#dragging your fingers through his strands

[gcldie]

Curls - Damian al Ghul

The water is warm as it runs against your fingers, dampening Damian’s hair.

The night had begun like any other, with Damian lying against the silky sheets of his king size bed and you sprawled across his body, tracing soft circles on his skin.

His hair was longer than he usually kept it, the strands tickling his skin at the nape of his neck. This was why you’d noticed the way his hair tried to curl around his face

Shutting your phone off, you had reached out, curling Damian’s hair around your finger, as he hummed, pleased.

‘What is it, beloved?’ His eyes had traced your face as the gears in your brain turned.

‘I want to try something.’ You had said, getting off the bed, watching as a pout overcame Damian’s face. ‘Come with me, my love.’

And he had followed, fingers intertwined, head placed lazily on your shoulder, as if the very act of leaving the sanctuary of his bed had worn him out beyond exhaustion.

Now, Damian watches as you wash his hair with the products he bought for you after you had joked about smelling like a man when staying over.

He hums, content, as you lather a hair mask in his raven locks, his lips twitching when you kiss his nose after spraying some water in his eyes.

One product follows another and Damian tries his best to fight off the urge of falling asleep, the buzzing in his mind quiet as you distractedly hum a melody, his fingers drawing constellations on your leg.

When you finally wrap a towel around his head, Damian stands, towering over you as he awaits your instructions.

Seating him on the toilet, you pull out the creams and mousse you’d left behind, hidden under the sink, after too many showers at the manor.

The curl cream is lightweight in his hair, the mousse that follows making a funny sound as it leaves the bottle. He hisses under his breath when you accidentally tug at his hair while scrunching the gel into his strands, but he’s happy to keep his mouth shut when you kiss him on the corner of his lips as compensation.

When you feel satisfied with the result, you half drag Damian to the sink, plugging in your diffuser, and start drying his hair.

His curls shine softly under the bathroom light. Strands Damian always keeps cut as closely to his scalp as he can are now being wrapped around your fingers as you hum in satisfaction at your handiwork.

‘Thought so.’ You mumble under your breath, leaving the bathroom. ‘Stay.’ You command softly and what can Damian do but abide by your wishes.

When you come back, hair oil in hand, Damian basks in the warmth that blooms under his skin at your touch, at how easily domesticity weaves itself into your relationship.

The touch of your fingertips against his scalp is soft and so very unlike anything he has ever known, anything that is waiting for him outside the walls of his home.

Home.

The one thing that Damian never thought he could have, the only thing he has never asked for, but the first thing you’ve given him since you bulldozed your way into his life and, worst of all, into his heart.

Because now, Damian dreams of everyday with you. The mornings he wakes up wrapped in your arms are ones that make him want to abandon training and push off his responsibilities just to watch, for another minute, how your expression shifts and how your limbs drape over him in the soft light of the morning sun.

So, when you’re done raking your fingers through his hair, he captures your wrist and kisses your palm, sighing softly as you giggle at his antics.

‘I’m almost done, my love.’ You kiss his ear and continue styling his hair and Damian flushes when he sees the look on his face in the mirror.

If only his brothers saw him now, eyes sparkling like you’ve just hung the stars and moon in the sky for him, they’d never let him live it down.

But when you stand on your socked toes, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper a quiet I’m done in his ear Damian realises that he’ll take all the teasing from his family if it means spending one more minute with you.

art: 02png on ig

I love my lovesick boy. Also, idc if it’s technically not comic accurate, I believe in curly haired!Damian, fight me 🤺🤺

[sceletaflores]

HELL OF A VISION…

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 2.6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, post-outbreak, established relationship, jackson joel mmmh, domestic joel mmmh, both tags that are good for the soul, set in a sweet and lovely place where nothing bad happens, old man joel RAAHHH, the readers stay on, lots of dirty talk cause he’s old and gross, dry humping, finger sucking (still on this bullshit), lots of come and come talk…like verging on hyperspermia, yeah ik he’s old but he comes like a fire hose because i just can’t help myself y’all, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i love fucking men who should be on AARP. thank god for them. this fic was actually meant to be the one i posted for rylea and i’s challenge, but i fucked up and accidentally made it over a thousand words…oops. of course i’m all about that reduce, reuse, recycle life sooo here we are. hope y'all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune and @saradika-graphics!

you and joel spend a night reading in bed, amongst other things…

It's rare that you get to see Joel like this.

Relaxed, completely.

Propped up against the headboard of your bed, a pillow behind his back and his legs stretched under the quilt you finally finished up last year.

The copy of Lonesome Dove Ellie found a few weeks before his birthday rests open in one hand, the other slipped up under the hem of an old shirt you stole from him to absently stroke over the skin of your back.

You lay with your head on his chest, legs tangled with his as you count the beats of his heart against your cheek. It soothes you in a way nothing else can, listening to the slow turn of the pages and the occasional rumbling hum in his throat when he comes across a line he likes.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been curled up next to him, quietly watching the tiny shifts in his expression.

Letting your eyes glide along the side of his face bathed in the warm orange glow of his bedside lamp, the messy silver curls of his hair catching the light enough to almost shine. You’re tempted to reach out and run your fingers through the strands, even more than you did earlier tonight, to feel just how soft it is.

Your gaze traces down the slope of his forehead, the caress of his lashes fanning out over his cheeks, the arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips and all the way back up to do it over again.

However long it’s been still isn’t enough. You could watch Joel for hours without getting bored, just a silent spectator drifting in the warmth of his presence. 

There’s always something. A new project, patrol shifts, repairs. New everyday things you get to experience with him here in Jackson that you do love, but that keep him just out of your reach for longer than you like.

That’s why moments like these feel so special. There’s no crisis, no issues or problems to keep him out of your bed. 

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

You just…you have him tonight. And that’s enough.

Well, it's almost enough.

You’re in his t-shirt for Christ’s sake, wearing it like a brand. In his t-shirt and just your panties. And he’s so warm beneath you, big and solid, the kind of comfort you ache for. In more ways than you could even think of naming.

You shift your hips slowly. One tiny move that has his thigh pressing between your legs a little more firmly than before. Testing.

Joel’s hand pauses on your back. The subtle drag of his thumb stutters where it was gliding just beneath the hem of your shirt before it starts up again, slower than before. He doesn’t look at you right away. Doesn’t say anything either. Just flicks his eyes further down the page and keeps reading.

You try not to smile.

You do it again. Another slow drag of your hips—like it’s an accident. Like you’re just getting comfortable.

But Joel knows you too well. He knows every part of you now—the tiniest hitch of your breath, the way you go quiet when you want something, the shift in your touch dragging over his chest. Knows that the heat blooming between your legs has nothing to do with the cozy warmth of the blanket.

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” Joel drawls without looking up from his book, but his hand slides a bit lower, the tips of his fingers brushing over the hem of your panties.

You hum noncommittally, shift again, letting your hips roll forward with a little more intent. You feel the twitch of his thigh, the stutter of his exhale. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

The flick of a page, his fingers drag a little lower. “That so?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, all mock innocence as you press in closer, lifting your leg just enough to drape it over his hips. You’re practically straddling him now, your bare thigh flush to the soft cotton of his sleep pants.

“Doesn’t look it.” Joel’s tone is bland, uninterested. You know it’s just for show, part of the game. It’s always better when he fights you for it. “Looks like you’re tryin’ to take advantage of me.”

You muffle a laugh in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and skin and musk. Your hand trails down his chest, down his stomach until you can toy with the drawstrings of his bottoms. “Maybe…are you offering?”

Joel peers at you over the edge of his readers, skeptical. It’s the first time he’s looked at you since he opened up his book. You try not to preen under his gaze. “I’m too old to be grindin’ like a damn teenager.”

“It’ll be good, promise. Just let me…” You sit up, swinging your leg over him to straddle his hips properly. “Let me rub on it a little, Joel. Please? I just wanna feel it.”

Your voice is all sugar, and Joel’s a sucker for it.

His cock softly jerks to life in his bottoms, lazily hardening under you. It tattles on him, gives away how he really feels seeing you perched on top of him. Your hips are moving before you can even think, rocking down against the rigid plane of heat. 

You fit together perfectly, and Joel’s cock slipping between your soaked cunt has your mouth going slack, a soft moan passing through your lips.

"Jesus." His book snaps shut and lands somewhere by the lamp. His hands find your hips, not to stop you, not really—just to hold. You meet his heavy gaze, the blown pupils of his eyes shine like an oil slick under the dim light. He squeezes you hard, holding you in place as he huffs a dry laugh. “I ain’t dry humped since high school.”

You grind down again, fighting his grip. “Then I’d say you’re due.”

You roll your hips again and again. Back and forth in slow and deliberate motions, dragging that damp cotton across the length of him. You know he feels it—feels the heat of you, the slick mess you're making. You're working your clit right along the swell of him, jaw slack as your rhythm picks up.

And Joel is just watching, head tipped back against the headboard. Letting you use him. Eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted.

There’s been days where it’s harder for him to really roll around in the sheets with you, especially in the last couple months. Joel’s age catching up with him, hitting fast and slow all at once.

Joel hates it, not that he'd ever tell you that. He doesn’t have too, you know. Of course you know, you’re not stupid. You knew how old he was when you met him, and it never made you second guess that you wanted anyone else in your bed. 

You’d never let Joel’s recent struggle to get it up ruin all that you have. You were more than content to find other ways to be intimate with someone you love, maybe a little excited even.

That’s not the case tonight.

Joel’s cock is fat and hard under you, twitching up through the soft cotton of his pants like it’s straining to get to you. The thick ridge of it bumps perfectly against your clit every time you roll your hips, dragging against the soaked crotch of your panties. The fabric clings to you, flimsy and so drenched with arousal that it’s barely even there.

“You’re soaked through, pumpkin.” Joel’s grip on your hips tightens until his fingers dimple your skin. His thumbs run over the edge of your panties, pressing hard enough that you know it’ll leave behind lacy imprints in your skin when this is all over. “Gettin’ my pants all wet and I ain’t laid a finger on you.”

Your brow arches, lips tugged into a smug grin that you can’t hide. “Is that a complaint?”

Joel squeezes your hips once, hard. A light warning, don’t be a smartass. “Don’t sound like I’m complainin’, do I?”

“I don’t know.” You hum, coy as your fingers dance over the hem of your shirt—his shirt—bunching it up around your hips, the dip of your waist visible in the lamplight. “You sure were talking a whole lot of smack earlier.”

You sneak your hand down the front of his pants before he can respond. His cock jerks when your fingers brush against it, his hips twitching up off the mattress and into your loose grip. You tsk softly, shaking your head as you lay it flat over his stomach, trapping him between the waistband and the coarse gray hair of his happy trail.

Joel hisses through his teeth, hands tightening around your hips. “Shit–”

“Don’t get too excited, Miller.” Your tone is teasing, even when your cunt clenches weakly at the sight. The rosy tip of his cock oozes pre-come onto his shirt, wetting the fabric enough that a dark patch blooms across the thin blue cotton. You want to press your lips to it, to trace the ridge with your tongue so you can taste him—salty, musky, and heady. “I just wanted a better view.”

Joel grunts like he doesn’t believe you, like he knows you’re full of shit, but his hips are shifting under you anyway. His cock nudging up into the hot mess between your thighs, seeking friction, contact—you. 

His hands curl around your thighs, pulling you down harder against the heavy bulge in his pants. He’s soaked through too now, the front of his sleep pants dark with it, sticky and wet where you’ve been grinding down. 

And his cock—god, his cock is leaking. Fat beads of precome drool out from the tip, smearing slick over the dark hair of his happy trail and dripping down between your folds. You can feel it every time your hips circle down.

“Dirty fuckin’ thing,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You look so pretty like this, baby. Just like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut on a breathy moan, your hands falling to rest on his chest as your hips rock and rock. 

There’s a spot, right where his cock curves, that keeps catching against your clit every time you rock forward. You keep grinding into it, chasing that pressure, whimpering with every pass of it.

Joel notices. Of course he fucking notices.

“There,” he grunts, holding you in place and angling his hips up. “Right there, huh? That’s it, baby? That’s the spot.”

You whimper, nodding so fast it’s dizzying. “Feels so good, Joel. I can’t—I can’t stop, you feel so good—”

Your hands drag up his chest, lingering on the tan column of his throat. You run your nails over the thin skin, stretching over the coarse hair he must’ve missed cleaning up his beard. Your thumb rests just over his pulse, right where you can feel the beat of his heart pounding like a hammer on a nail.

Your hand slides up before you can stop yourself, cupping the side of his face like you’ve got the whole world cradled in your palm. Your thumb glides along his bottom lip now, wet with spit. Your nail presses into the fat of it, firm enough to drain the color before you lift up and do it again. 

Joel can’t swallow down his noises like this, with the way you’re forcing his lips to part. Deep grunts and groans ring out from around your finger. His eyes never stray from yours as he closes his lips around the tip of your thumb, watching you through the steamy glass of his readers.

You let out a pathetically broken moan, pushing your thumb deeping into the wet heat of his mouth. “Fuck, Joel…”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just parts his lips and sucks it into the heat of his mouth, deep and greedy. His tongue curls around your thumb, wet and filthy, moaning low in his throat like he’s starved. His brows pinch like he’s feeling it somewhere deep, deeper than he’s letting on.

You rock your hips while he sucks your fingers like he’d suck your clit—like it’s nothing to him, just muscle memory now. Your cunt clenches weakly with every pass of his tongue, fire shooting up your spine as your rhythm starts to falter. 

Joel feels it, the shift. The way you start to get messy with it, desperate. He knows you’re close.

He groans around your thumb and lets it go with a slick pop. “Go on, girly. Mess up those pretty panties. Rub that sweet cunt all over me—fuck yourself on it. That’s it.”

Your nails dig back into his chest as your stomach clenches with the first signs of your orgasm sneaking up on you. You rock faster, chasing it, slick soaking through the thin cotton. The shape of his cock is so perfect under you—thick and wide and right—even through your clothes.

You whimper something broken, grinding down hard, over and over, as pleasure builds sharp in your belly.

Joel grits his teeth. “You gonna come for me like this?”

“Yes.” You nod again, frantic. “Joel—I’m gonna—god, I’m gonna—”

Your thighs seize and your body jolts against him as you come, trembling in his lap, cunt spasming against soaked fabric. 

Joel groans like it’s killing him, watching you fall apart. His voice breaks as he groans your name, “Keep goin’, baby, just like that—fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

Your eyes are locked on the drooling tip of his cock, you don’t think anything could tear your attention away from it. Not even gunfire. Your hips don’t stop moving, even when your clit pulses with overstimulation each time it bumps up against him. 

But you can’t stop. You won’t stop, not when Joel asks you so nicely.

His grip on you tightens, his hips twitch up off the bed. Once, twice, three times. “Fuck–” 

You watch as he comes, mesmerized. His cock jerks against his stomach, painting the front of his shirt with rope after rope of thick come. 

Joel groans, loud, from deep in the chest. An intoxicating, raw sound, like it’s being pulled out of him with a tight fist. His head knocks against the headboard, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut like the pleasure hurts.

“Jesus—shit, baby,” he grits out to the ceiling, voice wrecked. His hands are basically doing all the work now, shifting your hips back and forth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s it, ride it out of me—goddamn.”

He just keeps coming, shooting up high, nearly hitting his chest with it. A slow, filthy mess oozing out of the flushed head of his cock. The shirt’s a lost cause, but you could care less when his come drips down the sides of his stomach as it clenches deliciously.

You stare, panting as the last sparks of your high fizzle out. You want to taste it, to smear it around and dirty him up even more.

By the time he slumps back against the pillows, he’s panting like he just ran ten miles. His chest is heaving, the front of his pants an absolute wreck, and he’s still twitching under you like he hasn’t fully come down.

You lean down, nose brushing his. “Still think you’re too old for dry humping?”

Joel gives a weak chuckle, hands smoothing up and down your sides. “You’re laughin’ now, bet you’ll be singin’ a different tune when you’re the one nursin’ my bad back tomorrow.”

You grin, pressing a kiss on his chin. “Worth it.”

And then you rock your hips once more, dragging your soaked cunt over his softening, come slicked cock.

He groans, his hands twitching over your hips. “You just don’t know when to quit, huh?”

“Probably not. Guess you better read faster next time,” you murmur, mouth against his ear. “Because at this rate? You’re never finishing up that chapter.”

The swat on your ass stings, but you knew it was coming. It’s not enough to hide the low rumble of laughter ringing out over your head, and that’s all that really matters anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this got waaay fluffier than i thought it would when i started it. it’s probably the fluffiest thing i've written in a while. this isn't what i planned on posting, but it's hot and my knee hurts and i can't sleep...and this was basically done so i finished it up as a distraction from my chronic pain :))) and insomnia :))) yay me! yes the title is a lonesome dove quote because i’m texas trash and so is joel miller.

to the anon who sent me an actual banger of an ask, i am working on it! don’t worry babe, i almost cried tears of joy when i saw it in my notifs…i’m just on the struggle bus rn and the ideas are suffering…

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[moonchild9350]

Relax

summary: hyunjin helps you relax after a long week.

pairing: est, relationship hyunjin x fab!reader

genre: fluff, smut-18+MDNI

wc: 1.1k

warnings: fingering, unprotected sex (don't)/lovemaking, creampie, teasing, mild dirty talk

notes: is this self indulgent? you bet lol

please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work elsewhere without my permission. ©moonchild9350 (2025).

Masterlist

Finally, the week was done. A thought that lit a flame of hope deep within that you’d be able to get some rest after a chaotic few days at work.

You were excited to get home and to your boyfriend as you needed a little relaxation time with him. Entering your shared apartment, you were hit with a strong scent, one that filled your nostrils and wrapped it's hands around your body, causing you to instantly relax.

Soft music played in the background with the soothing tunes Hyunjin knows you like after a tough day. Kicking off your shoes, you make your way to the bedroom where the man in question resides, sitting cutely on the bed with a grin on his face.

“Welcome home love,” he coos and beckons you forward.

You don’t hesitate to walk into his arms, letting out a sigh as he wraps his strong limbs tightly around your body. A shiver runs down your spine as he buries his face into your belly and his fingers rub small circles into your back. You revel in the silence, focusing on your breathing as Hyunjin continues to cling to you.

After some time, Hyunjin slowly lifts his head to gaze up at you, love laced throughout his expression. He pulls back and takes your hands in his, “let me take care of you tonight love.”

Your breathing hitches as he stands up and gently pushes you onto the blankets, his gaze never leaving yours. You lay still as he slowly, teasingly undresses you, pulling one arm out at a time before slipping your legs out of your pants, his eyes flickering to your panties every now and then.

He takes a digit and drags it through your clothed folds, his eyes snapping up to yours as you let out a moan, high pitched and needy just how he likes it. Alternating between feather light touches to applying more pressure, he works you up quickly, your panties quickly turning sheer and glued to your skin from how wet you are.

“My love works so hard,” Hyunjin whispers as he lifts his shirt over his head, revealing his toned abs and dusky nipples. “It’s only fair I take care of you when you get home.”

Your eyes are barely able to focus as your lover continues to undress, quickly ridding himself of his sweats and boxers. Letting out a whimper, you grab at Hyunjin, wanting him to come closer. He chuckles as he hovers over you, his eyes roaming over your body.

“Will you let me help you relax?” He asks with raised eyebrows and you can’t help but nod just wanting to feel him, to become one with him.

He slowly parts your legs, letting them fall open and baring everything to him. You wait in anticipation as he lines himself up with your entrance and with one swift motion, he breaches your hole, stretching you wide.

“Ah, Hyunjin,” you moan as you clutch onto his arms, pulling him flush to your body.

Hyunjin gasps as his cock reaches deeper within you at the change in position and he closes his eyes briefly to ground himself at the feeling of your wet walls wrapped tightly around him.

You’re impatient however. You need him to move, do anything, and you need it now. You lift your hips slightly letting out a strangled whine at the small amount of friction you gained.

Hyunjin slowly pumps his hips, dragging his cock against your walls, reaching the spot that gets you weak beneath him, pliant and obedient.

Your fingers thread themselves in his hair and you pull at the short strands as Hyunjin buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing wet kisses to your skin. Your breath synchronizes with his and you clench around him as a deep groan he lets out and how he pushes himself somehow even deeper into you.

Hyunjin fucks you slow, steady, as if he’s not in a rush, but rather making sure you’re completely relaxed and mind empty as he pleasures your sweet body.

You're not sure how much time as passed, as you’re lost in the sensation of his cock massaging your walls, the feel of his pubic hair dragging against your pelvis, providing that sweet friction you crave against your clit. His pace never falters and you get lost in him, his moans, his scent, the sweat coating your body as he rocks up into you.

His chest presses ever closer into your body and provides ever the slightest pressure against your nipples and you whimper at the sensation, feeling that all familiar warmth build in your belly.

Slowly, ever so slowly, it builds, expands until it seems to want to overflow. You gasp at the little shocks you receive almost as if your body is teasing you for your release, just to clench hard around Hyunjin’s cock as it retreats, like a wave kissing the sand.

“Hyun, Hyun, please,” you whisper, as you wrap your legs around his waist and you give a slight tug at his hair.

“I got you love, let go for me hm?” Hyunjin’s lips are right at your ear, his words vibrating deeply in your war, his voice husky as he focuses on getting you to your high.

The pleasure builds, expands until it pops and you’re letting out a cry as your slick coats his cock, his pelvis, his thighs and your body shakes beneath his.

“That’s right, let it all out, please, please my love,” Hyunjin begs and as you let out a shudder he releases his seed, flooding your walls with his essence.

He moans as he comes and presses his lips to yours desperately. The kiss is sloppy, uncoordinated but filled with love and you grin against his lips.

You’re relaxed, more so than ever and it’s all thanks to your boyfriend. Lazily, you stroke his hair as he lays still on top of you, his face still buried in your neck. The music wraps around you two, soothing you into your hearts beat as one.

After some time, Hyunjin sits up and the slip of his cock from your sore core causes you to winch. He quickly scrambles into bed and pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you tightly

“I hope that helped,” he whispers as the last of the candles burn down to the quick and the last notes of the song that’s playing ring out.

“It did. I love you so much,” you mumble, your mind on the edge of sleep. And right before you completely slip under you hear Hyunjin whisper:

“And I love you.”

divider by @cafekitsune

taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @armystay89 @palindrome969 @ivydoesit23 @slut4hee @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @velvetmoonlght @possum-playground @katsukis1wife @my-neurodivergent-world @hanniebaeee @channiesrightasscheek @skzdreamer133 @lezleeferguson-120 @hwangjoanna @hyunjincanraptoo

[2cupids]

riding bf!toji’s thigh in the store’s dressing room.

contains. f!reader, thigh riding, semi public, reader is called pretty/pretty girl, written with a chubby!reader in mind <3 .. mdni (17+).

toji did not plan on spending his thursday like this, and neither does he enjoy it.

you insisted on him coming along to help you buy an outfit for a fourth of july party your friend had invited you to. so he agreed—albeit reluctantly—to let you drag him around. he can never tell your cute ass “no,” even when he desperately wants to.

this unwelcomed little mall trip didn’t come without him still letting his feelings be known though. his usual scowl is deeper, more pronounced, and his eyes narrow whenever you take too long browsing around in different stores.

despite all that, the trip hasn’t been a complete waste in his eyes. he gets to watch you twirl around and show him every piece of clothing you try on, from little denim shorts to tiny skirts as you ask him his opinion on each, to which he gives a dry, one word response.

you could say toji’s been well behaved today for a guy who’s usually handsy with you. that comes to an end when he finally snaps the moment you emerge in a tight, low cut top that shows plenty of cleavage, asking him whether or not the top “makes your boobs look big.”

a lazy grin pulls at the corners of his mouth and he scoffs, slowly rising to his feet, large hands immediately on your waist as he walks you back into the dressing room. a poor girl working in the store folding clothes nearby witnesses the scene and looks horrified. out of the corner of his eye he sees the employee, but he could care less who sees. or whoever hears what he’s got planned for you for that matter.

“makes your tits look fuckin’ great if that’s what you’re askin’.” toji drawls, closing the door behind him and moving to take a seat on the bench, which looks comically small under his large, muscular figure.

you huff out a laugh and cross your arms. “you’re so annoying, that’s not what i asked. i mean.. don’t you think they make my boobs look even bigger?”

toji rolls his eyes, spreading his legs slightly as he continues eyeing you. “i really don’t give a fuck if it does… not like it’s a bad thing anyways.” he says, tilting his head slightly and his smirk returns. “all i know is you still look damn sexy.”

trying to deflect his comment, you end up giving him a playful glare before muttering a quiet, “whatever.” your fingers hook underneath the hem of the shirt to take it off when toji’s calloused hand suddenly reaches for your wrist, stopping you.

“don’t cha think i deserve something, doll? ya know, it’s been torture watching you try on all those different outfits for me.” toji says quiet enough that it's almost a whisper as he tugs you forward to stand in between his legs.

you squint, already knowing he was going to pull some shit like this the moment he got that look in his eye and pushed you back into the changing room. you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck and letting your fingers play with the dark strands at the nape of his neck. “mm, not right now. keep it in your pants ‘til we get back home. or least back to the car, toj.”

that earns you a low chuckle, and before you even have time to react, you’re being manhandled as if you weigh nothing and you find yourself straddling one of toji’s thick thighs, his hands move up from your hips, over the softness of your belly, and up to squeeze your breasts, thumbs finding your nipples through the material of the top. “don’t act like you don’t want this too, pretty.” he whispers, lips dangerously close to the shell of your ear.

you shiver, biting your lower lip, careful not to let a sound slip out. “shut up. there are people around, and–”

toji quickly shuts you up, flexing his thigh underneath you, fingers tweaking your hardening nipples. “didn’t hear ya, baby. say it again?” he smiles.

and like a dummy, you open your mouth again to protest. a silly mistake. his hands snake down to grip your hips to move your body, making you grind down on him. he keeps moving you against him until you finally give in and start moving your hips on your own, whimpers and gasps tumbling from your lips as you ride his thigh.

toji smirks, satisfaction crossing his sharp features. soft locks of hair tickle your skin when he drops his head down to your neck, breath fanning across your skin. “just realized the people outside are getting a free show. a pretty girl making even prettier sounds… next time i’ll charge the bastards.” he laughs and begins pressing hot kisses along your throat.

one hand flies up to cover your mouth, mortified at the thought of strangers hearing you, but toji is a menace. so when he hears your noises get quieter as you attempt to muffle them, he brings his hand down against your backside. the sound of his palm coming down hard against your ass echos throughout the entirety of the dressing room area and a moan accidentally slips out.

toji loves it.

loves seeing you in ways like this and knowing he can always manipulate the situation in his favor. he pulls back, letting his eyes trail over your body and to the growing wet stain on his jeans. his eyes darken every time your breath hitches slightly when your clit rubs against the rough material of his pants through your thin panties and shorts just right.

and he just drinks it all in, his dick twitching and straining in his pants from the sights and sounds. “look at you..”, he mumbles. “look what you do to me.”

the hand covering your mouth is pulled from your face as he guides it over his chest, then down lower until it rests over his dick. you gasp softly and rub him over his jeans, making him swallow down a groan. “shit. keep doing that and i’ll fuck you right here, right now.”

a shaky laugh escapes you and you take your hand off, placing it on his other shoulder for more stability. soon, your hips start to move more frantically against his thigh as you feel yourself starting to get close. toji assists by flexing his thigh more and continuing to run his hands over your soft, full curves. you rest your head in the crook of his neck, breathy sounds spilling from your mouth. your fingers tighten around his shoulders as he whispers filthy things in your ear until a sweet, strangled sound of pleasure slips past your lips.

you slouch against toji’s body, dazed, embarrassed, but most importantly, satisfied. he gives you after a moment to catch your breath and then he helps you out of the top, leaving you alone to go pay for it. he proudly steps out of the room with his head held high, large wet spot on his jeans and all. when you finally muster up the courage to leave, you’re the complete opposite of your boyfriend, your head is hung low to avoid any eyes.

toji’s waiting outside the store for you and it’s only then that you see just how big a mess you made. you freeze, body heating up with embarrassment all over again before you bring your eyes up to meet his in disbelief. “you have to be kidding. don’t tell me you’re keeping those on? walking around like that?!”

toji just raises a brow and grins. “why wouldn’t i? there’s nothing to be ashamed of. this is a trophy, baby.” he says, almost cockily.

he pulls out a pair of sweatpants from the bag and hands them to you. “bought those for you though, figured you’d want some more pants to wear.” then he leans down to whisper, voice sickly sweet. “didn’t buy you any more panties, so just give those ruined ones to me. i’ll keep ‘em safe. promise.”

[yeiwo7]

Summary: After coming back from the bar, drunkenly in love with longing for your touch. Losing that uptight tie and stoic attitude, he could finally have you all to himself.

Pairings: Drunk Nanami Kento x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Genre: Fluffy, SMUT, intoxicated Nanami, your university crush Nanami aged like fine wine, marking, sex, anal sex, man-handling, pussy drunk Nanami, mutual pining, a yearnful man, pathetically desperate man, bitchy Gojo, slight Haibara x Shoko, annoyed Geto

..................................................................................................................

He stood stunned, staring at the closed lift doors, mechanical whirring taking Geto back down to the other two.

Now, he wondered.

Nanami's not dumb; he knew you had a crush on him in university. He believes it's because of the glow-up he had.

According to your kind words, 'Going from blond emo twink to a smokin' hottie.'

He remembers all those fond times, when accidentally grazed fingers, held eye contact for a little too long, hugged each other so tightly that it would be on the borderline of being friends.

Slowly walking back to his hotel room, deep in thought, pacing this long lavish hall on his own he began to think.

Remembering all those times he asked his girl friends what a lady would like, how much skinship is apropriet for flirting. He'd even bought books and watched videos to understand and craft himself into someone who could please you better.

Hell, he even went down this reddit rabbit-hole not long ago.

Nanami shudders at the reoccuring thought of sitting infront of his monitor, disregarding work and loosing his mind over many people's experiences of terrible, pure criminal men.

That's when he vowed to NEVER be so low. To become the ideal that women-you specifically, and only you-want.

Reaching to his shared room door, he hesitates with the handle. Hand hovering above it.

You, on the other hand had been going through his camera roll and have been taking pictures of some absolutely gold pictures of him. Must've been his guilty pleasure, taking pics of his own abs, messy hair dangling before his eyes, frames hanging dangerously low on his nose as the morning sun light frames his face perfectly, illuminating his blond hair.

Wanting to touch him, caress his chiseled chin, drag your fingers down between his muscular chest, leaving trails of kisses on his neck as your fingers descend down, down, down till the hem of his pants.

Watch him unravel by your fingers.

Heavy breathing as he pounds up into you. One veiny hand gripping your thighs while the other's on your neck.

Giggling and kicking your feet as you roll around on his side of the bed. Just then, a knock on the door woke you up from your daydreams.

Sitting up, you place his camera in it's respectful place, taking a quick selfie, before walking over to open the door.

And truly, you didn't know what to expect. Shoko? With a cigarette and a bottle for the two of you, like y'all planned? Or Haibara with another round?

Nothing could have prepared you for that lethal man who stood before you.

Hair ruffled up, his typical slick back was softer now, a few strands hung before his thinned olive eyes that shamelessly hid an unrelenting want within.

Took everything in him not to fuck it up st the door. Every fibre of his being was itching, begging to touch you.

Be with you.

Be on you,

or even in you...

Unsure if he's even there, you adress him rather unsurely. "Nanami..?" His eyes locked onto yours, hesitantly reaching towards you.

He just wanted to hug you.

Wants your embrace so bad.

So bad, he's never been this pathetic.

"Hm?" You tilt your head, stepping a bit backwards to let him in. Yet you feel two strong, steady arms pull you close. Face planting right inbetween his tiddies. Breathing in his scent, then tasting the faintest smidge of alcohol. Giggling to yourself, you glance up at his rather relaxed, youthful face. Reaching up to fix his glasses, while his hands rest comfortably on your waist. "Nanam-"

"Kento." He whispered, halting your movements.

"Huh? Want me to call you Kento?"

He nods. "You call me by my last name so much," a hand snakes up and softly caresses your cheek. "makes me think you'd wan' it behind your own."

Feeling the heat creep up on your cheeks, you look away from him, perhaps to save yourself the embarassment. Feeling his longful gaze on you, your eyes return to his.

Clearing your throat, you reutter your scentence, finding your words with difficutly.

"Anyways, come in." You pull away, hand in hand, leading him into the room. After walking past the little red couch that comfortably fits two people having tea together in bathrobes before breakfast.

He abruptly sat down, pulling you into his lap. Face to face, he just holds you closer to his chest. Breathing battered, heavy, right in your ear. You begin to giggle at his unusually unraveled behaviour. "Had too much alchohol?"

He shook his head a little, mumbling a weak "No." Shifting in his lap you feel something buldging under you, right against your pussy.

Your breath hitched, feeling his cock hard and excited for you, sighing before thinking of doing something diabolical.

Moving your hips in circles, back and forth, riding his soft moans and futile attempts of stopping you. His huge, veiny hands grippingg g6 your sides, at first to stop you, then slowly to guide your movements and pace.

The next squence of actions have you in a blurred chokehold. Grinding your clothed pussy on his hard-on, Kento's hands travelled up and down your body, caressing every curve, squishing your tummy, agonizingly slowly hands ascend till your breasts.

A symphony of moans filled the room, as chill air cascades in through the open windows. Lifting his head for you to see his hungered eyes. Promptly, an arm goes under your butt, while the other supports your back as he picks you up and gently walks over to the bed, laying you down.

He pets your thigh to signal your eyes onto him. Watching his eyes trail down to your core, then flash back up at you. Then it clicks!

He's asking for permission.

You nod.

To which he lets out a laugh that's more of a sigh. "No, darling," Tone of a venomous velvet snake that'll intoxicate you with it's love. Then it shifts to the sexiest baritone voice.

"Say it."

"Y-Yes...please"

Your little, pathetic, plea was all it took for him to pull your trousers down in one swift motion and go on his knees. He pulled you closer to the edge, your knees over his shoulders as Nanami nudges his nose against your soaking core, eliciting the softest moans from your precious, parted lips.

Hiding your face with those adorable little hands were futile. Nanami smiled against your cunt, licking a mean stripe across, prodding his tongye into where it doesn't belong. Just to tease you.

"Nanami-Ah!" His large, firm hands spread your thighs apart and the next you felt was a sharp sting on your poor pussy.

"Forgot so soon, princess?" His loving voice, dripping with malice teased. He gazed up to make eye contact with you. His deeply pleasant voice mixing with your humilitating moans. "What's my name again, darling?" Drawling out that last word, as if to purposefully fuck your mind.

Still recovering from his hit, you whimper a pathetic "Ke-Kento."

Returning to his favourite spot, between your legs, he mumbled a "Yes?" against your lips, licking and sucking at the nub through your underwear.

"Ken-mmph!-Kento! Please, please take it off."

Nuzzling his nose further in, you felt his voice vibrate against your lower lips. "Take what off, dear?"

"My," Stealing a sharp breath of air at his scandelous behaviour down there, you sit up a bit, running a hand through his hair then meanly tugging at the roots, forcing his greedy face to look you in the eyes. Having Nanami look so pathetic and puddled because of you was a dream come true. This man is a whole ass dream come true. In a breathy voice you murmur. "my underwear and your shirt."

He smiled, love-drunkenly. Backing off, standing up. His sculpted body towered over you as he slowly-so fucking agonizingly slowly-you wanted to get up and tear it off of him. But you didn't.

Why?

Because his eyes glared over your body, roughly taking his tie off, he placed it between his teeth, roughly climbing over to you. Straddling your pathetic body, with his muscular thighs as he ties your hands together with that tacky, yet iconic, leopard print tie. His bare chest hung right above you, giving you an ample 4K resolution view of this sexy man's tiddies.

Soon, he crawled back down, back to bring between heaven and reality.

That would be the last thing you remember. Nanami had you fucked out of your god damn mind. First he made you cum on his tonge as he ate you out like some starved, depraved man. Ravishing your poor cunt till you saw stars twinkling above your head, doing your best to supress all the whimpering and moaning.

To no avail.

Then, he flipped you over, giving your ass a good spank before he teased his way in. Dick so hard it felt penatrating, as he gently pressed his way in. Letting you accomadate his size for a few mintues. While he reached down, feeling his heaving bare chest on your back, to pat your head and ruffle your hair.

You lifted your self onto your forearms, since his tie didn't let for much freedom. Then it all became a messy blurr, he shoved your head into the pillow, whisper-moaning sweet nothings into your ears as he rocked your body. Knocking the air our of your lungs, eyes rolling back as drool spilled from the corners of your mouth. Spluttering onto his dick pushed him over the edge. Made him cum hard all over you back, pull out game is still strong.

He chuckled at your fucked out face, laying down next to you as you whine and whimper at the loss of contact. He whispered with a seductive tone laced with venom, kissing your forehead, pulling you close. "Ready for round three, darling?"

MEANWHILE the other four were huddled up in Gojo and Haibara's room down the hallway, which was furthest from yours.

He had booked twin beds instead of a queen sized bed. Groaning as he watched the others team up on him by stacking all their plus cards together.

They were all cramped onto one bed, Shoko next to Gojo and across from them were Haibara and Geto.

Geto spoke up, admist the laughing. "Good thing you booked our rooms far from theirs."

Gojo whined, throwing his head back onto a pillow. Then he sat back up.

Shoko added. "Yeah," she chuckled, watching Gojo's face drop at the amount of plus fours. "aaand~ we booked them a couples room."

Haibara lit up, watching the pale haired male's misery unfold. As, he turned to Shoko and Geto. "Right! It was so hard to keep a straight face this morning! Y'know when they were asking and shit."

Gojo groaned, glaring at the three down as he reluctantly started picking up 20 cards from the deck. Sulking, he spat. "Yeah, and guess what?" he side-eyes the rest of them. "I was blamed for it." Going from one single UNO to holding 21 cards, while the others all possessed a minimum of three!

He wanted to give up. Then, still sulking, he remarked, rolling his eyes. "They're probably fucking like bunnies or something."

Taglist: @nanamin-chan @lucilles-witchery @yoonseokerist @alverdekote @floquis

[dismalflo]

hi flo, i hope you're doing great! ♡

i was wondering if you could write a sirius fic? i noticed usually the marauders are the ones to give comfort to the reader, and there are few blurbs/one shots the other way around. i was thinking this colud be about sirius having a shitty day, maybe he could be depressed, but reader is there for him, pampering and making him feel secure. i love your writing, it feels smooth? i don't really know how to describe it, but it just feels right haha.

thanks for requesting!! <3

sirius black x reader who comforts him ✩ 712 words

cw: depression

"Your eyelashes are so long," you murmur.

And they are – dark and striking against the pale of his skin, fanned delicately over his cheeks as he rests with his head in your lap, eyes closed. He’s always been beautiful, unbearably so, and never any less lovely even when sorrow has sunk deep in his bones.

Sirius hums in response, quiet and noncommittal. He’s always been prone to bouts of sadness, fragments of the life he left behind, the life he ran away from to survive, are lodged deep inside of him. Sometimes, they shift loose and surface, uninvited.

He used to face it all alone, wrapped in silence and isolation. So it means something – more than he knows – that he lets you near like this. Even if all you have to give are whispered words and a steady hand threading through his hair, you offer it willingly.

“Handsome,” you sigh, so softly it barely counts as sound, your fingers brushing the gentle curve of his cheekbone.

“M’eyelashes?” he murmurs, eyes opening to meet yours. 

Your lips twitch into a faint smile. “All of you,” you say, and it’s not the first time. His gaze flickers over your face like he’s searching for some small deception, some reason not to believe you, but it’s not there

You wish you could extract every ounce of sadness from his bones, reach in with careful fingers and pull it out, strand by strand, year by year. You’d do it gladly, even if it left your hands bloody, even if it hurt. Especially if it meant he wouldn’t have to carry it anymore.

Sirius shifts, his lashes fluttering as he turns onto his side, cheek dragging against the fabric of your shirt. Without a word, he presses his face into your stomach and exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken all day.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, voice muffled. It vibrates against your skin, a low tremor that blooms in your chest.

You let your hand settle on the back of his neck, thumb brushing the soft strands of his hair. “I don’t call you pretty enough if you’re saying thank you for that.”

He lets out a small, tired sound – almost a laugh, but not quite. There’s something raw in it, something cracked open. His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt like he’s anchoring himself.

“M’not thanking you for that.”

You go still, breath catching, your hand pausing where it’s nestled in his hair.

He doesn’t elaborate. Just stays curled in, his forehead warm through the cotton of your shirt, fingers balled tight in the fabric like he's afraid you might disappear. And maybe he is. Maybe that’s what he’s really saying, thank you for staying. For not leaving when I’m like this. For seeing the mess and choosing to stay close anyway.

“I just–” His voice is rough, caught between guilt and hope. “I know that it isn’t fair. That you have to look after me like this. It can’t be easy.”

You pause, heart twisting at the weight behind his words. It’s never been about fairness with him, never about what anyone owes or doesn’t owe. It’s about wanting, about choosing.

“I don’t have to, Sirius,” you whisper, your fingers threading through the thick strands of his hair again, careful and deliberate. “I want to. I love you.” You meet his gaze finally, your eyes steady, unflinching. “And it’s not easy–” you admit, voice soft but certain, “-but it’s also not hard. Not when it’s you.”

His eyes flicker, searching yours like he’s trying to hold onto something solid in a world that’s been anything but. The vulnerability there makes your chest ache in a new way - raw, exposed, alive.

For a long moment, you just sit like that, his head still resting in your lap, your hands a quiet promise on his skin. Outside, the room is still and humming with the faint sounds of the night, but here, between you, there is a small kind of peace.

Finally, he lets out a shaky breath and leans into you, just a little closer. “Thank you,” he says again, quieter this time, the words threading into your skin like a balm.

You smile, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Always.”

masterlist <3

[baigepueckers]

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Commissioner’s Cup

(Okay, I know she didn’t have any minutes… just pretend)

The FaceTime call you got from the locker room was already chaotic…Caitlin’s face flushed from adrenaline, strands of hair stuck to her forehead, champagne dripping off the brim of her Fever cap as the entire room roared in the background.

“We fucking did it,” she grinned through the grainy feed, popping another bottle somewhere offscreen as team screams filled your ears.

“You deserve every bit of this,” you said, beaming at her. “I’m so proud of you.”

She winked. “Save that energy for when I get home.”

And when Caitlin made promises like that, hoarse voiced, glowing, eyes full of something wild and electric…you knew she meant it.

You don’t expect her to burst through the door an hour later, still in her championship tshirt and shorts, her duffel bag dropped in the middle of the entryway like she barely remembered letting it go.

But then she’s kissing you before you can even say hi…a full, breath stealing, all teeth kind of kiss that feels like she’s trying to tell you everything at once: We won. I’m okay. I missed you. I need you.

She walks you back without breaking the kiss, both hands already sliding under your shirt, greedy and sure.

“You have no idea,” Caitlin murmurs as her mouth moves down your jaw, “how long I’ve wanted to come home like this. With a win that actually meant something.”

“You mean they all don’t?” you tease breathlessly, trying to keep your balance as she guides you toward the bedroom with determined hands and a crooked smile.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, the intensity in her gaze grounding. “Not like this. Not when I actually feel good. Not when my leg’s not killing me. Not when I get to pop champagne with the girls and then….”

She leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice low and deliberate. “pop you when I get home.”

Your knees practically buckle.

The second the door clicks behind you, Caitlin’s fingers are already inside your waistband, her touch hot and focused, like she’s been counting the minutes since the final buzzer. She slips your shorts down in one tug and lifts you onto the bed like you weigh nothing.

“I wanted to win so bad,” she breathes as she drags her palm down your stomach, “but I think I wanted this even more.”

You start to answer, but the second her fingers brush between your thighs, your breath hitches…words gone, replaced with a moan that only makes her smile harder.

“There she is,” Caitlin says, low and pleased. “That’s my real win for the night.”

Her hand moves slow at first…teasing, circling, pulling you open until you’re aching,

but when you whimper her name, that’s it. She shifts, pressing two fingers deep and curling them until your hips jerk.

You feel her kiss the inside of your thigh, right before she murmurs, “I’m not stopping until you fall apart.”

You tangle your hands in her hair just as her mouth finds you…wet, warm, determined. She moans into you like she’s starving, like this is the celebration she’s been craving all night. Her tongue moves in perfect rhythm with her fingers, unrelenting and smooth, dragging you toward the edge fast.

“Caitlin,” you pant, trying to warn her, trying to hold on…

But she doesn’t let up, doesn’t even flinch when your thighs tighten around her. Her fingers move faster, deeper, relentless, and when you finally cum…hard, shaking, eyes squeezed shut… she just hums proudly and keeps going until you’re gasping, overstimulated and wrung out beneath her.

Only then does she crawl up your body, flushed and grinning, the taste of you shining on her lips. She kisses you like she’s won the championship itself.

“Still proud of me?” she whispers, cocky as hell.

You can’t even speak.

She laughs, then presses her body to yours, eyes full of fire again. “Good. Because I’m not done yet.”

And she really isn’t.

[vunblr]

A Hand in the Dark (#7)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Fluff.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 5.5k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

She woke up to an empty bed, the other side was faintly creased and already cool. It didn’t surprise her. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and padded to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. Everything was quiet.

He wasn’t there.

She pulled on a cardigan and opened the curtains, enough to let the morning light spill across the floor. The kettle went on. Bread into the toaster. She moved through the morning ritual without much thought.

Then the lock clicked.

She turned her head from the table as he stepped in, with the collar of his jacket pulled high and the cap low over his face. Paper bags dangling from one hand.

“Hey,” she greeted gently.

“Hey,” he echoed, murmuring, not quite meeting her eyes.

“You want coffee?”

A beat passed before he nodded. Once.

He pulled off his jacket and hat in silence and hung them carefully on the rack. Then he disappeared down the hall.

She stood up and went to the counter, pouring him a mug. Set a bunch of cookies on a plate and set it beside the beverage across her spot on the table.

When he returned, he was empty-handed and sat stiffly, with his shoulders slightly hunched.

“It would be too nosy of me to ask what you bought?” she asked, referring to the bags now hidden in his room.

His eyes flicked to her, then back down to the mug.

“Just… stuff I needed,” he said.

She hummed a little. “Aha.”. Then picked up her phone.

He stared at her fingers moving over the screen, and something inside him felt wrong. He owed her the answer, more than this, probably. She’d dragged him, soaked and broken, from the alley. Sat outside the tub and scrubbed him while he sat there like an alienated person at a fucking mental asylum. Held him as he sobbed like a child and offered him her bed as if it were no big deal. He was pretty sure that normal "roomies" didn't have to do that kind of thing for someone who shared their roof with them.

So, he straightened in the chair a little. Cleared his throat.

“I’ve been remembering things,” he said, fixing his eyes on a scratch in the wooden table. “Some clearer than others. Some I’m not sure I want to recall.”

Her phone went still in her hand. Her full attention shifted to him, tilting her body slightly forward.

“Things from… before. And things I did.” His mouth twisted around the last word. “Stuff I can’t always tell apart yet.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes for a second. “It’s all mixed up. Comes and goes. So I bought some notebooks. To write it down. Try to make sense of it.”

She nodded slowly, not interrupting.

“I need to see it written… separate the things I did because of them, and the things that were just me. To figure… things out.”

She reached across the table and touched his wrist gently. “That’s a really good way to start.”

His arm went still under her hand, then relaxed.

Then she sat back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and gave a small, nervous smile.

“Well… since we’re being honest,” she said, glancing toward the hallway, “we need to talk about your accommodations.”

He went still.

“You’re sleeping in my hauling room,” she went on, watching him carefully, “and I think it’s time we tidy it up a bit. Make it more yours.”

He blinked. “It’s fine. I don’t need-”

“You deserve a real bed, not something that folds like a deathtrap,” she interrupted gently.

He stared at her like she’d suggested pulling out the floorboards.

“I- I prefer that cot,” he said stiffly. Too quickly. The words left his mouth before he could decide if they were true or just reflex.

She didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Still, I’m going to get rid of the clothes I’m not using and a few other things too, so you have room. If you’re writing now, you’ll need at least a little table.”

His fingers twitched on the side of his mug.

“I know it’s been kind of your bunker until now,” she added gently, “but you have to admit it’s a little… cluttered.”

Cluttered. That was one word for it. The room was layered in tension, items stacked with purpose, defense options mapped, and shadows at bay. It hadn’t been organized so much as fortified. Like a shell around his frayed mind.

“I put things the way I need them,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant. Almost uncertain.

“I’m not gonna move your stuff… much. But if you want a table, if you want shelves, I can help you make space.”

His chest rose and fell, too shallowly.

“I just… It’s the only part that’s mine,” he admitted, barely audible.

“And it stays yours,” she said immediately, calmly. “I’m not trying to take it away. Just making sure you can breathe in it. And besides, there are things there I have been meaning to sell for a while now, to make extra cash. I doubt you have a use for women's clothes and footwear," she quirked a brow. “Let me get rid of my old clothing, and the rest of the things stay there, unless you want to put something in the room."

His jaw flexed. He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the mug between his hands.

She had a point.

It was her stuff. Her clothes. Her shoes. Her boxes. He’d been sleeping on a cot in her storage room, surrounded by things that didn’t belong to him. He just had nested there like a traumatized stray.

He could still hear her voice, calm, without pressure:

“Let me get rid of my old clothing, and the rest of the things stay there, unless you want to put something in it.”

Did he really have the right to argue? He’d been using her home. Her food. Her quiet. Her patience. And now he was using her time and her money, too. No matter how much he tried to contribute, no matter how many groceries he bought with Hydra cash, he knew it wasn’t evening out. The extra meat. The extra heat at night. The laundry items.

All of it, bleeding slowly from her wallet into his care.

So if she wanted to sell a few clothes she didn’t wear anymore to make up the difference...

How could he tell her no?

He hated it. Hated that every instinct said guard the den, don’t let anyone touch it, don’t lose the only safe place you’ve had in years. But this wasn’t a bunker. It was her guest room. And she was offering to make space, not erase him.

His fingers drummed once against the mug. Then stilled.

“Take away the clothes and…” he muttered, “maybe I could put a shelf.”

Her eyes lifted immediately, and for a breath, she didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just looked at him, like she saw all of that war playing out beneath his eyes.

Then her gaze softened.

“Deal.”

He nodded once, tightly and mechanically. Told himself to breathe. Told himself this was fair. She wasn’t taking the space. She was clearing it for him.

“If you need help lifting anything,” he added, forcing the words through his lips, “I’ll do it.”

This time she did smile. “Thanks, Bucky.”

He ducked his head again.

“Probably I'll start sorting the clothing when I come home from work, so I can go to a second-hand shop the day after tomorrow." She commented, stretching her arms.

He stilled.

She was moving fast. Like she’d made a decision and wasn’t going to leave it floating in the air, vulnerable to his retreat. No room for him to squirm out of it, to backpedal.

He didn’t look at her. Just chewed. The cookie felt like chalk in his mouth.

It was happening. The sorting, the clearing. He’d said yes. He meant yes.

But still, that lurch of old panic curled low in his stomach. That urge to protect the corner he’d turned into a shelter, even if it was built with someone else’s things.

His nod was tight. One flick of his chin, like a box being checked.

"Okay," he said, hoarse. Still not looking at her.

She didn’t tease him. Didn’t say “don’t get too excited” because of his demeanor, or “look at you, being useful.” Just sipped her coffee and added, casually-

“There’s a shop near the building, so I’m taking you up on your offer. Maybe you could come with me, help with some boxes.”

The phrasing was wiser than she would ever know.

It wasn’t a “I need you to.” It wasn’t a “You have to.”

It was “maybe you could.”

He could. He would.

“Sure,” he said quietly, brushing crumbs from his fingers.

And this time, he managed to look at her. Not long, but just long enough to see her nod.

She trusted him with this.

He’d carry the boxes. Damn, he’d carry them all.

----

When she came home, she just dropped her bag by the door, took off her coat, and rolled up her sleeves. Walked purposefully towards the spare room and greeted him, opening the closet and beginning to tug hangers free in swift motions. Skirts, blouses, a couple of old jackets she hadn’t worn in years, some pairs of jeans she knew won’t fit her again, the hope has been in vain. She moved like she knew exactly what had to go. Then went to the boxes, some of them empty, some of them not.

Bucky sat silently on the cot. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. His eyes followed the motion of fabric piling on the bed, but he didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really.

It wasn’t his place to touch any of it. It wasn’t his to decide what stayed and what didn’t. He felt like a guest at his own eviction, even if that wasn’t what this was.

Could’ve left the room. Gone to take a shower. Waited in the kitchen. But something in him… didn’t want to. Couldn’t, maybe. Not when things were already shifting. Not when his nest, the space where he’d collapsed those first nights, door locked, body curled tight in the smallest corner, was being breathed open by someone else's hands.

He watched her, fidgeting. Picked at a thread on the seam of his pants. His prosthetic fingers tapped quietly against his thigh in a slow, erratic rhythm.

“You okay?” she asked once, glancing back at him with an armful of sweaters.

He nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”

She then just kept going, folding, sorting into stacks. Keep. Sell. Somewhere near the bottom of one of the boxes, buried under a winter scarf and a tangled phone charger, she pulled out a wrinkled plastic bag and furrowed her brows.

“God, what even is this…”

She didn’t think much of it. Just tipped the contents onto the cot beside him.

Something crimson and lacy spilled out across the rumpled blanket.

She groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked sideways before he could stop himself. He hadn’t caught the full detail, just movement -color- and then it was there: red lace bra, crinkled suggestively on the cot’s edge. Delicate, impractical, and obviously meant for anything but support.

He blinked. She snatched it up immediately with two fingers and a scoff, like it burned.

“Can you believe this crap?” she said, holding it up. “My ex gave it to me for my birthday. Two sizes too small.” She shook her head, frowning. “Should’ve been a warning sign, huh? Probably he was already cheating me by then.” With a quick flick of her wrist, she chucked it into the garbage bag. “Don’t know why I still had it.”

Bucky looked like he’d swallowed his tongue. His back stiffened slightly. He tried to act unaffected, but his ears were red. So was the back of his neck. His hand crept up to scratch just beneath his jaw, an old, nervous tell.

Right. This was the twenty-first century.

He cleared his throat. “Is… is that a common thing now?” he asked stiffly, gesturing vaguely toward the trash bag with an awkward flutter of his fingers. “For… uh. Sweethearts to give each other those kinds of…” He trailed off, eyebrows knotted like he’d stepped into unfamiliar terrain with no map.

She paused, half-smiling as she turned to face him properly.

“Well,” she said, considering, “depends on the couple, I guess. Some people love that kind of thing. Some don’t.” She sat back on her heels. “But that was the first birthday we spent together. I mean, come on. A slutty red bra that doesn’t even cover your nipples? Not exactly the most thoughtful gift.”

She wrinkled her nose and reached for the next pile like that conversation hadn’t just torched the edges of his comfort zone.

She huffed, pushing the offending bra deeper into the trash bag like it might crawl back out. “And! I couldn’t even return it,” she added, offended all over again. “He’d bought it on clearance. No receipt. Probably got it for her, whoever she was, and when my birthday rolled around, went, oh right!”

She trailed off with a bitter little scoff, shaking her head.

Bucky blinked. Then again. His mouth opened slightly, then closed.

This was- this was too much information. On several planes.

First, the idea that it was normal now for a fella to buy his girl some racy lace contraption as a birthday gift. Not a brooch. Not a novel. Not perfume. Underwear. Bright, indecent underwear. On clearance.

Second, the mention of her ex. An abstract concept until now, but suddenly real, a guy with hands and a voice. A man who had touched her and laughed in her kitchen. Somehow, it irked him.

And third… the lace itself. That wasn’t the lace he remembered. Back then, lace was demure. Something a girl might wear under her Sunday dress, not on purpose for display.

He was spiraling in soft silence when her voice broke through.

“What would you have gifted to a girlfriend, you know… before?” she asked.

He shifted on the cot, and one hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his fingers digging into tense muscle as he considered. Not a comb. He wasn’t some wide-eyed schoolboy chasing girls with pigtailed dreams.

“Depends on the girl,” he said finally. “But I- I remember once I dated this… nurse. Annie. Real smart. She loved going to the movies.”

His mouth quirked. Not quite a smile.

“I bought her a pair of gloves,” he said. “White leather. Real soft. She worked nights at the hospital, her hands were always cold. Got ‘em monogrammed with her initials, too. Classy stuff.”

He cleared his throat and looked away.

She blinked at him, then smiled.

“That’s… really thoughtful, I bet she loved them,” she said.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. It was ages ago, and it felt like… no, it didn’t feel like. It was another man. With a whole other life. One with warmth and windows and streets he knew by name. If he could even call himself a man now. Most days, he still wasn’t sure.

She cleared her throat, breaking the silence.

“Well,” she said, dusting off her palms and eyeing the three remaining boxes. “I guess I did most of the work today, so tomorrow I’ll sort the rest and we can go to the second-hand shop.”

Then, a careful pause.

“Are you sure you want to come?”

He didn’t look at her right away. His metal thumb rubbed absently against his fingers, tracing lines that weren’t there anymore. The memory of white leather still remained in his brain, the ghost of a smile from a nurse who smelled like antiseptic and powder.

“I said I would,” he mumbled finally.

His voice wasn’t sharp, just tethered to something he didn’t quite want to examine. He shifted on the cot and glanced toward the small stack of notebooks he had put near the wall.

He should write about it. About the gloves. About Annie. About how the man who gave her that gift used to mumble Peggy Lee under his breath and knew how to make a girl laugh without trying. Maybe if he wrote it down, he could figure out whether any of that man was still in him.

“I was thinking we could order pizza tonight,” she commented as she dragged some of the boxes to one side.

His ears perked at that, subtly, but unmistakably. The way his head tilted slightly, the faint flicker of attention lighting his eyes.

Pizza.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a slice. Couldn’t say he even remembered the taste clearly, but the idea of it… warm, cheesy, greasy comfort, it sounded enticing. Familiar, somehow. Safe.

“You up to it?” she asked, picking up on his silence.

“Yeah,” he said, after a second’s pause. His voice was low but sure.

She turned to him, half-smiling. “Anything you fancy? Just… nothing with some sort of charcuterie on top. I draw the line at mystery meats.”

He gave a small shrug. “Um… cheese?”

She laughed softly. “Of course it would have cheese, Bucky.”

Another shrug, a bit more pronounced this time. “Then… cheese.”

“Margherita, it is,” she declared, walking over to grab her phone. “Simple, classic. Can’t go wrong with that.”

He watched her as she scrolled through the delivery app, with one knee propped on the edge of the cot like this -this choosing of pizza- was something they’d always done.

“Well, I’ll take a shower while it arrives,” she said, stretching her arms over her head with a small sigh. Then, turning back at the doorframe, “Where do you want to eat it?”

He glanced up from where he sat, quirking one brow in mild confusion.

“It’s pizza,” she added with a little grin. “We can be creative.”

He seemed to genuinely consider it. His eyes dropped, and his brows knitted faintly like she’d presented him with a puzzle. Then, carefully, measured, “I… enjoy the table. As any other food.”

She almost teased. Almost told him he sounded like a man giving a military report on acceptable dining zones. But then she thought better of it. Of course, he’d choose the table. He would cling to something solid, familiar, structured. He needed that. A surface. A chair. A clear place and purpose.

“Table it is,” she said, gently. “Can you set it while I shower?”

“Yeah,” he said, already standing up from the cot, glad -maybe even relieved- to have something to do. His eyes flicked to hers for just a second, then away again as he moved toward the door.

----

The ring of the doorbell traveled through the apartment.

Bucky stiffened where he stood at the kitchen counter, a dish towel still in his hands. His eyes darted toward the hallway, toward the faint sound of water still running in the bathroom. She was still in the shower.

He froze for a beat -just a second- and then drew a slow, deep breath. It’s probably the pizza. He didn’t like the sound of the buzzer, didn’t like unknown voices through static, or anyone unexpected near the door. But this had a name. A reason. A purpose.

He walked over to the intercom and pressed the button. “Yeah?”

“Pizza delivery!” came the muffled reply.

He hesitated -still felt the pressure of old instincts, the demand to verify a hundred unseen variables- but finally said, “Be right down.”

The stairwell smelled faintly of old cleaner and warm cardboard. Bucky descended quickly, hoodie up. The guy waiting at the bottom looked young, early twenties maybe, bored and holding the insulated bag like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Apartment two?” the guy asked, already pulling the box out.

Bucky nodded and reached out.

The kid hesitated, then handed the pizza over, eyeing him up and down like something didn’t quite click. Bucky nodded his thanks and turned to go.

“Hey,” the delivery guy said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Bucky paused, looked back. Blank. “No.”

“Seriously, dude? No tip?”

“She- it was paid online.” He answered stiffly.

“Yeah, but-” the guy scoffed, already irritated. “Everyone tips, it’s decency, man.”

Bucky’s brows drew in, unsure. He hadn’t known. No one had said anything about an extra payment. Where he came from -when he came from- food just didn’t appear at your door like this.

The silence stretched awkwardly, then the guy huffed and turned away, muttering loud enough to be heard.

“Fucker.”

Bucky blinked. His grip pressed harder on the pizza box. But he didn’t say anything. He just turned, shoulders squared a little more rigidly now, and walked back up the stairs.

----

The smell was rich, warm, and damn near intoxicating. Cheese, tomato, oregano, familiar, yet distant. Bucky set the box on the counter but didn’t lift the lid. Not yet. His fingers twitched with the urge to peek, but he just stood there, with his arms crossed, waiting.

She came out a few minutes later, her damp hair pulled into a messy knot. Soft cotton sweatpants, an old tee. Comfortable. Her gaze landed on the pizza box instantly.

“Oh,” she said, a bit surprised, “they must not have had many clients tonight.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted on his feet.

“You… did alright with it?” she asked, eyeing the box.

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Didn’t know I was supposed to give the guy some money. You paid on your phone, so I thought… that was it.”

She grimaced. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to tell you because I figured I’d be the one getting it. Was it very uncomfortable?”

He gave her a look, blank but pointed.

“Right,” she winced. “Okay, fair. I’ll take that as a yes.”

He reached up to rub the back of his neck, a little sheepish but mostly frustrated. “The guy looked at me like I’d pissed on his boots.”

“Well… now that we’re at it,” she said, moving to fetch a cutter, “every time you order food, it’s expected to… tip the delivery guy.”

He frowned at that. “Isn’t he an employee of the shop?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Technically. But they make shit money, so tips are kind of how they survive. Think of it like… standard courtesy.”

“Hm,” he muttered, clearly not sold. “That wasn’t a thing back then.”

“Nope. And neither was pineapple on pizza, but we all have to make peace with modern horrors.”

He snorted quietly, surprising even himself. She grinned and handed him a plate with a slice.

“Come on, sit. Here is your margherita.”

He took the plate and followed her to the table, still chewing on the whole tip situation like it was stranger than the idea of a pizza arriving hot at your door.

----

The next day, just like they’d agreed, they headed to the secondhand shop not long after she got back from work. She dropped her bag, changed into something more comfortable, and they began the careful balancing act of getting all the sorted boxes to the door without tripping over themselves.

The way her schedule rotated still threw him off. Some mornings she was gone quickly after breakfast, and other days she didn’t come in until the moon was up. When he’d asked, she’d explained it was something her boss had set up so employees could actually have real lives: plan appointments, errands, family things. Mornings off, afternoons off. Rotating freedom. It sounded nice. Too nice. Structured and unpredictable all at once. Made sense in theory, but it still left him uneasy.

He’d insisted on carrying most of the boxes, stacked awkwardly in his arms. She only took one, guiding him carefully with a hand around the sleeve of his jacket so he didn’t walk blindly into street poles or mailboxes.

She knew there was a lot, hell, there were even clothes from her granny in there, some other untouched since her last move, and she doubted she’d get much for it. A few bucks, maybe. The real goal was to clear the room out, but she didn’t tell Bucky that. He already walked around like any effort she made on his behalf was tipping the scale too far. He didn’t need to know it was more about making space than making money.

The secondhand shop was warm and smelled faintly of old denim, wooden hangers, and lavender sachets, trying to do their best. The clerk behind the counter looked up at the bell above the door, gave them both a once-over, and quirked a brow at the armfuls they were hauling in.

“Spring cleaning?” she asked, dry and unimpressed.

“Something like that,” she replied, shooting Bucky a look and a half-smile.

He stood stiff, scanning the place like there might be a Hydra agent crouching behind the dress rack. But he said nothing, and didn’t shift the boxes even once. Just waited for her to lead.

----

As she haggled gently with the clerk. Bucky let himself drift from the counter. Just a slow, careful wander meant to stay out of the way.

The store stretched deeper than he expected. A side-room opened off the main space, cluttered with more than just racks of clothing, there were tables covered in brass trinkets, crates stacked with mismatched kitchenware, and shelves crowded with lamps that hadn’t lit a room in decades.

They didn’t just deal in clothes, then.

He stepped over the threshold, letting his fingers skim the edge of a chipped enamel basin.

Some of the things he couldn’t place at all, odd plastic gadgets with tangled cords, neon-colored toys that looked radioactive, piles of things that he couldn’t imagine a use for. They seemed old and well-used, but clearly, they weren’t as old as him.

But then, he saw the corner.

A dusty table with a few shaving kits stacked in a wire basket, old double-edged razors, the kind he used to have in the barracks. A hand mirror with silver leaf peeling from the edges. A transistor radio with the RCA Victor logo faded but still visible.

His breath hitched, his brain assaulted with a memory.

One of the shelves held what looked like the skeleton of a mixer, bulky, steel-bodied, the kind his ma used to keep in the pantry, only hauled out for Christmas or when someone died and the neighbors brought over casseroles. It still had the same round dial, the chipped paint around the base.

And next to that, a battered box marked Vinyls - 10 each.

He crouched and let his hand travel over the stack. Things that once played on jukeboxes and radios before he was-

Well. Before.

He must’ve been crouched by that crate longer than he thought, because she showed up at his side eventually.

“Anything that caught your eye?” she asked, resting her hands on the edge of the table.

He gave a small shake of his head, his eyes still on the covers. “Not really.”

Most of the names meant nothing. Maybe they once had. A couple looked vaguely familiar, but it was more like spotting a stranger who reminded you of someone you used to know. And the few he did recognize… Well. He didn’t have a record player. Didn’t know if he even wanted one.

“Jus’ lookin’,” he muttered, clearing his throat. His knuckles brushed over a worn cardboard edge before letting go. “Are you done?”

“Yup,” she replied, stepping beside him. She picked up something from a cluttered tray, a silvery, chrome-toned brooch shaped like a curling vine. The lines were smooth, elegant, the way things used to be made when details mattered. Nestled between the swirling leaves were three tiny blue glass stones, imitation sapphires maybe, catching the light like dew.

One of those little coquetry items women used to pin on their blouses. Not flashy. Not cheap either. Just... feminine. She turned it in her hand, smiling faintly, brushing her thumb on the back where the pin mechanism still held.

He glanced at it, then at her.

And thought -unbidden- that it suited her.

Like it had been waiting there this whole time just for her to pass by.

He looked away before she caught him staring, and swallowed.

“Want me to carry the boxes back?” he asked.

“Oh no, the boxes stay here, we have no use for them,” she declared, setting the brooch back on the tray with a soft clink of metal against metal.

Bucky’s jaw twitched, his eyes remaining on the cardboard stacks near the counter. He didn’t like the idea of leaving them behind. Had stacked them against the walls like a shield when he first got to the apartment. They made the space feel contained. Like a perimeter he controlled. Maybe he had thought unconsciously that he could put them back. Reinforce the nest. Hole up again.

But they were staying. She was right. There was no point. They were just clutter now.

“Want to linger a little more or…?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

He dragged his eyes off the boxes, idly rubbing his thumb at the seam of his sleeve, and gave a small shake of the head. “No. I- I’d like to go home.”

Her eyebrows lifted, a smile pulling at her mouth, soft and surprised. “Home, huh?”

He ducked his head slightly, ears pink.

“Alright, big guy,” she said, patting his metal arm as she passed. “Let’s go home, then.”

He followed her out, keeping close as always.

----

“Oh!” She stopped just outside the second-hand shop, hand catching his sleeve lightly. “Wanna check if they have a shelf? Since you mentioned putting one up.”

He shifted his weight. “Not right now,” he muttered, glancing past her. “I- I’d really like to go back.”

She looked at his face for a moment, then gave a silent nod. “Alright then.”

She didn’t press.

He followed her down the street, this time consciously keeping his pace beside her instead of falling into step behind like a silent guard. But the shift didn’t come easily. Every few strides, his eyes flicked to the buildings, the parked cars, the strangers walking ahead. Always scanning. Always searching for a threat.

His mind drifted as they walked. To the room. Emptier now. He couldn’t think past that, not really. Not yet.

Even if the apartment felt safe now -even if he’d called it home- he still needed the perimeter. The foxhole. Some corner that felt like a fallback position. Somewhere to retreat if things tilted sideways again.

God, he thought. It’s so fucked up.

He exhaled through his nose, scanning the sidewalk again. A man with a too-long stare. A car slowing too close to the curb.

Whatever was broken in him, fine. He could live with it.

But if something touched her?

No. Not on his watch.

----

The hallway light flicked on as they stepped inside the apartment. She shrugged off her coat and tossed the keys in the bowl by the door, glancing at the clock.

“Think I’ll put on some MasterChef UK,” she said casually, already walking toward the couch. “The British one’s better. Less screaming. More actual food. I think you might like it.”

He offered a small nod but didn’t follow. His eyes followed the space ahead -warm and lived-in- before passing straight to the back instead.

“I’ll just…” he gestured vaguely toward the hall. “Gonna be in my room for a bit.”

“Sure,” she said, not pushing. “If you want snacks or something, I’ll be out here.”

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he closed his eyes.

His room felt bigger now. Not better. Just emptier. Exposed. The absence of the boxes made the walls feel farther apart, the corners darker somehow. Bucky stood in the middle for a moment, with his arms loose at his sides, and then moved.

He dragged the cot to a new wall. It didn’t scrape much; he’d lifted it slightly, mindful of the floor. Then the laundry basket, tucked beneath the window, now. The old lamp, once half-hidden, stood upright in the far corner. The chair, the mirror, both repositioned like he was setting pieces on a board, trying to define the space again.

It had to do. It wasn’t the bunker anymore, not really. But it had to be something. Something his.

He exhaled through his nose, sat on the edge of the cot, and reached for the notepad. The one he’d already started to write in. The cover was creased from where he’d gripped it too hard earlier that day.

He opened it and began scribbling. A list, a few half-sentences, and then fuller ones. Observations about the second-hand shop. The record sleeves. The appliance that reminded him of his ma. The radio knob, exactly like the one in his neighbor’s kitchen back in Brooklyn.

None of it hurt to remember. Not yet.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @escapefromrealitylol @bodhisattva11 @kittieboo @iyskgd @stell404@lil-riddle-kiddle@maryevm @yindoesstuff @shaheea @maladaptive0romantic @cricket-reader @nynxtea @justalittlebitbored @icefox8155 @gloriousvariant @hiraethmae @ixopod @moth-mortuary @belladonnadarksshade @infinitepersuasion @frog-fans-unite @littlesuniee @sebastians-love @icantblink @stillnotsatisfied-blog

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[jjkeverlast]

seven days a week | jjk

✦ pairing fwb!jk x fem!reader

✦ rating explicit (+18)

✦ summary jeon jeongguk has always had crazy ideas, but wanting to fuck you every day of the week was the last thing you expected.

✦ warning & tags college AU, smut, pwp, fingering, handjob, missionary per jeongguk’s request, protected sex (wrap it up!), there’s a bit of light banter back and forth between them as well lol honestly feels like a form of foreplay.

✦ word count 1.4k

✦ author’s note this is a re-upload, if you’ve seen this before, this is why:)

masterlist | next chapter

“You’re out of your mind, Jeon.” You sigh, pulling at your face to swallow Jeongguk’s offer. 

“Think I can’t do it?” He smirks, stepping closer so his chest brushes up against yours. 

You scoff, stepping back to shake your head. He must be fucking crazy. 

When you first decided to casually hook up with Jeongguk, you hadn’t signed up for a straight week of fucking. Absolutely not. You were the kind of person who was in need of breaks in between, whereas Jeongguk was always ready to go again while you were still trying to catch your breath after sex. 

“Fine. Prove it.” 

You’re definitely going to regret this. 

Jeongguk doesn’t think for another second, pulling you in for a rushed and aggressive kiss. His mouth moves in a slow rhythm, while his hands roam on every part of you, pulling and grabbing. It already sends you in a whirlwind, trying to catch your breath by keeping up with his insanities. 

“I’ll go easy on you.” Jeongguk whispers against your lips, before pulling you back in and dragging his tongue towards yours, letting you taste and feel his warm tongue. You clutch yourself tighter, pulling at the strands of his zip up hoodie. Jeongguk doesn’t even waste another second, pulling it down and revealing his tanned skin covered by a white see-through tank top. 

He’s such a fucking devil. 

When Jeongguk pushes you down on your bed, he hovers above you, lingering his lips to tease you. You seek for them, pushing your head upwards and he begins to grin over how greedy you’ve already become. 

“So… It’s Monday today. How about we start off with some classic missionary? Hmm?” He nuzzles his nose against yours, waiting for you to give him the green light. 

“You’re ridiculous.” You whisper against his lips, even though your hips buck towards his crotch. 

“Yeah?” He breathes out, dragging his hands from your shoulder down to your waist. Jeongguk doesn’t hold back, moving his hand in the front of your pants, cupping your core with a light squeeze. You gasp, looking down at how his hand is tracing delicately over the fabric of your attire. 

“So? Missionary?” He suggests, continuing to cup you making you lose your train of thoughts. 

“Shut up.” You mumble, kissing him again as you move your hips with the movement of his hand. Jeongguk loves seeing you like this, all spread out and needy, bucking your hips out of control just because he has his hands on you. 

He takes your answer as a yes, finally focusing on actually touching you. Because you’re already in need of him inside of you, you return the favor, groping him gently as you rub your palm on his semi-hard on. Jeongguk sighs against your lips, imitating your pace. You squeeze, earning a groan from Jeongguk who now drops his head on your shoulder and bites you gently while fiddling with your pants to get underneath the fabric. He’s so smooth with it which is actually quite ridiculous. He gets them off in seconds, one of his fingers touching your wet slit. 

“So wet baby, fuck.” He nips at your neck, whispering in your ear. You follow his movements, getting your hand under his briefs and feel the soft skin of his cock. As soon as your hands wrap firmly around it, he hardens in your palm. 

You begin to jerk him off, your thumb toying with the wet slit as he moves his fingers on your clit causing you to moan. It’s already messy between you. Here you are in sync, moving against each other. The more Jeongguk rubs down on your clit, the more you moan and whine against his cheek. 

The neediness grows inside the room, it is becoming so hot you might become dizzy. But fuck, it feels so good. Your body responds to every touch from Jeongguk, bucking uncontrollably under him while your hand has trouble jerking him off, too overwhelmed by the feeling creeping up from behind. 

“That’s it baby. Shit.” Jeongguk mumbles, picking up a bit faster pace, causing you to clutch your hand tightly on his forearms. You try your best to give him as much pleasure, stroking him at the same pace he’s touching your clit and wet core. 

It becomes too much, both of you moaning and gasping against each other’s lips, never stopping. The neediness shows when Jeongguk pulls away to find a condom in a hurry. You finally take the time to breathe for a second. 

Jeongguk comes back all giddy, removing his pants and briefs, along with the white tank top. Nothing beats seeing Jeongguk naked. The details of every muscle in his thighs, his abs subtle but clear and vibrant chest. He’s hot, and the worst thing is, he fucking knows. 

He catches you staring too long, wanting to throw a cocky comment like he always does, but he holds himself back, needing nothing more than to feel you wrapped around him. 

Jeongguk has complimented your pussy way too much. Always talking about how you feel so good and warm that he’s trying his best not to finish after a few minutes. You didn’t believe him in the beginning of your ‘relationship’ but with time he proved it. 

Jeongguk props himself by your entrance, intertwining your hand with his above your head, while his other holds his cock steadily. He rubs it against your slit, letting you feel the tip and sending the urge of just needing it inside of you. You try to move downwards, but Jeongguk stops you, entering you with ease. You’re so wet that he slides in easily. Jeongguk almost loses his composure when he feels you engulf him with warm heat, all wet and perfect. 

Fuck, he’s in absolute heaven. 

“So fucking perfect.” He admits, groaning when he bottoms out, a gasp received from your end. He stills, looking at you for a second, until he starts thrusting. Now, something you love about Jeongguk’s cock is, one it fills you up so nicely and two he manages to hit your g-spot with each thrust. 

It’s almost embarrassing for you how quickly he can make you orgasm when you fuck. Jeongguk? He fucking loves it. He loves feeling you clench around him with each thrust, writhing and moaning beneath the curve of his eyes, because of him. 

Jeongguk usually hates the sweaty feeling of sticky bodies against him during sex, but with you? Fuck, it’s completely different.

Jeongguk loves how you are in desperate need of holding him, letting him please you as he wants. Your nails clutch tightly onto his back while his hips move with everything he has. It’s not a surprise that Jeongguk has such great stamina, therefore you aren’t even surprised that he suggested this stupid idea in the first place. 

“Fuck yeah, baby.” Jeongguk moans against your neck, his grip in the sheets tightening as he feels himself move over to the edge of an orgasm. He wouldn’t deny if someone called him addicted, because he truly is. Everything about you makes him float while he feels you tighten with each movement from his end. 

Jeongguk’s hair begins to dampen against your neck, the room growing hotter with the way your bodies move in a pleasant wave. Your body tenses, back arching, every nerve in your body signaling for your release while Jeongguk never slows his thrusts. 

“Ah! Fuck, fuck—” You whine, as your body twitches once, the knot snapping. Jeongguk follows suit, his cock twitching inside of you as he fills the condom up. 

“Shit.” Jeongguk breathes out, his cock still nestled inside of you while you both try and catch your breath. 

You can only hum back in response, your throat turning dry after being agape for so long.

You’re both quickly back on your feet, Jeongguk throwing out the condom before putting on his pants. Before you know it, he’s standing in front of your door ready to leave. 

“So, same time tomorrow?” You roll your eyes, despite responding with a yes. 

“Same position tomorrow?” You joke, expecting Jeongguk to laugh but he doesn’t. Instead he moves closer, giving you a soft peck. 

“No. Gonna fuck you from behind.” He mumbles against your lips, sending a rush down to your core at the thought of what is going to happen. 

“I hate you.” You push him away lightly, Jeongguk finally releasing a smile and sending you a small wink before he’s out of the door. 

What have you gotten yourself into? 

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Why You So Obsessed with Me? p8

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Carlos x reader based on the song: Obsessed– Mariah Carey, if you haven't read part 7 here it is:)

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

The water was still dripping from the ends of your hair when you stepped out of the hotel bathroom. The white towel wrapped around you felt warm and soft, but not half as warm as the feeling that bloomed in your chest the moment you saw Carlos.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed, his shirt clinging to him, damp curls falling over his forehead, his phone forgotten beside him. He wasn’t doing anything in particular, just watching the door.

Waiting for you.

His gaze slid slowly down your figure, lazy and deliberate. His mouth twitched upward, but it wasn’t quite a smile. More like hunger barely hidden.

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to act unaffected. “What?”

“You looked beautiful in my garage,” he said simply.

You scoffed. “Covered in engine fumes and panic?”

Carlos stood. Took slow steps until he was in front of you, fingers reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair behind your ear.

“Exactly,” he whispered. “You fit in there. Just like I knew you would.”

You laughed under your breath, a little nervous, a little breathless. “You really surprised me today. I didn’t think you had that much focus left in you after… all this.”

“All this?” He leaned in, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “You mean you?”

You flushed.

“You were terrifying on track,” you admitted softly, trying to deflect. “But impressive.”

He lifted his eyes to yours, something darker creeping into his expression. “You want to know a secret?”

You nodded.

“I drove harder today,” he murmured, lips near your cheek, “because I knew you were watching. I wanted every person in that paddock — every single one, to see who I was. And know they could never be enough for you.”

Your breath caught.

He reached down, tugged the edge of the towel just slightly so it shifted across your collarbone.

“I know how they look at you. The engineers. The journalists. Even that guy this morning—”

“Carlos,” you warned gently.

But he wasn’t hearing it. His voice dropped an octave. “They don’t understand you. They don’t see what I do.”

You swallowed. “And what’s that?”

“That you’re mine.” Soft. Inevitable. Final.

He wasn’t even asking for confirmation. He meant it.

“Still not how that works,” you whispered, trying to pretend your knees didn’t feel weak.

He smiled — but it wasn’t teasing this time. It was sharper. “Then why are you here, preciosa?”

You opened your mouth and closed it again.

Because the truth was — you didn’t know anymore. Or maybe… you did. And that terrified you.

His fingers slid gently along your arm, up to your shoulder, grazing skin. “I don’t need you to say it. I just need you to stay.”

And when he leaned in to kiss you again, slower this time, possessive and claiming, you didn’t stop him.

You let him take what he’d been quietly chasing for weeks. And maybe, for the first time, you wanted to be caught.

His lips moved over yours like a secret, slow, measured, but undeniably his. The kind of kiss that burned hot but held back, just enough to drive you mad.

Carlos wasn’t rushing. He was savoring.

One hand curled around the back of your neck, the other resting possessively on your hip, fingers pressing lightly through the towel like he was already imagining it gone. But he didn’t try to take more. He didn’t even push you backward. He just kissed you like he’d been waiting forever to do it right.

And it made your head spin.

Your hands found the hem of his undershirt, fingers brushing over the taut skin of his stomach, and he shivered — just once — like he’d short-circuited. But then he pulled back.

Just a few centimeters. Enough to meet your gaze.

“You’re not ready,” he said quietly, though his voice was rough with restraint. “Not yet.”

You blinked, dazed, lips parted. “And if I was?”

His jaw clenched. His thumb dragged slowly over your bottom lip like he was memorizing the feel of it. “Then I’d still wait until you said it.”

That silence between you crackled with tension. But also something else. Something new.

Trust.

You nodded, chest rising and falling. “Okay.”

Carlos stepped back, breathing uneven. “You should rest.”

“I thought you weren't tired.”

“I'm not.” His eyes flicked to the towel again, almost painfully. “But if I stay near you right now, I’m going to change my mind.”

You smirked — a little drunk on the power of it. “So go.”

And he did.

But not before pressing one last kiss to your cheek and whispering, “Sueña conmigo.” (Dream of me.)

You were already dreaming — even awake.

Carlos’ POV — Later That Night

He couldn’t sleep.

Not from the race. Not from the interviews. Not even from the adrenaline still thrumming in his veins.

It was her.

The way she looked up at him after the kiss. The way her breath caught in her throat like he’d stolen it. The way she didn’t pull away. He could still feel the shape of her mouth against his. The way she leaned into him without even thinking.

She wanted him. She just didn’t know what to do with that want yet.

Carlos lay in bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He had offered to get her her own suite — but she hadn’t protested when he only booked one with connecting doors.

She trusted him. That was new. Precious.

And fuck, it made everything worse. Because now that he’d tasted her, now that she’d stopped fighting him with words and started answering with silence and submission, he was obsessed on a new level.

He had her attention. Now he needed her devotion.

He could be patient. He had been. But one day she would stop pretending she didn’t need him like he needed her. And when that happened… he’d never let her go.

Your POV — Same Night

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The kiss. The way Carlos touched you like he was afraid he’d break something sacred. How he stopped, even when you were so close to not wanting him to.

Most guys would’ve taken what they could. Carlos didn’t. He walked away.

And that… that messed with your head.

Because for the first time, it wasn’t just about his obsession. It wasn’t just the texts, the flowers, the surprise visits, the possessiveness that always made your heart beat a little too fast.

It was respect.

And now you were the one lying in bed — still in your towel, staring at the ceiling, wondering when exactly the hunter became the one haunting your thoughts.

You weren’t his. Not officially. But when you closed your eyes, all you could feel was his breath on your lips, whispering “Sueña conmigo.”

And you did.

@sumbellling, @hhhs7, @omgsuperstarg, @as4ka, @iamdedsthingz, @urmomsgirlfriend1

[railingsofsorrow]

uncle rafe

[rafe cameron x reader]

summary: valerie routledge is rafe cameron's soft spot. 

pairing: rafe cameron x maybank!f!reader 

w.c: 981

warnings/content: literally no warnings, just fluff; suggestive 

content towards the end.

AN: this is technically part of the 

fallen star au, but you can read it as a standalone. 

navi 

masterlists  

obx masterlist 

request me something :) 

request: maybank!reader and rafe babysitting 

sarah's kid maybe?

the fallen star universe ( [fallen star] [flawless] )

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦ 

“Sarah's comin' to pick her up.”  

Your voice cut through the comfortable silence carefully to not wake up Valerie who slept soundly in Rafe's chest. His gaze was lost but his fingers trailed up and down the little girl's back so very gently without a break.  

Crouching down near his arm where Valerie's cheek is squished against, her breathing coming out in soft breathes. You smile at her tiny fingers twitching to hold onto Rafe's shirt.  

Those small moments are so precious to both of them and Valerie will definitely remember them when she grows up.   

You snap a photo quickly before pulling one of Valerie's dirty blonde strands behind her ear. 

“She sleepin'?” You look up to see Rafe's eyes on you expectantly. You nod, standing up with a soft grin. 

“Great pillow you are.” 

With an eye roll, he carefully positions Valerie's head back in its previous position on his shoulder since it head tilted down. She's almost drooling.  

“Sarah's comin' to pick her up.” You plot down on his bed, groaning softly as you stretch out your limbs. Valerie has infinite energy, she's not satisfied with her toys so she puts both you and Rafe to work alright. You're exhausted.  

“Thought she'd stay here tonight?”  

His frown doesn't go unnoticed by you. Rafe was never a guy obsessed with children, you actually recall he calling one annoying.  

“Yeah, me too. Guess they're comin' back earlier, dunno,” you mumble while completely distracted by Valerie's giggles as you play with her hands. “Look, Val. Your Uncle wants you to sleepover. He's completely whipped for you.”  

“Shut up.” 

“Sleepo!” She replies and then holds her blue bunny against her chest “Bring bunny?” 

“'course you can bring bunny, he's invited.” You gently poke her belly and she shrieks and starts to laugh. 

When your gaze reach Rafe's, he's watching the two of you from the edge of the bed, the corner of his lips lifting slightly as he enjoys the view. 

Ever since Rafe made amends with Sarah and she got pregnant, he's been there every step. Even if his first reaction upon knowing about pregnancy was you're kiddin' right? and you stopped him halfway through a judgment comment with an elbow to his ribs.  

He became Uncle Rafe the moment he got to hold Valerie in his arms for the first time. And then he babysits, visits Sarah's and John B's place whenever he isn't working — dragging you with him, obviously.  

For moral support.  

And to keep him on check, making sure he doesn't say anything stupid that can fuck up every progress he's made.  

Rafe is extremely scared to screw up and go back to two years ago. Bloodied hands and a reflection he wasn't able to recognize in the mirror because he had no idea who he was, only the kind of monster he could be.  

If someone told him he would be holding his sleeping niece in his arms in the future, he would have laughed in their face.  

He's grateful for everything he has right now. Especially the bonds he got back in his life with his recovery.  

And you.  

Oh, you.  

Rafe balanced on a tight rope his whole life. He was pretty used to the masks and white lies his family told everyone. But there was no stage with you. Your sincerity kind of threw him off at first, you didn't let anyone walk all over you and you lived by your truth no matter what.  

He loved that about you. 

While you saw chaos in yourself, he saw safety.  

He wouldn't jeopardize that in a million years, not for all the money in the world either. He's not his father, after all. He's glad he finally understands that. 

“You're the one who's whipped,” he teases, his tone gentle. Kind. His smirk softening the moment Valerie takes a hold of his thumb, grasping it with all her strength. She let go to rub her eyes, lips pressing into the cutest pout.  

“Not more than—” Your sentence is cut off by the doorbell. “I'll get it. Must be your mama, Val.” At the mention of mama she rolls around the bed but Rafe picks her up before she reaches the floor, settling her in his arms with ease.  

“At least pretend you'll miss me, sweet girl.” Valerie giggles. She wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes it, Rafe pretends to choke in an exaggerated manner by the time you get to the door. "See you soon, alright?" He kisses her temple and she turns to give him one wet kiss on his cheek before getting off his arms to run to crash into her mother's legs as soon as the door opens.  

When John B and Sarah drive off, you walk back inside and shut the door, leaning against the wood with a contemplative look in his direction.  

"We could go to that new restaurant- What?" He raises a brow in confusion, noticing your look. 

You muster your most serious face and say, "Val has you wrapped around her little finger." Then he rolls his eyes and your lips split into a smug grin knowing you're right. "Did she give you baby fever yet- Ow." You laugh as he softly bites your neck before burying his face in it.  

“I guess.” He mumbles into your skin, and you can feel his lips turning into a smile. “You're the one who's gonna have to deal with that.”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃ 

[mahowaga]

WHERE THE PLUM BLOSSOMS FALL | N.K. — ACT V

SUMMARY: you were born beneath a crown, nanami was raised beside a blade—two lives shaped in silence, crossing in the hush between breath and bloom.

PAIRING: general!nanami kento x princess!reader CONTAINS: slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, hurt/comfort, yearning, historical au, imperial court shenanigans, period, monarchy dynamics, political intrigue, court politics, non-sexual intimacy, mutual respect, power dynamics, repressed emotions, courtship in silence, loyalty and betrayal WC: 9.2k WARNINGS: implied violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation, dubious morality, sexism

series masterlist | previous | next

🌸 ACT V – THE GARDEN ENDURES

EASTERN WING – THE PRINCESS’ QUARTERS

The world outside your chambers is silent.

But inside–within the dim space where the curtains are still drawn and the air still carries the faint scent of blood and sandalwood and everything in between–the storm begins to stir.

You wake before he does.

He feels it first in the subtle shift of weight beside him. The breath you hold. The way your fingers twitch once against his chest before pulling away, slow and careful, as if untangling yourself from something you shouldn’t have embraced in the first place.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away. He wants to preserve this moment–the stillness before the strike, the breath before the blade. He knows you well enough to know it’s coming.

And when you speak, your voice is not soft.

“What you’ve done,” you begin, “is not something that can be undone.”

Nanami opens his eyes slowly. You are already sitting at the edge of the bed, your back to him, robe hanging off your frame in creased folds of bloodstained silk. The deep red has dried at your sleeves, darker now, like bruises at the edge of moonlight.

The light through the curtain slats stripes your spine. Even in ruin, you are composed. Even now, you are beautiful.

He doesn’t answer.

You rise, barefoot, and begin to pace. One hand lifts to your temple, fingers pressed tight.

“They will not forgive this,” you say. “Do you understand? They won’t forget it, either.”

He sits up, wincing slightly at the pull of linen across his wound. You turn then, and the full force of your expression strikes him.

It is not cold. It is fire held behind glass. It is fury wrapped in love. It is devastation, barely leashed.

“You didn’t even try to speak to me first,” you hiss. “You decided. You acted. As if this throne–this crown–was something you could protect by cutting off its head.” “I did not kill the empire,” he says quietly. “Only the man who had already begun to rot it.”

Your breath catches. Your hands curl into fists.

“And what now, Kento? What do I tell them?”

You step closer. Your voice drops, rougher now, threaded with something raw.

“There are two dead guards outside my door. And a general covered in their blood. Do you expect me to say it was a failed assassination? That you saved me in time? That you killed them before they reached me?”

You’re pacing again. Your feet are soundless against the floor.

“No,” you mutter, almost to yourself. “That doesn’t make sense. If it was an assassination attempt, you would have alerted the other guards. You would have sent word. Checked on the Emperor. You would not have come here.”

Nanami watches you, still seated on the edge of the bed.

“I came to you because there was nowhere else I wanted to be.”

You flinch. Just slightly. But you don’t stop.

“You weren’t seen,” you say. “That is the only advantage we have. No one saw you leave. No one saw you enter. The Emperor was alone.”

Your gaze lifts, and he sees the calculation warring behind your anger now.

“If I say he was killed in his sleep,” you murmur, “they’ll search every guard. They’ll fear there’s a traitor in the ranks. I’ll need to name someone. Someone else.”

You drag your hand through your hair. Your braid has come undone, and strands fall across your cheek, wild and sharp.

Nanami cannot stop watching you. This is the woman they all feared. This is the woman he would follow into the fire.

“I will take the consequences,” he says quietly. “I knew what I was doing. I do not regret it.”

You stop. Turn. And glare at him like you want to strike him yourself.

“No. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to look at me and tell me it was worth it, like I’m something to be sacrificed for.”

“I didn’t kill for you,” he says, and this time his voice is rougher. Honest. “Not just for you. I killed because I’ve seen what men like him do to women like you. I’ve seen what they turn empires into. I’ve seen what they make of power.”

You go still. His breath comes shallow.

“I served the empire,” he whispers. “Every day. Every breath. Until I realized what it had become. What I had become.”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.

“And then I saw you.”

The room falls still. The both of you stand on opposite ends of the war you’ve both fought differently, desperately.

You cross your arms. Your sleeves stick slightly with dried blood. Your lips tremble–but not from tears. You are trembling because you are angry. Because you are afraid.

Because, Nanami realizes, you love him, despite all he’s done.

“I don’t know what to do,” you say at last. Your voice fractures there. “I don’t know how to protect you.”

Nanami rises slowly. His muscles burn. His wound aches. But he crossed the room toward you.

He does not reach for you. He simply stands.

“You don’t have to protect me,” he says. “Just let me stand with you.”

You don’t answer. Not yet. And he doesn’t push, because your silence, this time, is not distance. It is the weight of choice.

You do not sit.

You pace the room like a storm contained in silk, your feet soundless against stone, your breath sharp and uneven. The bloodied robe clings to your body–creased, heavy, dried in places that should have never seen red. Your hair is falling loose, strands sticking to your temple and neck where sweat and worry have begun to gather. You haven’t looked at him again–not properly.

And yet he cannot take his eyes off of you.

Your beauty is no longer the kind that invites stillness. It commands it. You are more striking now than you have ever been–not in the delicate way poets write about, but in the way fire orders the eyes, the way thunder freezes a room.

You stop near the window, resting your hand against the frame as if to steady yourself. The curtain is drawn back just enough to catch a sliver of sun, and the light hits the edge of your cheekbone like a blade being honed.

“God, Kento,” you whisper, your voice barely carrying. “What have you done?”

“I did what needed to be done.”

You turn to him then, eyes narrowing.

“No. You did what you wanted. Don’t twist it into some noble cause.”

He doesn’t deny it. His hands remain loose at his sides, but every muscle beneath his skin is taut. He hasn’t moved from where he stood before. He can still feel the imprint of your weight on the mattress behind him. The memory of your breath against his shoulder. Your lips on his.

“You weren’t supposed to be the one to spill royal blood,” you continue, pacing again, this time in tighter lines. “Not you. Not after everything.”

He watches you, jaw tight. “I’d kill the brute from the north too, if it came to it.”

You freeze. “No.”

Your voice is so sharp it cuts the air between you both.

“No, Kento. You don’t get to decide that again. You don’t get to take the next knife and call it salvation.”

He flinches at the sound of his name in your mouth. It lands heavy. It sinks deep.

You exhale, quieter now. Your arms cross tightly over your chest, fingers white at the knuckles. “We have to think. Not react. If you die, what does that leave me with? What does it prove?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I can’t say he was assassinated,” you mutter, beginning again. “It’ll ignite fear. Panic. And not just in the court. In the provinces. If word spreads that the Emperor was murdered in his own bed…”

You trail off, but he sees the thought bloom dark behind your eyes.

“Could you have staged it?” you ask suddenly. “Made it look like suicide?”

“I didn’t think about staging anything.” His voice is low. “I didn’t want to lie about what I did.”

You laugh. It is a cold, brittle sound. “You didn’t want to lie. And yet here I am, rewriting the entire palace narrative to cover for you.”

Your hands lift, threading into your hair. “You should’ve come to me,” you say. “We could’ve planned. God, Nanami, we could’ve made it look like anything but what it was.”

“I didn’t want you to carry the stain.”

Your hands drop. Your eyes flash. “You think I don’t already? My father. My brother. My entire life has been a series of ghosts trying to make me smaller than I am. Do you really think this blood will scare me off now?”

He watches you cross the room again. You move like smoke, like something once human that’s since evolved into something greater. You stop a pace away, close enough for him to feel the heat in your breath.

“The guards?” you ask. “Outside my chamber.”

He nods. “Still where I left them, I presume.”

“No one’s found them?”

“No one comes to the eastern wing unless summoned. Not even the servants.”

You press a hand to your mouth, thinking. “Their families–”

“They had none.”

Your eyes flick to his.

“I knew them,” he explains. “No kin. No records. They were chosen for their silence. Their loyalty to the Crown.”

Your shoulders rise, then fall. Slowly. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.”

You walk to the window again. The sun is higher now, casting faint light across the dusty air between you and him. You lean one arm against the stone wall, your head bowed.

After a moment, you speak again. “I’m not forgiving you yet.”

He nods. “I wouldn’t ask it.”

You turn. Your eyes are dark, unreadable. “But I need to know something. Those guards–did they draw first?”

He meets your gaze without hesitation. “Yes.”

You stare at him a while longer. Then you nod, as if some unspoken threshold has been crossed.

He takes a step toward you, and says your name.

“No.” Your voice halts him. You lift a hand–not a full gesture, but enough. “I can’t. Not now. I need to think. We’ll need a reason. We’ll need a story. One clean enough to survive questioning.”

His throat tightens. “You are protecting me.”

You don’t answer immediately.

“I am trying to protect what comes next,” you say finally.

And he knows what you mean. Not just the aftermath. Not just the throne. But him. You. The both of you. Whatever remains of it.

He wants to touch you. God, he aches to reach out, to feel the warmth of your skin against his. But you are standing in blood-stiffened robes, beneath the weight of a hundred choices neither of you can undo.

So he waits. And watches the way the morning light bends across your shoulder like a crown.

You turn from the window after a long time and walk toward the lacquered table at the far side of the chamber. Your hands drag across the edge, fingertips smudging the dust. Your thoughts are no longer spiraling–they are narrowing. Sharpening.

And then you begin.

“If it wasn’t an assassin, and it wasn’t a suicide,” you murmur, “then it must have been something else.”

You stop. Lift your eyes to meet his.

“He poisoned himself.”

Nanami straightens. “What?”

“He was already taking tinctures,” you say, voice quickening. “Opium drops for sleep. Decoctions for the nerves. All delivered quietly, nothing official. If he mixed them incorrectly–if the dosage was wrong–if it combined with something new–”

Nanami cuts in gently, whispering your name. “He died by a blade.”

You look at him. “Yes, I know. Your blade.”

He flinches. But you’re already moving. You cross the room in a few strides, pulling the cloth from the water basin. You wring it out, eyes flashing with urgency.

“You’re wounded,” you say, gesturing to him vaguely. “His own blade, yes? That’s where your cut came from. That is what I will use.”

He watches you. “You are making this your burden.”

“I’m making this clean.”

“No one has found the body yet,” he says after a pause. “They won’t. Not until someone is brave enough to knock.”

“Then I’ll find him.”

You walk to the armoire, flinging it open. Your hands hover over your mourning robes before digging past them. You pull free a more formal one–deep blue, high-collared, with the imperial crest embroidered on the sleeves.

Nanami’s voice follows you, lower now. “You’ll go into his chambers?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t–”

“I must.”

You lay the robe on the bed, your movements swift, precise. “I’ll find his blade and place it by his hand. I’ll adjust the bleeding. I’ll scatter the vials. The scent of tonic will be thick enough to account for the stupor. No one will question it. They’ll say he mixed something wrong. Took the blade in a haze. In delirium. A wound that was meant to relieve–gone too far.”

“And the guards?”

You pause. “A disagreement. They were both loyal to the Crown, but tensions are high. A dispute turned violent. One struck first, the other retaliated.”

Nanami exhales slowly. “And me?”

“You were never there.”

You meet his eyes again.

“I’ll say I placed you on rotation elsewhere. West wall. Early morning watch. Far from this wing. I’ll say I requested it personally. No one will question the change.”

He steps forward, but you lift a hand. Not now.

“You said no one saw you. That’s our only truth to protect.”

His throat works. “You’re doing all of this for me.”

“I’m doing this,” you correct, “because the alternative is you dying for a moment you can never undo.”

You reach for your sash. Start to loosen the blood-soaked robe. Nanami glances away out of respect.

“Don’t make me cover for your decisions again,” you add. “If you ever do something like this without telling me–without trusting me–I’ll make certain the next sword pointed at your throat is mine.”

Nanami stands still as stone, watching you disappear behind the screen.

He hears you untie your belt. Hears the shift of fabric against skin. The faint clatter of the hairpins you grabbed as they fall into the dish by your washbasin.

Your voice floats out again, cold and clear.

“Get cleaned up. You look like the weapon you swore you weren’t anymore.”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t move either, because all he can think about is how the lies you spin for him sound more like vows than stories–and how he does not deserve them.

IN BETWEEN WINGS – NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

The next days pass like a dream laced with iron–shaped more by silence than sound. Every step echoes too long, every corridor bends around corners like it’s listening. The palace does not mourn in the open. It recalibrates.

The guards outside the eastern wing are found first. You alert the court yourself.

“I awoke to silence,” you say, composed and solemn. “When I opened my door, they were already on the ground.”

The field marshal of the Imperial Guard dispatches an investigative unit, but you quietly intervene before they can begin speculation. You suggest the guards may have quarreled in the dark–tensions between loyalists to the previous Emperor and his rising heir had been mounting. You mourn them publicly, speak of their ‘unspoken service to the realm’, and ensure their names are recorded among the honored dead.

No one pushes further. There is no appetite for more scandal.

When the Emperor is discovered–his chamber reeking faintly of bitter herbs and clove–you are already seated in the Hall of Imperial Petitions. Your posture is precise. Your expression is a mask of regal grief. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers laced tightly–still, steady, composed.

It is not you who speaks of his cause.

It is the physicians, led carefully to the scene after one of your discreet attendants finally breaks the sealed doors.

A small porcelain vial lies shattered near the bed. A thin, nearly visible residue coats the Emperor’s lips. A small, deep wound pierces the side of his abdomen.

“Opiate poisoning,” one murmurs. “Combined tinctures. Possibly unintentional. The blade wound appears self-inflicted. A moment of pain-induced madness. A tragic accident.”

You say nothing. You only lower your eyes.

Behind closed doors, you instruct the steward to burn the bloodied linens. The Emperor’s own blade is placed beside the body with reverence. Not a staged death.

A final indulgence gone too far.

Rumors bloom–slow and cautious at first, then fast. He was unwell. He was delusional. He feared betrayal. Some whisper he took too much of his sleeping tonic again. Others say he grew paranoid and injured himself in a feverish haze.

None of it matters.

You never refute a word.

You wear garnet now, trimmed in sable. Your mourning robes are rich and unadorned, signaling piety without weakness. You say little when asked, and even less when not. Your face becomes the emblem of dignity–of royal restraint, of imperial calm.

You walk the corridors like a shadow cut from silk.

When the ministers try to corner you privately, asking if you intend to support the next succession, you redirect them effortlessly.

“I only intend to serve the realm,” you say.

When the temple priest offers condolences, you accept them without tears.

When the steward of the court asks what to do with the Emperor’s seal, you answer, “Leave it where it is. For now.”

You allow the world to conclude what it will. You permit the court to lean toward survival, to follow the path of least resistance, because survival favors strength disguised as serenity.

Nanami is never summoned from his post.

The reports state clearly: he was posted at the western wall. His logbook is signed by a ranking officer–handpicked by you, trusted without question. The attendants confirm it. There is no whisper of his name. Not even a shadow cast on his station.

The court is restless. Some ministers are uneasy. But none dare rise, because you walk the public steps to the Lotus Pavilion in the capital in steel blue and do not tremble. Your voice, when you speak, is as sharp as frost on riverstone.

“We will not bury the Empire with its emperor,” you say. “We will honor him by preserving its strength.”

No poetry. No tears. Just command.

The square holds its breath. And then–kneels.

You return to the palace like a queen already crowned.

Your attendants bow deeper. The court pages whisper titles. Foreign envoys ask your name twice.

And the ministers, once divided by lineage and legacy, begin to speak of you with reverence. Some cautiously. Some gratefully.

The crown is not placed yet. But the throne is already yours.

Preparations begin. Not for a wedding. That is for another day. Not for mourning rites either.

But for a coronation.

And in the quiet between ceremonies, you meet Nanami’s eyes once–only once–across the length of the west wing garden.

You do not smile. But you do not look away.

NORTHERN WING – 天命の殿 (THE HALL OF HEAVEN’S MANDATE)

The first time Nanami sees the brute, he understands why the old Emperor has chosen him.

The lord of the northern territories arrives cloaked in polished arrogance. His beard is neatly combed, his armor embossed with his sigil–two iron wolves at each shoulder–and every movement of his is made to be seen. Not a step wasted. Not a word left quiet. He speaks loudly, laughs more loudly, and his eyes roam the throne room as if weighing its worth.

No–its spoils.

And when he looks at you, Nanami sees it for what it truly is.

He does not see a sovereign. He sees a conquest.

The woman promised. The bed unclaimed. The throne he believes will become his.

“I see she is as fair as the wind once claimed,” the lord says, sweeping into a deep bow before you. “And just as fierce. The cold of the north will suit you well, Empress. I will ensure your chambers are warmed by more than hearthfire.”

The words are meant to charm. They settle like rot instead.

Nanami’s jaw tightens. He does not move, but his hand curls subtly at his side. The desire to sever the man’s tongue is fleeting–but deep.

You do not sit on the throne. You stand beside it–regal in a pale robe embroidered with thread so fine it drinks the light only when you move. Your sleeves hang straight, unadorned. Your neck is bare. The crown has not touched your head yet, but no one could mistake you.

You are the Empress. And you do not smile.

“My lord,” you say, and the words fall coolly in the distance between you and the man. “Your journey must have been long. Perhaps it is fatigue that makes you speak so freely.”

The lord’s grin does not falter. “Only admiration, Majesty. And anticipation. Once the rites are complete, I imagine there will be much to… explore.”

Nanami counts his breaths. One. Two. Three.

Your eyes narrow a fraction. “Indeed. Let us speak of rites, then. Of laws. Of paper and seal.”

You turn, reaching for a scroll held by one of your aides. Your movement is smooth, deliberate. You unroll it slowly, hands steady.

“This,” you say, “is the marriage contract drafted under the late Emperor.”

You hold it up for him to see.

“There is no imperial seal. No ratification by the court. No signature by either party.”

The lord shifts. “Your father made the agreement in good faith.”

“My father,” you reply, voice unwavering, “is not the Empire. And I am not his proxy.”

A ripple moves through the gathered ministers. They glance at each other–nervous, expectant. Waiting to see if the fire will burn the right direction.

The lord steps forward once. “Then let us finalize it now. I am prepared. My priests are here. Your court is assembled. There is no obstacle–”

“There is one,” you cut in.

Silence follows.

And then:

“I do not consent.”

The lord stares. “You would cast away alliance? An army? Legacy?”

“I would cast away a leash, yes.”

Nanami’s gaze flicks toward you, heat building in his chest. You do not raise your voice. You do not flare with temper. You only speak–as if truth were an axe sharpened between your teeth.

The lord’s patience begins to crack. “You need the north. You need a husband. Without one, your reign will be challenged before it begins.”

You tilt your head. “You assume that power lies in the men who stand beside a woman. Not in the woman herself. That is your first mistake.”

He scoffs. “And your last may be sending me away.”

You step forward once. Just one step. Your robe barely stirs.

“You may remain in the capital for three days. As a guest. You will be afforded every courtesy. But speak of marriage again, and you will be escorted beyond the gates and stripped of title within the capital. Do I make myself clear?”

You do not wait for an answer. You turn. And behind you, the lord burns.

Nanami watches the man swallow his fury, his hand twitching near his hip. But he does not move. Not in this hall. Not with every eye watching. Not with you still standing.

You descend from the dais without fanfare, your steps slow, every inch a sovereign.

And Nanami follows, lagging by one pace, no longer three.

For the first time, he feels as though he is walking behind the entire Empire itself.

EASTERN WING – THE PRINCESS’ EMPRESS’ QUARTERS

Your chambers are quiet when you return.

Not empty–nothing about the air feels abandoned–but full in a way silence only becomes when it follows the storm. The stillness carries weight now. Not the hush of grief, nor the bite of solitude. This is the breath held between endings and beginnings. Between what was taken–and what you will claim.

Nanami steps inside after you. He doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t need to. You left the door unlatched.

You don’t sit. Don’t loosen the comb from your hair or let the robe fall from your shoulders. You stand at the far end of the chamber, your back half-lit by the lantern glow, your hands at your sides, still clenched.

“You hate him,” you say.

Nanami doesn’t speak right away. He closes the door behind him and lets the silence answer first.

“Yes,” he says eventually. “I do.”

“I think he hoped to scare me into submission.”

“He should have feared you.”

Your laugh is breathless and short. “I’ve never met a man who sees a crown and does not immediately think he owns it. That I am simply the ribbon tied to the prize.”

Nanami’s jaw clenches. He sees you from behind, the curve of your spine beneath silk. Your hands tremble once–just barely–and then still.

“He looked at you like a conquest,” he says. “Not like a woman. Not even like an empress.”

You turn slowly at that. And when your eyes meet his, there is no mask. No veil of imperial restraint. Just you–bare, brilliant, burning.

“Did I do too much in the Hall?” you ask softly.

Nanami’s response is a breath delayed.

“No,” he replies, steady. “You did what they needed to see. You reminded them who you are.”

You study him for a long time. Then, without speaking, you walk toward him.

You reach for the clasp at his shoulder first.

“Take this off,” your murmur, fingers brushing over the edge of his armor. “You look like you haven’t breathed since that meeting.”

He hesitates.

Your fingers move to the second clasp.

He says your name.

“Remove it,” you say again, quieter now. “You are no one’s soldier tonight.”

So he obeys.

The clasps come undone. The pauldrons slide from his shoulders, the weight of them heavier than he remembered. His breastplate follows, landing on the lacquered bench beside the doorway with a dull, exhausted thud. His gloves are last, peeled from fingers that quake more than he expects.

When he looks up again, you are closer.

���Your wound?” you ask.

“Healed,” he replies. “Scarred.”

Your hand lifts, brushing the fabric at his chest. Beneath the black undershirt, just under his ribs, he knows the scar still burns. A mark from the Emperor’s blade. A mark from the night everything ended–and you began.

“I see it when I close my eyes,” you whisper. “Your blood on my robes. On my hands.”

“I would bleed for you again.”

“I don’t want your blood,” you snap. Then softer, immediately, “I don’t want you as a sword.”

He stills.

Your hand remains at his chest, over the place where his heart is beating a little too loudly.

“I don’t need a blade,” you say. “I need–”

But you don’t finish it. You don’t need to. He hears it in your voice. He sees it in your face. In the way your lips tremble and firm again. In the way your shoulders square but never rise to strike.

He reaches out, slowly, one hand lifting to touch your wrist. You let him.

“I never wanted to be your shadow,” he says. “I only became one when they told me to control you. But you–you never needed to be controlled.”

You breathe in sharply.

His fingers slide gently along the edge of your wrist, anchoring you to him. Not pulling. Not demanding.

“Then why did you stay?” you whisper.

“Because I fell in love with the way you never bowed.”

You flinch, but don’t pull away.

“And now?”

He lifts your hand to his chest again. Over his heart.

“Now I kneel only here.”

Something flickers in your gaze. Something raw and wild and aching.

“You’re a fool,” you mutter.

“I was,” he says. “Until you forgave me.”

“I haven’t.”

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. “But you touched me.”

“I was making sure you hadn’t bled out on my floor.”

He lifts his brow. “You removed my armor.”

“I gave an order.”

“You brushed your hand across my chest.”

“That was the wound.”

He leans in, only slightly. “I remember where your fingers stopped.”

You flush. Just faintly. Your eyes narrow. “You remember too much.”

“I remember everything.”

You look away then. But you do not move. His hands are at your waist now–light, reverent. Not possessive. And when you finally look back up, your lips are parted, your voice rough.

“I don’t want you to die for me, Kento.”

“I’m not planning on it.”

“I don’t want you to kill for me.”

“I already did.”

You close your eyes. He steps forward, and wraps his arms around you.

You stiffen at first. Your hands press lightly against his chest. Then, slowly–like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding–you melt. One hand slides to his shoulder. The other finds his back.

And you lean into him.

The Empress, pressed to the chest of the man who was meant to hold you in place.

There are no tears. No apologies. Only heat and heartbeats.

Your face turns toward his neck. Your breath is warm against his skin.

“I should hate you more than I do,” you whisper.

He holds you closer.

“I don’t deserve anything more than that.”

“But I still–”

You cut yourself off. Your hand curls against the back of his neck.

And you both stay there. Longer than is wise. Longer than is safe.

The coronation will begin soon. The court is waiting. The world is turning. But for this moment, in this room, beneath the gold and the ghosts–

There is only you. And him.

IN BETWEEN WINGS – NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

The coronation is unlike any in memory.

There are no trumpets. No golden veil. No grand procession of nobles parading themselves for favor.

Instead, the palace bells toll low and slow, calling the court not to spectacle–but to reckoning.

The Hall of Heaven’s Mandate is full, but not loud. The ministers whisper, the nobles straighten their robes, but no one dares to interrupt what is unfolding.

You step into the hall not like an heir–but like a verdict.

You do not wear your brother’s robes. You wear your own. Cut in lines no Empress before you has dared. The fabric is black as storm clouds, threaded with silver and ash-gray, not for mourning, but for memory. The sigil at your back is not the dragon of conquest–but the plum blossom of endurance.

You kneel beneath the throne only once.

And when you rise, the weight of the Empire settles not like a burden–but like something you were born to carry.

Outside, the people gather. Not out of obligation, but longing. The gates open to them–not ceremonially, but physically. You walk the gardens. You stand on the balconies. You pass through the market in simple robes, without guards at your heels.

And the people see you. Not as a symbol. But as someone who listens.

And the Empire listens back.

Months pass, and your rule unfurls like ink in water–clean and irreversible. There is no chaos. No revolution. Only clarity, cutting like wind over glass.

You undo the decrees your father carved into law with fear and fire. You abolish the marriage pacts. You nullify the Crown’s right to marry daughters for power. You reinstate land rights to border towns once stripped of them for failing to pay impossible tributes.

You cast out the ministers who once whispered about your silence as if it were a flaw. You send the cruel to the provinces, give them posts where they cannot harm, only watch. You summon the clever to your court–scribes, farmers, former officers, women whose names were never permitted to grace petitions. Now they lead policy.

You are precise. You are exacting. Mercy has its place in your court, but it is never mistaken for softness. A single misstep from those in power is enough to have them removed. Not punished, not paraded–simply excised. Quietly. Cleanly. Your justice leaves no blood on the stones, only absence where corruption once stood.

Your laws are not just rewritten. They are refined. Where once there were volumes of vague decrees, you introduce clarity. Transparency. The weight of a title no longer shields incompetence. Every minister must now meet with the public quarterly. Every province must submit annual records audited by a third party.

You do not issue commands in anger. You do not scream. But when you speak, the court listens.

The nobles murmur. The old guard recoils. But no one dares defy you. Because every step you take is calculated. Every law you lift is replaced with one stronger, cleaner. The Empire is not burning.

It is blooming.

And the northern alliance?

You send back the gifts. Politely. With a letter written in your own hand. No insult. No slight. But a refusal that brooks no argument.

You are already the Empress. You have nothing left to prove.

Nanami watches all this from the edge. Never your shadow now. He no longer walks three paces behind.

But he is still your sword–until you say otherwise.

You have not dismissed him, but you have not asked for him either.

He stands in the halls like a sentinel. Not guarding a throne. But bearing witness to the only ruler he would ever follow.

EASTERN WING – 静かの庭 (THE GARDEN OF TRANQUILITY)

It comes on a quiet morning, in the tranquil garden where you once told him he would not be intolerable after all.

The air is crisp, but not cold. The kind of chill that carries clarity. Above the gently curving roof tiles, the sky is pale with dawn, and the sun is still low enough to cast long shadows across the worn flagstones. Wind breathes through the tall bamboo groves like a secret whispered from the earth itself. Shadows tremble across the surface of the koi pond. A single plum blossom, too stubborn to fall, clings to its branch above the water.

You are already there.

You stand at the garden’s center, where the light touches first. Your robes are a pale dove-gray, trimmed in the quiet silver of your seal. You wear no crown. No veil. Your hair is left loose, not like a sovereign, but like a woman with nothing left to prove. There are no guards at your side. No attendants. No fanfare. Just the hush of morning, and the sound of stone beneath your slippers.

You do not turn when he arrives. But you know.

Nanami’s approach is slow, unarmored. He does not wear the blue of the Imperial Guard. There is no steel at his side. The only sound is his footfalls across the path–the same path he once walked three paces behind you.

He stops only when you breathe his name. Not a command. Not a call. Just: 

“Kento.”

It’s the first time in months he’s heard it spoken like this–bare. It curls in the air like a ribbon loosened from a braid, slipping free.

He swallows. The win brushes past the collar of his coat, and still he feels warm. Warmer than he should.

“Your Majesty.”

You turn then, finally. Not abruptly. But with a quiet, deliberate sort of grace that makes even the birds pause in the canopy above. The rustle of branches stills. The garden holds its breath.

There is resolve in your spine, in the tilt of your chin–not hardness, but certainty. A knowing long in the making.

When your eyes meet his, they do not narrow or pierce. They hold him. Steady. Still. Like you have been waiting for this moment far longer than the day it arrived.

“You’ve served the Empire since you were thirteen,” you say, your voice softer than the hush of wind through reeds.

He bows his head–not in deference, but because the truth of it still weighs heavy. The words settle heavy between you like a stone dropped into a deep, still lake. 

“I have.”

You step forward slightly, just enough to let the distance between you narrow. There is no barrier anymore. No crown between you. No throne. Only the fullness of the garden and the quiet honesty it demands.

“I was a child when I first heard your name,” you murmur. “They said you had no fear. That you felt nothing when you cut down your enemies.”

There is no accusation in your tone. Just memory. A girl recalling whispers passed like incense smoke in gilded corridors.

You tilt your head, eyes searching his face. “They were wrong.”

He does not move. But he feels the words land, soft and seismic. Something in his chest loosens–not relief, not grief. Something deeper. Something closer to being seen.

You speak again, your voice quieter now, low and full of something that tastes like forgiveness.

“I saw your hands shake, that night in my chambers. Covered in blood. Not from weakness. But from the weight of your own restraint.”

His jaw tightens. He does not look away. He cannot.

The air shifts. A blossom breaks loose from the tree above and spirals between you. You both watch it fall, slow and weightless.

“And now,” you say at last, breath slow, eyes steady, “I release you.”

The words fall like the last breath of winter. Gentle. Irrevocable.

Nanami doesn’t respond right away. He lowers his gaze, unsure if it’s grief or relief pressing at the edges of his throat. Unsure if it matters. Because the moment you said it, he felt the tether slip from around his chest.

“I will always protect you,” he says. His voice is low. Rough. Earnest.

You shake your head once. Not a denial. A redirection.

“But not as a sword,” you reply.

The words are not cruel. They are kind. More than he deserves.

He meets your gaze again, and the sun has risen just enough to catch the glint of light in your eyes. For the first time in weeks, he sees you not in silhouette, not in memory, not through longing or regret, but fully.

The way your shoulders are no longer drawn in caution, but carried in choice. The way your hands remain behind your back, not because they are hiding anything, but because you no longer need to reach.

You are not hiding. You are not retreating. You are simply here, and you are brave.

“There will always be blades in the court,” you say. “But you deserve to be something more.”

His hands tighten at his sides. The memories rush forward–barracks and blood, frostbitten marches and shadowed corridors, orders delivered in silence and wounds worn without name.

He had given everything. Every piece of himself. Every rule he lived by.

“I don’t know what I am without this,” he admits.

You take another step toward him. The wind lifts your sleeve, revealing the faintest outline of a scar along your wrist–he remembers it. The shard of glass in one of those suffocating halls. The way you bled quietly and refused to speak of it.

He sees it now, like a story he’d missed reading.

“You are mine,” you say, voice barely above the wind. “Still.”

There is no hesitation. No doubt. 

The breeze stirs the hem of your robes. A petal brushes against his shoulder before slipping past. The space between you shrinks further–not yet touch, but nearly.

“And I am yours,” you say. Not softly. Not like a secret. But like a vow.

He breathes out, shakily. There is no ceremony. No announcement. No audience.

He steps forward, slowly. Then falls to one knee–not with the stiffness of obedience, but with the surrender of a man who has nothing left to guard but you. Because he cannot remain standing under the weight of what he feels.

You lift his chin with one hand. Light. Deliberate.

“Look at me,” you say.

You are not regal. Not now. You are reverent. And raw. And beautiful in the way dawn is beautiful–because it means the darkness has finally passed.

He has knelt for emperors. For gods. For death itself. But this–

This is the only time he has ever felt holy.

“Rise,” you whisper.

And he does.

No longer the General of the Imperial Guard. No longer the Empire’s blade. No longer the Stoic Blade.

He is himself. And yours. Only yours.

You look at him for a moment, your eyes softer than he’s ever seen before.

“Walk with me, Kento.”

“Of course.”

You walk through the lower gardens, just beyond the east wing–where the wind carries the scent of stone and pine, where lanterns swing on long silken cords in the breeze, untouched by court hands.

You walk ahead of him. Not out of habit, but out of comfort.

And he follows. Not because he must. Because he wants to.

The garden paths are quiet at this hour, nearly deserted save for the rustle of wind. The palace is full of ministers today–letters to sign, alliances to review. But you have carved this hour free, and he knows it. Not because you said so. Because he knows you.

You stop by the water.

The pool here is small, shallower than the koi pond,but clearer. The stone bottom glints beneath the surface, catching light like old coins.

He stands beside you now. Close, but not too close. He watches the water ripple around a single falling blossom.

“You used to say nothing,” you say.

He glances at you. You don’t look back. Your eyes remain on the pool.

“For weeks. You would follow me, answer when spoken to, and vanish like mist the moment you were dismissed.”

He offers a small sound. Something between a breath and a laugh.

“I didn’t trust myself to speak.”

That earns him a look. Sharp, but curious. “Why?”

His gaze drops. “Because I was sent to watch you,” he says. “Not to know you. And I knew, if I spoke freely, I would fail at one of those things.”

You don’t answer immediately. The wind rustles through the leaves.

“You looked fearless,” you say at last. “When you drew steel. When you stood before my brother. Even when I turned from you. You never flinched.”

He exhales. Slow. Controlled. “I wasn’t fearless.”

“No?”

He shakes his head, eyes on the water. “Fear just looks different when you’ve lived with it long enough. You stop showing it. You learn how to bleed without making a sound.”

You turn toward him fully now. “Then when were you afraid?”

He hesitates. Then meets your eyes.

“The first time you smiled at me.”

That makes you blink. He continues, voice quiet.

“Because I knew then I had already lost. The empire, the rules, the silence–none of it stood a chance.”

You study him. The sunlight shifts above, filtered through blossoms and pine needles.

Then, you speak.

“Don’t call me ‘Your Majesty’,” you say.

He pauses. You step closer.

“Not now. Not when we’re like this.”

“What should I call you, then?”

“My name.”

He tries it once, softly. Like a prayer.

You close your eyes, just for a moment. He’s called you by your name before, but this time, when you open your eyes, something has softened.

“You never looked at me like the others did,” you say. “Not even when I gave you reason to.”

He tilts his head. “Like a threat?”

You huff. “Like a conquest. A prize.”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “I looked at you like a man who looks at the stars when he’s too far from home.”

Your breath hitches. Not sharply. Just enough.

“You have a way with words, Kento.”

“You gave them to me.”

You smile then. Real. Not wide, not bright–but true. It tugs at the corner of your mouth like dawn slipping over the horizon.

Your hand lifts. Not to his face. Not to his chest. Just the back of his hand.

A touch. Light. Certain.

He turns his palm upward beneath yours. Fingers curling slowly. Carefully. No gloves serving as a barrier. Just your warmth against his.

The silence lingers between you in the garden–long and deep and brimming with the weight of things unsaid. Your last words still echo, like the hush that follows thunder, not for fear of the storm, but for awe of its passing. The morning has shifted, warmer now. The light casts a gentler glow across the stone paths, and the koi pond glimmers like glass just barely stirred.

You are the one to step away first, your fingers brushing the fabric of your sleeve as if rolling up the memory of what just passed, tucking it away somewhere private. Nanami watches the motion with a reverence that makes his chest ache. He would memorize each movement if he could. He would spend the rest of his days chasing the curve of your knuckles in stillness.

You lift your hand again–not toward him. Toward the air above the pool.

A blossom, half-unfurled, hands just above the surface, its petals pale with the season’s end. It sways slightly, heavy with dew, just beyond reach from the stone embankment.

“That one.”

Nanami glances at the blossom, then back at you. Your expression is unreadable again, but not closed. Not cold. A window left ajar.

He doesn’t hesitate. He steps off the stone edge and into the pool.

The water laps quietly at his boots, cool even through the leather, soaking the hems of his trousers. The tadpoles scatter, glimmering like obsidian ghosts beneath the surface. The pool is shallow, no deeper than a calf, but the moment feels deeper than it is.

You watch him with your hands folded lightly before you. You do not smirk. You do not tease. But there is fondness in the line of your mouth.

When he reaches up, tall enough that only a slight stretch is required, and plucks the blossom, it comes free with little resistance. He cups it carefully in his palm, wading back across the stones slick with moss, and stops before you.

You lift your gaze expectantly.

“It’s cold,” he says mildly.

You exhale–not quite a laugh, but not far from it. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have stepped in so eagerly.”

“I was under the impression it was a command,” he says.

You don’t say anything, but you reach for the flower. He holds it just out of reach.

Your brow lifts a fraction. “Really?”

He allows the corner of his mouth to tilt–not a smile. Something near it. “You didn’t say please.”

A breath of a pause. Your lashes lower faintly, and then you lean forward by a fraction, your voice dropping to something private. “If I ask nicely, will you still make me wait?”

His hand tightens around the stem, heartbeat stuttering beneath his armorless chest.

You mean the blossom.

You must.

But the question sinks deeper than the water did.

“No,” he says, and holds it out for you, real this time. “No waiting.”

You take it. Your fingers brush, and your hand lingers on his longer than it needs to. The petals tremble in your grip, but you do not look away from him. You stare, and beneath your gaze, he feels like a blade being tempered–heated, reshaped, made new.

You turn your attention to the flower, studying it, turning it between your fingers.

“It was my mother’s favorite flower,” you say.

He doesn’t ask why you tell him this now. He simply waits.

“She used to say,” you continue, “that any man who would tread through cold water for a single bloom was already halfway in love.”

Nanami’s voice is quiet. “Only halfway?”

You don’t look at him. Not quite. “She was an optimist.”

A long pause. The silence now is not discomfort. It is possibility.

“You are still unwed,” he says.

Your lashes lift slowly. “That was the plan,” you murmur. “But plans change.”

The blossom turns in your fingers again. Your gaze is careful when you speak next. “They want me to choose.”

Nanami breathes evenly. “And will you?”

You do not answer. But your eyes lift to his, and what they ask is louder than any spoken question.

Will you ask me? Will you stand beside me?

His throat tightens. He takes a half-step closer, still damp from the pool. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach for you again.

“I would stand where you placed me,” he says at last. “So long as it was beside you.”

You close your hand around the flower. When you speak, it is not quite forgiveness for everything that has happened, but it is close.

“Then do not make me ask.”

The wind stirs the water behind you. A tadpole rises to the surface, then slips beneath again.

Nanami doesn’t speak. He only nods. 

The stillness lingers between you in the garden–not silence now, but waiting. The kind of pause that invited motion, as if the earth itself has stopped spinning for a moment, holding its quiet breath just to watch what will unfold next.

Nanami does not move quickly. He never has.

But there is a difference between caution and care, and the way he lifts his hand now–slow, deliberate, reverent–is not to protect himself. It is to honor you.

His fingers are warm when they touch the underside of your chin, lifting gently–not to command, not to possess, but to make space for what he must say. His other hand takes the blossom from your fingers–the one he retrieved without hesitation.

You watch him with stillness in your chest and thunder in your blood.

He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your temple with featherlight precision. Then he tucks the flower there–careful, precise, as if afraid it might bruise with the wrong touch. His knuckles trail the curve of your cheek as he pulls back, not entirely.

Your breath shudders once through your lips.

He sees it, but it’s not fear. It’s everything else.

Your lips part, not to speak, not yet, but to breathe him in.

And then, he speaks.

“I have never asked for anything,” he says, voice low and steady, each word dropping like smooth stones into deep water. “Not from the crown. Not from the court. Not even from you.”

You tilt your head, the barest invitation. A spark dances in your eyes–part daring, part something he does not yet name.

“But if I were to ask,” he continues, “I would ask for this.”

His gaze does not falter. “To be yours. To be what you reach for when the halls close around you. What you choose, freely. Not out of duty. Not out of forgiveness. But because you want to.”

His hand is still by your cheek. The wind rustles the fabric of your sleeves. You do not answer immediately.

Instead, your hand rises. Not to push him away, but to press flat against his chest, where the scar lies beneath–earned in silence, in shadows, in loyalty.

The heart beneath it that has bled for you. Lied for you. Killed for you.

You say nothing still, but your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. And you pull. Just enough.

He leans in, and this time, there is no hesitation. His breath brushes your skin. His mouth finds yours not in question but in knowing.

The kiss is slow, deep, drawn from somewhere that aches. Your lips meet his with an aching precision, like a vow passed between mouths, like the final stroke of ink across a lifetime of withheld confessions.

He exhales softly through his nose. One hand lifts to your waist, fingers splaying there with care. The other brushes your back, holding–not restraining. Holding.

Your hands climb to his shoulders. You feel the solid line of him beneath your palms. The heat.

When you part, it is not far.

Just enough for your lips to break the seal and your forehead to rest against his.

A single breath, shared.

You speak first.

“I do not want a wedding,” you whisper. “I want a choice.”

His hand tightens ever so slightly at your waist. “You have it.”

“I want you to stay,” you say, voice like spun thread. “But not as a blade. Not as a title. I want to fall asleep beside someone who will not lie. Not even to protect me.”

“I will not lie to you,” he says, quiet and firm. “Not again.”

Another breath passes. He closes his eyes as your fingers curl along the edge of his jaw.

“I want you,” you say again, softer now, “but not the way they said I must want. Not to breed heirs. Not to be seen. I want you because I remember the way your voice broke when you thought I might hate you.”

His chest tightens.

“And the way you knelt,” you add, your voice trembling like light on water, “not to obey–but to stay.”

His hands are steady. But his heart is not. His heart is a thunder that does not end.

“And because when they caged me,” you whisper, “you broke the lock.”

This time, the kiss doesn’t come from either of you reaching. It comes from both of you meeting halfway.

It is not gentle. It is not chaste. But it is not frantic either. It is reverent. It is real.

It is a kiss born of ash and blood and silk and silence, a kiss wrapped in everything you did not say in those long months of standing across a breathless line. His hands anchor you. Yours dig into his shirt. When he lifts you slightly off the stones, your feet leave the path, but your body stays steady against his.

When he sets you down again, you do not let go. Neither does he.

“What now?” you ask, voice full of wonder, full of disbelief, full of aching relief.

“Now,” he murmurs, brushing his nose to yours, “I keep choosing you.”

Your smile is real. Small, but real.

You slide your hand to his cheek. “And I you.”

The garden breathes around you, caught in the hush between spring and summer.

Above, the branches of the plum trees sway, heavy with blossoms that drift like slow stars down into the still pool.

You stand together, forehead to forehead, hand to hand.

Not as Empress and General. Not as power and weapon. But as two people who have known war and have chosen tenderness anyway.

No crown. No sword. No throne between you.

Only what you’ve built. Only what you’ve become. Only what you’ve chosen–again and again.

And as you stand there, the wind stirs the garden around you. It curls through the bamboo. Carries the scent of the season’s last bloom. The tadpoles ripple the pond with soft circles. The air is full of petals and memory.

It is the quiet after survival. The stillness after the storm.

Where once you were shadow and blade–

Now, you are flesh and vow.

You are the breath between promises.

You are the place each other returns to. Not for safety. But for home.

And above you, the plum trees release their final bloom. Not in mourning, but in blessing. Soft as forgiveness. Certain as sunrise.

Here, in the garden where every wound bloomed into something unbreakable–

You stand together. Whole. Unhidden. And in love.

In the place where truth lingers.

In the place where you chose each other.

In the place where the plum blossoms fall.

A/N: okay i made this man get down on his knees a little too much but is anyone complaining (art by ykRRR23 on X)

[mxchibomb]

content. mdni 18+

cw. slight mentions of orgasm denial, tiny mention of implied dacryphilia

orochimaru who uses his long tongue as a means of pleasuring you.

 sickly white skin against yours with his hands heavy on your inner thighs, forcing you to allow his head in between. vulnerable, naked, and sweaty. stripped of everything your body once wore. the first and only time orochimaru willingly fell to his knees was to get in between your legs. you shivered against the smooth flesh of the drag of his fat tongue over your clit with heavy huffs of air leaving your mouth.

 orochimaru was mean. slobbering all over your already slick cunt, biting into your stinging skin covered in the shapes of his teeth marks, sharp canines leaving you with deep dents. your cunt ached with the denial of release for the past hour. watching you suffer in seek of sexual pleasure made his heart skip a beat, soft hiccups and the sight of your tears reaching straight down to the cock hidden in his pants. you cried and whimpered, your hips thrusting upwards in a needy beg for release. your slick had completely drenched every layer of fabric beneath you. your nails practically ripped claw marks into the thin sheets of his chamber bed. his deep chuckle made your stomach drop and your heart beat out of your chest. his snake-like pupils narrowed in pure excitement, invigorated at your sweet calls. as dangerous as he was, he made your head pleasantly spin, hooking you in with nightly pleasure.

 all too sudden— with a nasty squelch, the scary length of his tongue pushed through your leaking ring of muscles. you choked in surprise, sucking in air as your back lifted off the flat of his bed. it was sudden. the string that held you together snapping within seconds. in a fit of pleasure, the respect and restraint you were expected to hold for him had escaped through the window in the depths of the forest, black strands of the softest hair wrapping around the curves of your fingers.

 he gave you not even a single flinch as your nails hit his scalp and your walls clung to his wriggling tongue, wrapping around him with all of its might.

 "m—my apologies.. lord orochimaru.." you stuttered. yet not in fear. his only response was silence. his tongue failed to come to a stop in your gooey walls, dragging himself against the bumpiness of your insides. his smile was wide, and his eyes trained onto your figure like predator to its prey, snake to mouse. the relentless push of his tongue left a shake in your legs. the lack of furniture in the large room created the loud echoes of your trembling whines followed by the disgusting sloshes of the pressure of his wet tongue against your messy cunt.

 you mindlessly babbled as the tip of his tongue circled against the dip of your cervix, a loud call of his name escaping your strained throat. your thighs attempted to squeeze around his head despite the strength of his hands holding them still, drool drizzling down your cheek at the overstimulating feeling of your second orgasm. it was impossible to catch a break and ground yourself for even just a moment with the mind numbing depth of his tongue in your exhausted cunt. weak hands pushed at his head, tired from both the constant teasing and the overwhelming release.

 " 'ts too much.." you cried, body convulsing in sensitivity. his eyes narrowed at you and with a malicious smirk, he reeled his tongue back to speak.

 "isn't this what you wanted?" he reminded you mischievously with a devilish wiggle of his oral organ. "a couple more will be just fine?"

double post bc this was hiding in my notes.

should i do all three sannin? 🤔

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter six || fine dining & flirty drinks - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

❝ Kamo “Choso,” a guarded boxer, meets a soft-spoken baker when he starts daily visits after training. Their connection grows slowly—social media follow, sweet diner dates, shared springtime moments—but love comes through quiet acts: tending wounds, pearl necklaces, building a home together. Challenges follow—a big match, media attention, and legal fights,—yet their bond deepens through intimacy, honest conversations under starry nights, and passionate reunions after weeks apart. As they balance family, business, and future plans, Choso sheds his tough exterior and the baker learns to trust in love worth fighting for.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the soft, flowing fabric of your dress down over your hips for what felt like the hundredth time. The pale blue fabric shimmered slightly under the soft lights, the neckline elegant but not revealing, the skirt pooling to the floor in graceful waves every time you shifted. It was the kind of dress that made you feel like you belonged somewhere fancy — even if deep down, you knew you didn’t.

You fidgeted with the thin strap over your shoulder, nerves humming under your skin. Behind you, Choso was getting ready in the small bedroom — buttoning up his black shirt, adjusting the cuffs. You caught glimpses of him in the mirror, and the sight made your breath catch. He looked dangerous in black — the button-up snug across his chest and shoulders, the sleeves rolled neatly at his wrists, the blazer sitting perfectly on his frame. He hadn’t bothered with a tie — not that you expected him to — and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a glimpse of his tattoos peeking up from his chest, black ink curling along his collarbone.

His hair was loose tonight, falling in soft, messy strands that framed his face, and he’d kept his usual jewelry — the small hoops in his ears, the silver chain around his neck. He looked like he didn’t belong at a fine dining, high-society event either, and somehow, that made you feel a little better. "You sure about this?" you asked softly, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress again, turning slightly toward him. Choso glanced up, his dark eyes dragging over you slowly, taking in the dress, the way it clung to your body before flowing down in soft folds. He stepped closer, reaching out to run his hands gently along your waist, the calluses on his fingers catching lightly on the fabric.

"You look perfect," he murmured, voice low, steady. You smiled, cheeks heating, and leaned into his touch. He brushed a kiss against your temple, lingering there for a moment before pulling back. "Come with me," he said. "It’ll be easier if you’re there." You nodded, threading your fingers through his. "Okay."

The event was exactly what you feared it would be — loud, flashy, dripping in wealth and polish. It was held in one of those upscale downtown hotels, the kind with gleaming marble floors and chandeliers that looked like they cost more than your apartment. The ballroom was full of people — men in tailored suits, women in glittering cocktail dresses, servers moving through the crowd with trays of champagne and delicate appetizers. The whole place buzzed with polite conversation, laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes, the faint clink of glasses. You shifted closer to Choso as you stepped inside, instinctively seeking the solid weight of him next to you. He squeezed your hand lightly, his thumb brushing slow, reassuring circles over your knuckles. But even with him beside you, you felt it — the way eyes turned, subtle but sharp, assessing. You and Choso didn’t fit here.

You, in your flowing blue dress that spoke of quiet elegance, not the flashy, skin-tight glamor most of the women wore. Choso, in his black-on-black ensemble, the dark ink of his tattoos peeking from the collar of his shirt, his rough edges softened just enough to pass but not hidden. He didn’t care. You could tell by the way he stood — relaxed, but alert, his hand resting low on your back, his body between you and the worst of the crowd. Still, you caught the looks. The whispers. The way some of the women — tall, sleek, polished — gave Choso long, lingering stares. It didn’t seem to faze him. His hand never left your back, his body never shifted away from yours.

Later in the evening, the lights dimmed slightly, and a stage was illuminated at the front of the room. A man in a crisp navy suit stepped up to the microphone, smiling broadly. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us tonight as we celebrate not only a promotion in the ranks but a new era for one of our brightest athletes.” There was polite applause, the crowd turning toward the stage. “Please join me in congratulating Choso Kamo, who has officially moved up to the top five in his division!” More applause, louder this time. Choso squeezed your hand once before stepping away, moving toward the stage with that slow, heavy gait you recognized — not nerves, but controlled discomfort. He accepted the handshake, nodding once, face neutral, almost unreadable.

“But that’s not all,” the announcer continued, grinning. “We’re proud to announce Choso as the face of Gucci’s new alternative collection — a line that redefines classic elegance with an edge.” There was a ripple through the crowd — a low murmur of surprise and approval. Choso just stood there, hands in his pockets, letting it wash over him. You saw the way his shoulders tensed slightly, the way his jaw worked — this wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t care about the fame. But he’d agreed, and now there was no backing out. He looked down at you then, his eyes finding yours in the crowd. You smiled — small but real — and nodded. I’m here. The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

After the announcement, people started to approach — congratulating Choso, shaking his hand, flashing too-white smiles. He was polite, but reserved, his hand never straying far from yours, and then — cutting through the crowd with the ease of someone used to owning every room he entered — came Satoru Gojo.

He was tall, strikingly handsome, with snowy white hair styled back from his face, sharp blue eyes gleaming with amusement. He wore a dark suit that fit his lean frame perfectly, a drink already in hand, a lazy grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “Choso,” he drawled, clapping him on the back like they were old friends — even though Choso barely flinched. “Congrats, man.” Choso gave him a nod — polite, curt.

Gojo’s gaze slid to you, and that lazy grin widened. “And you must be the famous [Name],” he said, voice low and smooth. You smiled politely, feeling the weight of Choso’s hand tighten ever so slightly at your back. Gojo didn’t seem to notice — or maybe he didn’t care. He leaned in a little closer, offering his hand. You took it, a polite, brief shake.

“You’re even prettier than they said,” Gojo murmured, blue eyes glinting. You flushed, pulling your hand back carefully, glancing at Choso. He was still — too still — the muscle in his jaw ticking. Gojo chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying himself. “I don’t suppose I could steal you for a dance later,” he teased, flashing a grin. You opened your mouth — not sure if you should politely decline or laugh it off — but Choso’s hand moved, sliding fully around your waist, pulling you in until your hip bumped against his. “She’s with me,” Choso said, voice low and even, but there was a sharpness under it — a warning. Gojo lifted his hands in mock surrender, laughing.

“Of course, of course. Just appreciating beauty where I see it.” He winked at you — bold — and then turned away, disappearing back into the crowd. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Choso’s hand stayed firm around your waist, anchoring you. “You okay?” he murmured, his mouth close to your ear. You nodded, pressing your hand to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your palm. “I’m fine,” you whispered. “As long as you’re here.” Choso kissed your temple — a small, grounding press of his mouth to your skin — and didn’t let go.

You stood there with him, tucked safely against his side, both of you a little out of place in this world of glitter and polish — but together. And somehow, that was enough.

Neither of you noticed the photographers at first. The event was too big, too loud — all glittering lights and polished shoes and clinking glasses. You stayed close to Choso’s side, his hand resting low on your back, fingers brushing occasionally against the soft fabric of your dress as he moved, guiding you carefully through the sea of bodies. He hadn’t let go of you once, and somehow, in this room where you both didn’t quite fit, that steady touch grounded you.

The first flash caught in the corner of your eye — a quick strobe of light. You glanced over your shoulder to see a photographer lowering his camera, eyes already flicking toward another group.

You figured they weren’t focused on you and Choso — there were bigger names here, flashier people in designer gowns, dripping diamonds, and million-dollar smiles. But as the night wore on, you noticed it more. Every time Choso leaned in to murmur something to you — a small, private thing that made your lips quirk and your cheeks flush — a camera would click softly somewhere nearby. Every time his hand shifted along your waist, every time your fingers brushed lightly against his chest, another flash. 

It wasn’t the typical Choso they were capturing — not the cold, rough fighter, not the man known for bruised knuckles and an even more bruised reputation. It was this Choso — the one who looked at you like the room didn’t exist, like you were the only person he could see. The one whose thumb brushed absent circles over the small of your back without even realizing it, who kissed your temple so gently it made your breath catch, who tilted his head closer when you laughed so softly no one else could hear it. It was a different kind of exposure — not violent, not staged.

Real.

When you finally slipped out of the venue, the air outside was cool and clean, the noise fading behind you. Choso’s hand stayed firm on your lower back as you stepped down the stone stairs, your heels clicking quietly against the pavement. The city lights were a blur around you — gold and silver and electric blue — but the world felt quieter now, just the two of you moving together through it. Neither of you spoke much on the drive home, the low hum of the engine and the city passing by outside the windows. Choso’s hand stayed wrapped around yours where it rested on your lap, thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, grounding both of you.

When you got home, you kicked off your shoes with a sigh, stepping into the soft, familiar warmth of the apartment. Choso hung his jacket carefully on the hook by the door, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, sleeves rolled back as he sat on the edge of the bed, looking — finally — like himself again. You were still tugging the pins from your hair when his phone buzzed once. Twice. A third time. Choso frowned, pulling it from his pocket. You watched as his eyes flicked over the screen — the slight narrowing of his gaze, the way his thumb hovered over the screen before he sighed and handed it to you.

“They’re already posting,” he said, voice low, almost resigned. You took the phone, scrolling slowly. Photo after photo — candid, intimate — of the two of you. Choso standing close behind you, head tilted down, your bodies almost brushing. Choso with his hand steady on your waist, a rare, soft smile ghosting over his mouth as he looked at you.

The one that caught your breath was simple — beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. Choso leaning down, brushing a kiss to your temple, while you smiled wide, cheeks flushed, your eyes crinkling at the corners. A moment so pure, so unscripted, it made your throat tighten. The comments were already flooding in:

“Choso Kamo? Soft? Who would’ve thought.” “He looks so in love.” “Bad boy turned soft for her.” “Never seen him smile like that.” “Guess even the coldest hearts find their person.”

You glanced at him, feeling the weight of it — how exposed it must feel, how dangerous it was for a man like him to be seen like this. Choso just sat there, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor. You handed the phone back carefully, your fingers brushing his. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said softly. “You don’t owe anyone anything.” Choso stayed quiet for a moment, the tension rolling off him in slow waves. And then — surprising you — he unlocked his phone, scrolling back to that photo, the one of you smiling so big it nearly split your face, of him pressing a kiss to your temple like he couldn’t help himself. He stared at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, he tapped the share button. The caption was simple. Honest. Raw.

My reason to keep moving forward.

No hashtags. No tags. No flash. Just that.

He hit post and tossed the phone aside like it meant nothing — even though you could see the tight set of his shoulders, the slight flush creeping up his neck. You stepped closer, between his knees, your hands finding his face, cradling it. Choso leaned into your touch without hesitation, closing his eyes, breathing you in. “I’m proud of you,” you whispered, running your thumb gently over the sharp line of his jaw. He opened his eyes — dark and heavy with something you couldn’t name — and smiled. Not the hard, guarded smile the world usually saw.

Something real.

Something for you.

“'M not good at all this,” he said, voice low and rough. “You don’t have to be,” you said, smiling. “You just have to be you.” He pulled you in then, burying his face against your stomach, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you there like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

Choso’s arms tightened around your waist, his forehead pressing into the soft curve of your stomach. You slid your fingers gently through his messy hair, feeling the way he melted into the touch, how his body slowly uncoiled from the tension he’d been carrying all night. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing against you. You felt it before he even moved — the shift in him, the way his hands smoothed up your back, slow and sure, pulling you closer. When he finally looked up, his dark eyes were heavy-lidded, but not with exhaustion — with want. Want that was different from what you’d seen before — not sharp or rough, not frantic. This was slow, this was patient.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice low and rough, hands sliding up to cradle your hips. You went willingly, climbing onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs as he leaned back slightly, his hands still on you, still grounding. Your dress pooled around you, cool and smooth against his skin. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his, and Choso tilted his head up, catching your mouth with his in a kiss that was slow and unhurried — all heat and soft, murmured need. His hands roamed your sides, your back, pulling you closer until you were flush against him, your chest pressed to his, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palm.

He kissed you like he had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do but worship you. His mouth was warm, patient, tongue sliding against yours in slow, deliberate strokes that made your toes curl. His hands slipped under the hem of your dress, palms gliding up the back of your thighs, slow and reverent. You shifted, reaching between you to tug his shirt up, baring the warm skin of his stomach and chest. He helped, lifting his arms, letting you strip it away, tossing it aside. You dragged your hands over his skin, over the hard lines of his chest, the ridges of his ribs, the soft dip of his waist. Choso caught your face in his hands, tilting it up, his thumbs brushing along your jaw. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with emotion.

You shivered, heart hammering against your ribs, and leaned into him, hands fumbling with the buttons of his pants. He kissed along your jaw, your throat, slow and deliberate, murmuring things between kisses — perfect, mine, need you. You shifted, rising onto your knees to push your dress up and over your head, tossing it aside without care. Choso’s hands slid along your sides, up to your back, fingers unfastening your bra with quiet, practiced ease. He pulled it away, tossing it aside, and just looked at you for a moment — bare and trembling in his lap.

“Gorgeous,” he whispered. You kissed him again — deep, slow — your hands moving to the waistband of his slacks, pushing them down. He helped, shifting to shove them off along with his boxers, leaving him bare beneath you, the heat of his body radiating between you. When you sank down onto him, the stretch was slow, delicious, and you gasped softly against his mouth. Choso groaned low in his throat, his hands finding your hips, holding you steady as you took him in inch by inch.

“Take your time, baby,” he murmured, voice rough, hands steady. You moved slow — so slow — rocking your hips gently, finding a rhythm that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic. Choso met you with slow, deep thrusts, his hands gliding over your back, your hips, your thighs, his mouth trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder. He whispered against your skin, between kisses — soft, broken things that made your chest ache:

“You’re it for me.”

“So good, baby.”

“Could stay like this forever.”

Your hands slid up into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned against your throat, his rhythm faltering for a heartbeat before he found it again — slow and deep, dragging against you in a way that had your whole body trembling. You clung to him, forehead pressed to his, your breath mixing with his, your bodies moving together in a slow, desperate rhythm. It wasn’t about chasing the high. It wasn’t about release. It was about being here — together — about the slow, steady ache of wanting and having, about the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The heat built between you — slow and steady — until you were gasping, your body clenching around him, your nails digging into his shoulders. Choso groaned low, the sound vibrating against your skin, and thrust once, twice more before he followed you over the edge, hips stuttering, body tensing beneath you. You collapsed against him, chests heaving, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight to him. For a long time, neither of you moved.

You stayed tangled together, your body draped over his, his hands running soothing circles along your back, your sides, the soft curve of your waist. He pressed a kiss to your temple — the same spot he’d kissed earlier, in front of all those flashing cameras — but this time it was softer, quieter, yours alone. “Stay,” he whispered again, barely a breath.

You smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Always.” And for the first time in what felt like forever, Choso let himself believe it.

NEXT

[youthful-vengeance]

Bruce just stared, and stood. Not as still as a statue or as inert as his parents’ corpses, for he was a trembling, terrified thing (justlikeDickjustlikeJasonjustlikeTimjustlikeDamianjustlike-), but it was… close. Shock was a funny thing; the body remained motionless despite the heart, mind and soul’s insistence to do something. Anything.

Just like that night, right, Bruce?

That meant — to Batman, to whatever being was born in still-dripping tears and long-dried blood and was now glaring bitterly at the boy, it was a weakness.

It was also mostly trained out of Bruce Wayne when he became a teenager.

This Bruce Wayne was 8 years old. A child; a kid; a fledgeling.

And he couldn’t move. So instead, he forces a choking back of a dam of tears.

Crybaby. Get over yourself. Other people have been through worse.

The wind whipped furiously around him. (Was it always so angry? So mean?) He clutches onto his arms; tighter, tighter. So, so cold. Up and over, down and below; it brushed over his skin like tendrils of breeze were attempting to drag him towards the doorway.

A doorway of death.

Death of what? Joseph Chill, of course, but there’s more- there’s gotta be more- he — his older self — wouldn’t feel so resentful otherwise-

His morality? His humanity? His sense of justice?

Justice. Murder. Vengeance. Revenge. Which one? Take your pick; all are excuses. You do, I do. You did, I did. Haven’t done yet, will do soon. Always the same.

The Justice League. A man amongst gods. A god amongst men. You don’t belong.

You deserve this.

Do you?

The boy begins to grip at his head; silky raven strands crumpling and creasing underneath his fingers. Shut up; he silently pleads. Desperately, tearfully. But nobody came.

The slam of the door against crumbling plaster makes him blink. Just as quickly as the thoughts appeared, they dissipated. Gone, for now. The child doesn’t think of nor see it as a relief.

And he was right to do so — the command that left his other self’s lips were used in his Batman voice. The voice which instilled fear into villains’ — and the odd civilian or ten — hearts. No longer the father who held his hand earlier; now one of the leaders of Earth’s first line of defence. A man so far removed from Bruce Wayne, it made the boy wonder, not for the first time, if there was any Bruce — any of him — left in Batman.

"…No."

The only word he’s spoken in the face of his older self’s outrage, and, unsurprisingly, it was one of defiance. Bruce Wayne — old or young — was always a stubborn man after all. The tears didn’t stop, his voice still pained and raw; it did nothing to refrain how firm the boy was in his decision, however.

He didn’t want to kill. He didn’t want to hurt. He just wanted to- feel happy. Warm. Safe. To fill the emptiness in his heart where his parents once had been. Was that so bad? Was that so selfish? Is that why his older self was—?

"I won’t. And I’m not letting you force me in there—!"

A hysterical shout, a second last act of rebellion. And the finale, you may ask?

He… runs off. Where? He doesn’t know.

He just wanted to get away. Away, away, away, like a criminal facing the Bat’s wrath.

Bruce Wayne was unpredictable too, after all. A strength in battles physical; a weakness in fights mental.

And so deep within the child’s heart, as he sobbed into the darkness of his memories, he hopes that the shadows will accept and love him as they always have more than his own self ever could.

It had taken him awhile to recognize that this dark cavern was not real, but lucidity was a fickle thing even when trained. Fear toxin? Hypnosis? Bruce considered, rifling through theories as his footfalls echoed lightly on stone, cape dragging in a hush behind him.

It could be more common, of course. A near death synaptic flash, a common overdose from inhaled narcotics he failed to retrieve, or even just a dream that drowned a little deep.

Bruce's brow furrowed. That seemed familiar. When had he last slept? Ill-maintained sleep cycles and stress could trigger a dream that was this self-aware. The lucidity wavered. Street lights spilled overhead in a circle-

The fall. The sharp fall into the nest of bats. The chorusing shriek-shriek-screech. His arm tasting of pain at his side, and why would such a thing make him sniffle and sob? A broken arm was nothing.

Bruce blinked. Clarity returned, as he gazed up at the open manhole, before matter-of-factly grappling to street level. Gunshot greeted him, a smoky echo he followed to his younger self dropping down to kneel between his bloodied parents.

In the privacy of his own mind, with only this inner-child as witness, Bruce allowed himself a flinch. Jerking his head to the side with a single, sheer shudder that sliced through him spine to sternum.

One, two. Down. Alley, pearls, blood. Cold and cloying. Hours spent tucked beneath a death-rigid arm. Found in the twisted mikveh of his parents' blood.

Bruce gasped thinly. Awareness coming like air in his chest. Steeling himself, Bruce knelt down to one knee, joining the child in the slick blood. He didn't look, just met the boy- his own -eyes and set his hand on @youthful-vengeance 's shoulder.

"Hn..." What words were there to say? Then spoke, voice low and soft, as- a father speaking to a son with a broken arm, an injured bird in the nest, carrying Robin slight and small to the Cave -"come with me."

[httpiastri]

osc podium smut 🫶

love this!! i’m about to fall asleep any second so sorry if this makes no sense, but i just had the thought about finishing my podium fic from suzuka and remaking it to fit this weekend, but… sweet sweet boy was so exhausted after the race, ain’t no way i would be able to do anything other than get him into bed and drink the world’s largest bottle of water 😭 my mind is sadly only in soft thoughts mode rn (but that can def change)