get some stimulation on his straining cock while he flicks his tongue across your clit over and over. "so damn good."

you whimper your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging his face harder against you as you feel him building a steady rhythm. "toru'—feels so good—fuck!" you gasp as he sucks your swollen clit into his mouth.

you're shaking, mind spinning—its been far too long since you've felt anything like this. your body's practically thrashing under him as you get closer and closer to your release, but he just tightens his grip, holding you steady. he doesn't let up for a second, relentless in his pace, determined to watch you fall apart beneath him.

"please—im so close!" his groan of approval at your desperate pleas is the final push, like a band snapping, your body seizes with overwhelming pleasure. the rush of your orgasm hits all at once, your pussy clenching and gushing against satoru's chin as he licks and sucks you through waves, not missing a beat.

but

he doesn't stop, helping you ride through your orgasm, savoring every drop as he flattens his tongue on your sensitive swollen clit, moving it side to side. your eyes snap shut, and you can't help but scream as his rough tongue works your sensitive clit. your pussy is aching, and you mind is a total bank, all you can focus on is him. you attempt to push his head away, but he's stronger, grunting against your efforts.

he's completely fixated on this, fixated on you, he's got you back under him, and he's not letting go anytime soon. he doesn't mind that your thighs are practically squeezing his head. no. he's just craving more of this.

"s'too much!" you whimper repeatedly, but he's not hearing you, eager to pull another one out of you. he briefly pulls his head back, eyes locking onto your flushed face. his fingers rubbing on your throbbing clit, and his mouth covered with your juices.

"you can give me one more, right pretty?" he kisses the inside of your thigh. your eyes half lidded, your chest rising and falling rapidly. you shake your head no, but he just chuckles, his lips already making their way back to your clit.

"i know you can," he murmurs into you. his fingers circle around your hole before sliding them in, feeling you stretch as he pushes against your slick walls.

his tongue abusing your clit while his fingers pump inside of you hard and fast, your back arching in response. you're sobbing out his name, your hands pulling his hair tugging him impossibly closer. his fingers curl just right, hitting that spot only he could reach, you legs trembling from the overstimulation. he missed the way you tasted, the way you responded to his touch, this was way better than all those lonely nights he spent fisting his cock while stalking your page as well.

he maintains his relentless pace, your hips grinding to match his rhythm. you feel euphoric, intoxicated by how his tongue and fingers are unraveling you. you can't think straight, just your mind shouting satoru satoru satoru! you're biting your lip so hard it almost draws blood as that familiar feeling starts to build again.

"fuck! toru'- im gonna-"

"i know baby" he pulls away briefly, fingers thrusting in faster. eager for your release.

"give it to me please." he's almost begging, his tongue moving up and down bringing you closer and closer to the brink. you're practically pulling strands out from his head but he doesn't care, you could pull on his hair as much as you liked if it meant seeing you fall apart completely from his touch.

you were drowning in it—oxytocin, euphoria, everything. your body locked up, overtaken by the wave. you cried out his name, his fingers and tongue helping you through it as he slowed his pace.

he pulls away from your clit, your body glazed in sweat, shaking. he cleans his fingers with his tongue never breaking eye contact with you, sucking up all of your juices. he sits up crawling up to your body.

"wanna taste?"

you nod, cupping his face in your hands and pulling him into yours. his kiss wasn't gentle it was messy, frantic even as your tongue traces along his lips, tasting yourself in his mouth.

you moan into him as he pressed his body against yours. you wrap your legs around his waist and roll your hips against his cock.

"fuck me toru'—i need you," you whine while grinding your hips against his still-clothed cock.

he nips at your lower lip before pulling away, smirking. his hands are already working to get his pants off.

"how can i say no to my sweet girl?" he purrs, sliding off his pants and boxers, his dick slapping against his stomach. you're staring at it, realizing you forgot how big he is. it's been months since he's been inside you. his hand strokes around his girth, precum glistening at the tip. you swallow thickly.

"see what you do to me?" he groans, his cock now thrusting between your folds, your arousal smearing across his length. he pulls the crotch of your panties deeper into your thighs, giving him full access to your pussy. his hands hook under your thighs, pushing them up to your chest.

the thrusts forward against your pussy folds, the head of his cock nudging your clit with every thrust. the feeling of it against your skin makes you whine impatiently, but he doesn't stop. he slides his length along your arousal until he's fully coated in your slick.

"gonna give it to you good," he says, already out of breath at the sight of his cock between your folds.

his strong hands grip your legs as he pushes his head past the tight ring of your pussy with a satisfied sigh. there’s a dull pain from the stretch; it’s been far too long since he fucked you, and your mind almost forgets how much he stretches you out.

he glances up at your face briefly to measure your reaction, and you’re lying there mouth agape and breathless as he disappears inside you.

"missed this pussy," satoru moans, trying to keep his head from falling back as he bottoms out.

he rolls his hips into you, helping you adjust to his size once more. he groans, the grip on your thighs is almost bruising. your walls are suffocating him as he slowly pulls his hips back, thrusting into you faster, pressing you into the mattress. his thumb moves down, rubbing circles on your clit. the extra stimulation makes you jolt, choking on your moan.

he fucks into you, finding a steady rhythm, your pussy squelching around his size, the sounds echoing in the room, the bass from the music downstairs is barely heard now. you moan loudly when his curved tip brushes against your g-spot. he grins, continuing to attack that spot. his own moans of your name spill from his lips.

"mm, like that baby?" he groans. you nod eagerly as he shifts his hips, his weight pressing against you as he pounds into that spot, your head tilting back, his lips immediately finding your neck.

he doesn't even try to hide his moans, he's just as loud as you, his balls slapping against your ass with an audible, 'pat pat pat'. his lips pull away from your neck, locking eyes with you now.

"you been fucking anyone while we been apart?"

he spits, his pace relentless. the question catches you off guard. you shake your head frantically, unable to find the words, not with him pounding into you like this.

"good cus' you belong to me"

he's so drunk off you. his other hand wraps around your neck, not squeezing but tightly applying firm pressure, your mouth forming an 'o', tears welling in your eyes as his thumb rubs harsher circles on your clit.

he's completely consumed by pleasure, his hips slamming against yours as he whispers that you're his over and over.

you grip tightly around his words, his moans becoming more intense. your eyes roll back as the pleasure builds up in your stomach once more. it felt like a coil ready to snap at any moment, and its release promised another massive wave of pleasure. your body was ablaze, sweaty and hot, just like satoru's.

"toru'—mm — you're gonna make me cum!"

you manage to say. you feel lightheaded, euphoric again. satoru wishes he could pause time and stay in this moment forever, he doesn't want to come down from this high, but when you're moaning his name so beautifully, he can't deny you your release. he keeps thrusting into you, his balls tightening as his own orgasm approaches, fast and fierce. he can't think clearly, all he can focus on is filling you up, having your cunt overflow with his seed.

"i'm —fuck! i'm close too,"

"cum for me baby."

you can't hold on much longer, your release coming faster and faster as his pace never slows, eager to take you to that edge. your moans rise higher, eyes shutting tight, toes curling. the string finally snaps as you plunge off a cliff without hesitation, diving into your grave of erotic bliss, pleasure washing over your body in waves. your whole body trembles beneath him as the intensity of your climax hits you. he wasn't far behind, the way your velvety walls clenched around him pulling him into his own orgasm. he came deep inside you, filling you up, the thought of not having a condom didn't even cross your mind, you were too lost in the euphoria.

you both paused for a moment in the afterglow. his hand released from around your neck as he pulled out, sitting back to admire your spent cunt. his cum spilled out onto your thighs and sheets, just as he desired. he reached for the crotch of your panties and slid the cold, sticky fabric back over your swollen cunt.

you're still catching your breath, body warm and buzzing, when he collapses beside you—his chest rising and falling, skin slick with sweat. the second he's down, he pulls you into him like gravity, arms wrapping tight around your waist.

you melt into him. no resistance. just instinct. your cheek rests against his chest, heartbeat thudding under your ear. your eyelids flutter shut, lashes damp. the music downstairs is still going—low bass, laughter, the world is moving on. but not for you two. not here. not now

"you did so good," he whispers, brushing his nose against your temple. "so fuckin' good."

you just hum, too tired to talk too full of him to say anything back.

silence settles. not awkward, not tense—just soft. and then, after a beat, he moves. one hand comes up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. he looks at you. really looks at you.

"i meant what i said earlier." he murmurs.

you blink slowly. your voice is barely above a whisper. "satoru.. i know. but i can't trust—"

"i love you."

his words cut through everything. no hesitation, no deflection. just the truth, finally out in the open.

you freeze.

your breath catches, your body still. and for once, he doesn't fill the silence. he lets it hang. lets you feel it.

you pull back just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. and for a moment, it's all there—every fight, every bruise, every look you two never acted on, every night you dreamt of this.

"..say it again."

he does. softer this time. like a promise.

"i love you."

and you don't say it back. not yet. but your fingers curl into his chest, grounding yourself there. and for now, thats enough.

the next day comes with an ache in your legs and the ghost of his voice in your ear.

by the time 6:30 rolls around, the sun is already sinking, casting a faint blue-grey across the snow outside your window.

cold creeps in through the glass. so does doubt.

you're sitting at the edge of your bed, staring at your phone.

6:38

he said 6:25.

your chest tightens—slow, subtle, but impossible to ignore.

maybe you shouldn't have let him back in.

maybe he didn't mean it last night. maybe the words were just another sugar-coated lie. maybe you're walking back in the same cycle, hoping for a different ending.

your heart sinks. you start to wonder if it's you. you're the one who always believes too easily. forgives too fast. hopes too much.

and then—

a knock.

you freeze.

another knock.

you open the door and there he is.

a little out of breath.

a lot late.

but he's here.

hair messy, shirt wrinkled, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers in one hand and that chaotic grin that's always been your undoing face.

"sorry" he breathes out. "parking was a bitch."

your heart, traitorous and tender, swells in your chest.

he showed up.

and this time..

he meant it.

©shatteredblissxx

[szatears]

Can I request something angst with either modern smoke or stack

wants & needs, modernau!smoke.

summary: after an argument that pretty much seems like nothing now, you find it hard to reduce the tension and reconcile with smoke.

pairings: modernau!smoke x blackfem!reader

warnings: angst w happy ending, smoke being smoke, slight mention of smut

notes: me vs turning blurbs into actual fics 😄

It was a nothing argument, you saw that now. You even forgot what started this whole silent treatment thing, that's how much it was affecting you.

What started off as tension because you were feeling neglected by him the past couple of weeks eventually built up to a full blown argument all because he missed a dinner reservation.

It wasn't just any reservation, it was one he promised to be at, one that was booked a whole month in advance. He even made sure to clear that day from anything else especially work, which is why you were so wound up.

"I just don't get why you make all these commitments and then throw 'em away at the last minute!" you scoffed that night, taking your jewellery off.

Smoke followed behind you, irritated by your point of saying thing and walking away. "Like what? Huh? What commitments do I made and walk away from?"

He was stood in the doorway, hands hanging by his side, his face scrunched up in his usual mug as he waited for your answer. You placed your earrings on your vanity table, turning to him with an equivalent mug on your face.

"Our entire fucking relationship, Elijah. It's like you're never here anymore." If it wasn't the way you enunciated your words that showed him how pissed off you were, it was the way your hands shook a little as you reached for the cotton pads beside you.

His face softened ever so slightly at how you thought he didn't care about your relationship, only for him to harden up again.

"That's what you really think?"

"It's what I said, ain't it?"

"All this over one missed dinner. Baby, there'll be plenty more in the fuckin' future, I'on get why you so upset 'bout this one," he scoffed.

"Because you promised!" you huffed, the irritation finally getting to you as tears prickled at your eye line. "You said you'd be there well over a month ago knowing full well you can't commit for shit."

"Aight, watch your mouth now."

"And it's the principle, Elijah. Not just the stupid dinner. You been blowing me off damn near every chance you get, it's like you don't wanna be around me no more. And if you'd just tell me that, then I'd understand."

"What part of me prioritising making money for us, for you, means I'on care 'bout you no more?"

"Here you go with the money talk," you laughed, pushing past him to get your pyjamas.

You didn't mean to make contact with his body, but by the way he rolled his shoulders back and slowly followed after you, you knew you fucked up.

"Whatchu mean?"

"I mean," you spoke as you wiped off your makeup in the bathroom. "There's more to a relationship than money. More to our relationship than money. And you can't seem to get that."

"I look after you. I spend time with you, so what?"

"When?"

"What?"

You threw a cotton pad in the bin, facing him. "When was the last time we actually did something together. Just you and me?"

He went silent for a moment and you threw your hands up in surrender, going back to your cleanser.

"That don't mean you need to start something over that, though," he groaned. "You always do that shit instead of talking about with me."

"Because that's the only way for you to realise something's wrong," you whispered, feeling your voice start to grow a little hoarse, not used to the high volumes you were just speaking at.

You were stubborn, but so was he. And you sure as hell weren't gonna apologise for feeling rightfully upset.

"Elijah, move." He blocked your way back to the bedroom, his hand holding your arm as his other hand cupped your chin, tilting your head up at me.

"You really that mad? We can have dinner another time, baby, I promise."

"See? There you go again with that shit."

"I'm not gon' tell you again, watch your fuckin' mouth me, ma."

You shrugged him off, getting into bed with your back to him. Though you couldn't fall asleep straight away. Not without him holding you.

Looking back at the argument now, you were upset it had to come to that, but even more so that he didn't understand where you were coming from.

Your anger dissolved into something between fatigue and sadness as you began the next day without him, not used to ignoring him to such extents. Sure, you've gotten upset at Smoke before, but nothing like this. He'd usually apologise when he knew he was in the wrong, buying you flowers and kissing you all over til you smiled.

But not this time. This time, you were both playing the game. And to make matters worse, Smoke was already in a heated enough headspace what with this deal he and his brother were trying to close going all awry.

That whole week leading up to the argument you had, you were walking on eggshells when he came home, trying to gauge his mood and how you should approach him. When he came home with his tie all crooked, briefcase heavy and left you with only a chaste kiss on the lips, brushing past you and going straight to his office, you knew you shouldn't bother him.

Today, you weren't expecting anything to be different. You didn't have much to do and your friends were all busy so you kept yourself occupied til he came home. Watching tv, finishing up the laundry, getting started on dinner. One of the perks of being with Smoke was hardly ever having to lift a finger, but right now? You really wished you had more to do to take the argument off your mind.

Truly, you could apologise to him and it'd all be okay, but why would you apologise when it wasn't your fault?

It was nearing night and you had a feeling Smoke wouldn't be coming home any time soon, which rubbed you wrong because if this was the case then usually he'd send you a text to let you know. You checked your phone again, seeing nothing.

Huffing under your breath, you got ready for bed, opting for one of Smoke's large t-shirts to sleep in instead of your pyjamas.

Walking down to the kitchen to get a glass of water, you debated texting him, just to check up on him. But being the stubborn person you were, you weren't going to break first.

As your finger hovered above his caller ID on your phone, the low rumble of a car engine, his car engine, startled you a little. Placing your phone on the counter, you drank the rest of the water, prepping yourself for whatever was about to happen.

Maybe a day was enough for the two of you to cool down, actually have a conversation about it. But knowing what you know about Smoke, there's no way he wasn't at least a little bit pissed off.

You didn't hear his key turn in the front door, assuming he came in through the garage's side door instead. You were right, your eyes trailing up to his as he walked in. He didn't see you standing in the kitchen, didn't call out for you like he usually would. Just took off his suit jacket and tie, heading for the whiskey trolley beside the sofa.

He groaned when he realised he must've forgotten to put the glasses back after he washed them, debating drinking from the bottle for just a few seconds.

You sighed quietly, opening the cabinet next to you and taking out the two whiskey glasses, making your way to him.

Maybe he was too in over his head or just tired but he didn't hear your footsteps coming towards him, didn't feel your presence til you nudged him gently with your elbow, holding out the glass.

His brows furrowed close when he saw you, relaxing a little when he looked at the glasses in your hand. He took them both in one of his large hands, it brushing over yours.

"Thanks, baby," he mumbled, turning back to the whiskey trolley. You hummed in response, sitting back on the arm of the sofa closest to him. "You want one?"

You shook your head no, registering his hoarse tone. When he tilted his head back to take a sip, you really saw the day's toll on his expression. He was tired, from what exactly you didn't know but you felt a small pang of guilt knowing you could've been the cause of it.

Smoke drank the rest of the whiskey, placing the glass down. He looked at you, his shoulders falling when you looked away from his gaze.

He too had some time to think about the argument. It dawned on him that he hadn't been giving you as much of his time as he thought he was, and that was a promise he made and should've upheld at the beginning of your relationship.

He sighed, running a hand over his low cut. He walked towards you, sitting on the same sofa as you. He used one arm to gently pull you into him, you now seated sideways in his lap.

You groaned, a little uncomfortable at first, and also tense. Not just with the seating arrangement, but with the emotions in the air right then.

You squirmed in his lap a little, stilling when he situated you the way you liked to be sat, straddling him.

"Just wait a min', yeah?" he spoke softly, his eyes on yours. You nodded, pretty much having no choice thanks to his arms caging around your hips.

He looked at you, really looked at you with that gaze that always got you flustered. And you looked at him, a sort of longing in your eyes.

"I hear you. Okay? Bout everything you was saying last night. I ain't mean to make you feel like I was pushing you to the side, and I damn sure didn't wanna make you think I don't care bout you. It's far from that." He started talking, and you listened, really listened.

"I know I'm away a lot and that I come back at the ass crack of dawn sometimes, but it's all for you. And I mean it when I say that. You everything to me and more and I'll be damned if I lose you over not being able to time keep properly."

You nodded, finally allowing your arms to wrap around his neck.

"And about that dinner... I'm not even gon' fault like I ain't want to go have dinner with the Anderson's and listen to 'em talk for America," you laughed at that. "But I let you down. I ain't got an excuse for it, but I'm sorry, baby. That's the last thing I ever wanna do."

You nodded, a small smile on your face. "Thank you," you whispered. "I know you don't always mean to do it and that you're super busy but... slow down a little? For the both of us. I'm sorry I yelled at you but it just got me so..." you trailed off waving your hands around.

"And cussed at me," he pointed out.

"Oh, I'm not sorry for that, you kinda deserved it."

He laughed, his hands rubbing over your hips. "Maybe. We good now or I need to grovel some more?"

"Hmm. I mean if you wanted to buy me that new Coach bag I really wouldn't be mad like, at all..."

He smiled, making a mental note to get you the exact bag. His hands left your hips to cup your face, your hands on top of his. "I love you more than life itself," he told you, holding your gaze as every word he spoke melted in you.

"I love you more. Stop pissing me off," you kissed him before he could rebut, loving having the last word every time. And as for Smoke, he knew what he was getting into when he chose you.

He kissed you back slowly, one of his hands holding the back of your head as the other slipped under the shirt you wore and into the lace panties you had on.

You pulled away when his fingers grazed over your clit, almost sending you jolting. "Wait."

He cocked his head to the side, stilling his actions. "I know you had a long day," your voice was sultry, silly even as you spoke.

"Well, yeah darlin', but what's that gotta do with───"

"Shh, just let me help you out a little, hm?" You got out of his lap with a smirk, holding your hand out for him to take.

"I mean, shit, I ain't gon' say no."

taglist. @childishgambinaax @abriefnirvana @blackisy2k @chrisevansmentee @siasoup @amethyst09 @heauxtales @skywalker0809 @thelightknight21 @klssngss @atomicearthquakemusic7 @oc3anbxbyxoxo @honestlyurslol @simpingfor-wakasa @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @favoritten @christinabae @junkie05 @gyattttsblog @jackierose902109 @rose-bliss @jexireads @queenofklonnie22 @tatertooted @thefirst-ofus @lemoneyes22

[camficdiner]

☕️cam’s fic diner — order 127

🍒thank you! this belongs to a very sweet soul who’s always down for a bit of chaos, emotional tension, and Hughes family meddling. Thank you for trusting me with your ideas — and for always coming back for more. You keep this diner running, and I’m so damn grateful for you. 🤍

💬 “Yours, Kinda”

✨ description & prompts:

character: Jack Hughes

prompt: you finally take time off work — Jack invites you to Montauk with his brothers. you and him aren’t dating, technically… except he’s been introducing you as his girlfriend to everyone.

tropes: friends with benefits, fake dating but not really fake, friends-to-lovers, big soft boy in love

type: fluff-smut

🧁🛼🍒✨

You finally have a break.

After two months of back-to-back shifts, emergency calls, and pulling more weight than your job pays you for, you��ve clocked out, thrown your bag in the back seat, and made your way out to Montauk. It’s not a vacation, not really, but Jack said he had a few days off and invited you out — just a few quiet days by the lake with his brothers and some of their friends.

You didn’t really ask who else was going to be there. You were too tired to care.

He opens the door barefoot when you arrive, a beer in one hand and the biggest grin on his face. “Took you long enough,” he says, before pulling you into a hug — long, familiar, and a little too tight for just friends. His lips brush your temple before you can think, and he mumbles, “Missed you.”

You hum, resting your head against his shoulder. “You’re warm. I’m gonna sleep for ten years.”

“Not before we eat,” he says, nudging your side. “Come on. Everyone’s outside.”

He leads you through the house and out to the dock. Quinn’s there, feet in the water. Luke’s making some game out of skipping bottle caps. A few other guys you don’t recognize turn to look. Jack doesn’t say anything, just walks right up to the group and says, “Hey, this is my girl. Be nice.”

Your heart stutters.

No one questions it — not Luke, not Quinn, not the guys. They just wave, introduce themselves, ask if you want a drink. As if you’re really his.

You don’t correct it. You don’t want to.

⸻

That night, he finds you brushing your teeth in the guest bathroom, wearing nothing but a tee and the tiniest sleep shorts you own. He knocks once on the door and steps in without waiting. “Just wanted to say goodnight.”

You smile at him through the mirror, toothpaste foam and all. “Night, Hughes.”

But he doesn’t leave. He lingers in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching you finish up. There’s a nervous energy about him — like he’s going to say something, then doesn’t. You turn to face him. “What?”

“You know when I said you’re my girl?”

Your eyes narrow, but you nod.

He breathes out a quiet laugh. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but… I do. Mean it.”

You blink.

“We’ve been doing this thing,” he says. “And it’s great. I love it. But I also hate it when I don’t know if I can touch you in public. Or if I have to guess if you’re seeing someone else. I keep telling people you’re mine like maybe if I say it enough, it’ll be true.”

“Jack—”

“I’m not trying to corner you,” he says quickly. “I just needed you to know.”

You pause.

And then step forward, slowly, slipping your fingers into the collar of his hoodie. “So when you said it in front of your brothers…”

“Yeah,” he admits, smiling shy. “Wanted them to get used to the idea.”

You kiss him.

It’s slow at first, then not. His hands are on your hips, then under your shirt. You back him up until his knees hit the bed, and he pulls you down with him, laughing against your mouth until it turns into something heavier.

⸻

Jack’s lips are all over you, tongue hot against your neck, and his hands tremble just slightly where they touch your thighs. He takes his time — no teasing, no games. Just worship.

“Let me,” he whispers, pulling your panties down your legs. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

You moan when his tongue meets your heat, hands in his hair, gasping as he eats you out with single-minded focus. He’s mumbling something into you — “my girl,” “so good,” “can’t believe you’re mine” — over and over again until you’re shaking under him, thighs clenching, back arched.

He doesn’t stop until you’re begging.

And when he finally pulls you onto his lap, slides in slow, kisses your jaw as you gasp his name — it’s the most tender you’ve ever felt.

He moves slow. Deep. Lets you feel every second of it. He holds your waist like he’s afraid you’ll leave. His voice cracks when he moans, “Fuck, I love you like this.”

You wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his neck. “Me too.”

⸻

You wake up tangled in his sheets the next morning. Luke knocks once before barging in. “Hey, Jack, you left your—oh my god.”

You and Jack both yelp.

Luke groans and walks right back out, muttering, “Why do you hate me.”

Jack flops back into bed, face buried in a pillow. “So… that’s how he finds out.”

You laugh, curl up against his side, and say quietly, “I guess it really is true now.”

He turns to face you, brushing your hair back gently. “Yeah. It is.”

And he kisses you, soft and slow.

[imnotjustreadingg]

tell me again tomorrow - y/n's version

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader (Y/N) Genre:  Fluff - drunk talking - friends to lovers - alcohol mention Word count: 1940 Summary: Y/N is happily playing beer pong with the avengers. Strangely she's losing. Her mind occupied by a certain super soldier a/n: This is an Y/N’s version of “tell me again tomorrow”. It obviously similar, but i tried to make it a little different with the context

The lights were dimmed to a cozy glow, and laughter echoed around the table where red solo cups were lined up. A half-empty bottle of vodka stood witness to the chaos of their beer pong game. Y/N groaned yet another ping-pong ball bounced off the rim of a cup.

“You can shoot a mile far, but you can’t throw a ball in a cup?” Sam snickered, shaking his head. “You’re killing me.” Natasha chuckled behind her drink. “Maybe we’ve finally found your weakness.” Y/N rolled her eyes, grabbing a drink as penalty. Steve leaned back on the table with a teasing smirk. “She’s just upset about Bucky’s little conquest this morning. That barista was persistent.”

Y/N stiffened slightly, not meeting anyone’s eyes as she took a long sip. Nat raised a brow. “The one who scribbled her number on his coffee cup like it was a classified mission?” Sam let out a low whistle. “Gotta say, Buck still got it.” Y/N forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good for him,” she muttered, trying to sound indifferent. Tony, who’d been silently observing from the minibar, quipped, “Someone’s jealous.”

“I am not,” she replied, way too fast.

Upstairs, Bucky stood in his room, leaning against the bed. A coffee cup, the one from that morning, on his desk. The number still uncalled.

The game devolved into a mess of drinking challenges, and a lot of loud laughter. Sam was dramatically reenacting one of his own action scenes using pillows as "wings." Steve was pretending not to be amused. Natasha looked smug as always, perfectly tipsy but in control. Tony glanced at Y/N slumped on the couch, with flushed cheeks, swaying slightly as she held a half-full cup with both hands like it was her lifeline. “Alright, alright. Truth or dare?” Tony asked, already knowing the answer before she responded. “Truth,” she mumbled, then giggled. “But only because I don’t trust Tony Stark with dares.”

“A wise choice,” Nat nodded approvingly. Tony smirked. “Okay. Here’s a fun one. Be honest. Are you or are you not hopelessly, disgustingly in love with Barnes?” Y/N blinked. The room went silent for a heartbeat. Then Sam choked on his drink. “Damn, Stark just went for the kill.” Y/N narrowed her eyes like she was trying to glare, but instead she just looked very, very drunk. “M’not disgustingly in love. It’s a very tasteful… emotional situation.” Steve snorted. “She didn’t deny it.” Y/N sat up unsteadily and pointed at Sam. “You all think you’re so smart. But yeah. Fine. Whatever.” She hiccupped. “I like him. So much. Like, so much it’s annoying. Okay? Happy now?”

Nat smiled, eyes soft. “We’ve known for months, sweetie.” Y/N rambled on, clearly too drunk to stop herself now. “It’s just… he remembers everything I say. Even the small dumb things, like that I like peach tea and not raspberry. And he always makes me feel like I’m the most beautiful girl in the world.” Y/N sat upright, face flushed, eyes wild. The teasing didn’t stop, in fact it only grew louder and more gleeful. Sam was practically falling off the couch laughing, Natasha wore a knowing smirk, and even Steve was hiding a grin behind his hand.

"That’s it," Y/N slurred, wobbling to her feet. “I’m gonna tell him. Right now.” Sam’s eyes widened. “Oh no-wait-”

“Y/N, maybe wait until you’re sober?” Steve offered gently. “Too late,” she called over her shoulder as she stumbled toward the elevator, determination in her step... or as much determination as a tipsy Avenger could manage. Nat shook her head fondly. “He’s going to love this.”

Bucky had barely sat down on the couch when he heard the elevator ding and the hurried footsteps padding down the hallway. He opened the door just in time to see Y/N burst in. “Y/N?” he asked carefully. Her cheeks were pink, hair a little messy, eyes unfocused but burning with emotion.

Beautiful, he thought.

“I need to say this now because if I wait, I’ll overthink it and probably chicken out… “ She stopped. “…chicken out! What a weird phrase… anyway I don’t care that I’m drunk and probably making no sense-” She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips, slightly swaying. Bucky moved forward slowly, his voice soft. “Okay, okay. Take a breath.” Y/N pointed at him dead serious, squinting her eyes. “I like you, Bucky Barnes. Like, not just ‘you’re hot with a metal arm’ like. I mean it. And you smell really good. And you always remember stuff, and you’re so good, even when you don’t believe it. And-and I don’t like the barista. Or any girl that smiles at you. I hate them.” Bucky was silent, heart pounding in his chest like a damn war drum.

She looked up at him, eyes glossy. “Please don’t say anything mean right now. Just-just let me sleep in here, because your room smells like you and it’s comforting. And I’m gonna be super embarrassed in the morning.” She rushed toward his bed, and he followed her stunned. Bucky smiled softly, pain and affection warring in his expression. He then stepped forward and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Okay, doll. You can stay.” She gave him a sleepy smile. “You’re the best,” she mumbled, already heading toward his bed like it was home. “I like when you call me ‘doll’”. Bucky watched as she curled up in the middle of it, hugging his pillow close and burying her face in it with a sigh of contentment. “And I like calling you ‘doll’”. He added. He grabbed an extra blanket from the closet, threw it over her gently, and dimmed the lights. Then he walked over to the small couch in the corner of the room and sat down with a deep exhale. He looked over at her once more. Her breathing had already slowed into something peaceful. Bucky smiled to himself.

Y/N blinked awake, her head pounding slightly but not unbearably. Sunlight poured in through the half-closed blinds, casting long, lazy lines across the bed. She shifted under a blanket that smelled like pine and metal and... Bucky. Her eyes widened.

Bucky’s bed.

Memories started trickling in slowly. Beer pong, laughs, the barista, her big mouth... and then… “I like you, Bucky Barnes. Like, not just ‘you’re hot with a metal arm’ like-”

“Oh my god,” she groaned into his pillow, face burning. “I confessed. Drunk. Full confessional.” She sat up quickly, and the motion made her sway. Her pants still on, her t-shirt too. Everything was... respectful. Safe. Warm. Then she noticed the couch. Bucky was still asleep, one arm thrown over his eyes, his long frame folded awkwardly into the too-small furniture. He’d let her have the bed. He didn’t take advantage. He hadn’t even said anything. Her heart clenched. Softly, she got up, padded across the room, and crouched by the couch. “Bucky?” she whispered, brushing her fingers gently over his shoulder.

He stirred immediately, blinking awake, confusion fading the moment he saw her face. “Hey,” he rasped, voice low and sleep warm. “I’m... really sorry if I made things weird,” she blurted, looking down. “I know I was drunk and probably came in here like a wrecking ball.” Bucky sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You did. Kinda.” She winced, sitting beside him. “But,” he added, giving her a sleepy, lopsided smile, “you were honest.” Y/N sighed. “Still. I shouldn’t have said it like that. Not fair to you.” Bucky tilted his head, eyes focused. “Y/N, I’ve known you for years. Fought beside you. Bled beside you. I’ve seen you terrified, furious, brave, kind.” Her breath caught. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he said, standing slowly, “I didn’t choose to not call that barista because I’m picky. I haven’t looked at another woman since knowing you.” Y/N blinked. “You... haven’t?” He moved closer, his voice gentler than she’d ever heard it. “You stayed when it was hard. You never looked at me like I was something to be fixed. And yeah, you were drunk last night... but it just gave you the courage to say what I’ve been wanting to hear for months.” She looked up at him, hopeful but hesitant. “So... what happens now?” Bucky smiled softly and reached out, brushing his fingers under her chin to lift her face. “Now? I ask if I can take you out. When you're sober. Somewhere nice. Just you and me.”

Y/N smiled slowly. “You’re asking me on a real date?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes steady. She leaned in, closing the distance. He chuckled, brushing his forehead against hers. “Breakfast?” She groaned. “Only if it includes coffee. And like... five Advil.” Bucky laughed and gently wrapped an arm around her. “Deal.”

The smell of fresh coffee and bacon filled the air. Sam was already halfway through a plate of pancakes, Steve nursed a mug of black coffee like it was a lifeline, and Natasha casually read the news on her tablet like a queen among peasants. Tony walked in shirtless in pajama pants and sunglasses, holding a green smoothie with visible regret. “Good morning, degenerates.”

“Morning,” Nat replied dryly without looking up. “Y/N declared her love last night. What’d you do?”

“Lost twenty bucks to Wilson,” Tony muttered. “Had my money on Barnes confessing first.” Sam grinned. “Never bet against liquid courage and emotional repression. A powerful combo.”

The elevator dinged. All heads turned. Y/N stepped out first, freshly showered, hair up in a messy bun, wearing a sweatshirt way too big for her. Bucky followed right behind her, hair damp, in a black t-shirt and jeans, looking relaxed. But more importantly, they walked in together. Bucky placed a hand lightly on Y/N’s lower back as he guided her toward the coffee machine. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step away. Didn’t hide the warm little smile she gave him when he handed her a mug. There was a beat of total silence. Then Sam dropped his fork.

“Are y’all together now?!” Y/N took a sip of coffee, totally deadpan. “Technically, we haven’t gone on a date yet.” Bucky nodded. “It’s scheduled. But there was a full confession. Tears were involved.”

“There were not!” Y/N hissed. Nat raised an eyebrow. “Aw. Was it sweet?” Bucky shrugged, grinning. “She told me I smell good. And that she hates every girl who flirts with me.” Y/N groaned into her coffee. “I hate all of you.” Tony raised his smoothie like a toast. “Jesus. I thought we were gonna have to lock you two in a panic room.” Steve chuckled. “This is honestly kind of adorable. Took you long enough.”

Sam leaned over to Y/N, eyes narrowed in mock judgment. “So. Was it the arm? Or the eyes?” Y/N turned to him, sass fully activated. “Both. And also the fact that he actually listens when I talk about my plants.”

“Unfair,” Natasha muttered, smirking. “All I got from him was a grunt when I mentioned my cactus died.” Bucky held up his hands. “I also remembered her cactus’s name.” Nat scoffed. “Fine. He’s boyfriend material. Approved.”

Y/N and Bucky exchanged a glance, a little blush rising to both their cheeks despite all their battlefield confidence. Y/N leaned slightly into his side, and Bucky didn’t hesitate to curl an arm around her waist. Sam grinned like a proud older sibling. “Man, we’ve been waiting for this.” Tony pointed toward the hallway. “Can we start planning the wedding now or... too soon?” Bucky laughed. Y/N looked at him with a smirk. “...Ask me again after the coffee kicks in.”

Hope you like it 💖💖 @matildas-comet

[ellesthots]

“under the armor”

read on AO3 🦇

plot: after months of a reluctant crimefighting partnership, Bruce reaches the end of his rope with Clark's hovering.

pairing: corensupes!clark kent x battinson!bruce wayne

cw: 18+, mdni, smut, oral sex, handjobs, pov bruce wayne

words: 8.8k

a/n: hiii !! this is the first yaoi i've ever written, so hopefully it's good !! obsessed with Corensupes and Battinson together, if we won't get them on the big screen we can get them on the fic screen <3 i'd love to know what you think!

the title is based off the dorian electra song by the same name :) sooo Clark's perspective !!

“I told you, you either need to reinforce the suit or take a break.”

Bruce grimaced. God forbid he wasn’t Kryptonian, and his flesh was just that: flesh. He pulled himself to his feet, the armor heavier than it usually was, and stumbled his way to the Batmobile. More annoying than his injuries was the doting. “I’m fine.” 

Clark’s sigh rattled Bruce’s insides, but he pressed forward. Maybe he could pay to get some roads paved back here, the gravel was too loose. “You can’t even walk straight, and you expect me to believe you’re fine?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he seethed, molars grinding together under the white-hot heat of a grazed bullet. Those wounds were always the nastiest; ruinous little things that took ridiculously long to heal depending on how close of a call it’d been, and it’d been pretty damn close tonight. He needed some stitches and ice. 

“Bruce.” 

What he didn’t need was more of the man’s helicoptering. Seemed ever since their paths crossed on patrol that fateful day, Bruce had become the fixation of one Mr. Kent’s worry. 

He stopped about a foot from the car, eyes squeezed shut like it might make him disappear. “I told you not to call me that while we’re onsite.” He barely wanted him to call him by his name anyway, it messed his head up, made it all fuzzy. A searing pain shot up his arm when he moved to yank open the door, and he hid a low groan. Tried to, anyway.

“You’re hurt.” Clark said it plainly, as if that angle ever worked before. In a blink, a hand was pressed to Bruce’s lower back, pushing him toward the passenger side. “I’ll drive you home.” 

“Clark,” Bruce warned, voice raising above a simmer. 

“And then steal this behemoth so you’re forced to rest. Then I’ll have a talk with your butler, who is supposed to be looking out for you, and tell him that he’ll have to personally answer to me if I see—” Clark got lost in his monologuing and had Bruce pinned to the taillight, stuck by a loop in his utility belt. He only stopped when he heard an uninhibited groan. 

Bruce glared at him, half from pain, half annoyance. “Wonder how I survived all this time without you.” 

Clark let go, allowing for Bruce to steady himself before retreating from whence he came. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Clark’s shoulders drop, the bright blue of the suit’s fabric crinkling. 

“I know you’re not used to having a sidekick,”

Something akin to a guffaw fell from Bruce; the man’s golden-retriever nature never failed to keep him on his toes. Sidekick? “Don’t recall ever asking for assistance.” He slipped into the driver’s seat, its taut leather supporting him for a moment of reprieve. 

Clark squinted, confused and flustered. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I don’t have time for this.” Bruce jammed his seatbelt into the lock and pulled his leg into the cabin. “Gotham doesn’t need Superman.”

With that, he slammed the door and shoved his foot on the gas. The narrow alleyway would make a tricky escape, but hopefully that would deter—

A red cape fluttered out the side window, and Clark landed squarely in the middle of the route, trapping him. Ugh. “Get out of the way.” 

He shook his head, his dark, curly hair bouncing with the movement. His hands were balled into fists, his jaw set. Was he trying to be intimidating while wearing a crayon-colored Speedo? “Gotham might not need me, but that bullet that grazed you would’ve been a shot to the head if I hadn’t blocked it.”

Bruce all but snarled, not bothering to roll down the window. He swore Clark could hear him whisper a hundred miles away. “I would’ve apprehended him if you hadn’t caused a scene.”

Clark’s voice was slightly muffled from the thick, bulletproof glass, but he was animated enough there was no question the defensive quest he was on. It made Bruce sick. “It was a distraction,”

“It was impulsive.” He was always impulsive; acting before thinking, meddling with his carefully-constructed plans. It never failed to end in altercations like this, with him defending every crumb of hasty action regardless of logic and tact.

“That Penguin was going to kill people, you seem to keep forgetting that.”

No. Bruce wasn’t doing this. He put the car into reverse, throwing his head back despite the diabolical pain shooting down his shoulder. 

“Hold on a second, hold on,”

Bruce didn’t slow down, and the car only stopped when a flash of blue entered his rearview, Clark casually holding his hand to the bumper. God!

“You’re dodging my point.” His tone grew increasingly desperate, like Bruce was about to launch himself off the face of the planet. Who did he think he was? Being super didn’t make him infallible to the whims of ego. “You’re vulnerable, whether you want to admit it or not. In the six months we’ve been working together,”

His teeth felt like they were splitting apart. “Something like that.”

“Hey.” Clark’s eyes narrowed, and Bruce sat a little straighter. “The damage to your body has doubled. Doubled. What’ll happen in another six months? A year?”

“I get enough of this from Alfred.” 

“Well maybe you need to hear it again.” His chest heaved with the words. “I know you don’t like me very much, but I only want to help. Contrary to what you’d like to believe, that’s not a crime.”

Bruce swallowed, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “I need to rest.”

Clark looked like he didn’t quite believe him, hesitating a few more seconds before releasing the vehicle. Bruce sped off without the slightest lingering, refusing the urge to stay and argue. 

Again. Who the hell did Clark Kent think he was?

Bruce hung a hard right, skidding towards the grass with its velocity. A hard correction and he sped toward Wayne Tower, body lit like a live wire despite the utter exhaustion. 

And Clark thought he didn’t like him? He was a bit too earnest for his tastes, but he didn’t hate the man.

He was frustrating. Grating. Aggravating. Vexing. Well-intentioned, but what did that matter if it wasn’t paired with careful consideration?

The rumble of train tracks alerted him to home. Bats scattered near the ceiling, providing the usual fluttery accompaniment to his dismount. Once the car was parked, he realized he was practically panting. Kent got right under his skin.

He slumped into his stool at his work station, plucking the lenses out of his eyes, staring blankly at the monitor until the footage booted.

Fuck. The cowl.

He stood, weary, and tugged it off his sweaty head. Drained beyond belief, he utilized the last crumbs of strength to toss it by his bench. He groaned.

Pulled off his armor. Then gloves.

Pain.

Yanked off his padding. 

Shit. 

Blood crusted all the way to his wrists, smearing from the gritty sweat. A bit of torn flesh leered at him, requiring stitches. He couldn’t handle Alfred right now.

Ignoring the injury, and refusing to take off his pants yet to inspect whatever the hell happened to his leg, he clicked PLAY on the evening’s footage. So clearly he saw the opportunity to intercept Penguin, and then the blaze of Clark’s cape. His muscles tensed.

The moment Clark pushed him from the bullet’s course, Bruce felt a pang in his chest and tingles under his skin where the man’s hands had been. He clicked the footage ahead ten seconds and turned up some Nirvana, drowning out anything but Cobain’s timbre.

Bruce, bandaged and a little stiff, found himself cutting through Crown Point after stalking a bomb threat the next evening. Every few minutes he rotated his shoulder, wincing a bit, and counted the minutes until his next dose of ibuprofen. The bottle jostled around the passenger seat. 

Gotham’s atmosphere on this side of town was more striking than people gave it credit for; the river, though laced with murderous intent, glittered peacefully at this time of night. Mid-summer, the evening air was cool but not biting, a perfect atmosphere for being in the suit. Nights like these were precious currency; schools out, weather oh so inviting for the criminal element. Winter left a cloak of anonymity, but with weather so harsh, it kept a good chunk of crime at bay. Clark expected him to stay home while the city burned?

The night had been slow despite the singular bomb threat a few hours in. If Clark really got his way, he wouldn’t be surprised if he were tucked in while forcibly read a bedtime story right now. Clark had treated him like an incompetent child since they’d met, thinking Bruce was incapable of even existing near a crime scene or he’d blow up. 

As he neared the Tricorner bridge, Bruce heard some scuffling from a nearby alleyway. He pulled a u-turn and parked just out of sight, rolling down the windows to hear the sound of something punching brick. Bruce flexed his hands inside the reinforced gloves, nimbly stepping from the vehicle.

Maybe another mugging—but on this side of town, there usually wasn’t anything to take. Probably gang related? Gordon was unlikely to get a car to accept coming down here; the city didn’t care about anyone that wasn’t within its downtown limits. Even then.

Bruce took a full breath and rounded the corner.

“Needed to get you out of that darn thing.” 

Darn; the slightest midwestern twinge bled out when he said little words like that. Once, his mother had phoned when they were sharing his behemoth on the way to a drug bust, and he’d caught hints of Clark’s accent ever since—ever since that call, it’d been harder to ignore him. It was one of the first times he’d heard the superhero stammer. Bruce still remembered the shade of pink that colored the man’s cheeks.

“Does Metropolis have crime at night, or is everyone under your curfew?” Bruce adjusted the cuff on his gloves, fuming. 

Clark’s cape swished behind him as he walked closer, and Bruce fought the urge to shrink away in the otherwise empty alleyway. Ignored the look in Clark’s eyes. Ignored the way his whole body reacted to his presence. “If people need help, I’ll know.” 

Bruce looked away, his throat tightening. 

“Right now, you’re in no shape to be helping anybody.”

“I’m fine.” He meant for it to come out roughly, but it was almost whiny. Nasally. Frustrated. 

“You’re not!” Clark let his hands fall to slap his thighs, a particularly dense sound that twisted Bruce’s stomach. He sighed, giving Bruce a pitied once-over. “I drove myself up the wall at the beginning trying to save everyone. What you’re doing is a valiant thing—”

Bruce scowled.

Clark’s brows knit together, his jaw ticking. “—but you can’t do that if you don’t take care of yourself first.”

So goddamn condescending. “I’ve been at this for years, Clark.” His name soured on his tongue; he was this close to refusing to associate with Superman ever again, despite the thinkpiece he’d receive from the Daily Planet in return. “I know my limits. Back off.”

“You do, huh?” He moseyed closer and crossed his arms, nose turned slightly toward the sky. Clark’s blue eyes were deceptively bright, almost artificially enhanced. Bruce held his breath. “Why don’t I believe you?”

A strange assault on his resolve made Bruce take a step back, Clark getting too close for comfort. A flickering streetlight toyed with the edges of his vision. His voice was husky, quiet. “I don’t know.”

Clark’s brow furrowed, and his gaze dropped to Bruce’s chest plate. “Are you scared?”

He wasn’t… scared. Unnerved. Maybe. Overall, he felt an overwhelming sense of dread. 

“Your heart’s gonna beat out of your chest.”

Bruce had rarely been more grateful for his cowl, covering the worst of his flush. He needed to get going downtown, where there were actual muggings, and not continue to commiserate with the man deadset on slowing him down. He tried to let out a snappy comment, a la ‘caffeine’, but his mouth wouldn’t open. He turned to leave.

“Come back here. Batman, come on.”

Bruce picked up to a jog, though he knew it was futile against speed himself. He was vulnerable, and fleshy, and garbled. He always got like that around Clark. Always, always got like this.

“Are you upset about last night?”

Bruce fumbled with the car handle, ignoring him. His gloved fingers slipped on the metal. 

“I can… I don’t know!” He was exasperated, frantically trying to build a bridge. “I’ll listen to your plan next time. Only if lives aren’t at imminent risk, alright? That’s my line. It should be yours, too.”

Why wouldn’t his fingers grip? Christ!

“As a matter of fact,” Clark put on his ‘serious’ voice, a sound that overinflated Bruce’s lungs. “That includes your life. And I won’t stand here and ignore a person in need.”

He managed to get the door unlocked, but a firm hand on his shoulder kept him in place. Bruce’s skin burned under Clark’s touch, even through the suit. “And what do I need?”

“A friend.” His voice was gentle and forlorn. Bruce faltered. One of the most agitating things about Clark? How genuine he was—and how that warmed everything from his concern to his touch. It made his shoulders rise, jaw clench, and his brain go offline. He shrugged out of his grasp and slid into the vehicle, yanking his cape from getting stuck in the door. He revved the engine, then slammed his foot on the gas. 

It was an easy, simple drive home.

When Reál told him he didn’t do anything, Bruce wished he could show her days like these. 

The courtroom was stuffy, packed with starchy suits and so much Baccarat Rouge it made the air hazy. He’d downed a Red Bull on the way, and prayed that anyone who stared at the crescent of gray under his eyes thought he’d spent too long partying. City Hall meetings never failed to bore him to tears, especially on thirty-five hours of no sleep.

Tonight’s meeting was different—gearing up for another election cycle meant that Councilman Hady would spend half the night briefing the elite on the candidates, thinly veiling his political stance just enough for plausible deniability. As great as Bruce’s desire to skip after the torrential rainpour of crime the evening prior, Alfred had made an unarguable point upon waking him. It was, in fact, something his dad would have wanted. Something he would have thought was important—no, imperative—for a Wayne to clue into. It seemed like everyone else thought so, too. 

“Mr. Wayne. Would you like to speak to any of the candidates?” Hady always bowed to him, and it made Bruce cringe. Everyone here acted like he walked on water, constantly bringing up his father like they weren’t part of the very group of people who would hate him if he was alive today. 

“Sure.” He fixed a smile and stood, messing with the button on his suit jacket. Feeling eyes on him made him faint, but he’d rehearsed this. “My father would’ve wanted—”

“Sorry, sorry, thank you.”

Bruce looked over his shoulder to see Clark fumbling in toward the other press, recorder in-hand. His black curls bounced with each step, the looseness of his tie making it swing to nearly catch in the courtroom door. His stomach clenched. “Uh,” 

“Apologies for the interruption, Mr. Wayne.” Clark moved from whispering to addressing the intrusion directly. All Bruce managed was a nod before turning back to the front of the room. He put his hands in his pockets before they coiled into anxious fists. 

“My father would’ve wanted each person to…” 

The man’s click of the recorder and rustling of papers took over every neuron, rendering Bruce incapacitated. Autopilot took over, and he swept through a few paragraphs of fodder about how his father would’ve wanted each person to choose the candidate who best reflected the future they desired, that each vote was an investment in Gotham’s future and values. When his back hit the chair and the attention turned back to Hady, he let out an audible sigh. 

Clark.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blip. As swiftly as possible without drawing undue attention, Bruce stepped out of the courtroom, and made it halfway through the foyer before his elbow was snagged by an all-too familiar hand. Without comment, he grabbed the reporter by the wrist and hurried him down the northern hallway. Clark adjusted his glasses, his worn, creased leather suitcase plastered to his chest with a wide hand. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Gotham’s mayoral elections are a hot topic. The boss wanted coverage, and I thought I could come down to do the job.” He gave a small grin, body slightly pulled away from the billionaire. 

Tendrils of fire swirled up into his chest; did he really see nothing wrong with his constant interference? Was this what constituted friendship in his eyes? “You’re interrupting every facet of my life.”

“Because you don’t get the stakes—” 

For the billionth time since meeting him, Bruce scowled, pacing across the slim hallway. He had a hand to his temple, massaging away a dooming headache. “You treat me like an incompetent child.” 

Clark’s eyes flashed as if offended. “I don’t treat you like a child.”

“Incapable of serving a city I know better than anyone, that I’ve devoted my life to,” 

“That’s the whole point, Bruce!” His voice rose too loud for comfort, but the fierceness in his gaze was just enough to stall his pacing. “It’s gone further than sacrifice, or duty; it’s suicidal.” 

Bruce went to leave through the back exit, but Clark grabbed him a bit too tightly by the wrist. Almost possessive. “I refuse to attend your funeral. Not when there’s something I can do about it.” 

He was full to bursting; his tie strangled him, his feet hurt him, he swore some of the stitching from last week’s injuries were blistering. He yanked his hand out of Clark’s grasp and straightened his cuff, nose scrunched. “Then don’t come.”

By the time Bruce walked to the front steps of City Hall, the drizzle had become a monsoon. Valets splashed in ankle-deep puddles, nervous to upset the horde of millionaires with a pair of late keys. He panted, each heavy breath transformed into a silver mist that matched the hang of clouds slicing through skyscrapers. Pellets of rain slapped his cheeks and rendered his hair limp in seconds. This city was his to protect, and he wouldn’t let a Metropolis transplant throw him off. 

The first week without Clark was a vacation, able to navigate Gotham’s streets as he always had without someone yanking on his cape or blabbering in his ear. The second week was much the same, though Bruce started performing a quick sweep of the sky each time he entered and exited a scene. By the third week, he held a knot in his stomach, a weight in his chest.

It was two months since he’d heard from the man of steel; the only reminders of his existence were in the Gazette’s columns about another barely-avoided tragedy in the neighboring city. Bruce avoided the news broadcasts about him, jumping out his skin at the intensity of the suit’s colors. 

Alfred had unexpectedly asked if he missed Clark, as he grabbed a bowl of soup before patrol. As he laid in the rubble, unable to move, and his brain fought for rationalizations for why the hell he’d missed such an obvious setup, that was the only thing that came to mind. Paired with a bitter thought of wishing he had a partner to help him.

He could get up. He would. 

Bruce pushed off his elbow, but the weight on his knee was too great. With a profound grunt, he thudded back into the shards of glass and tried to keep his eyes from being scratched. His arm was so numb he couldn’t even reach his adrenaline shots. Fuck. 

He’d been in situations like this before. He knew if he could push himself by his feet, work through the mess on the ground, the movement would eventually shift his limp hand to his hip, where he could wedge it against his distress signal. It would be slow, but criminals didn’t want to get caught lingering, and within a few minutes the GCPD could be on their way. 

Not like they’d help him, unless Gordon was on duty. 

He began the snail’s journey across the sharp glass, grateful most of his suit reserved ample padding. It would no doubt be annihilated after this trip, and the extent of his injuries would send Alfred down an anxious spiral. He wasn’t looking forward to it. 

Something above him creaked, and Bruce afforded just enough energy to turn his head, the ear of the cowl brushing against the floor with an uncomfortable grate. A seam was slowly cracking the ceiling—had someone placed an explosive above? He hadn’t heard any loud sounds, nothing in a good few minutes. 

A significant crack was heard above his head, at an angle he couldn’t twist his body toward, but it knew. His heart began to race, and he gritted his teeth as he tried in vain to grip the glassy ground with half-ripped gloves, panting in his effort. The structure was no longer sound, which meant the GCPD wouldn’t be coming in to check, not until it fell through. Either he made it to the opposite wall for the signal, and hopefully someone came fast enough, or he’d have to hope this cement building was an illusion of cardboard. 

An obscenely jarring sound of definitely-not-cardboard falling made him wince, far too close for comfort. Some gravel chunks landed on his calves, small enough to bounce off, big enough to bruise. Dizzy from his body’s feeble attempt at producing proper adrenaline, he grappled with the reality that this could be it. He could die right here, right now, and no one else would ever be helped. It ended tonight. 

He hadn’t reinforced the suit. He’d barely patched its rips, and he’d pulled an all-nighter again. Maybe if he’d gotten some sleep. Maybe if he’d… he’d… he felt lightheaded, like somewhere he was losing blood. Like everything was hitting him at once. 

“Clark,” he panted, conjuring enough energy to push it through his teeth. Another crack. Another seam splitting. He squeezed his eyes shut, every vein white-hot, gasping as he felt a deep throb on his right side. “Clark!” he gasped out, half-scream, half-cry. Blacking out, whiting out, his body was confused. His lids went heavy, then heavier, then darkness.

“Finally lucid, are we?” Alfred’s snark, spoken with a delicately furrowed brow, accompanied his redressing of wounds. 

What the hell?

Bruce felt weighted. Simultaneously exhausted and antsy. How long had he been out? How did he get out? “How did I get here?”

“Your friend brought you. Saved your life, in fact.” Alfred snipped the gauze and tucked it under the wrapping. Every touch felt like stabbing a bruise. “He visits every day. You always flinched when I changed your dressings, but never with him.” 

Clark? A brightness filled his chest, something like hope. “Is he coming today?”

The old man nodded, placing the scissors on Bruce’s work desk; it took him this long to recognize the Batcave. Bruce blinked until his eyes focused, giving the room a visual sweep. Everything looked as it always had. 

“Should be on his way.” He grabbed his cane and headed toward the elevator. “I’ll let him know he can go through the back entrance.”

The clanging sounds of Alfred’s ascent finally let Bruce relax. Either Clark had heard him, or he’d already been stalking. Even if he could get mad at that, he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t be alive to be angry if he hadn’t intervened. 

What if he had died? What if the last time they interacted was an argument? 

Bruce sighed out the last air in his lungs, his stomach clenching over the realization that the next time Clark would’ve seen him would have been a funeral. He shivered, carefully pulling the thin wool blanket over his shoulders, and stared at the entrance to the abandoned terminal. What could he say to him in return? 

Eventually anxiety got the better of him, and he stumbled to his stool to look at the footage from that night. Listed as happening five days ago, all he could make out were flashes of gravel, glints off shards of glass, some red streaks, and then the sky. 

He wrote some findings in haphazard, shaky handwriting. Where did this leave his work? Did he require a sidekick? Was it selfish to continue fighting crime if he couldn’t guarantee not needing to be saved himself? Where did that leave Metropolis, the rest of the world, if Superman’s time was taken up by being the Batman’s bodyguard? 

“Oh, Bruce.”

Clark was present on the monitor in little blips while he plucked out the lenses. Bruce leaned forward on the desk, mesmerized. 

“Kinda surprised you asked for me, to be honest. I’m just glad I could help.” Clark’s dry grin sent a pang through Bruce’s chest, slicing at the lining of his lungs. He shouldn’t be surprised. Bruce was too cold to him. “Even though you’ll probably kill me when you wake up.”

“You really should be resting.” Clark’s voice echoed off the balmy brick; the man strolled in with his arms crossed, a nearly incomprehensible grin wearing his lips. Bruce sucked in a quick breath, holding it. 

“Clark.” Ridiculously simple, but calming just to say. 

He put his hands up. “I just came to get my things, don’t worry. I didn’t want to bother Alfred.”

Bruce watched him walk to his cot, kneel, and pull out a small backpack. He’d kept some things here? How long were his visits?

“He’s a great guy, makes this incredible soup. I need to see if he can send the recipe to Ma.”

“You saved my life. Thank you.”

Clark rose, slinging the pack over his back. He nodded, and it looked like he was unsure of how to proceed. The two men stood, in limbo, until Bruce broke the silence with a soft admittance.

“I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Look, Bruce, you don’t owe me an apology. I inserted myself into your life and refused to respect boundaries. Even if I was correct, and you do need help sometimes, it’s not right. I’m sorry.”

A lump rose to Bruce’s throat. How had he ever treated this man like a fly buzzing in his ear? He was at a loss, feeling the true depth of the canyon between them. The one he’d only widened, despite all of his kindness. Bruce didn’t think he deserved it, but he asked anyway. “Can you stay?”

“Do you want me to?” Clark meandered closer, making Bruce lean against the tabletop to keep from touching. His gaze dropped to his chest again. “Dude, you really need to get that checked out.”

Clark’s freckles. He had… freckles. Dotted across his nose and under his eyes, perfectly kissed by the sun. He was pretty. I missed you sat on the tip of Bruce’s tongue. 

Clark’s tone softened, bringing forward an almost inaudible midwestern lilt. He looked like he was admitting something long-held. “I’m just worried about you. I’m not used to a teammate being so fragile.” His sigh wafted across Bruce’s cheeks like a warm breeze. “It scares me.”

Why him? When there were so many other humans to worry about? 

Though his brain was barely functioning, Bruce thought about if the tables were turned, and he was a metahuman while Clark was entirely breakable. And… he’d… never had to genuinely worry about the Kryptonian before. Just the thought made him sick. 

He needed to bridge the gap somehow. Express these feelings welling up in him before they were stuffed down indefinitely. 

“Bruce, you really need to see someone about—”

Bruce leaned in for a kiss, causing Clark’s eyes to widen as he stepped back to dodge it. A wash of shame fell over him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask, I…”

“You want to kiss me?” Clark laughed, resting his hands on his belt. “I thought you hated me. All this time…”

A streak of rebellion entered Bruce’s bloodstream again, though his tone didn’t have the usual bite to back it up. “Not all this time,”

Was it all this time? From the very beginning? 

“Are you sure you’re not loopy off the medication? I mean, Bruce, you just woke up. Though Alfred said you were awake, but not awake awake, I…” 

Wary and self-conscious, Bruce only made fleeting eye contact. He clamped his hands to the side of the desk to steady himself, the wash of rejection making his limbs numb. But what else should he have anticipated, after months of bickering and showing nothing more than a crumb of kindness to the man? He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Especially not with someone sweet like Clark Kent, whose face was twisting into a soft grin that made his dimple pop. 

“Believe me, I want to. When you’re more… healed.” 

Bruce swallowed hard, a tingle running up his spine at the twinkle in Clark’s eyes. His lips pulsed like he’d bitten into a jalapeño, mouth filling up with spit. Though Bruce had rarely been rejected—in fact, he couldn’t remember the last time—this didn’t feel like being given a placation. Like air had been pumped into the man’s lungs; he was almost beaming, brimming with newfound energy. 

“My lips are fine.” Why did talking about a kiss feel so lewd? So foreign? Clark stepped closer, forcing Bruce’s breath to hitch. Gave a genuine, sweet little smile, and spoke a sentence that would replay on Bruce’s mind like a mantra until he could see him again.

“I don’t know if it’ll just be that.” 

He took his leave at that critical moment while Bruce’s mind fought to catch up, and the room slowly stopped spinning. Jesus Christ.

If Bruce was one thing, he was patient. There was something about delayed gratification that made the final clue that much more satisfying. If Bruce was another, he was stubborn—and in the days that followed, he mused on all the ways he could make Clark tick. Bring that dimple and that blush to his cheeks. Make him stutter. It trumped every introverted bone in his body. He’d make it up to him.

He adjusted his gold cufflinks as he waited for the elevator. The usual hushed whispers, people trying to decide whether or not to approach. “If that’s even him,” he heard from a man to his left, probably speaking to a coworker. In the shined steel, he saw the reflection of wide eyes trained on him. He held a groan. 

The trip up wasn’t as quick as he would’ve liked, the building itself old and ‘historic’; he shut his eyes and took some regulating breaths as the elevator dinged for his stop. He knew this would be overwhelming, but he was dedicated to unraveling one… 

“Mr. Kent.” 

Clark looked up from his desk, startled. A stack of papers slipped from his desk down below his rolling chair, making him unable to shift around to face him. For the first time in ages, Bruce struggled not to laugh. 

“M—Mr. Wayne! I wasn’t expecting you.”

His glasses looked too big for his head, and his suit looked the same. Overblown shoulders and a tie that was begging to be tightened. Bruce’s hand clenched, offsetting the tension to keep his tone light, conversational. “Don’t tell me you forgot?” 

“Uh,” 

“Clark! Perry wants copy on his desk—Bruce Way…” A man donned in a brown polo stuck out a hand, grabbing Bruce with surprising strength. “Mr. Wayne. What are you, uh, what made you make the trip out of Gotham City?”

“Jimmy.” 

Out of the corner of his vision, Bruce watched Clark shake his head at the fellow. Just above his waist, Clark made a cutting motion with his hand. Bruce bit his cheek; it was already working.

“Here for an interview.” Tight smile. Casually tucking his hands into his slacks. 

It took Jimmy a few seconds to compute it, and he could practically see his gears turning. “Sounds good. I’ll let Perry know.” 

He stood behind the desk, stooping to gather various papers and folders. “I haven’t cleared a room for us, Mr. Wayne, and my schedule this afternoon is pretty booked. I don’t know if I can fit you in.”

“Already cleared it with Mr. White.”

Clark lowered his voice, the glasses slipping down his nose. “Bruce. I have two interviews today. You could have called me instead.”

He stared at the deepening pink spreading across Clark’s face, and flexed his jaw. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Befuddled, Clark gathered his suitcase of materials. Bruce wondered if the reporter actually believed him; he hadn’t thought up any answers for said fictional interview, and he doubted his ability to handle anything off script. It was entirely overwhelming to be around Clark now that he knew what they both wanted. 

Clark scurried to the elevator, Bruce following close behind. With people filing in behind them, he abandoned the loosely-formed plan to stop the elevator and start in right then. Shoulder to shoulder, Bruce wondered what the man would like. What he might want. The suite had a California king, a pretty massive loveseat, and a balcony overlooking the east. He could imagine a hundred different positions. A thousand different sounds. 

Bruce kept a few strides ahead of Clark, leading the way to the finest hotel in the city. It didn’t compare to the luxury of Gotham, people in Metropolis being a bit more everyday, but the wealth disparity here was less great. Sure, Luthor’s malignant presence was very apparent here, but the lows were less low, the highs less high. In plenty ways, it was better than Gotham. Sunnier, kinder. He felt exposed here, like you could read every pore, see every thread in someone’s clothing. Where the sun would wake you every morning.

“Shoot, I left my recorder at home. Good thing the other interviews got cancelled today…” Clark grimaced, taking off his glasses briefly to wipe them on the inside of his tie. 

“We’ll make do.” Bruce hummed, dodging someone’s dog lapping up a bowl of water on the edge of the sidewalk. Did Clark really think they were still doing that? 

“No, I need to have exact quotes. For the Planet’s first interview with Bruce Wayne?” He sped up to match Bruce’s stride, raising his heartbeat. 

“Clark,”

“Perry will kill me otherwise.” He mumbled to himself, frustrated. “Probably didn’t even contact them, just wiped them off the schedule. What kind of reputation does that leave the Planet? Print media’s practically obsolete,”

Bruce never considered that the man might take him at his word. His pulse thundered in his ears. If… Clark needed an interview, he could come up with something. Change plans. Had he been placated? Had he sorely misread things, and was about to put Clark in an uncomfortable position? Dear god. 

“I’m gonna run in here really quick. Want anything?” He pointed at a café to his right, dashing in the millisecond Bruce shook his head. Maybe Clark didn’t want to say much about it in public? The last thing he ever wanted to do was make him uncomfortable. Put an expectation on their time together. He wouldn’t push Clark away like that any longer. 

A few minutes later, he emerged with a comically small latte. It looked more froth than anything, covering a significant portion of his upper lip with the white foam. He caught sight of his stare, and looked confused. “Is there something on my face?” He wiped it with his finger, mesmerizing Bruce at how he sucked it off with unwavering eye contact. 

He felt faint. Oh.

Clark pressed on, leading the way to his apartment. Every shred of confidence had left him at the likely unintentional innuendo; he hadn’t expected to get so weak so quickly. 

An unassuming older building made the reporter turn toward the doors, and Bruce spun on his heel to keep up. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. Would he be able to play it off back at his suite? Should he even ask to go there anymore? An interview could be done anywhere. He must’ve overestimated the conviction in Clark’s eyes the week before. Projected his own feelings onto it.

“The elevator’s broken, sorry.” He gestured apologetically to the stairwell, explaining that he lived on the fifth floor. By the third flight, Bruce was keeping his winces to himself, feeling the stitching on his torso begin to fray. Sweat bled into his roughly-healed wounds, and it didn’t help that Clark abandoned his suit jacket at the fourth floor. Too fixated on the ripple of his back muscles, he tripped on the following stair, catching himself on the railing. 

“Here I am!” Clark was chipper, like only a person endowed with superhuman abilities would be after such an expedition. He stuck his keys into the lock without struggle, while Bruce struggled to tame his nerves enough to step through the doorway. 

He rustled around his kitchen counter until he pulled out a slender device. “What are you wanting the interview to center around? Your family, Wayne Enterprises, future goals for the Wayne Foundation? I know there’s a bit of tension around that point.”

Bruce settled into the chair closest to the door at Clark’s two-seater dining table. Had he forgotten about their last conversation? Had he meant something different by ‘wanting it’? Had his brain fuzzed up ‘kiss’ with ‘interview’ and this was one big misunderstanding, borne out of Bruce’s pathetic desperation for the man’s touch? 

“Alright. You ready?” He abandoned the glasses and rolled up his sleeves as he sat, making Bruce chew on the inside of his cheek. This was what he got for assuming.

He gave a meek nod, and wrung his hands under the table. The device dinged as it set to RECORD.

“So um, Mr. Wayne. I know you—”

“Clark, I didn’t…” He felt dirty being here, acutely aware of his ulterior motive. “I didn’t come here for an interview.” 

“Is something wrong?” He paused the recording, brushing his notepad to the side. Concern twisted his features, and Bruce’s heart sank. “Why’d you come then?”

He tensed every muscle in his body, hesitating before speaking. Silence had never felt so impenetrable. “I’m healed.” 

Nothing flickered across Clark’s face. Like their conversation had been a mirage. “Glad to hear it, buddy. I’m sure your city will appreciate having their knight back.” 

Dumbfounded, Bruce stared at the curly-haired, friendly man who evidently had changed his mind and wanted to remain platonic. This hurt had nowhere to go, entirely self-imposed. “I’m sorry, uh, I should be going.” 

“Have a safe ride.”

Bruce nodded. The chair creaked when he stood. He turned and headed for the door, each step a prayer that he’d make it to the hallway without crashing. This was fine; Clark didn’t have to do anything. He’d made an unfortunate assumption, he hadn’t been clear enough, and the man hadn’t even been expecting him today. Dismay of his own creation. 

 “Come on, Bruce.”

He paused, hand hovering above the doorknob. Clark’s tone was lower, more evocative.

“Why do you think I brought you home?”

He didn’t know who moved first. If he had to bet, it might’ve been Clark, because it didn’t take half a second for his back to be pressed to the wall. He’d never noticed it before, but Clark was a good few inches taller. He really felt it this close. 

“It was too much fun to tease you, sorry.” Clark’s saccharine blues oscillated between Bruce’s mouth and his eyes, and he raised a flirty eyebrow. “You wanted to kiss me?”

Bruce wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that, and glanced at his half-windsor, wondering how fast it would be to undo.

“You like looking at my ties.”

Damn. Clark was on him like a hawk. He gulped down the saliva gathering in his mouth. “They’re loose.”

“I’ve wanted to tighten them, but…” he grazed his nose on Bruce’s cheek, lowering his voice to a sultry whisper. “Every time you look at them your heart beats like crazy.” 

Clark’s mouth met his with surprising force, like his earnestness had all been funneled into it alone. Stars immediately swarmed his vision, dizzy from the lethal reality of Clark’s body pressed hard to his. Bruce’s hands found their way around his broad, strong back and held him closer, tighter. God it felt good to give in.

Over half a year of unresolved tension snapped as Clark dug his teeth into Bruce’s lip. Bruce fought not to pass out, trembling fingers rushing to undo the buttons on Clark’s dress shirt. The fabric was rough and tactile, and when he fumbled too much, he moved to his own shirt, not caring about ripping it. 

He got halfway down, drunk off of Clark’s kiss, when their lips separated. “You’re better, not healed.” Clark sucked on his teeth, giving Bruce a once-over. “The elevator works just fine, I wanted to know if you were pushing yourself or not.” 

“I don’t care.” He wanted this, his body buzzed with it. The kiss electrified him, removing the filter from behind his words like it’d never existed. “I want to make you feel good.” Bruce moved his fingers back to his buttons, undoing the last two just as Clark broke away, stepping into the kitchen. 

“You don’t owe me sex, Bruce.” 

He took deep breaths before stepping around the corner, finding Clark leaned against the kitchen counter with his head in his hands. This wasn’t repaying a debt, this was honoring a truth he should've recognized ages ago. “I know that.”

“You’re not healed enough anyway, I don’t know why you keep doing this to yourself.” 

Bruce crept closer, stepping in front of Clark as carefully as approaching a feral cat. Something tender floated between them, and the desire to be manhandled by the superhero fell away. Clark’s care was palpable, slicing a thin cut into his pale skin. He felt a pull away, but resisted. If he kept running, he’d never stop. 

“I want to thank you.” He slowly dropped to his knees, trailing his hands along the sides of Clark’s toned thighs. Wow… he flicked his eyes up to Clark’s, tucking his lower lip under his teeth. “Unless you don’t want it?”

The man’s resolve was wearing thin, Bruce could sense it in the slight tremble of his voice. “Of course I want it,” he sighed, his jaw ticking. “But you don’t need to thank me.”

Bruce grinned, sliding his hands up to Clark’s belt. Blush colored his cheeks, shocked at how smoothly the words fell out in this position. “As good an excuse as any.”

“Bruce.” Spoken like a warning, Bruce paused his unbuttoning of the man’s slacks. “I don’t want you pushing yourself.” 

It would be monumentally harder for Bruce to walk away, but he would. “You want this, I want this,” he was practically salivating. He let his hands fall, waiting for Clark to give permission. “Let me taste you.” 

If Bruce was anything, he was patient, and that was still true despite the way his slacks strained in the moments Clark stared him down, trying to get a read on him. When he thought he might call it off and go back to work, Clark slowly worked his belt, then the button on his pants, scooting them low on his hips. Smooth, even skin stared back, a little happy trail disappearing into his briefs. Mmm. 

Bruce locked his hands on Clark’s waist, pulling himself parallel to the hottest body he’d ever seen. Thick, wide, and strong, he was grateful he hadn’t pulled his shirt clean off or he might’ve lost it. No way he was here right now. He trembled with anticipation, nervous to touch a man who looked carved from marble. 

The hair was soft under Bruce’s tongue as he licked up to Clark’s navel. A slight salt taste danced in his mouth from the sweat of the stairs, and he plunged his fingers under the elastic waistband. Tugging lower with each inch he lapped down Clark’s trail, he withheld a gasp when his dick sprang free and knocked him in the chin. Clark immediately apologized.

“I didn’t mean for—sorry,”

“For what?” Bruce didn’t let him respond, taking him in his mouth with a soft grin. A head rush ravaged him, and he mounted his hands on Clark’s thighs to anchor himself. His cock was thick and warm, filling his mouth with a delicious weight. He wrapped his hands around Clark’s legs—as much as he could, anyway—and pushed him all the way into his mouth, the velvet of his head hitting the back of his throat. 

He gasped, and Bruce didn’t realize how touch-starved he was until Clark threaded his fingers through his hair. Gentle, strong fingers locked into swirls of his sweaty black strands. Bruce pulled away and caught his breath, hoping that his gentle touch might draw insistent. He looked with half-lidded eyes, wrapping a hand around the base of his throbbing, achingly hard dick in lieu of his mouth. 

Clark’s pupils were blown, his lips parted; filthy little sounds slipped out of it, making Bruce’s cock twitch in his pants. The hand that wasn’t petting the back of his head was gripping the counter’s edge with such strength that the paint was crumbling off of it, falling in chips. Shit.

Bruce went to town, suddenly desperate to bring him to climax. His slick hand pumped the base, his mouth working the rest. He toyed around with his tongue, swirling his frenulum until Clark shuddered, a heaviness weighing down the hand at the crown of his head, pushing him deeper. 

Bruce gagged, and Clark tried to pull away, stammering an apology, but he shot him a look and yanked him closer, doubling down. A guttural noise fell out of Clark—music to Bruce’s ears. He’d live and die by the lewd sounds threading out of him. His mouth was so filled, his cock silken, and hard, so fucking hard it rocketed Bruce’s confidence to high heaven. He made Clark feel like this? 

He felt a hard tug on his hair, so hard he was forced to look up, cockdrunk. Clark tugged again, persistent, and Bruce moved to unsteady feet. The room was hazy, his head spinning, and Clark cupped his face with quivering hands, pressing a needy kiss to his lips. 

“So good,” he praised, a thumb caressing Bruce’s chin, and his knees went weak. “Perfect.” He would pass out. He would pass out and die from dopamine overdose. No one could ever touch him again, it wouldn’t compare to the heat emanating off of Clark’s hands, the way his skin went up in flames with every touch. 

“Mmph,” Bruce whined, words failing him as the man grazed his zipper. So sensitive already, he didn’t think he could last more than a minute, maybe two if Clark would only stop kissing him. 

“You want to be touched?”

All he could do was nod. Clark unbuttoned Bruce’s slacks and pulled his aching cock between them, so hard it was almost embarrassing. He rushed his hand back around Clark’s dick, singularly focused on making him feel perfect. At the base of his palm was a smear of Clark’s precum, and a surge of pride slammed through him. 

Bruce’s brow furrowed, his face scrunching as Clark wrapped his large hand around his dick. “Fuck.” His head fell to the man’s shoulder, abs rolling with each pump of his fist. Concentrate… it was so difficult when… when… 

He sped up on Clark, needing to know the sounds he made when he came more than air, more than water, more than he’d needed anything in his life. This heady, all-encompassing feeling was overwhelming, intoxicating, his breathing ragged and pathetic. He couldn’t last much longer, and Clark had barely touched him. 

Clark’s grip was firm, and his hand deceptively soft. Bruce breathed through pursed lips, his wrist beginning to burn with the intensity of his strokes. His building arousal threatened to peak, his dick straining against the man’s hand for release. Still, Clark didn’t seem as thrown as him. 

Maybe Bruce’s hands were too calloused, maybe he wasn’t good enough—

“Ah, hah,” Clark’s abdomen clenched, making Bruce’s thoughts staticky. 

A strangled noise came out as he dug his head into Clark’s shoulder, and his gasps became wanton sounds, his body hot and sweaty, careening towards climax. “I’m close.” His eyelids dropping, stomach clenching, hand tightening around Clark’s cock with a vengeance. He felt its twitch, heard the man’s frayed panting in his ear, and let his eyes shut. Bruce swallowed hard, steeling himself to his own orgasm; jamming his teeth into his tongue, he spun his wrist on each stroke, relishing in Clark’s lilting gasps filling the apartment. 

“Right there, yes,” Clark groaned, his breathing growing shallower as Bruce overrode every overworked muscle in his arm to speed up. Clark was too much, this high was absolutely ridiculous. He’d never had to fight so hard not to finish, his body never twisted this tightly. Clark hit every pleasure center at once, with his lips, his hands, his voice, and the slip of Clark’s dick in his hand at the same time was pure poetry. 

“Bruce,” Clark panted, an octave lower. “I’m—I’m,” he locked into a deep, wet kiss. Bruce swallowed the moans off his parted lips as he felt the man throb in his palm, ropes of hot cum decorating Bruce’s abdomen. His body convulsed, each spurt seemingly stronger than the last. He looked between them and caught sight of Clark’s pulsating cock, and Bruce’s mouth opened with an involuntary moan. 

The tension snapped, hardly able to appreciate the last throbs of Clark as Bruce flew into his orgasm, ratcheting into the stratosphere as his body folded against the man’s wide chest. Their mouths separated, and Bruce bit at Clark’s neck as he thrummed with oxytocin, body straining to spill every last drop. 

He felt like it would never end, Clark’s hand coaxing him through it, prolonging the high. Sweat dripped down Bruce’s forehead, mixing with the other man’s as it fell in beads down his torso. Holy fuck.

Both Clark and Bruce stood pressed against each other, panting, allowing their bodies to reach equilibrium at its own pace. The aftershocks were subtle, yet undeniable; a skip in his chest, a twitch of his half-hard dick, feeling a weak throb in his limp hand. For the first time since entering the apartment, Bruce’s side stitches began to yell. His head rush morphed into a headache. He’d do it over again in a second.

Bruce’s vision fluttered back to normalcy when Clark pressed a tender kiss to his brow. “Go rest on the couch while I clean up.” 

Dazed, he let Clark lead him to the small sectional and place a pillow under his head. He disappeared in one blink and reappeared the next with a damp washcloth, carefully wiping the cum off his abdomen before it dried. Bruce must have looked confused, because Clark grinned. “Didn’t think I meant just me, did you?” 

The doting was kind, but a streak of rebellion still remained. He let Clark finish without comment, tolerating the affectionate gesture until he simply had to say otherwise. “I can clean myself.”

“I know. I just do it so much better.” Clark stood and discarded the tattered rag into the trash, the ripple of his back igniting Bruce all over again. His heart became a sledgehammer, even more so now he knew Clark tracked it. Refusing to give him a break, Clark winked as he undid his tie. “Stay as long as you need. I’ll make us something after I shower.”

Hearing the water run and the soothing hum of Clark’s singing, Bruce thought he could stay here, at least for a while. Whether or not it would be a break was another story. 

taglist: @noisylime @serynstorylover @crayzmarvelfan800 @dreamer7black @sad-ghouls @smellingbats @eddiew-k @kha0sblossom @omithemonki @badbishsblog @mesywelch @kimdrqculas @ilona2nerrie

[grimseverity]

Elucien Week Day 1: Mates "Take Me With You, An Elucien One-Shot"

For Elucien Week 2025 ;)

~

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Lucien said, giving a bow of the head as Elain sheepishly followed him out into the garden. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”

“It’s the first time you asked for me directly,” she replied, hands fidgeting and eyes down, “It’d be rude.” Lucien blinked, hands sliding into his pockets.

“You’re uncomfortable.”

“What is it you need?” Lucien snapped his gaze to her, long since done with being hurt by her curtness and her avoidance.

“I wanted to tell you that I won’t be around this solstice, or in general.” Elain glanced up at him, brow softening, “I’m leaving, for a while.”

“Where are you going?”

Why do you care? That was what Lucien felt like saying, along with other frustrations creeping along his tongue. But he kept it restrained, keen to just finish with this last bit of pleasantry.

“Vassa. Her time is running out, so her, Jurian, and I, are going to see about trying to break her curse. I asked Rhysand and the rest for help, but with his son being born and…all the rest, they’ve been less than helpful.” Elain swallowed, knowing exactly what he meant. The months since Nyx’s birth and Nesta and Cassian’s union had seen them become more insulated, save for where Azriel was concerned. The distance between them grew more and more with each day, ever since she gave him back the necklace, and now…

“Sorry,” was all she could give, scratching the back of her neck.

“It’s not your fault,” Lucien replied, softness returning to his voice as he saw her eyes darting, practically feeling the thoughts pelting her. “They’re…keen to protect their own interests. I can’t fault them for that.” A beat of silence fell, and Lucien took that as the cue to give a final, parting nod. “Goodbye, Lady Archeron.”

Lady Archeron?

The title, her surname, it felt so distant and removed, like the floor had been ripped out from under her. He had always used her name, and she felt that slight brush over her chest whenever he spoke it, even while separate from her. Now it was pulling away, far into the cold, and her jaw strained enough that Lucien rose a brow.

“Is this a rejection?” she asked, suddenly feeling out of breath. Lucien narrowed his eyes, feeling a spike of anxiousness grow in her, and then in him.

“What?” he prodded, taking a single, careful step forward.

“I feel…” Elain’s hand waved towards her chest, pain building behind her eyes. “I don’t…I…”

“Breathe.” Lucien’s word cut through the cloud of terror, reaching out a hand to her. “Elain, look at me.” Her eyes flitted up to him, shimmering, “Breathe.” His nostrils flared as he inhaled, gently guiding her to match him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Elain nodded, feeling the rippling of her nerves smooth back to a moderate calm.

“I’m scared. Sometimes, this,” —she pointed to her ribs, her heart, unsure why the words were spilling out— “Is all I feel. I think about my father, my sisters, what happened to us, and I’m numb, except for this.” Lucien’s hand fell back to his side, Elain’s fingers flexing after them.

“Do you...want to feel numb?” He questioned, Elain rolling her eyes in frustration.

“I lost everything, my fiance, my home, my father.” Elain’s hands wrung themselves, “I haven’t felt normal since I fell out of that damn…fucking cauldron!” Lucien balked slightly, surprised at her curse. “I hear things no one else can, know and see things that you can’t imagine. I’ll…live forever, and this…” She gestured to that place, that tugging she felt whenever he was near, whenever he thought of her and she thought of him.

“What about your family, the shadowsing—“ he corrected himself, “Azriel. They haven’t helped you with this?”

“As you’ve said, they’re keen on their own interests at the moment,” she stepped forward, “I’ve tried to harness it, to use it for good but, they don’t let me. Nesta always jumps in, and Azriel…” She sighed, “He’s kind, but he’s a part of this world."

Lucien snorted, "As am I."

"You know what I mean," she retorted, "I know what he does for Rhys.” She sniffled, wiping her nose before a coldness settled into her. “They try to hide who they are, make it like some kind of perfect family. But I see what they've done to one another. Cassian and Mor. Azriel being tormented by him and Rhys." She closed her eyes. "They can’t hide it from me.”

Lucien glanced to the flower beds beside them, feeling utterly lost on what to do, what to offer her. Then, an idea—a stupid one admittedly—popped in his head. “You can come with me, if you want.” She glanced up at him. “It’ll be dangerous, but…it’ll get you out, and,” A sigh tore through him, “Nevermind, it’s a stupid idea.”

Elain scoffed, hands balling into fists. “Of course, because I can't do much beyond garden and cook. You’re no different. I should just let everything go on without me, that Azriel should—“

“I don’t give damn about Azriel!" Elain snapped up at his words, "Or how the rest of them feel. I care about you. You can be wherever you want to be, fuck whoever you want to fuck I—“ Lucien stopped, sucking down a breath at the sight of her shrinking back. Raising a hand, he forced his voice to a calm firmness. “I’m sorry, but this is something that I need you to understand: I do not command you. I do not own you. But you are my mate, and you have not rejected me. Until that happens, as long as you are provided for, protected, and happy, I could give a damn if you love me or not.” Lucien turned on his heel, stalking away, “Unlike some, your safety and your care isn’t contingent on whether you want to sleep with me.”

“You can’t reject it?” He stopped at that, head inclining ever so slightly to her.

“I don’t want to," he muttered through gritted teeth, "The Mother or the Cauldron or whatever else set this between us, and while I understand your apprehension—I really do—this is something incredibly important to me, to my people. I’d be a fool to break it without giving it a chance, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Give it a chance.” Lucien’s fingers rubbed together, readying to leave before he felt warm hands snatch his. He turned, and found those brown eyes gazing up at him, the closest she had ever been since they first met. His heart thundered, Elain’s grip tightening.

“Take me with you,” she begged, “Please.” Lucien’s thumb ran over her knuckle, her skin softer than anything he could imagine. He noticed a small scar on her left pinky, the kind a thorn might make if caught from a rose. He had bought her gloves to ward against such a wound...

“What of them?” he asked dryly, tilting his head toward the manor the rest of the Inner Circle resided in. Fiercely protective, they world riot and rage against her going anywhere, maybe even tear him to pieces. Elain stared at his wounded eye, studying it closely—how it was framed by a set of vicious claw marks, the lid sagging from the broken nerves as the metal replacement whirring under her discernment.

“I don’t plan to tell them,” she answered, and Lucien couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

“Rhys snatched Feyre from Tamlin in a similar manner.”

“He did, and it saved her.” Lucien's eyes wavered at the truth of it, and wondered if it would be the same way between himself and her. If somehow getting her out of here would help her realize her true self.

“Are you asking me to save you, Elain?” he said, the slightest of smirks on his face.

She shook her head, “I’m tired of being saved. I want to do something that matters.”

[vviolets444rroses]

— muscle memory (ex!rafe)

cw: alcohol use/intoxication, drug mention (weed), emotional tension, exes, some angst, toxic dynamics (implied)

a/n: this took forever to write- ONLY BECAUSE i had to make sure i had other parts too heheh.. but i hope you guys like this! please like/rb so i can continue to do more of this <3 kisses!

a bonfire at the boneyard— kooks, pogues, and tourons. you sit beside your friends as they all get drunk off their asses. you’re sober and clinging to yourself, wrapped in a hoodie you’d forgotten wasn’t even yours, and jean shorts— your chosen attire no longer fitting for the night’s weather. you’ve zoned out, your gaze fading into the flames of the fire, now locked onto a figure on the other side.

across from you, kooks are passing around a blunt and laughing, just high out of their minds. but that’s not what you’re looking at. it’s who. your ex-boyfriend, rafe cameron, just as intoxicated as the others. he stares through you, like you’re not there. like you’re nothing.

at least, that’s what it feels like. you saunter off on your own to sit by the waves— just far enough to be on dry sand, but feet in the retreating ocean water. your phone dings. opening it, you see a familiar number. it had been deleted months ago, but your mind can’t seem to forget it.

wjat r u doinb u wearin my hodie?? knwoin i’d be hre n stil missjng uuuu ur smethin els idkkk bsby

it's rafe... drunk and spamming your phone. he knows he’s your weakness. who could blame you? you two were in love— until it felt like you didn’t belong.

is tht u byy the wateerrr?? immmm comin ovr ther babyyy fruck u lookk beautifullLLL

of course he is. you hear sand kicking around and drunk laughter— his laughter. you turn your head, knees tight against your chest, watching him slump toward you.

“there’s my girl,” he yells out. he finally makes his way and slaps down beside you, leaning into your body.

“jeez, rafe. what’s wrong with you?” you hold him up, straightening him out.

“me? nothing!” he cackles. “ah… except i miss you… heyyyy. you still wear the perfume i got you?” he leans his face into your neck, getting a better whiff of it.

you sigh. he’s so damn drunk. you can’t really do anything, or else he might react badly. you fold, comforting him and keeping him close. but it's not like it took a lot of convincing yourself, right?

“hey, hey. let’s go. wanna go home? need me to take you?”

“but my bike!” he hollers, your hand smacks over his mouth to shut him up. he sticks his tongue out, wetting your palm.

“rafe!” you shake your hand and wipe it on his sleeve. he just hyena-laughs in your face.

“we can get your bike in the morning. let’s go,” you drag him up by his arms, but it’s impossible to do at all. he’s always so bulky with all the protein powder and creatine he inhales like it’s his life support.

“alright, i cannot drag you. up and at ’em. we’ll go to my car.”

the two of you slog through the sand and eventually make it to your car. rafe presses against the passenger door. “must’ve missed me soo bad if y’taking me home.” he cackles and pulls you into him by your hips with cold hands, almost magnetic.

“dude— rafe, stop it. i’m trying to help you.” pushing off him, you click the car unlocked, swing the door open, and push him into the passenger seat.

“buckle up,” you mutter as your patience wears thin at his childish drunkenness.

“buckle up,” he mocks. “like a fucking mom.”

slamming his door, you walk around the front and get into the driver’s side, buckling in and starting the car.

“you’re fine going home?”

he mumbles a quiet yes.

“alriiighty.”

after a few minutes of driving, his hand reaches across the console and finds yours— fingers clumsy at first, but certain. he laces them with yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, and his thumb starts tracing soft, slow lines across the back of your hand.

your lips part— halfway to tell him to stop, to remind him this isn’t what you do anymore. but the words don’t come.

because it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

it feels like routine. like second nature. like something your physical being missed before your mind even realized.

maybe it’s the way his touch is gentle, or the fact that he doesn’t even seem aware he’s doing it. maybe it’s how the movement is more muscle memory than anything else. how it calms you instead of starting something. no pressure. just presence.

so you don’t pull away. you let it happen.

you drive with one hand, eyes on the road, heart somewhere else— somewhere softer. and his thumb keeps moving, slow and quiet.

you park in front of his house and leave the engine running for a second longer than needed. his thumb is still tracing lazily on your hand like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. or maybe he does. that’s the thing with rafe— you never really know.

“mmkay, come on.” you gently slip your hand from his and unbuckle his seatbelt. he doesn’t move.

“we are home?” he says like a question, blinking slowly.

“yes. now get out of the car before i leave you.”

you get out first and walk around the car, opening his door and crouching a little.

“rafe. up.”

he groans like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, then stumbles as he swings his legs out. you catch him—barely—then sling his arm over your shoulder.

“jesus, you’re heavy.”

“mmm. muscle,” he hums, grinning into your hair as you both half-drag, half-walk up the front path. “you used to like it, remember?”

you don’t say anything. just keep your eyes ahead and focus on getting him to the door without falling over.

you fish his keys from his back pocket, then unlock the house, pushing the door inward with your hip. you pull him inside as he puts most of his weight onto your body and his boots thud heavily against the tiles. he’s so fucking close you can smell his cologne— the one you always loved on him. faint and distant, like the memory of when you were still sworn to him.

you help him kick his boots off and move them aside to the shoe corner.

“where’s your room again?” you tease lightly, trying to keep the mood easy.

“oh, you know where it is,” he laughs softly and swigs his head back.

you do. unfortunately.

he’s still hanging on you, head heavy on your shoulder now.

“you good?” you ask, catching your breath. “or are you gonna collapse here?”

“mmm,” he hums, “you staying?”

you freeze for a beat but keep walking, dragging him through the foyer toward the stairs.

“uhh… we’ll see. you’re gonna feel like hell in the morning,” you mutter.

“worth it,” he mumbles. “i got to see you tonight.”

you ignore that— mostly.

the silence that follows is heavy. he lets you lug him up the stairs, his hand still glued to yours— but neither of you says a word about it.

[shaunamilfman]

wicked and weary [5]

pairing: Jackie Taylor x f!reader x Shauna Shipman Summary: The aftermath of a night from hell. Only, someone's come knocking. There are already too many bodies. What's one more? note: minors dni Masterlist

The feeling of Shauna's chest rising and falling with each breath is a comfort you're not about to take for granted. After the month you've had, those fingers of hers scratching at your scalp are enough to guarantee your loyalty if she doesn't already have it. It isn't like it's a great hardship for Shauna. 

She has a thing for hair: touching it, pulling it, and twirling it around her fingers aimlessly if you let her. It's harder to keep your hands out of your hair than just about anything else. It's why it made you and Jackie so jealous the first time Shauna tried to cut a chunk of hair off of one of your victims. Tried, being the keyword. She hadn't been dumb enough to attempt it again after being iced out for so long. 

So you have to settle for letting her mess with yours. A small price to pay, all things considered. 

You're not sure how you ended up taking Jackie's spot somewhere between her falling asleep on Shauna and you waking up on her, but Jackie doesn't seem to mind. She's lying comfortably on her side against the two of you, still managing to steal most of the blanket. 

Her apparent acceptance of the whole thing probably has more to do with the arm wrapped around you than anything else. It's like she's holding the two of you down, making sure there's no way you can slip out of bed without her knowing. 

Not that you even wanted to. You want to keep Jackie right where you can see her at all times. Safe from whoever killed Lottie, safe from the police, safe from the tree branch she walked into last night. Right now your bed is the best place to do that. 

It's best practice to let Jackie think that she came up with the idea herself lest she try to actually leave the room by herself. You think she needs a chaperone for the next few days. Or a bodyguard, maybe. Whatever you call the two of you not letting her out of your sight at all. Obsessive? Perhaps. Out of line? Not in your relationship. 

If you thought that Jackie wouldn't manage to gnaw her way out of the ropes, you might just tie her up to keep her here. That was more a Shauna plan than your own—whispered in your ear in the dead of night only to be offended at the sound of your muffled laughter. Shauna might still go for it, and you aren't entirely sure that you would try and stop her. Beyond the obvious benefits of Jackie looking good tied up, it would be a fairly simple solution to a broad problem. 

But then it would bring Misty Quigley to your dorm, who comes knocking if Jackie so much as misses a single class. If you weren't so sure she was obsessed with Jackie, you might think she was the one writing those damn notes, but you can't imagine her threatening Jackie. You? Sure. But not Jackie. 

Plus, Jackie informed you that Misty has excellent handwriting. Probably practiced in the long hours she spends sitting in her room waiting for her next daily allotted Jackie time. At least, that's how you picture it. She doesn't really seem to have other friends, even this far into college. You feel a little bad for her at times. If she wasn't so obsessed with your girlfriend, you think you might like her more. 

As it was, she's a threat. Frankly, she was lucky the three of you promised not to kill so close to home anymore, or she would've been dealt with already by you or Shauna. Maybe even both. 

The thought brings a pain to your chest as it reminds you of Lottie. Poor Lottie, whose funeral was tomorrow. Not her real one, but they were already bringing her body back to Wiskayok, and none of you are able to leave. So you decided to throw one yourself. Or Tai did, and the rest of you just agreed over a fairly tense phone call. You assume the rest agreed, of course; you don't know for sure. She called you first. 

Tai was unsure how Jackie was going to react to it. The news of who exactly had found Lottie’s body has already spread around campus, as that kind of thing was known to do. You wish that those losers had better things to do than to gossip about something that horrible. It’s not like you would’ve cared had it been anyone else, likely even joining in, but you’re known to be hypocritical from time to time. Murder usually does that to a person.

Truthfully, you aren’t sure how Jackie’s going to react to it either. It’s why you haven’t told her yet. She was asleep when you answered the phone call this morning and still asleep when you had slipped back into bed.

The whole thing was likely more of an excuse to get drunk and commiserate together, but you feel like you have to go. Jackie could skip it if she really wants to. You aren’t about to tell her how she should grieve her friend.

What else can you do when you've failed Lottie so totally? 

You can't help but wonder if you were grilling Tai for information while Lottie was walking back to her death. Maybe if you'd found something to implicate Lottie instead, then she would still be alive. You try not to focus too hard on that line of reasoning before you start to obsess over it. 

That wouldn't be any help to anyone. What you need to do is find whatever sick fuck killed her, but it's so hard to motivate yourself to get out of bed. Grief, guilt, fear. Nothing like the fear you thought you knew back home. It was more real when it wasn't directed at you. More crushing that way. 

The thought of something happening to either Jackie or Shauna was terrifying, and it makes you angrier than you think you’ve ever been just trying to imagine it.

Jackie’s watching you now, eyes open just enough to stare back at you as you turn your head toward her. Shauna makes a low noise of protest at the movement, shifting her hand just enough to allow it before she goes right back to what she was doing. Jackie smiles, shifting closer to the two of you.

You want to reach for her, but your arm is crushed between the two of them. She only smiles wider when you try to squirm your way out of it, shaking her head with the slightest movement as she holds on tighter.

“Jackie,” you complain, voice barely above a whisper.

“Nope,” Jackie says, popping the p. She kisses Shauna’s shoulder through her shirt when she huffs out a laugh. That’s fine with you. She can keep you trapped as long as she likes as long as it keeps that look on her face last night from ever appearing again. If you ever see her looking like that again, it would be too soon.

“You’re going to try to hold me down with your noodle arms?” Jackie scoffs, pinching your hip through your shorts.

“She’s not wrong,” Shauna adds, always eager to jump in and pick sides in a conflict. You’re just lucky that she seems to prefer taking your side if it allows her to poke fun at Jackie. She never has quite gotten over that jealousy of hers when it comes to Jackie, even if she lets it out in healthier—for Shauna—ways.

“You’re ganging up on me?” Jackie gasps in betrayal. She likes it, you know she does. A girl as playful as Jackie always is enjoys having it turned on her from time to time, even as she pouts over at you. Shauna doesn’t bother to turn her head to check Jackie’s expression, already knowing what she would find. You, however, are unlucky enough to already be looking in her direction.

Closing your eyes and burying your face into Shauna’s chest doesn’t help to erase the sight of it. That face of hers has to be illegal in several states. If it wasn’t, you would have to get Tai to work on the legislation whenever she got around to finishing law school. At this rate, you might all be dead by then.

Except for Shauna. You’re sure she’s going to outlive the rest of you by miles. Only the good die young, right? You and Jackie aren’t exactly good either, but you still think you have miles to go before catching up with Shauna. She’s so dreamy.

Shauna grumbles as she shifts beneath you, complaining about how hot the two of you are making her. You try to push up on your elbows, willing to allow Shauna breathing room if not Jackie, but no sooner do you start to move than Shauna’s hooking her knee over the back of your leg. You collapse back with a huff of laughter, propping your chin up on her chest. Her cheeks are beautifully flushed, avoiding eye contact with you that only leads to catching Jackie’s attention.

Jackie coos, pinching Shauna’s cheeks between her thumb and index finger. Still smiling even as Shauna swats her hand away, leaning closer to pepper kisses along her jaw in apology. As if sensing your impending complaint, Jackie squeezes your hip before slipping her hand beneath the hem of your shirt. Not to entice, not today, but just to touch. Just to feel your skin beneath her fingertips.

You’re about to join in on Jackie’s fun, edging your way up toward reaching Shauna’s neck, when there’s a knock on the door. You hesitate to even call it a knock when it was more like a slam, like someone pounding their fist on the door, but you can’t think of another word to describe it.

Jackie’s out of the bed before you can stop her, too close to the edge for you or Shauna to react fast enough to grab her before she can. You stumble after her, hitting the floor with a rush of air from your lungs on account of Shauna’s leg still wrapped around you. Even then you manage to reach the door only seconds after Jackie in your rush to catch her.

But she’s not opening the door. She’s staring at something on the floor with wide eyes. Jackie glances back at you before leaning down to pick it up. It’s a piece of paper, obviously slipped beneath the crack in the door. You’re not liking this already. The color drains from Jackie’s face as she reads it, but you’re too concerned to care about being right.

She flips the paper over so that you can read it.

Tell them what you did, or I’ll have to show them.

You barely read the words before you’re pushing past her and out the door, running down the hall after the sound of retreating footsteps. Whoever it is wasn’t quick enough to get far enough down the hall to lose you, so you follow after. 

The benefit of all those years of conditioning for soccer is finally catching up to you. Running down the hallways after them is almost a breeze at this point, even though you haven’t done much running that wasn’t chasing in the last few years.

Whoever it is is clearly a practiced runner, but not one who was practiced at running away from someone else. They make stupid mistakes as you charge after them down the hall, losing precious ground but taking the corners too wide. They obviously didn't know the layout of the building that well, a rookie mistake as far as you're concerned. Their mistakes are your gain right now. 

Unfortunately, it also serves to make them desperate. It shows itself as you round a corner only to meet a fist swinging itself at your face. You barely manage to duck out of the way, staying low as you charge forward and wrap your arms around their waist. Her center of gravity is lower than you're expecting it to be, but you still manage to take her down hard. 

It was definitely a her. You can feel that much. The two of you scramble to get on top of one another, rolling around on the floor as you fight for purchase. If you weren't so mad you would probably be embarrassed at the whole thing, knowing how ridiculous the two of you must look on the floor. As much as you would like for Jackie or Shauna to be here to help you, you're sort of glad they aren't here to witness you flailing around like this.

You manage to get a good few hits in before a foot catches you squarely in the stomach. For a moment you forget how to breathe, wheezing as you let go of her cloak to hold yourself up as you struggle to catch your breath. Whoever it was has a strong right foot. It gives her time to get herself back to her feet, but not enough time to avoid falling flat on her face again when you grab at her ankle.

You crawl after her, but she drags herself away fast enough that you find yourself holding nothing but her shoe. It’s nondescript. Some cheap sneakers that she probably got from a discount store. You’re so angry that you throw the shoe after her, hitting her squarely in the back. 

There’s barely a second to bask in managing to land a hit on her before she’s falling down the stairs. She must have hit every single stair on the way down, but you can hear footsteps pounding down the hallway on the floor below before you manage to get back onto your feet.

You don’t bother to follow her down the stairs, knowing you’ve already lost her. There’s one plus to the situation: you managed to make it out with nothing more than bruised pride. Probably also a bruise. You stumble back toward your dorm room, waving briefly at someone who’s sticking their head out the door.

Where were all those nosy girls when you needed them?

**

Jackie looks up hopefully when you walk in the room, teary-eyed and all. You jerk your head side to side, and she just nods, slumping back against the wall as she crumples the note in her hands. You can’t help but feel like you’re disappointing them, even though Jackie clearly doesn’t seem to blame you for it.

You blame yourself, though. Something Shauna seems to get as she looks up from sharpening her knife to pin you with a stare. It’s not the accusatory glare you’re expecting, the kind you’re always on the receiving end of when you fuck up enough to upset Jackie. It’s commiserating. An understanding you aren’t expecting from her given how clearly pissed she is.

The whole situation is upsetting. Stressful. So you try not to be too affected by the vision that is Shauna staring you down while actively sharpening her knife. A knife that hasn’t seen the light of day in months. Not out of a lack of desire to do so, but just out of circumstances. But circumstances have changed now. Not only indicating Jackie in the killings but also coming back to send that note. Practically bragging about it all.

You can’t blame her for turning back to what she knows. It’s necessary now, if it hasn’t been the whole time. Killing this close to home was a risk, but that woman wasn’t giving you another option. 

Tell them what you did. 

What you did, singular.

You almost can’t believe that someone thinks that Jackie could have singlehandedly pulled off all of those murders. Not that Jackie wasn’t capable of it—the things that woman can do with a knife are second only to Shauna—but it just wasn’t possible if you really thought about it. Several of the murders would have been impossible to do at the same time. That was the whole point of setting up both Travis and Jeff in the first place.

More evidence that Tai was innocent in the whole thing. Whoever’s doing this clearly didn’t think it through. What you still can’t understand is why. They’re not reporting her to the police or even threatening to, so it couldn’t be some bleeding-heart morality issue. Especially given her own murders. It wasn’t even pride, acting like she was somehow better than you. That you’re glad for. Those murders are sloppy. 

It was all about Jackie. The whole thing seems like some kind of fucked-up revenge plan, but you can’t think of anything Jackie could have done to someone to deserve it. Except murder their loved ones, but even then they would go to the police, right? Not threaten to steal her girlfriends? That didn’t even make sense.

It reeked of impulsivity.

Are you and Shuana just supposed to skip into her arms afterward? She doesn’t even know you well enough to know that you’re involved with the murders she’s pinned on Jackie. How well could she really know Shauna to not think she was involved somehow? Even after you get past the obvious personality flaws that practically scream serial killer, there’s still the simple fact that Jackie does not do anything without Shauna. And vice versa. You’re a prime example of that.

Still, the familiarity of the handwriting haunted you. You’ve seen it before, even if you’re having trouble placing exactly where. Jackie’s counting on you to know, and all you can do is draw blanks. It’s frustrating, more so with your earlier failure. It feels like that’s all you’ve managed to do lately. Fail Lottie. Fail Jackie. At the rate you’re going Shauna’s probably next, and isn’t that just terrifying?

“Come here,” you say, holding your arms out. 

Jackie’s arms are still curled protectively around her, but she seems to consider it. There are still remnants of tears running down her face, leaving little tracks that you want to wipe away. Jackie should never cry. It just wasn’t right.

Her steps are silent as she collapses into your chest, burying her head into your neck and just breathing in the scent of you. She slips a hand up the back of your shirt, fingers splayed across your back as she holds you close. You rub her hip through her panties, your thumb tracing across the initials lying just beneath. The motion works its magic as she fully slumps into you with a soft huff of air.

Shuana’s knife clatters against the desk as she sets it down, backing the chair out with a squeal of protest from the floor as she joins the two of you. She presses up against Jackie’s back, who’s suddenly very interested in being pinned between the two of you. You notice the second she makes that realization, the corners of her lips quirking up into something smug.

She deserves to be smug after the last few days she’s had.

You just wish that it could last.

…

You’re just going out to think. Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself as you slip out of bed after they’ve fallen asleep. 

It was a long day. That’s the kind of thing you have to deal with when someone slips a threatening note under your door at 8 AM after you were out all night waiting for your girlfriend to get back from being questioned by the police for murder. It was sort of hard to relax and do normal college student things after that, but somehow you managed. Mostly due to Jackie’s maniacal need to pretend that everything was normal and just how it should be. Even Shauna was hesitant to break that facade, probably sensing how close to an impending nervous breakdown Jackie is.

So you let her have the day, knowing that what you need has to wait for the night. You feel guilty as you silently grab the knife off of Shauna’s desk, slipping it into your jacket pocket. You slip the door shut behind you, taking a moment to slip on your shoes. It gets you a few weird looks from other girls in the hallway, but you’re more than used to it. Most of these girls have filed noise complaints about the three of you at least once, so it’s not anything that you’re not used to.

You just didn’t want to risk one of them waking up while you were putting your shoes on. Stupid, maybe, but your girlfriends are killers. The only reason you’ve managed to sneak past them is that they trust you so much they’d never think of it. And here you are, breaking that trust. It’s not that serious. Everyone takes a walk near midnight a few times to help clear their heads.

The knife in the pocket of your hoodie and the destination already set in your mind undermine that sentiment, but you can feel that itch under your skin. It’s undeniable as you walk down the hallways, tracing the same path you ran earlier that day. It might have been yesterday by now, but the point was the same.

That itch never existed before you met them. Maybe it never would have if they hadn’t intervened, brutalizing their way into your life in the most violent way possible. You don’t like that line of thought. It means never having met them, so it isn’t worth considering. Regardless, it exists now. That desire to hurt people, even to kill.

The high of it is like nothing you’ve ever known. The comedown is just as thrilling. Blood-soaked hands touching you, slipping beneath clothing like it never even provided an obstacle. Better than even the killing was reveling in the aftermath with the two of them. Basking in the destruction you caused. In the fear.

You’ve limited yourself to petty murders since then in the interest of safety. There was always a threat of getting caught back then, a prevalent and all-consuming risk that something could come between you. Something that could separate you by force. It was safer to frame it as a home invasion gone wrong. Kill some random guy you never met and take a few of his things on the way out only to dump them in a dumpster a town over on your way home.

Things that couldn’t be tied back to you.

As much as you tell yourself that you’re okay with it, as much as you try to force it, at the end of the day it feels disappointing. It doesn’t take the edge off. It barely even scratches the itch. It’s like slapping at it: it’s soothing for a moment, but it comes right back with a vengeance, and you’re a little sorer because of it.

You’re deep in this line of thought when you realize where you are. Or, rather, who you’re following. Melissa hardly seems to notice you walking behind her in the dark, just far back enough that she wouldn’t be able to make out your silhouette in this light. The campus was far too dark, a result of the budget cuts that went to funding the football stadium instead. You guess that was the lamp money.

It provides a perfect cover to watch her as she strolls through campus at night unafraid. You’re not sure if it’s bravery or if she’s really just that naive. You think it might be both. Melissa was always braver than people give her credit for, if only they bothered to dig slightly beneath the surface. Jackie and Shauna never have, and they certainly wouldn’t now that you’ve befriended her. Too jealous for their own good, those two.

They laughed it off when you suggested it could be her. Even Jackie hadn’t taken you seriously, and she still had Sarah Michelle Gellar in her top five suspects. 

Melissa’s spot on the suspect list was never all that serious, according to Jackie, and Shauna just laughed in your face. But they don’t know her like you did. They’ve never even bothered to try and see beneath the surface. You do think it’s something she may be capable of, but what you can’t figure out is how Jackie plays into it.

Threatening Shauna, you might have understood. Not accepted. No, you would’ve come down just as hard, but at least that would’ve made sense. Shauna was abrasive and in your face. You didn’t want to say that she was asking for this kind of thing, but between the two of them, she was definitely the one more likely to invite this sort of thing.

Judging simply on a surface level, Jackie was nice to everyone. She never has a bad word to say to someone’s face and usually played good cop to Shuana’s perpetual bad cop.

You don’t deserve them. That’s what that first note read. The more you think about it, the more you start to wonder if it was actually about Jackie at all. Deserve was an interesting choice of words. Deserve was the kind of word you used to cover up jealousy. They didn’t deserve what they had because it should be mine.

If she just wanted to hurt Jackie, she could have just killed her by now. You hate to even think it, but she’s had plenty of opportunities to do so. She managed to get close enough to Jackie to slip a note into her textbook. If it was about revenge, that was her golden opportunity. So her motivation must be something else.

Them. You and Shauna? Who would want the two of you badly enough to kill for it besides Jackie? It’s not like Shauna was a social butterfly, so you aren’t even sure how this mystery woman would have met her in the first place to want her so badly. You’re barely let out of your room as it is, fighting with Jackie for every inch of space you’ve had to forcefully carve for yourself through the years.

You just can’t decide where you met her. Unless you didn’t meet her. It was entirely possible it was some random stalker that got obsessed with you after seeing you on the news back then and again now. But you didn’t think so. They know just a little too much to not be entrenched in your life somehow, some way.

Where, where, where? The question of the hour.

Luckily, it doesn’t really matter anymore. You’ve got your mind set on what’s coming next. You’re not sure what it is about Melissa that has you so set on her guilt, but you can’t let the thought go. You should let it go. It’s not the first time you’ve accused one of your friends of being a killer, and you’re already going zero for one. You should wait, you know you should, but you can’t.

If you don’t take a chance and you’re wrong, you’re not sure what could happen. It’s not like you’ve never killed innocent people before. Anything that allows you to protect the two of them. And lately, just for fun. It’s something that you can live with if everything went wrong. You like Melissa, but not that much.

You were useless in that chase and even more useless in that police station the night before. Someone’s been threatening your girlfriend, and you’ve been doing jack shit about it. It’s time for that to change. You can’t just keep sitting around and feeling powerless. That’s not who you are. You aren’t that scared girl who ran away from them in the woods anymore.

This is how you take your power back: you take out the threat all by yourself. Afterward you can slip back into bed and treat yourself by cuddling up to your girlfriends, knowing that everything will be just fine after. 

You steel yourself for what you have to do, gripping the knife tight enough that your knuckles start to go white. You speed up behind her, starting to cut through some of that careful distance you’ve been maintaining all this time. Exactly what you’re going to do when you catch up to her you aren’t sure, but you know that knife in your pocket is going to come into play.

Without the mask, you almost feel naked doing this so publicly, but you just have to wait for the drunken witnesses stumbling down the street back to their sorority house to get far enough away that you can strike, and it’ll all be over.

The worst part is you don’t even know where she’s going. Why would you? You never really pay all that much attention to Melissa beyond the occasional lunch and the study sessions she drags you along to. Begs for your help was more accurate, but you’re trying to be generous. No need to degrade her memory now that you’re about to kill her. You could give her that.

You carry a childish hope that you’ll watch her do something suspicious enough that you can justify what you’re about to do to her. You’ve killed a lot of people in your life, but you’ve never killed a friend before. There’s a first time for everything, but it’s a line you never thought you would have to cross. Willingly or otherwise.

Then your question is finally answered as she walks up the steps to a familiar building. It’s another set of dorms across campus from yours, but you know exactly where she’s going. You silently come to a stop, hand still gripping the handle of the knife hard enough that you can feel every individual groove beneath your fingers. 

You got so deep into your own head that you managed to miss your chance tonight. You could have cursed yourself if it wouldn’t have been a colossal waste of time on top of your already wasted night. That’s all you’ve been doing lately. Wasting time.

You watch her throw her arms around Gen as she walks out to greet her, hugging her hard enough to take her off her feet as she twirls her in a circle. The two of them laugh, too caught up in one another to notice you as you step out of the shadows to get a closer look. She walks into Gen’s dorm building before you turn on your feet and head back home.

Melissa was dating Gen.

Her big secret was the most obvious fucking thing on the planet. Truthfully, you hadn’t even realized it was a secret. It’s something you ruminate on the entire way back to your dorm, grateful to have something to finally overpower that intense dread and hopelessness that’s been plaguing you lately.

Man, did you need a laugh tonight. Even if it means that you’re back to the drawing board again. Rather, Jackie’s creepy murder board. Unfortunately, it seems like you’ll have to go all in on that. You hate when she’s right: she never lets you forget those kinds of things.