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cumironi · 1 day ago

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MAY MY SOUL REST IN PEACE, AMENNN f. toji

☆ sum. ever since his wife divorce him for another man, toji never was with anyone, even in having intimacy, he never had any desire to kiss, touch, even fuck anyone, until he have you on his lap, riding him in one of the stall in the club.

warning. non-sorcerer reader, toji is a mess, p sooo good he almost cries, pu$$y-drunk toji, reader having a tats piercing. rough sex, public sex (bathroom stall), unprotected vaginal sex, size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, power imbalance (older man / younger woman), age gap relationship, orgasm denial / delayed climax, handjob, cumplay (internal ejaculation, cum leaking), pu$$y worship, overstimulation, leg folding position, possessive behavior, pussy drunk characterization, public exposure risk, aftercare / caretaking, mild consensual degradation oral fixation (nipple sucking, biting), references to breeding kink (implied), swearing / explicit language.

the club was called gristle, which already told you everything you needed to know: concrete walls painted matte black and lacquered in the sweat of too many strangers, music that sounded like a blender chewing up chrome, a bar lit up like a failed attempt at divine intervention. sticky floors. bodies everywhere. it was the kind of place that made your soul itch in your ribs and your bones hum. it was hell with a cover charge and you were thriving.

you were two tequila sodas deep, blinking rhinestones stuck to your collarbones like sweat-kissed stars, and dancing like your future career depended on it. maybe it did. shoko was three drinks ahead and exactly zero inhibitions behind. she was the kind of girl who never danced to the beat of the song—just the beat of spite. the kind of sway that said fuck you, yes you, i’m smarter than you, and i’ll outdrink you too. her cigarette was tucked behind one ear. a forgotten white flag.

“gojo’s in the dj booth trying to suck off the strobe light again,” she slurred into your shoulder.

you turned just in time to see gojo doing a very illegal-looking worm across the raised platform, flanked by a gaggle of girls who looked like they were filming a live breakdown for instagram. geto was sitting on the edge of the booth, draped in his coat like a tired mob wife, nodding along to whatever existential crisis the beat was currently having.

you laughed until your mascara creased. and then.

then.

a split-second crack in the atmosphere. a slither in your peripheral. someone watching you—not in the usual way, not the club way, the predatory frat-boy way—but something heavier. older. slower. the weight of it hit you somewhere between your stomach and your spine.

you turned.

and there he was.

he looked out of place in the same way a butcher knife looks out of place in a school lunchroom. not wrong, not technically, just... deeply inappropriate. green jacket, black tank, that wide-built way of holding himself like he didn’t trust the world not to jump him at a red light. a thick scar ran down the corner of his mouth like a cruel afterthought. he had a drink in one hand, pinky ring glinting under the lazy spin of a broken disco ball, and he was sucking a tooth with a mouth made for war crimes.

next to him sat another guy—sleek, fox-faced, gold chain and a tattoo that slithered up his neck like a wine stain—but he wasn’t looking at you.

toji fushiguro was.

not like he was checking you out. not like he was undressing you with his eyes. not like a man drunk on his own age gap perversions. he was looking at you like he recognized you. like you’d been a thorn in his side in another life. like you were the sound of the trigger just before it broke.

he didn’t smile.

he didn’t look away.

and you—because you were drunk and stupid and it was the last week of finals and your body was humming from the low voltage burn of too much bass and not enough shame—you didn’t look away either.

you reached up, swiped a smear of glitter from the hollow of your throat, and licked it off your finger.

toji’s jaw flexed.

“you seeing that?” shoko asked beside you, voice dry and amused like she was watching a nature documentary and you were the gazelle about to get railed.

you didn’t answer.

because his eyes—god, his fucking eyes—they were the kind that said i haven’t had sex in years, and i will wreck you like it's penance. he looked like he hadn’t touched anyone since the divorce. like he hated that he still wanted to. like the wanting itself was its own dirty little sin.

he leaned back in the booth, legs spread obscenely wide, the kind of man who made space by taking it. his hand moved, slow, up to his mouth, dragging a thumb along his lower lip.

you felt it like a bruise blooming.

shoko snorted. “bitch, he’s gonna eat you alive.”

“maybe i wanna be eaten.”

she shoved her drink into your hand. “then go get digested.”

you turned back to him.

he was still watching. still calm. like he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to ruin yours.

and you?

you smiled.

because sometimes, finals week ends with a degree. and sometimes it ends with a man who hasn’t touched a single soul since his wife left him looking at you like you were the last bad decision he’d ever make. but, you don’t know that yet.

the bass dropped again.

so did your common sense.

toji didn’t blink.

not when the lights strobed red-blue-red like a police raid inside your chest. not when someone spilled a drink too close to his boots. not when the fox-faced man beside him leaned in and said something—low and fast and close to his ear.

toji just nodded. lazy. like the nod was a formality. like whatever was said didn’t need his actual attention. his eyes never left you. not even for a second. he exhaled through his nose. slow. and then, with a flick of his wrist, the friend stood and left, disappearing into the crush of the crowd like he’d never been real. no goodbye, no handshake, no dap, no nothing. the seat was empty. the booth swallowed the vacancy like it was always meant for someone else.

the song changed. again. it had probably changed five times. you didn’t know. didn’t care. toji leaned back just a little further. the way a lion does when it’s already decided to pounce but wants to stretch first. his ring tapped the glass once. then he licked his bottom lip.

and that—

that was your fucking cue.

“he’s alone now,” you said to shoko, eyes still locked on his like they were glued to the roof of your own dumb horny brain. “and i just made a terrible decision in my mind that i would like to make worse in person.”

shoko didn’t even look. she just grabbed your cup and said flatly, “you go, sluts.”

“thanks, sluts.”

“godspeed, sluts.”

toji watched your approach like you were a slow car crash. like he didn’t want to stop it.

and then you were gone, cutting through the crowd like a little dumb thirsty dagger, the kind that didn’t kill, just ruined. your path to him wasn’t straight. it wobbled.

hips out of time with your legs, heartbeat too loud in your ears, glitter smudged down one cheek like a finger had already been there. every single person in the club was suddenly nothing but smoke and background static. the music, a dull throb behind the real percussion of your blood.

and when you stopped at the edge of his booth, one hand on the lip of the velvet seat, mouth parted just enough to be accused of thinking nasty things—

he tilted his head.

he looked down, slow, dragging his gaze over your body like a confession, then back up again.

he still hadn’t smiled.

he didn’t need to.

you were already fucked.

the booth was one of those deep, curved ones, made for mafia deals or the kind of drunk makeouts that ended in pregnancy scares and spiritual awakenings. the leather was the kind of cracked that whispered rumors about what had gone down here over the years—piss, blood, cum, cheap perfume, shame, maybe in that order. red vinyl, sticky in a way that suggested the cleaning crew gave up back in 2019. it curved around the edge of the room like the mouth of something hungry, all teeth and shadow and bad ideas.

toji sat dead center. like a throne. like he knew you’d come.

you hovered at the edge a second too long—long enough to register the way his thighs spread under the table, long enough to see the glass in his hand was more ice than liquor, long enough to feel the bass tremble up your calves and settle right behind your teeth. he didn’t say anything. didn’t lean forward. didn’t offer you a seat. didn’t look away.

so you climbed in.

slow. dramatic. like you’d rehearsed it. thigh first, then the swing of your leg over the lip of the booth, one hand braced on the table, the other catching the hem of your skirt as it threatened to ride too high. you slid in beside him, but not next to him. no. you gave him space. gave yourself room to breathe. gave the night a chance to hesitate. you slid in just far enough that your knee could maybe touch his if you angled wrong, just far enough that your perfume would reach him, but your intentions would still look innocent if someone were watching.

he looked at you then.

not a turn of the head. not a shift of his shoulders. just the eyes—those fucking eyes—cutting sideways like a blade, like a car mirror catching you just before it hits. they dropped again. took in your legs. your stomach. your mouth.

slowly.

like he had time. like he wasn’t planning anything. like he absolutely was. he took a sip from his glass. ice clicked against his teeth. “you here with your little boyfriend?” he asked, voice rough, deep, the kind of voice that sounded like it had gravel for breakfast and a grudge for dessert.

you blinked.

“what?”

toji tilted his chin toward the dance floor. “glitter rat in the booth. blonde. yelling at the DJ.” you glanced back. gojo was on his fourth attempt at beatboxing into a mic that wasn’t even plugged in. “jesus christ,” you muttered, then looked back at toji. “no. he’s just allergic to dignity.”

toji hummed. then his thumb brushed the condensation off the side of his glass, slow, deliberate. you watched the motion, unblinking. he tapped the glass against the table. “what about the girl? the one with the dead fish stare and a vendetta against buttons.” you grinned. “shoko? also not fucking her. though she’d be the one doing the fucking.”

“mm,” he said, not quite smiling, not quite breathing.

your knee brushed his. just barely. enough to count.

“you’re really checking out my whole friend group before you even ask my name?”

toji’s gaze flicked to you, then back to his glass. “don’t need your name,” he said. “i just wanted to make sure no one was gonna cry when i take you into the bathroom.” the air went out of you like someone had lit a match in your lungs. not subtle. not flirty. not pretending.

you swallowed. slowly.

“bold of you to assume i cry after.”

toji smirked then. not wide. not pretty. crooked. mean. like it hurt to do it. like he hadn’t done it in a while and wasn’t sure it was still worth the trouble. but it was a smile. for you. and something about it made your stomach twist like your bones were folding inward.

he reached across the table and stole your drink—no asking, no gesture, just took it from your hand like it already belonged to him—and sipped it. eyes never leaving yours.

“tequila,” he muttered. “figures.”

“and what the fuck does that mean?”

he shrugged. “means you want to do something stupid. something you can’t admit you want. something you’re gonna lie about to your friends in the morning.”

you stared at him.

and hated how right he was.

you leaned in, breath catching just slightly. “okay. and what do you want?” toji leaned back again, arm stretched across the back of the booth. his fingers—long, veined, scarred, absolutely filthy—rested behind your shoulder, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat.

he gave a lazy, brutal smile.

“i want to remember what it feels like to ruin someone.”

instead, you leaned in closer.

your throat went dry. your pulse tried to climb out of your neck.

you swallowed hard. you should’ve left. should’ve said something clever. should’ve laughed and slipped away and found someone safer to flirt with. someone your age. someone with a nice apartment and a philosophy minor.

and whispered, “bathroom’s to the left.”

he didn’t move. not yet. just gave you another look. slow. bottom to top. the kind of look that peeled layers. stripped the glitter off your skin. that set a small, sharp flame behind your belly button and said, “we’re not gonna be gentle. we’re not gonna be kind.”

toji downed the rest of his drink in one go.

and stood.

“don’t fall in love,” he said over his shoulder as he moved toward the hallway.

you followed. because it was already too fucking late.

the hallway to the bathroom was narrow, humid, and alive in the way all bad decisions are—pulsing with leftover bass, lit by flickering red neon that made everything look like it was soaked in blood and bad taste. a warped “EXIT” sign hung above the far end like a lie, like hope, like something god had given up on. the walls were sticky, painted black, smeared with the fingerprints of too many hands that didn’t belong anywhere else. you could hear the music still, like it was coming from inside your chest. or his.

toji walked ahead of you with the kind of gait that didn’t need to check behind him to know you’d follow. wide shoulders, unhurried steps, a slight roll to his hips like he was dragging the entire fucking world behind him and had made peace with it. he didn’t look back. he didn’t say anything.

and you—fucking idiot, slut in progress, full of bad glitter and worse ideas—you followed him like the devil never lied, heels sticking to the floor, chest rising and falling too fast, heat crawling up the backs of your knees like it had teeth.

you passed a couple making out against the wall, faces crushed together like starved dogs. a guy throwing up in a bucket with a girl patting his back like she loved him for it. someone crying into a mirror, mascara smeared down their cheekbones like war paint. all of it faded. all of it backdrop.

your whole body was zeroed in on him.

toji pushed open the bathroom door without ceremony. it creaked. like it had a vendetta.

the club bathroom was exactly what you expected from a place called gristle: a flickering fluorescent above the mirror, one stall door missing entirely, cracked tiles that looked like someone had lost a fight with their reflection. the floor was wet. you didn’t ask with what. the whole place smelled like bleach, piss, and someone’s regretful aftershave.

but the last stall—the farthest one, the only one with a working lock—was open.

he walked straight in.

paused.

turned halfway in the doorway, one hand braced on the chipped frame, and finally looked at you again. like a challenge. like a dare. like he wasn’t gonna pull you in. not unless you stepped forward yourself. “last chance,” he said, voice low, rough, carrying that kind of warmth that only exists inside furnaces and buried trauma. “you got about three seconds to decide whether you’re gonna regret this.”

you laughed.

it came out a little wild. a little cracked.

“bitch, i already regret it.”

and then you stepped in.

he closed the door behind you. it clicked shut like the start of a ritual.

now it was just the two of you, breathing the same stifling, chemical-washed air, shadows cast sharp and ugly across your faces by the single busted light overhead. you could see the sweat beading at his temples, the shine of it along the thick cut of his throat. you could see the scar on his lip, and the deeper one under his jaw, like someone had tried to silence him with a blade and failed. his eyes were even worse up close—mean, ancient, alive in the way fire is alive when it’s out of control. they flicked over you with slow, deliberate weight.

he didn’t touch you.

he didn’t need to.

he just looked.

and it felt like a strip search. like a dissection. like you were standing naked already, ribs cracked open, heart fluttering like it knew what was coming and wanted to hide behind your lungs. “what’s your name?” he asked suddenly, voice pitched like he didn’t care but also like he needed it for something he didn’t want to name.

you hesitated.

then said it.

he rolled it around in his mouth. didn’t repeat it, just tasted it, the way a man might taste a curse or a memory or a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say. “huh,” he said. “too pretty for the kind of shit you’re about to let me do.” you were about to shoot back something equally stupid, something unhinged, something desperate and mean and wet with anticipation—

but he took a step closer.

just one.

and it was enough to send your breath hitching and your back pressing gently against the wall of the stall like you needed to hold the whole building up. you could smell him now—cigarettes, aftershave, sweat, and something else, something feral and tired and male, the kind of scent that made you feel like a house left unlocked.

he raised a hand.

not to grab you. not yet. he just rested it on the wall beside your head, knuckles ghosting the tile, his eyes boring down into yours like he was looking through you. like he was checking for rot.

“you don’t even know how good you look right now,” he murmured, and his voice sounded wrecked—torn at the edges, too old for this, too fucked up to know better, too close to the edge.

you whispered, “then tell me.”

he laughed.

short. breathy. not nice.

“nah,” he said. “gonna show you.”

still—still—he didn’t touch you.

he let the silence wrap around the both of you like plastic, like a vacuum seal, like the breath between the lightning and the thunder. he let you feel the heat crawling up your neck, let your hands twitch at your sides like they wanted something to hold onto before the world caved in.

his eyes didn’t leave yours. not once.

and when he finally, finally leaned in, mouth brushing close enough to yours that you could feel the shape of the words more than you heard them, he said—

“say please.”

you exhaled so sharply it stuttered.

and then—

“no.”

his grin was all teeth. no mirth. no kindness. just hunger dressed up like satisfaction.

“good,” he said. “don’t beg yet.”

and he leaned back.

waited.

waited for you to break first.

and fuck—

you wanted to.

you moved without thinking. or maybe you were thinking too much—just not with the part of your brain responsible for restraint. maybe it was the tequila, or the way his voice slithered under your skin like something hot and reckless, or the way he still hadn’t touched you first, like he was trying to prove a point. you pushed him.

both hands flat against his chest, sudden, hard, more force than you meant but less than he deserved, and he let you, let you shove him back until he stumbled into the closed janitor’s closet behind him. his legs hit the lip of the metal threshold, knees bending with a grunt, and he sank down onto the makeshift seat like he wanted to be there—like he’d planned it all along.

and then his hands—fuck, those hands—were on your thighs.

rough palms, calloused fingers, thick enough to bruise without meaning to. he didn’t trail them up. didn’t tease. he gripped, greedy, dragging you forward like you were already claimed. his touch lit a fuse somewhere behind your sternum. your breath stuttered, caught, and your hips moved before your mind caught up, knees hitting the outside of his legs as you let yourself be pulled between them like gravity was a kink.

your hands landed on his shoulders to steady yourself, fingertips pressing into solid muscle wrapped in cotton and heat. you could feel it—him—beneath the thin fabric of his shirt: the thick slope of his traps, the unforgiving hardness of a man who spent too much time in fights and not enough in therapy.

“jesus,” you breathed, unthinking.

“what?”

your palms slid over the lines of him, feeling the definition like it had something to tell you, like each inch of him was a secret your hands could decode.

“you’re so fucking hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.

toji chuckled. it was low and mean and full of dirt. like he’d heard it before, but it still pleased him in that deeply male, deeply awful way.

“you climbin’ on or just gonna compliment me to death?”

you didn’t answer.

you straddled him.

slow, deliberate, dragging your knees over his thighs until your hips settled down onto his lap, the heat of him pressed tight against the inside of your thighs like a confession he didn’t have to say out loud. you wrapped your arms around his neck, trying not to moan at how fucking big he was—everything about him. wide shoulders. thick neck. those awful, perfect hands still gripping your thighs like he owned them.

your nose brushed against his jaw, and for a second, you didn’t move. didn’t kiss. didn’t speak.

you just inhaled.

his scent hit you in the teeth—spice and sweat and something darker, older, something like woodsmoke and nights without sleep. it wasn’t cologne. it was him. it made your eyes flutter shut for a second longer than you meant to.

then your lips ghosted against the side of his neck, soft, barely there, just enough to taste the salt and heat of him. “what’s your name?” you asked into his skin, voice breathless. he didn’t answer right away. you kissed his neck again, slower this time, tongue just barely tasting him. he exhaled, rough. “toji.”

you hummed like it was a meal, a warm word you could chew on. “toji,” you repeated, testing it, letting it sit on your tongue like liquor.

you kissed just under his jaw. “are you married, toji?”

he huffed. not quite a laugh.

“nah. divorced. long time ago.”

you let your lips linger at his throat, barely touching, feeling his pulse jump just under the skin. “why’d she leave?” his voice was quiet this time. bitter. real. “ran off with some other guy. wanted something better, i guess.” you pulled back a little, just enough to look at him, brushing a stray piece of hair off his forehead with one finger. he was staring at you, eyes darker now, more guarded, but not pulling away.

you tilted your head and said, low and smug and filthy-sweet, “someone’s trash is someone’s treasure, y’know.”

toji snorted. actually snorted, head tilting back slightly, a rough sound in the back of his throat like amusement had caught him off guard. his hands flexed on your thighs, thumbs digging into the meat like he needed an anchor.

“you callin’ me trash, baby?”

you grinned, lips brushing against his cheekbone.

“only if you want me to recycle you.”

his laugh this time was full—short, sharp, almost surprised. you felt it through your whole body, the vibration rolling up his chest into yours. he looked at you like you were an accident he wasn’t sure he regretted yet.

“you’re mouthy,” he muttered.

“you’re old,” you shot back.

“and yet,” his hand slid up, resting heavy against your ass, “you’re in my lap.”

you leaned in again, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“so what’re you gonna do about it?”

toji leaned back, just enough to look you in the eyes, a slow, deliberate smirk pulling at the scar on his lip.

“whatever the fuck i want.”

you smiled.

“good.”

your hands started moving before your mouth did—fingers trailing down the slope of his shoulder, slow and shameless, brushing over the tight fabric of his shirt, down across the sharp cut of his chest. you could feel the muscles shift beneath your palms, all dense and unforgiving, like stone that had decided to grow teeth. he wasn’t just strong. he was engineered. like god got horny once and never did it again.

you were still waiting for him to touch you properly.

but you were starting to think the waiting was the whole goddamn point.

you dragged your fingers lower, feeling every groove of him, every inch mapped like sin beneath your hands. his abs were taut, hard, ridiculous—less six-pack, more topographical map of a mountain range you wanted to get lost in. they flexed when you touched them, a subtle twitch under your fingertips like his body was reacting on its own, and it made your thighs clench around his lap.

“jesus christ,” you muttered, reverent and obscene at once. “what the fuck do you do? bench-press small cars? choke people for a living?”

toji smirked without answering. that same little twist of his mouth, one corner pulling up like it wanted to make fun of you, like it knew how dumb you sounded—like he made people talk like that just by existing. you didn’t let him speak. you pushed your palm flat against the cut of his abs, slow circles, down toward his navel, and grinned, breath hot against his jaw.

“i could literally squirt just from humping your stomach,” you said, blunt as a knife. “just grind on these things like a fucking degenerate and ruin your whole shirt.”

toji barked out a short, rough laugh—sharp enough to show teeth, mean enough to make your pulse stutter. “you’re disgusting.”

“and you’re enabling me.”

“you say that like it’s a problem.”

you let your hand drift lower still—not far enough to be a real threat yet, just enough to tease, then slid it back up again, slowly, nails dragging over the ridges of his stomach like you were mapping the way you’d ride him. your other hand stayed locked behind his neck, nails lightly scraping along the curve of his nape, anchoring you there in his lap, where you didn’t belong, where you wanted to live forever.

and then your hand found his chest again.

specifically; his nipple.

you didn’t hesitate. just caught it between your thumb and finger and gave it a little tug.

he flinched.

not big. not obvious. just a twitch—shoulders shifting under your palm, his hips tightening under yours, a low sound catching in his throat like something he hadn’t meant to make. and it lit you up. a flare of heat, sharp and fast, blooming behind your sternum like something you’d swallowed was fighting to get out.

“huh,” you said, grinning like a cat with something twitching between its teeth. “you’re sensitive.”

toji’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, slower than before. darker.

“keep talkin’ like that, baby,” he said, low and warning, “you’re gonna find out how long it’s been since someone made me come.”

your stomach flipped.

not from fear. from anticipation.

you pinched again, slower this time, more curious than cruel, watching the way his chest moved with the pressure, how his breath hitched before he swallowed it down. “i like you like this,” you murmured, leaning in again, lips brushing the underside of his jaw. “all rough and ready to break shit, but twitchy when i touch you just right.”

“nobody touches me like that.”

you kissed just below his ear.

“shame,” you said.

your voice dropped to a whisper, low and mean and sweet at once.

“i’ll fix that.”

he exhaled hard through his nose, chest rising beneath your hand. his fingers dug harder into your thighs, like he wanted to grip bone, like he wanted to see if your skin would remember him tomorrow.

“you’re not scared of me,” he muttered, almost like it was a question.

“should i be?”

his lip twitched. “probably.”

you smiled, letting your lips ghost over the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb brushing lazily across his nipple again, slower now, testing him. “then maybe i want to be a little scared.”

his hands slid higher on your thighs, thumbs pressing in slow circles, rough, patient, menacing, the kind of touch that wasn’t asking for permission—it was letting you pretend you still had a choice.

“you keep teasing like that,” he said, voice lower now, quieter, dead calm, “and i’m gonna stop being polite.” you rolled your hips forward just enough to feel him through his jeans—hot, hard, there. “you’ve been polite?” you said, eyes wide and false, mocking. “this is you being polite?”

he laughed again. slower this time. darker.

“baby,” he said, fingers curling into your skin, “you have no fucking idea.” and still—he hadn’t kissed you. not once. and it was driving you insane.

you were perched in his lap like temptation incarnate, like a sin wrapped in skin and glitter, thighs bracketing his like you were made to ride things that broke people, hands still playing soft and obscene over his chest like you didn’t know what restraint meant, like you were touching something sacred just to see if it bled.

toji hadn’t moved much. not in the obvious way. not in the way most men do when they’ve got someone straddling them, whispering filth into their jaw like a sacrament. no, he was too still, too composed, like a bomb wired too carefully to detonate early. like he wanted to wait. to build it. let it stretch. to hold onto the tension until it snapped in your mouth.

your fingers were still teasing across his chest—idling over the muscle, flicking once more over that sensitive spot just beneath his nipple, watching for the way his stomach flinched or the corners of his mouth twitched. you liked it. you loved it. how it made him twitch, how it made his hands twitch harder against your thighs like they wanted to move but were waiting for your next line, like he wanted to see just how much worse you could get.

you leaned in again, lips hovering by his throat, breath hot and unkind.

“you ever had a girl ride your abs?” you asked, voice like melted sugar poured down someone’s back—sweet, but meant to burn. “like, actually just sit on your stomach and get off like it was nothing? bet they haven’t. bet none of them could handle it.”

his breath stuttered.

“jesus,” he muttered.

“nah,” you grinned, dragging your teeth just lightly along his neck, not biting—yet—just there, a whisper of promise. “but you can call me that if it helps.” he growled. actually growled. a sound low in his chest like something cornered and annoyed it liked it.

and finally—finally—his hands left your thighs. not far, just sliding up, rough palms dragging over your skin, slow and heated and full of intent. he cupped your hips like he was trying to feel the bones underneath, thumbs pressing into the meat of you with a bruiser’s patience.

you moved against him—barely, just a roll of your hips, a shift that let your weight settle over the thick press of him under his jeans, and god, fuck, it felt obscene. it made your breath hitch and his jaw clench, and the stall felt too small for what was building, the air too thick, like you were breathing in each other’s heat, each other’s worse instincts.

you whispered, lips against the shell of his ear, “you like this?”

toji didn’t answer right away. just let his hands slide down again, gripping tighter, thumbs dipping under the hem of your skirt like they were testing your limits.

“you know how long it’s been since anyone touched me?” he said, voice low, almost flat, like he wasn’t sure why he was telling you. “since anyone looked at me without seeing a mess, a fuckin’ has-been?”

you pulled back, just a little, enough to look at him, eyes meeting his with something like interest wrapped in something darker. not pity. not sympathy. just hunger. focused and real.

“how long?” you asked softly, fingers still on his chest, dragging down again, slow and hungry. he looked past you for a second. somewhere to the side. not even seeing the busted stall wall anymore. something older, in his voice now. broken-glass honesty.

“eight years. almost nine.”

you stared.

and then, with a wicked little smile curling your lips, you whispered, “someone’s trash…”

toji’s mouth twitched.

“…is someone’s treasure,” you finished, breathless, grin wide and smug and so, so stupid.

he barked a laugh, surprised and feral.

“you really just called me trash again.”

you shrugged. “i mean. recycled goods. eco-conscious dick. saving the planet.”

“you’re fucking insane,” he said, voice pitched like he might start laughing again or snap your waistband with his teeth.

you leaned forward, pressed your forehead against his, your lips barely a breath from his. “and you’re letting me sit on your lap in a bathroom stall. so what does that make you?”

he grinned.

all teeth. all bad decisions.

“about to make the worst choice of my goddamn life.”

“good,” you breathed. “i was worried we were on different pages.”

your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. his hands slid back up, under your skirt now, warm palms against your ass, fingers flexing like he needed to touch you everywhere before his brain caught up.

and still.

he hadn’t kissed you.

and you were starting to go crazy with it.

your eyes met again. his were darker now. heavy. hungry.

but he waited.

he wanted you to crack first.

“fucking kiss me,” you hissed, voice wrecked.

he smirked.

“say please,” toji said again, like a fucking ritual, and this time—

this time you almost said it.

you held his stare like a dare, like you were trying to outlast a god, both of you locked in this awful, exquisite standoff of breath and blood and the terrible pressure of almost—his hands hot on your hips, your thighs burning around him, the tension between your bodies so taut it felt like it would hum if someone plucked it. and still, no kiss. not yet. like he needed one more act of worship before he let your mouths meet. like he wanted you naked before he let himself feel anything sweet.

fine. fuck it. you’d do it yourself.

you shifted in his lap, slow and deliberate, dragging your hands back from his shoulders to the hem of your top, fingers curling under the fabric like you were peeling off something sacred. you kept your eyes on his—watching the way his pupils swallowed up the green when he realized what you were doing—lifting your shirt up over your ribs, higher, higher, until the fabric slipped past your chin and you tossed it off to the side without ceremony.

no bra. piercings.

because of course not.

just bare skin and pierced nipples, glinting silver in the dirty fluorescent light like jewelry for the kind of girl who knew she wasn’t soft, who never pretended she was.

you didn’t speak.

you just sat there, half-naked in his lap in a goddamn club bathroom, chest heaving, nipples hard in the cold air, the metal rings catching the light like something dangerous, something mean, something that needed to be touched wrong to be touched right. and you watched him, watched how he breathed—just once, just sharp—and how his hands flexed like they didn’t know whether to grab your waist or punch through the stall wall.

“well, fuck me,” toji muttered, voice thick now, ruined with it. “no wonder you’ve been talking like you wanna go to hell. you’re built like you already run the place.”

you smiled, smug and filthy and lit from within.

“told you,” you whispered. “eco-conscious. sustainable. slutty.”

his mouth twitched. not a full smile—he was too gone for that now, too inside-out with the need to play it cool—but it was there. something dangerous and animal moved across his face, and then he leaned in. you thought he was finally going to kiss you. you felt it. the moment before detonation. but instead— his head dropped.

and he latched onto your nipple.

“fuck—”

your back arched like a whip, hands flying to his shoulders again, nails digging in without thinking, mouth falling open with something more breath than sound. toji sucked, slow and heavy, his tongue sliding over the barbell and pressing into the sensitive flesh around it like he wanted to make you cry. his mouth was hot, his stubble scraped, and when his teeth grazed just a little too sharp you gasped, hips rolling down into his lap like it was reflex.

his hands gripped your ass again, anchoring you, holding you down while he switched sides, mouth closing over your other nipple like he was starving and you were something he’d earned by bleeding for it. his groan vibrated through you, low and primal and filthy, and when he pulled back there was spit on your skin, cooling fast, and his face was flushed in a way that made something deep in your belly twist and spark.

“jesus christ,” he said hoarsely. “you’re unreal.”

“you’re the one with your mouth on my tits,” you shot back, voice too high, too tight, shaking a little, “don’t go blaming me now.”

“not blaming,” he muttered, still staring at your chest like he might bite again. “just... christ. you’re like a fuckin’ problem someone dared me to solve with my mouth.”

and then—finally—he moved.

his hand came up, one big palm on the side of your face, warm and rough and steady, and his thumb brushed over your cheek like he was trying to decide if you were real. your breath caught. your whole body tightened.

and then he kissed you.

hard.

not sweet, not gentle, not even patient. just full, just everything, like he was trying to make up for every minute he hadn’t touched you, every year he hadn’t been touched himself. his mouth crashed into yours with the force of someone who’d been starving for too long and had finally been thrown a pulse, all teeth and tongue and hunger, one hand cradling your head and the other gripping your ass like he wanted to fuse you to him.

you moaned into his mouth, loud and broken, grinding down against his lap because your body didn’t know what else to do, because he tasted like heat and fury and something lost, and you never wanted to stop.

“toji,” you gasped against his lips, not even knowing what you were going to say next.

he pulled back just enough to growl, “yeah?”

and you didn’t say anything.

you just kissed him again, harder, because there was no language for this anymore. just mouths. and need. and heat. and the feeling that if you weren’t careful, this man was going to leave fingerprints on your soul.

the kiss was a full-body event, not just mouths but movement, grip, heat, the wild pressure of skin-on-skin with nowhere to go and too much to say. it didn’t matter that you were half-naked in a club bathroom stall where the floor smelled like a crime scene and the walls were so thin you could hear someone vomiting two doors down—none of that mattered, because toji’s mouth was on yours like he was carving something out of you, like he was writing his name behind your teeth, and you were letting him, eagerly, shamelessly, drunk on it, high on it, completely undone.

his tongue pushed past your lips like he belonged there, slow and deep, not searching—claiming, like he’d waited a decade for a mouth that tasted this wrong and this right all at once. you moaned into it, hands tangling in his hair now, that thick, unruly mess of black you wanted to pull until he begged, your body moving without your consent, grinding against his lap like a goddamn heat-seeking missile. every movement made you more desperate, more soaked, more stupid, and the worst part was he knew it—you could feel it in the way he kissed you, like he was humoring your urgency but didn’t need to rush, because he could have you whenever he wanted.

“fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide like a blackout curtain had dropped behind his eyes. “look at you. look at you, fuckin’ shaking just from kissing.”

“you kiss like it’s a crime,” you gasped, but it came out half a whimper, too much pleasure in your voice to be convincing. “like—fuck—like you’re trying to make me come with your mouth alone.”

toji grinned, cocky and dangerous and filthy.

“maybe i am. you wet for me already, sweetheart?”

you didn’t answer, because your hips were doing it for you—rocking down against his jeans with so much friction you wanted to cry, the seam catching you just enough, the pressure building, and his cock so hard beneath you it felt like punishment. you were dripping, underwear soaked through, thighs shaking, and his hands weren’t helping—palms wide on your ass, rocking you down, grinding you into him like he wanted to wear you out before he even got your panties off.

“fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?” he said, voice a rasp now, low and hot in your ear. “you’re gonna leave a mark on my fuckin’ jeans, baby. ruin me before i even get my dick out.”

“then do it,” you snapped, voice wrecked. “let me. let me ruin you.”

toji groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as he laughed, low and obscene.

“shit. listen to you. needy little brat.”

you tightened your grip on his shoulders, biting down on a gasp as he rocked you harder against him, the rhythm slow but filthy, your clit catching against the fabric with every pass, the wetness between your legs making your thighs slick where they touched his jeans.

“look at you,” he said again, voice softer now but still thick with want. “grinding like a fuckin’ bitch in heat. that what you need, baby? someone to tell you how good you are while you ride his lap in a public bathroom like a fuckin’ slut?”

“yes,” you breathed, and there was no dignity in it, no irony, just raw honesty. “yes, yes, fuck, say it again.”

he sat up straighter, one hand sliding up your back, warm and steady, the other gripping your hip tight enough to leave bruises. his lips were back on your throat now, trailing kisses—no, bites, little sharp things that made you twitch and gasp and roll your hips harder.

“you’re so good,” he growled. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. filthy little thing. bet no one’s ever let you get this messy before.”

“they haven’t,” you whispered, high and wild and broken.

“of course they haven’t,” he muttered, hand sliding between your bodies now, cupping your pussy through your soaked panties. “’cause they’re not me.”

you cried out when his fingers pressed down, through the fabric, right against your clit, and he just held them there, didn’t move yet, just the pressure of it, the presence of it, as if to say i can give you everything, but only if i want to.

“you’re shaking,” he said again, almost in awe. “look at you. fuck. look how bad you want it.”

you nodded, frantic, rolling your hips, chasing the friction.

“please,” you whispered. “please, please—”

toji leaned in, mouth on your jaw, lips dragging across your ear.

“there it is,” he said, dark and triumphant. “that’s what i wanted. beg for it, baby. you want me to make you come like this? just from grinding?”

“yes, yes—i can—i will—”

“fuckin’ right you will,” he growled. “’cause you’re perfect. you’re fuckin’ perfect, and this pussy—fuck, this pussy’s gonna soak me right through, isn’t it?”

you moaned—high and desperate and completely gone—because he was right, he was so right, and your body was already pulling taut, everything tingling, building, the whole world narrowing to the heat between your legs and the sound of his voice and the rock of your hips on his lap, friction blurring into pleasure so loud it drowned out thought.

and still—he hadn’t taken your panties off. still—he hadn’t even kissed your neck where you needed it. still—he wasn’t fucking you. not yet. because this was just the beginning. and he wanted to see how far you’d fall before he even let you come.

your cunt was throbbing. soaked through the sheer cotton of your underwear, the whole front of it stuck tight to your slit like second skin, every slow, cruel grind against the thick bulge in toji’s jeans shooting sparks up your spine, dragging friction across your clit so hot it felt like electricity, like punishment, like prayer—but no salvation was coming. not here. not yet.

toji wasn’t letting you have it easy.

no, he was watching you come apart, eyes hooded, lips parted, one hand on your ass, the other flat against the small of your back like he was holding you in place just to observe the mess you were making of yourself. and you were making a fucking mess—your hips rolling in slow, stuttering circles, breath hitching every time your clit caught just right, every time the angle hit that spot that made your vision spark at the edges. his jeans were dark with your slick now. it had soaked clean through, turned the rough denim into something humid and hot and obscene, and he hadn’t even moved.

he grinned, teeth bared, voice dragging out of his chest like it was dipped in smoke and sin.

“look at you,” he murmured, so low it didn’t sound real. “fuckin’ drooling on my lap. like you don’t even know how to behave.”

you whimpered, not even trying to deny it, not even trying to stop your hips anymore, just grinding down harder, faster, more desperate, using him like he was a thing, like a toy, and he loved it—you could tell, could feel how hard he was under you, thick and unyielding, the heat of him seeping through denim and cotton and skin like he was burning from the inside out.

“you hear that?” he whispered, mouth brushing your ear now, lips hot and damp and cruel. “you’re so wet, baby, i can hear you. hear this pretty pussy workin’ for it. tryin’ so hard to come on me like you need it.”

“i do,” you gasped, voice shaking. “i need it, toji, please—”

“i know you do,” he said, thumb dragging up your spine, slow and firm, like he was petting something wild and ready to snap. “you need it so bad you’d hump my fuckin’ abs if i let you. you’d sit on my chest like a good little toy and make yourself come.”

you whined, high-pitched and helpless, hips stuttering now, every pass over his cock sending your body into convulsions, little aftershocks building toward something brutal. your hands were shaking against his chest, nails digging in, trying to anchor yourself before your own body betrayed you.

“that’s it,” toji growled, voice thick, breath warm on your neck. “grind on me, baby. come for me. come just like this, messy little thing, fuckin’ beautiful.”

and that word—beautiful—punched through you like a nail through soft wood, splitting you open. it was too much. it broke something.

you gasped again, mouth falling open, eyes rolling back just a little, because your orgasm hit you like a freight train, fast and catastrophic and undeniable, hips jerking, thighs shaking around him as your whole body locked up, tight and twitching and slick. your clit pulsed against the rough drag of his jeans, and for a second all you could hear was static, breath and heartbeat and the hot wet sound of your soaked underwear sticking to your cunt like your body wanted to keep the memory.

“fuck,” toji groaned, voice dark and ragged, eyes glued to your face as you came. “that’s it. just like that. god damn, look at you—so good, baby. so fuckin’ good for me.”

you were barely breathing, shaking like a leaf in a storm, your whole body undone on top of him, and still, his hands held you steady, let you ride it out, let you grind through the aftershocks like he wanted to feel every single second of your ruin. his hand came up to your cheek, fingers curling around your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you gasped, stunned and half-feral.

“you ever come like that before?” he asked, low and smug and so, so filthy.

you shook your head, dazed.

“thought so,” he said. “’cause no one else knows what to do with a pussy like yours, baby. they don’t know how to look at you, let alone fuck you right.”

you whimpered, half-laughing, tears stinging your eyes now, overstimulated and shaking and so full of want it was making you stupid.

“you’re a fuckin’ dream,” he said, quieter now, voice warmer, almost reverent. “you know that? filthy little mouth, perfect tits, pussy that sings for me—you were made for this. for me.”

you nodded, breath catching. “say it again.”

toji smirked, eyes glinting, one hand sliding back down to your waist as he pulled you forward again.

“you were made for me.”

and god help you, you believed him.

your hands were trembling, still shaky from the wreck of that first orgasm, your thighs twitching around his lap, soaked panties clinging to your slit like a brand, like shame, like proof—and toji hadn’t even fucked you yet. he was still fully dressed, his shirt damp with sweat from where your chest had pressed against him, his jeans dark from your slick, and his cock—fuck, you could feel it, all of it—was still locked away like a weapon waiting for deployment.

and it was time. it was fucking time.

you leaned back just enough to give yourself space, your palms still braced on his chest, steadying you as your breath came hot and uneven through your nose, mouth parted, your lips still wet from kissing, from moaning, and you looked down between your bodies like it was something sacred. his belt was half-undone already, buckle hanging open from where your desperate grinding had loosened it—like even the metal couldn’t handle what was coming.

“fuck, baby,” you breathed, fingers fumbling at the leather, dragging it the rest of the way through the loops. “your cock’s been pressing into me like it’s got its own fuckin’ mind.”

toji let out a low chuckle, something dark and frayed around the edges.

“it does,” he said. “it’s been waitin’. patient. even though you’ve been bouncin’ on it like a fuckin’ toy.”

you popped the button, pulled down the zipper with a long, slow zzzzrrk that felt like it echoed in the stall, louder than the bass outside, louder than the sound of your own heart trying to punch through your ribs. your fingers dipped into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them low enough to see the top of it—veins, thick and pulsing, and just so much of him already visible before you’d even freed it. your eyes widened.

“holy shit,” you muttered.

he grinned, teeth flashing under the sick overhead light. “what?”

you didn’t answer right away. your hands moved again, both of them, pushing the waistband down further, and then—

you let him out.

his cock slapped against his lower stomach, heavy, dark and flushed, slick already at the tip, a thick drop of precum glistening like it belonged in your mouth. it was obscene—long, fat, veiny as hell, the kind of dick that looked like it needed its own leash, its own warning label, its own space. the veins ran thick up the shaft, winding under skin pulled tight like leather, like the blood barely fit inside him. his head was broad, a little darker than the rest, flushed near purple, and leaking like it was angry he hadn’t buried it yet.

you stared.

for a long second, you just stared.

then—quiet, reverent, slightly terrified—you said, “i fuckin’ knew it.”

toji raised an eyebrow, cocky, smug, delicious.

“knew what, sweetheart?”

you swallowed, one hand wrapping around the base—your fingers not meeting—and your other sliding up from the middle to the head, both hands now working together to hold him. “you’re built like a fuckin’ war crime,” you said, voice shaking somewhere between awe and horny delirium. “of course your cock’s this big. stupid big. like—jesus—i should call a priest. or a contractor. fuckin’ get structural support.”

toji moaned.

not soft. not gentle. not theatrical.

a real moan—gut-deep, choked out of him, like your words had done something, like the way your hands moved up and down his shaft, slow and reverent, was too much.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasped, hips twitching once into your grip. “both hands and you still can’t hold all of me? fuckin’ look at that. look at how pretty you are, baby. jerkin’ me off like you wanna worship it.”

you grinned, dazed, breath catching as your thumbs swept over the head, spreading the precum, watching the way his abs flexed every time you touched him right. “i do wanna worship it,” you said. “fuckin’ temple-level. build a church around this dick and let me live in it.”

toji laughed again—short, loud, fucked.

“gonna make me come just from talkin’, baby,” he muttered, voice frayed and sharp. “keep goin’. keep fuckin’ sayin’ that shit.”

you stroked him harder now, slow and tight, twisting a little near the head just to hear the way he groaned, to feel the twitch in your hands.

“you know what this looks like?” you whispered, leaning close again, mouth brushing his jaw as your hand kept working. “like something that ruins girls. like something that splits ‘em open, wrecks ‘em, makes ‘em talk in tongues. you ever see a girl cry while sittin’ on your dick, toji?”

“more than once,” he said, hoarse, hips jerking again. “none of ‘em sounded as fuckin’ good as you, though. jesus—your voice, baby—gonna ruin me.”

“i wanna ruin you.”

your thumb brushed the tip again, slow and teasing.

“wanna fuckin’ sit on it till i can’t talk. ride you till my legs give out. wanna let you fuck the brat outta me.” he hissed through his teeth, hips bucking, precum now sliding slick over your hands, warm and messy.

“sayin’ all that while jerkin’ me off in a stall,” he panted, head falling back against the wall. “fuck, you’re filthy. filthy and so fuckin’ good, baby. look at you. makin’ me feel like this without even sittin’ on it yet.”

you leaned in, voice low, breath hot against his ear.

“you’re gonna fuck me with this, toji?”

“yeah,” he growled, breath hot and shaking. “gonna fuck you stupid. gonna split you open nice and slow, make you feel every inch. make you remember it for the rest of your life.”

your cunt clenched so hard your knees almost gave out.

and you were still holding his cock like it was the goddamn holy grail.

and you hadn’t even put it in yet.

your hands kept moving, steady now, smooth and slick and reverent like you’d done this a thousand times in a dream and were only now getting the holy chance to do it for real. both palms wrapped around the base of him, moving slow, tight, twisting slightly as you reached the top, thumbs spreading the precum over the flushed head, watching it glisten like something sacrilegious, like something stolen from a shrine. your fingers couldn’t meet even at the base—he was that thick, obscene, heavy in your hands like a weapon built for ruin, and fuck, you wanted to ruin yourself with it.

toji was watching you with a look that should’ve been illegal. half-lidded eyes dark as molasses, lips parted, panting through his teeth like your touch was pulling him apart vein by vein. his chest was heaving under his shirt, soaked with sweat at the collar, and his hips kept twitching just barely into your grip, like he wanted to fuck your fists but was too caught up in the sight of you doing it so willingly, so hungrily, like you loved it. like you were meant for it.

and you did. you fucking did.

you leaned down, let your mouth hover over his cock, eyes never leaving his, and spat.

a long string of it, wet and glistening, landing right on the swollen tip with a lewd little splat, mixing with the precum already smeared across the head, and your hands caught it, smeared it all over, rubbing it in with a filthy grin like you were lotioning up something that lived in hell.

toji hissed—low and feral and wrecked.

“fuck, baby—”

you giggled, soft and wicked, your voice a little hoarse now from all the moaning, but still steady enough to say the worst thing you’d been thinking since the second you saw his cock, “no offense, toji,” you said sweetly, rubbing both hands up and down his shaft, slow and tight, watching him twitch with every pass, “but your ex-wife’s a stupid cunt.”

his eyes widened a little, surprised, maybe delighted.

you kept going, dragging your fist up to just below the head and twisting it there, circling with your thumb while you talked.

“like—look at this fucking dick. are you serious?” you laughed, breathless, bouncing slightly in his lap as your strokes sped up, hot slick sounds echoing in the tiny, awful stall. “you were sittin’ on this at home, and she cheated? left you for some guy with a fuckin’ linkedin account? is she brain-dead?”

toji let out a choked laugh, a single short bark of disbelief before it collapsed into a groan, head tipping back as his hands flexed hard on your waist.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, breathless, fucked-out already. “fuckin’ mouth on you—goddamn.”

you leaned in, kissed his throat, then licked a stripe up the side of it just to feel him shudder. “i’m serious,” you whispered, licking the shell of his ear now. “if i had a dick like this at home, i’d quit my job. stop seeing my friends. stop eating solid food. i’d be on it twenty-four seven. dick-drunk. knees sore. brain empty. happy.”

he was groaning now, full-bodied, desperate, the veins on his cock standing out like corded rope, the tip leaking freely, your spit and his precum slicking your hands, dripping down his shaft onto his jeans like a signature.

you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, still stroking, still rubbing your thumb over the head, still letting him feel how good your hands were, how attentive, like you were worshipping something carved out of divine filth.

“i’m gonna put it in now.”

toji’s eyes snapped to yours, wild and almost scared—not of you, not of the act, but of what it was going to do to him.

“you sure?” he rasped. “you’re still fuckin’—you just came once, you’re already twitchin’, baby—i’m big, you know that. i’ll fuckin’ split you open.”

you smiled, slow and sweet and full of madness.

“i want you to.”

his breath caught. his hips twitched.

“fuck,” he groaned. “you’re gonna make me blow just from that. you’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

you rocked forward in his lap, pressing your soaked panties against the head of his cock, and gasped, because even that—even through cotton—felt like it shouldn’t fit. like your body wasn’t made for this kind of sin. but you were going to do it anyway. you were going to take it.

you reached down, dragged the tip against your slit, up and down through your panties, slow, teasing, not slipping him in yet, just letting him feel how soaked you were, how ready, how stupid you were for him.

“feel that?” you whispered, lips brushing his. “that’s all for you. no one else’s ever made me this wet. not even close.”

toji groaned—loud, desperate, unhinged—and his hands gripped your hips like he was holding back the apocalypse.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he muttered.

and you smiled.

because you hadn’t even started.

you were still straddling him, thighs shaking slightly from the aftershocks of your orgasm and from the slow, throbbing ache that had taken root deep between your legs—the kind of ache that didn’t want relief, just more. the kind of ache that whispered take it, take it all, it’s supposed to hurt a little. and now, with your hands trembling where they rested against his stomach, and his cock leaking against the soaked crotch of your panties, thick and flushed and too much, you knew it wasn’t going to be simple. this wasn’t gonna be easy. this wasn’t something you could laugh through.

and still—you pushed your panties aside.

fingers hooking under the soaked elastic, dragging the thin cotton to the side, just enough to expose the wet, swollen mess between your thighs, your lips slick and shining, your hole already fluttering like it knew, like your body was trying to brace for the sheer obscenity of what you were about to force inside it.

“fuck,” toji rasped, eyes dropping like a gravitational pull to your cunt, the way it glistened, twitching right there in front of him. “jesus fucking christ. you’re dripping down your thighs.”

you laughed, high and breathless, reaching down with one hand to angle his cock upright, the other gripping his shoulder so tight your nails left little white crescents in his skin.

“you’ve been talking like you’re a curse, toji,” you whispered, guiding the thick, throbbing head to your entrance. “but i didn’t know you were a goddamn plague.”

he grinned—hungry and crooked and wild—but then his breath caught when the head pressed right up against your pussy, just resting there, the blunt heat of it right there on your soaked little opening.

and even that was too much.

you tried to push down, slowly—just your weight alone, just letting gravity and desperation carry you—and your face immediately twisted, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open in a gasp so choked it was almost silent. the stretch was unbearable. hot. wrong. like you were trying to take something not built for human use. like your cunt was clenching out of protest instead of pleasure.

you managed maybe half an inch before your body stopped.

“oh—oh my god,” you whined, already breathless, head tipping forward onto his shoulder. “fuck, fuck, fuck, i didn’t—i didn’t know it would be this hard—”

toji’s hands were on your hips, steadying you, holding you like you were fragile, like you were made of wet glass and sin. he let out a low, strained chuckle, but it wasn’t cruel—it was soft, disbelieving, tender in the kind of filthy way only he could be.

“yeah,” he murmured against your temple, kissing the side of your head as you shuddered, “yeah, baby, i know. it’s a lot. ‘course it’s a lot. fuckin’ told you, didn’t i? said i’d split you open.”

“you are,” you moaned, and your voice cracked near the end, tight with frustration and arousal and the aching urge to take more. “you’re huge, toji, i can’t—fuck, i’m trying—”

his lips brushed your cheekbone, hot and steady.

“you’re doin’ perfect,” he murmured, voice barely a breath. “so good for me. such a good girl. fuckin’ takin’ it, even when it hurts. fuck, you feel how tight you are? grippin’ just the tip, baby—like you don’t wanna let go.”

you whimpered, nails dragging down his chest now, trying to breathe, trying to focus, trying to push through the burn, but your eyes stung and you blinked, and then—

tears spilled.

not sobbing, not dramatic—just the sting of it, the overwhelm, the deep wanting that had nowhere to go but out. “hey,” toji said softly, tilting your face toward him, his thumb brushing the corner of your eye. “what’s this? cryin’ on my cock already?”

he kissed the tear before it could slide down your cheek, then another, his mouth gentle, reverent, filthy in the way it held you. not mocking. not laughing.

just there. with you.

“fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered, voice hot against your skin. “you’re so pretty when you cry. so perfect when you fall apart for me. you’re takin’ me so good, sweetheart, fuck—look at you. you’re stretchin’ so fuckin’ sweet around me.”

you nodded, teeth clenched, moaning as you lowered yourself another inch, the stretch burning now, unbearable and addictive, your body split wide around the sheer girth of him, your cunt fluttering, clenching, trying to make room where there wasn’t any.

your voice cracked again.

“hurts—fuck—it hurts so good, toji—”

“that’s it,” he breathed, hips shifting just slightly, just enough to make you feel it deeper, wider, more. “that’s what i like. feelin’ you break yourself open for it. god damn, you’re made for this.”

“you keep—keep saying that,” you whimpered, tears slipping down again, dripping onto his shoulder, “like i was built for your dick.”

his grin returned—soft and sharp and filthy.

“you were. this pussy was made to take me. look how tight you are, baby—like you never needed anyone else but me.”

and slowly—inch by agonizing, glorious inch—you sank down further.

and further.

and still—he wasn’t all the way in. not yet. but you were going to take every inch. even if it killed you. especially if it killed you.

your body gave in before your mind did—hips twitching, thighs trembling, breath shuddering out of your lungs as the last brutal stretch of him finally slid in, your cunt choking around the thick base of his cock with a helpless, involuntary clench, like it didn’t want to let him go, like it didn’t know how to survive him.

you gasped—mouth wide, head tipped back, neck exposed like something sacrificial, your whole body tensed and arching, and then relaxing, melting into it, as the blunt weight of him bottomed out inside you, seat to base, thick and pulsing, plugged so deep your belly felt full, your muscles trembling around the stretch like they didn’t believe it was over.

and toji—fucking toji—just exhaled through his teeth, mouth parted in some stunned version of a smile that looked like it might unhinge him, watching your face with something close to awe.

“shit,” he murmured, low and hoarse and broken. “you fuckin’ took it.”

you whined. actually whined, because that fullness, that delicious, unbearable pressure, that raw-cored feeling of being too full and still wanting more had you dizzy and aching and grinding down on him like your body was possessed by the shape of him.

“you’re all the way in,” you whispered, voice thin and stretched out over the edge of a sob, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen. “i feel you—i feel you so fucking deep, toji—”

his hands flexed hard around your waist, dragging your hips flush to his one last time, grinding your cunt against the root of his cock, the pressure unbearable, making you gasp and shudder in his lap.

“yeah, baby,” he said, voice pure filth now, that teasing rasp that lived somewhere between worship and cruelty. “you feel that? that’s my cock in your stomach. you’re so fuckin’ tight around me, it’s like your pussy was starving.”

you moaned again, incoherent, your fingers curling in his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

he rocked his hips.

once.

slow.

and your whole body convulsed.

“fuck—toji—”

“easy, sweetheart,” he muttered, mouth brushing your neck, tongue flicking the sweat from your skin. “gonna take care of you. just breathe. you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

and then he did it again.

slower this time. dragging out of you just an inch, then pushing back in, letting you feel every fucking vein, the throb of him inside your walls like a second heartbeat, like a warning.

your moans were high and shaking now, rhythmic, falling apart on each pass of his hips as he built the rhythm slow—careful, almost tender, not out of mercy but because he wanted you to feel every inch, every second, every millimeter of him splitting you open like a promise.

“you like that?” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, hands cradling your ass now, helping you roll with him, take it better. “like bein’ split slow? like knowin’ you can barely take it, but you’re takin’ it anyway, ‘cause you’re a good fuckin’ girl?”

you nodded so fast you almost lost your balance.

“i love it—fuck, i love it, i can’t—I didn’t know it could feel this good—”

and then his rhythm shifted.

the slow grind turned to a deeper snap, hips punching up into you with just a little more power, and you wailed, your voice bouncing off the cracked tile walls of the stall, your thighs trembling around him, your breath caught in your throat.

“that’s it,” toji growled. “that’s my girl.”

you barely had time to respond—barely had time to process—before he was grabbing you, shifting your weight suddenly, and your hands shot to his shoulders in a panic.

“toji—what—?”

he didn’t answer.

he moved you.

one hand sliding under your thigh, lifting it with the ease of someone used to manhandling, the other bracing your back as he pushed your knee up—higher, higher—until it was resting on his shoulder, bent awkwardly. and then the other leg followed, and before you could blink, both of your legs were slung over his shoulders, your hips tilted back, exposed, cunt stretched wide around him at a new angle, one that made your breath catch and your vision blur.

“fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, staring down at where your bodies met, his cock glistening, half-shiny with slick, with spit, your cunt so wet it sounded indecent.

“you’re flexible, baby,” he purred, eyes glittering with smug, filthy heat. “gonna keep you folded like this all night. good fuckin’ stretch, huh? how’s that feel?”

you cried out as he thrust—deep, sudden, rough, punching the air from your lungs and making your pussy clench so tight he growled.

“toji! oh my god—”

“nah,” he grunted, smirking now, sweat slick at his brow, “just toji, baby.”

and then he started to fuck you.

no more tenderness. no more slow burn.

just pace—hard and deep and ruthless, each stroke shoving you up the stall door, the slap of your slick against his thighs filthy and fast, the sound of his cock wrecking you echoing louder than your breathless little moans, louder than the club outside, louder than the entire goddamn city.

and through it all—through the rhythm, through the overstimulation, through the fucking stretch—

you held onto him like he was the end of the world.

and maybe he was.

you didn’t know where your body ended and his began anymore—your thighs thrown over his broad shoulders, calves hanging limp behind his back, cunt stretched impossibly wide around his cock, and your spine arched into the peeling tile wall like it was the only thing holding you together. everything below your waist was pulsing. drenched. trembling. you were stuffed so full your hips had gone numb and your nerves were lit up like flares, every thrust from toji dragging a sound from you that wasn’t even human anymore. choked sobs, half-screams, shattered moans—nothing made sense but the feeling of being split open and used like your pussy had a goddamn purpose.

and toji—toji was lost in it.

his grip was iron on your hips, pulling you down onto each thrust like he needed to be deeper, like it wasn’t enough to be inside you—he wanted to live there, drown there, die there. his head was dipped low now, dark hair slicked back from sweat, jaw clenched, lips parted like he was drunk off something heavy and pure. but it wasn’t the club. it wasn’t the drink. it was you. it was your pussy, clenching around him with every rough pump, spasming with every moan he dragged out of your throat, and it was making him lose it.

he thrust again—hard, brutal, the head of his cock punching your cervix—and you screamed, nails digging into his shoulders, tears slipping down your cheeks as your legs twitched around his neck.

“f-fuck, toji—”

“shhh, baby,” he muttered, slurring the word like his mouth was broken. “shhh, fuck—you hear that?”

you were crying, gasping, mouth open and useless.

“listen.”

he slammed into you again, and this time he slowed the drag back out, watching your cunt cling to him with a slick, obscene sound that made him moan, deep and raw. “jesus christ, listen to this fuckin’ pussy,” he breathed, almost in awe. “she doesn’t wanna let go. holdin’ on like she needs me.”

you couldn’t speak.

your mouth was open but all you could do was pant and sob and clench and take it.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he groaned, eyes locked to the place where you stretched around him, watching the mess he was making of you, the glossy ring of slick around the base of his cock, the sticky strings clinging to his thighs. “she’s so greedy, baby. you feel that? your cunt wants it. she’s suckin’ me in like she never got dick before.”

you whimpered, head falling back against the wall, voice high and thin and wrecked.

“i haven’t,” you said, and it wasn’t even a lie. not really. “not like this. not—fuck, not like you.”

toji’s face twitched.

something broke behind his eyes.

“yeah?” he rasped, voice dipping into something darker. “no one ever fucked you like this before? no one ever got you cryin’ and twitchin’ and beggin’ on their cock?”

you shook your head, tears streaking down your cheeks, spit slicking your chin. “no, toji, i swear—n-no one’s ever—fuck—”

he growled, hips snapping into you again, rough and greedy, the sound of your skin slapping echoing in the filthy stall, drowning out the throb of music beyond the door.

“fuckin’ right they haven’t,” he spat. “’cause they couldn’t handle you. you needed a real man to wreck this pussy. needed someone who could fill you up proper.”

you sobbed, legs shaking, whole body shuddering under the weight of his cock, the sheer intensity of being used like that, worshipped and ruined at once. “say it,” he snarled, burying himself to the hilt again, hips grinding against you like he was branding you from the inside out. “say whose pussy this is.”

“y-yours,” you gasped, voice cracking into a high, desperate wail. “yours, toji, it’s—fuck—yours, it’s always been—”

he moaned—head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut, cock twitching inside you—and then leaned forward until his face was buried in your neck, licking at your skin like a starving man, teeth scraping over your pulse.

“god damn, baby,” he breathed, hips stuttering, pace breaking down as his body gave in. “you’re squeezin’ me so tight, you’re gonna milk me—you want that? want me to come inside this tight little hole?”

“yes—yes, please—want it—”

“i know you do,” he hissed, voice pure lust, drunk and filthy. “know you want me to fill you up, breed you stupid, fuck this pussy till she knows who she belongs to.”

you were sobbing now, clawing at his shirt, drooling down your chin, mind unraveling with every thick thrust. he didn’t stop. couldn’t. hips pumping faster now, sharper, more erratic, and his mouth was on your chest, your throat, kissing tears off your face like they were his, like your pain made him harder.

“you’re perfect,” he panted, kissing your lips—sloppy, deep, desperate. “my perfect little fucktoy. so pretty, so tight, so good for me. pussy was made for this.” and in the haze of sweat and moans and overstimulation, you felt him twitch inside you, a growl rising from deep in his chest as his thrusts turned jerky, his whole body tensing—

and you knew he was about to come.

and you wanted to feel it. wanted to break with him.

you felt him get close—too close—his rhythm stuttering for just a moment, not quite breaking, not quite giving in, but it was there, coiled tight and twitching in the way his hips bucked just a little harder, how his grip on your hips turned brutal, fingers digging deep into your flesh like he was anchoring himself to something, like if he didn’t hold on, he’d fall apart.

but he didn’t let go.

he didn’t come.

you felt it in the way his whole body tensed, trembling like a held breath, jaw clenched tight against the curve of your throat, a low, ragged growl rumbling up from his chest as he stopped, buried deep, cock throbbing inside your overstretched pussy—but he held it back, kept it leashed like an animal snapping at the edge of a cage.

and it made you insane.

you whimpered—high, desperate, aching—trying to roll your hips, to chase it, to drag him over the edge with you because your walls were clenching around him like a vice, slick and messy and soaked, milking him like your body knew what it needed.

“toji—fuck—please, why’d you stop—?” you gasped, voice breaking, face twisted with the frustration of being right there on the edge with him and feeling him deny it.

he didn’t answer at first.

just breathed through his teeth, his nose pressed to your neck, his body stiff and trembling, cock twitching inside you like it was fighting him, like it was begging to give in. “’cause if i come right now,” he finally gritted, low and dark and wrecked, “i’m not gonna stop.”

your breath hitched.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes glassy, almost glazed, jaw tight, sweat beading down his temples. his mouth was open like he’d forgotten how to breathe right. he looked completely undone. ruined. like he’d been drinking your pussy down like liquor and now he couldn’t see straight.

“i’ll break you if i let go now, baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse, shaking. “i’ll fuckin’ ruin this little cunt. you feel how close i am? feel it? i’ve never had pussy like this—never—fuck, i can’t even think.”

you moaned, clenching around him again just to feel that twitch, to feel his restraint crack another inch.

“then do it,” you whispered, licking the sweat from his jaw. “ruin it. fuckin’ break me, toji, i want it—i can take it—”

his expression twisted, something feral rising behind his eyes like a wave.

“you sayin’ that now, sweetheart,” he growled, grinding slow and deep just once, making you cry out, “but you’re already twitchin’. already drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. this tight little pussy can barely handle one load—what’re you gonna do when i keep goin’?”

“i’ll take it,” you gasped, legs tightening around his shoulders, back arching into him like an offering. “you can come when you want—just don’t stop. please. don’t fucking stop—”

he grinned then—barely, teeth bared like something dangerous—but the pride in his eyes was molten.

“fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he whispered. “you’re my perfect little toy, aren’t you? lettin’ me stretch you like this, fold you up like it’s normal—look at these legs, fuck, look at you—you were made for this.”

and then—

he moved again.

slow at first, just the roll of his hips pulling back a few inches and pushing in deep, grinding that thick cock against the spots inside you that made you cry out and grab his shoulders like a lifeline. his eyes stayed on your face, his jaw tight, his mouth parted, and the way he watched you—hungry, worshipful, starved—it made you feel more naked than his cock ever could.

“this pussy’s got me fuckin’ high,” he said, voice rough. “you hear me? fuckin’ drunk on you. i’ve never felt anything like this—like your body’s pullin’ me in, squeezin’ like she knows me.”

you moaned—pitiful and overwhelmed—as his rhythm picked up again, deeper now, harder, dragging slick, filthy sounds out of you both as your bodies collided.

“i could fuck you for hours,” he growled, one hand sliding down to your thigh, gripping tight as he adjusted your position, pulled your hips forward even more, tilting your pelvis just to angle his cock deeper. “i will. i’ll keep you like this all fuckin’ night, split open and twitchin’, until you’re beggin’ me to come just so i’ll stop.”

you tried to speak but nothing came—just another cry, another desperate whimper as your walls fluttered again, soaked and swollen and full of him.

“hold me tighter,” he said suddenly, grabbing behind your knees and pushing your legs up higher, folding you more, pressing your knees toward your chest as he braced his weight over you. “there we go. good girl. stretch just like that—fuckin’ hell, look how deep i am.”

you felt it.

felt the new angle bury him right against something devastating, something that made your entire vision white out for a second, a sob punched out of your lungs.

“toji—fuck—fuck—”

“that’s it,” he groaned, eyes blown wide, pupils shaking. “fuckin’ take it.”

and even then—

even then—

he still didn’t come.

your body was giving out—limbs numb, hands clumsy and damp where they gripped at his sweat-slick shoulders, your nails dragging useless lines down his skin every time his cock punched that devastating spot deep inside you. your thighs burned from the stretch, knees pressed nearly to your chest, ankles hooked around his broad, brutal shoulders as he fucked you like he had something to prove, something to claim, something to bury inside you so deep you'd taste it for days.

and you were taking it. every inch. every slam. every slick, loud, brutal thrust like it was your religion.

your whole body was slick—sweat and spit and tears and the sheer, filthy mess between your thighs, soaking down your ass and his jeans and the stall floor, an unholy tangle of skin and sound and sensation, and through it all, toji kept praising you, whispering filth in your ear, kissing the tears off your cheeks while he broke you in half on his cock.

but something was shifting in him now—his pace stuttered, his thrusts grew frantic, heavier, less rhythm, more desperation, his moans falling lower in his throat, broken and guttural, each one punched out of him like his body couldn’t keep it in anymore.

his head dropped, and your foreheads met—pressed together, sweat mixing, breath shared in the half-inch of air between your open mouths. his eyes were blown wide, glassy with it, lips twitching like he was trying to speak but couldn’t get past the wrecked sound of his own need.

“baby,” he rasped, voice almost too low to hear over the wet slap of his hips against yours. “baby, i’m gonna fuckin’ come.” you whined, mouth open, panting against his lips, your legs trembling where they strained around his shoulders, the muscles twitching every time he sank all the way in.

“toji—fuck—yes, please—”

his mouth was on yours for a second—messy, open, tongues tangling with no direction—before he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead still pressed to yours. “you on anything?” he asked, breath ragged, voice wild. “you on the pill, baby—tell me now—”

you nodded, fast and desperate, choking on your own moan as his hips slammed forward again, grinding deep.

“y-yeah—fuck—yes—i’m on it, i’m on it—”

his whole body shuddered.

“fuck,” he breathed. “fuck, baby—can i come inside you? gonna come so deep—fuckin’ fill you up—wanna feel it dripping outta you when i pull out, yeah? you gonna let me do that?”

you whimpered, incoherent, grinding against him now, desperate for it, for all of it, for everything.

“yes—yes, yes, toji—inside, please—i want it—wanna feel it—need it—”

he groaned, long and low and destroyed, his whole body tensing like he was fighting it, losing, fighting again—and then giving in completely. “fuck,” he hissed. “you’re so good, baby—so fuckin’ perfect—pussy’s fuckin’ milking me—gonna come—fuck—gonna come inside this pretty fuckin’ cunt—”

and with one final, brutal thrust—

he bottomed out, hips slammed flush to yours, cock buried to the hilt, twitching deep in your heat, and then he broke, coming with a moan so raw and wounded it sounded like worship.

you felt it.

hot and thick and endless, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt, your walls fluttering around him as your body accepted it, welcomed it, every drop, your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes rolling back as the sheer intensity of it sent you into another trembling orgasm, clenching around him so tight he groaned, pressing his forehead harder to yours.

“fuck—fuck, take it—take it all, baby—look at you—so good—mine,” he growled, voice cracking, “this pussy’s mine now—”

and you believed him.

because you were still shaking. and he was still inside you. and you could feel his come dripping out already. and neither of you could breathe.

but you didn’t want to.

not if it meant letting him go.

he didn’t move—not at first.

toji stayed buried inside you, thick and twitching, still plugged so deep it felt like your cunt was wrapped around the center of him, not just his cock. his head rested against yours, sweat-slick and trembling, breath pouring from his mouth in heavy, broken bursts. the stall felt like it was spinning. the whole world had narrowed to the sound of your breath in sync with his, your pussy fluttering around his softening cock, the hot drip of his come already leaking from where your bodies were still connected.

but your body didn’t stop.

your body wouldn’t stop.

your cunt was clenching, aching, needing, so overstimulated it had gone full circle back into something dangerous—something desperate—your nerves sparking like shorted-out wires, slick leaking down your thighs, the insistent throb of a second orgasm so close it felt like drowning under the weight of not-quite-enough.

you whimpered—your voice soft and high and shaking—and your hips gave a helpless little grind, a roll forward, just enough to make his cock shift inside you.

that made you see stars.

“f-fuck, toji—” your voice cracked, head falling back, mouth open, thighs trembling. “i need—i didn’t—i didn’t come yet—”

that broke through his haze.

his head lifted, barely. just enough to look at you, eyes still dark and dazed but sharpening like a wolf catching the scent of blood. his jaw tightened. his mouth twisted into something that should have been a smirk but was too soft to be cocky. he brought one hand up—palm cupping your face like he needed to hold you there—and pressed his lips to your temple.

“oh, baby,” he rasped, voice torn raw from groaning your name. “you didn’t?” you shook your head, breath hitching, whining as your hips tried again, another roll, another desperate friction, his cock dragging slow inside you and making your whole body spasm.

“’s okay,” you whispered, blinking tears from your lashes. “i just—need a little more—i’m so close, toji, please—”

“shhhh, fuck,” he breathed, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, moving down to your neck, lips hot and open and reverent, “you’ve been so good for me—so perfect—’m gonna get you there, baby, don’t worry—gonna take care of you.”

his hand slid between your bodies, still slick with sweat and the mess between you, until his thumb found your clit—wet and swollen, throbbing with every faint shift of his cock inside you—and he rubbed it, slow and tight, small circles, just enough pressure to make your entire body lock up.

“oh—fuck—” you cried out, hands clawing at his shoulders, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to your body. “fuck, toji, right there—right there—”

“that’s it,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face, watching you unravel with a look of pure awe. “feel that? how sensitive you are? this pretty little cunt’s so needy, so greedy, just fuckin’ suckin’ me in, beggin’ for it. you’re gonna come for me, yeah? gonna let go?”

“yes, yes—please, don’t stop—don’t stop—”

he shifted his hips again, slow, so slow, pulling back just enough to let you feel the drag of him along your walls, then pushing back in deep, thumb never leaving your clit, just the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, your whole body wound so tight you thought your spine might snap.

“fuckin’ look at you,” he whispered, completely mesmerized. “look how beautiful you are when you’re right at the edge. tears in your eyes, pussy wrapped around me so fuckin’ tight—you were made for this, baby. made for me. you wanna come on this cock, don’t you?”

“yes—yes, toji, please, i need—”

“you wanna soak me?” he growled, hips twitching forward, thumb circling harder, your clit so sensitive now you could barely think. “wanna milk my fuckin’ cock while i’m still inside you, stuffed full’a my come? wanna squeeze every last drop out?”

“please—”

and then it hit.

your orgasm ripped through you like your whole body cracked open from the inside, a molten flood of pleasure spilling out, your legs jerking where they hung over his shoulders, your back arching so violently your vision blacked out for a second, mouth open in a silent scream. your pussy clenched hard, gripping his cock in spasms, walls fluttering around him like they were trying to hold him in forever, to wring every drop from him until your bodies fused together.

toji moaned, loud and fucked and wrecked, like your orgasm broke him—his thumb slowing just enough to let you ride the aftershocks, hips grinding forward to keep himself deep while your body milked him through it.

“that’s it,” he groaned, forehead against yours again, voice thick with pride and filth and something heavier. “fuck, you’re perfect. felt you come, baby—fuckin’ felt it—squeezin’ me so tight like your body knows who it belongs to.”

you were crying again—happy tears this time, oversensitive and overstimulated and shaking, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hold onto him while your body spasmed around him, dripping, soaked, ruined.

“you did so good,” he whispered, kissing your lips now, slow and soft, sweet and filthy. “so fuckin’ good for me. made me feel like a goddamn god.”

you laughed, weak and trembling, smiling against his mouth.

and he was still hard. still inside. still not done.

and neither were you.

your legs were still draped over his shoulders, limp now, twitching occasionally, every muscle in your body melted and buzzing with aftershock, like you’d been electrocuted and reborn inside the same wet, filthy breath. your arms were around his neck, weak and slow and unsure whether they were clinging or collapsing, and your forehead was pressed to his again—both of you panting, sweat-slick, your noses brushing with every unsteady inhale.

your eyes were shut.

your mouth was open.

and everything felt too full—too much—and yet, not nearly enough.

his cock was still inside you, thick and insistent, twitching softly, lazily, nestled as deep as it could go like it had roots, like it had decided to live there, and the slow, endless drip of his cum was already leaking out around him, sliding in warm, lazy trails down the crack of your ass, onto the fucked-sticky seat beneath you, pooling into a ruin only the two of you would remember.

and toji—toji was gone.

his hands were on your hips, not moving, just holding, and his eyes were half-lidded, glassy, dazed, wrecked. mouth slack. chest heaving. his tongue wet his bottom lip once, slow and aimless, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and he just stared at you like he’d been hit by a truck and liked the way it felt. no smugness now. no smirk. no edge.

he looked like a man who had just gotten possessed by pussy.

and he was struggling to recover.

“…fuck,” he finally whispered, so hoarse it was almost soundless.

you didn’t move. couldn’t.

your lashes fluttered a little but didn’t open, your mouth hanging open like you were still moaning in your head, like your brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that the orgasm was over.

but his voice pulled something from you.

“you alive?” you whispered, barely, lips brushing his.

he laughed—barely—just a quiet, hot breath through his nose.

“barely.”

you smiled, slow and heavy, head tilting to lean into the side of his face, nuzzling your nose against the damp edge of his jaw. his stubble scraped lightly across your skin, grounding you in the afterglow haze, and it made you whimper—small, involuntary—because you were still too sensitive, and his cock was still so fucking deep, and it felt like it was just there now. permanent.

“toji,” you whispered, and you felt his fingers flex on your hips at the sound of his name.

“mm?”

you finally opened your eyes, half-lidded and glossy, barely able to focus, and looked at him—really looked—and your cunt clenched again because his face was wrecked.

his hair was soaked and sticking to his forehead. sweat dripping down his temples. mouth swollen. pupils blown. cheeks flushed. and the look in his eyes—dazed, unfocused, stunned—wasn’t cocky or in control or smug like before.

he looked fucked. like he’d just gotten his soul pulled out through his dick.

you grinned.

“you okay, old man?” you whispered.

toji let out a low groan and dropped his head to your shoulder, body shaking faintly with exhausted laughter. “fuck off,” he muttered, voice thick and raspy. “you don’t get to clown me right now. not when your pussy’s got me seein’ colors.”

“you look like you just saw god,” you said, teasing, brushing your fingers through the damp hair at his nape.

he grunted against your neck. “that was god.”

he pulled back just slightly, eyes fluttering open again, still dazed but soft now, heavy-lidded and so fucking gone on the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“you don’t even get it, do you?” he muttered, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t stop looking. “pussy this good should be illegal. should come with a fuckin’ warning label. i’m not even sure i’ll pull out if you ask me to.”

you giggled, warm and slow, breath fogging up his skin.

“good thing i’m on the pill.”

“’cause i’d knock you up just to keep this forever,” he said, and it was so low, so dead serious that it made your breath catch.

you blinked, lips parting, not quite able to speak, and he smirked again—but it was soft. less predator, more man being humbled by what he just lived through.

“look at you,” he murmured. “legs still up. pussy still suckin’ me in like she misses me even though i never left. you were made for this cock, weren’t you?”

you nodded, slow and lazy, lips brushing his again.

“mmhmm,” you hummed, smiling. “knew it the second i saw you.”

toji groaned again, a fucked-out, helpless sound, and leaned into your forehead again.

“i’m not done,” he whispered, almost like a confession.

“good,” you whispered back, pulling him down by the shirt. “don’t stop.”

and neither of you moved yet.

just stayed there.

cock still buried.

hearts hammering.

pussy still clenching.

breath shared.

and toji—still absolutely, totally, unapologetically pussy drunk.

he was the one who moved first—finally—because your legs were still draped over his shoulders, bent and trembling and sore, your knees threatening mutiny with every second they stayed folded in that brutal, gorgeous stretch. you weren’t sure if the muscles were cramping or still orgasming. both, maybe. but toji moved slow, reverent almost, hands sliding down your thighs like he wasn’t ready to let them go, like he wanted to memorize them before he let them fall.

“’m puttin’ your legs down,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-dragged from groaning, still drunk with it, still halfway buried in that distant fucked-out haze that lived behind his eyes now. “you did so good for me. fuckin’ took it like a champ.”

you whimpered when your legs were finally lowered, a dull ache blooming in your hips, your thighs still twitching, your calves sticky and limp against his sides. you were panting again. dizzy. your cunt throbbed around him when the angle changed, his cock shifting just slightly inside you and hitting something new, some bruised-up spot that sent a fresh wave of aftershock through your spine.

toji groaned softly, and his hand immediately came to your waist, like his body was instinctively trying to soothe you. “easy, baby,” he whispered, palm sliding up and down your side. “fuck—I’ll make it up to you. swear it.”

you blinked, dazed. “…make what up?”

he snorted, pulling back just enough to brush his forehead against yours again, still so close you could feel every word against your mouth.

“comin’ first,” he said. “you deserved another round before I fucking lost it. that pussy’s too good—I got greedy. ‘m not usually like that.” you smiled, breathless, your fingers brushing the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt. “what are you gonna do, hmm? kiss it better?”

toji’s mouth curled at the edge, that cocky little smirk returning but softened now—sweetened, in the worst, most unfair way. “yeah,” he said. “kiss it. lick it. spread you open and make you come with my fuckin’ tongue till you forget what year it is.”

you made a choked little sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, your brain too fogged up to handle that promise.

but he kept talking—of course he did. because he was still in it, still gone, still wrecked and clinging to the only thing in the world that made sense to him now: you. “nine years,” he murmured, voice lower now, less teasing. Real. “nine years with no pussy. not even a drunk one-night stand. not even fuckin’ myself half the time.”

you blinked, still catching your breath.

“jesus,” you whispered.

he nodded once, breathing hard. “but the first one I get… after all that time… is you.” he paused. looked at you. really looked. “and if I could do it all over again—go nine years with nothin’—just to feel this pussy for the first time again?”

he kissed you.

not deep. not greedy.

just a soft press of spit-slick, swollen lips to your mouth.

“i’d fucking do it.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed.

and then snorted.

because your brain couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or feral.

“you are so pussy drunk right now,” you said, laughing into his mouth. “like… you’ve got the symptoms. glazed-over stare, can’t finish a sentence without saying ‘this pussy’ like it’s a holy relic—”

“shut up,” he grinned, nose brushing yours.

“you’re gonna start writing poetry,” you said. “i can see it. ‘ode to my girl’s pussy, it cured my chronic pain and made me believe in god again—’”

he growled low in his throat, a filthy little sound that vibrated through your chest as he shifted inside you, cock still thick and hard and present, buried to the base and making you feel every twitch of his frustration.

“keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna fuckin’ prove it,” he said. “gonna eat you out till you apologize to your pussy for disrespecting her in front of me.” you gasped, breath catching, clenching around him in instinctive anticipation.

he felt it. and smirked.

“there she is,” he murmured, rolling his hips slowly, pressing his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut like he was worshipping the moment. “sweet, tight little thing. even after I filled her up, she’s still clingin’ to me like she wants more.”

you moaned, body arching weakly, still so oversensitive, and yet—

“maybe she does.”

toji’s eyes opened again, and they were darker now, brighter, something burning deep inside them that hadn’t gone out yet.

“you better not be teasing me,” he said softly.

you bit your lip. hard.

and whispered, “then make me sorry.”

and he smiled. slow. wide. unhinged.

“you’re about to be.”

the air inside the stall was dense, humid, too heavy with sex and sweat and that lazy, humming afterglow that only came when both your bodies had been used—worshipped and wrecked in equal measure. your pulse was still erratic, your breath catching on every inhale like your lungs hadn’t figured out how to restart. toji hadn’t moved much since the last thrust, still deep inside you, cock thick and heavy and leaking, his weight pressing you gently into the wall like he didn’t want to let you go just yet. the scent of him was everywhere—on your neck, in your mouth, between your legs—and you could still taste the sound of his voice in your ears, rasping mine like it was something he meant to tattoo into your bones.

eventually, though, he shifted—reluctantly—lifting his forehead from yours, eyes flicking down your body with a reverence that was almost comical given the mess between your legs. he sighed, deep and low, like a man about to walk away from his favorite crime scene.

“alright,” he muttered, finally easing his hands to your hips and taking a single step back, gently slipping out of you with a lewd, wet sound that made both of you twitch. “moment of truth. you still got legs?”

you blinked at him, dazed, and then wobbled as your feet touched the floor, knees buckling under you like a baby deer just born into a post-orgasm world.

you stumbled directly into his chest with a soft little squeak, your palms catching the damp heat of his skin through his shirt, breathless and already flushed again. toji laughed—really laughed this time, head tipping back, teeth showing, full and rich and dangerous in the way only a man freshly pussy-drunk could be.

“fuckin’ hell,” he chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright, “you nearly took us both out, sweetheart.” you buried your face in his shirt for a second, too embarrassed and too exhausted to do anything but exist. “it’s your fault,” you muttered into the fabric. “you fucked the sense outta me.”

he kissed the side of your head, then leaned you back just slightly and pressed your back to the grimy stall door, holding you there with a hand on your waist while he reached for himself, guiding his cock back into his boxers with a practiced roll of his wrist and a satisfied grunt.

“can’t lie,” he said while zipping up, “she didn’t wanna let me go. took a fuckin’ minute just to get out.”

you gave him a look, somewhere between exhausted and scolding, but the twitch in your lip betrayed the way your thighs clenched again at his voice. he just smirked and hooked his belt back into place, slow and casual like he hadn’t just been balls-deep in you a minute ago.

then he crouched down to grab your shirt from the floor—rumpled, half-dried with sweat, glitter, and maybe a little bit of toji’s spit—and shook it out once before straightening up again, holding it like a gentleman with a gift.

“c’mon, arms up,” he murmured, voice suddenly softer again.

you obeyed without thinking, letting him help you dress like your brain had short-circuited, like you’d handed him the keys to your limbs and were trusting him not to drive you off a cliff. he slid the shirt over your head with practiced ease, tugged it gently down your arms, and just when you thought he was done—when his hands slid past your ribs and down your sides like he was adjusting it—

he bent down and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

you gasped, stumbling back against the door, breath catching in your throat as the sudden wet heat of his tongue flicked over the piercing again, lips wrapping around the cool metal and tugging just slightly.

“toji—”

he groaned low in his chest, then released it with a wet pop, lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your breast before finally tugging your shirt down into place with both hands.

“couldn’t help it,” he said, eyes wicked but half-lidded, dragging over you like a man who already wanted to go back in. “they’re too pretty not to taste again.” you didn’t respond—couldn’t. your brain had short-circuited again, reduced to white noise and heartbeat.

he fixed your hair next. carefully, absurdly gently, fingers brushing back stray strands from your face, pushing it behind your ears like he hadn’t just had you folded in half thirty seconds ago. then he loomed over you, big and warm and grinning like the devil who knew you’d come if he asked again.

“you wanna come back to my place?” he asked, voice low and smooth now. “give your legs a real break. i’ll apologize to your pussy proper for comin’ first. i got a mouth and a lot of guilt.” you let out a weak laugh—giddy and limp and already leaning forward like you might melt if he kissed you again.

“what, you’re feeling guilty now?”

“i’m tryin’ to be a gentleman,” he said, mock-serious. “not every day i meet someone who makes me forget my name and the year.” you raised an eyebrow. “that’s the bar?” he leaned in close again, mouth hovering just beside your ear, breath warm and so fucking good. “no, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice like a knife made of velvet. “you’re the bar now.”

you shivered.

he pulled back just enough to smile again, then glanced toward the door.

“you wanna text your friends? let ‘em know you’re leavin’ with a total stranger?”

“they’ve got my bag,” you said, still dazed, still trying to remember what reality felt like. “they’ll figure it out.”

he stared at you for a second.

then grinned.

“god damn,” he muttered. “you’re perfect.”

and then—toji fushiguro, pussy-drunk, sweat-drenched, still twitching in his jeans with the memory of your cunt—opened the stall door, it creaked open like it, too, had been through something shameful and held it for you, like a man escorting a queen out of her ruined cathedral. the hallway air hit you—cooler, thinner, laced with basslines and spilled drinks and someone screaming off-key to early 2000s pop—and you stepped into it like a newborn deer in heels, thighs slick, hair a little fucked, your shirt tugged low over your hips to hide the fact that your panties were somewhere between ruined and irrelevant.

toji stood beside you, towering and casual, like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides and kissed your nipple before helping you get dressed. his belt was buckled, his shirt clinging damply to his chest, collar pulled slightly off-center from your earlier tugging. his neck was flushed, jaw stubbled, and there were still fresh bite marks trailing along the line of his throat—yours. ownership drawn in tooth and heat.

your heart jumped sideways in your chest. your knees tried to wobble again.

and he felt it.

“there she goes,” he teased, his mouth brushing your temple now, his voice still dipped in that slow-dripping, pussy-drunk molasses tone that made your stomach twist in the most incredible way. “thought I fucked the wobble outta your legs already. guess I gotta go harder next time.”

“if you go harder, I’ll die,” you replied, still grinning, voice raw but teasing, biting down the ridiculous urge to giggle like a schoolgirl on prom night.

toji pulled you closer. you barely reached the height of his shoulder like this, his arm heavy and protective and possessive across your back, his hand idly tracing lazy circles on your side as you walked with him—slow, casual, like he wasn’t still inside you in spirit.

“what a way to go,” he murmured. “split open, stuffed full’a cum, legs over my shoulders while you cry on my cock. shit, if there’s a better death I don’t know it.”

you snorted. “you’re awful.”

“and you’re gorgeous,” he shot back, leaning down to kiss just behind your ear, sending another aftershock rolling through your already wrecked nerves. “tightest pussy I ever felt, baby. no contest. softest moans, sweetest little body—like you were built to break.”

your cheeks burned. your cunt clenched. again.

“you’re obsessed,” you whispered, playful and shaky, tipping your head back to look up at him. “pussy-drunk old man.”

he grinned at that—wide and unrepentant, all teeth and mischief and post-fuck swagger. “damn right. I’ve been starving for nine fuckin’ years and someone just fed me filet mignon soaked in honey. you think I’m gonna be normal after this?”

you laughed, biting your lip, feeling the slow drag of slick between your thighs every time you moved.

he was still talking.

still praising you.

like your pussy had rewired his brain.

“you don’t get it,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to your temple again. “you ruined me. no way I’m goin’ back to jerkin’ off like some lonely divorced fuck with ESPN in the background. I’m gonna be thinkin’ about you next time I close my eyes. about the way you opened up for me. about how you looked when you cried on my cock.”

you whimpered.

out loud.

right there in the hallway.

and toji just chuckled, kissed the corner of your mouth, then pulled you tighter under his arm like he wanted to wear you. “c’mon,” he whispered against your cheek, “let’s get the fuck outta here before I get hard again and we wind up in the janitor’s closet.”

you glanced sideways at him, lips curled up in that smug, fucked-out smirk you couldn’t seem to wipe off your face, and said softly, under your breath—

“may your soul rest in peace.”

he didn’t miss a beat.

“amen,” he muttered with a low snort, before slipping his thick, warm arm around your back, hand resting just above the curve of your ass like he belonged there, like he wanted everyone in this hallway to know that he’d just had you up against a stall door with your legs on his shoulders, crying out his name.

then, like the audacious bastard he was, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. not quick. not pecked. pressed—lingering, hot, lips slightly open, the kind of kiss that said this isn’t over, that said you’re mine now, that said you’re not getting out of my bed without a limp and at least two orgasms on your record.

you didn’t argue after.

you followed.

and you never looked back.

#jjk x reader #toji x reader #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #fushiguro toji x reader #toji fushiguro smut #toji x y/n #toji x you #toji x reader smut #jjk fic #toji fushiguro #toji x you smut

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lazysoulwriter · 2 months ago

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not in the script - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: NSFW — soft possessiveness, jealousy, praise kink, marking, unprotected sex, oral [f!receiving], handsy cuddling, overstimulation but in a cozy way, established relationship, pet names, aftercare, fluff woven through the spice | Pedro Pascal x Actress!Wife!Reader

---

It all started with the trailer.

You'd warned Pedro. Briefly.

“There’s a kiss in it,” you’d said. “But it’s short.”

And to your credit — it was short.

But it didn’t feel short when he watched it. It felt like it lasted an eternity. It wasn’t even the kiss itself. It was your face. The way you leaned into it. The soft gasp. The tremble in your hands as they touched your co-star’s chest.

It was too convincing.

Too real.

He watched it again. Just once more.

Then he tossed his phone aside with a small scoff and leaned back on the couch, his jaw locked.

You padded into the room moments later, fresh from the shower, wrapped in a short robe, hair still damp.

“You okay, baby?”

“I’m fine.”

You raised a brow. “You’re pouting.”

“I’m not—” he started, but you were already crawling into his lap.

He let out a small grunt when your hips settled over his, robe parting slightly. His hands found your thighs, a reaction more than a decision.

“Pedro,” you said softly, “you know it was just acting.”

“I know.”

“It was like… six seconds.”

“Too many.”

You giggled. “Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not,” he insisted, hands gripping your ass now, voice low and hot in your ear. “I just don’t like seeing my wife kiss someone like that and then moan.”

Your stomach flipped at his tone.

“You know what that sounded like?” he whispered, kissing the side of your jaw. “Sounded like the way you moan for me when I’ve got my tongue inside you.”

Heat bloomed between your legs instantly.

“Maybe you need a reminder,” you murmured, grinding your hips just enough to tease. “That it’s all for you.”

His fingers dug into your skin. “Take me to bed, right now.”

You didn’t even bother turning the lights on.

You let the soft natural glow pour into the bedroom from the sunset outside — skin bathed in gold, hair mussed, robe undone.

Pedro’s hands roamed everywhere. Slow. Certain.

“You look like a fucking goddess,” he whispered, kissing down your chest. “My beautiful, filthy wife.”

You whimpered as his tongue flicked across your nipple, then sucked. His hand trailed down your stomach, slipping between your legs like it belonged there.

Which it did.

He took his time.

Two fingers inside, curling exactly where you needed him. His thumb circled your clit in slow, deliberate strokes while his mouth stayed latched on your chest, switching sides, making you writhe under him.

Your head fell back against the pillows. “Pedro…”

“That’s it, baby. Let it out. But for methis time.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, crashing through your body, thighs shaking as he whispered praises against your skin.

“Gorgeous. So fucking wet for me. No one else gets this, no one.”

You were still catching your breath when he moved above you, slipping between your thighs, his cock thick and hard, sliding through your folds.

“Let me inside, hermosa,” he groaned, voice rough. “Let me remind you who you belong to.”

When he pushed in, you both moaned.

He filled you so perfectly. Slow, deep thrusts that left you gasping, clinging to him as he buried his face in your neck, panting.

You clenched around him and he cursed. “Shit, baby. You’re gonna make me come—”

You flipped him before he could, straddling his hips with a wicked smile.

“I’ll decide when you get to come, esposo,” you whispered.

He groaned, head falling back as you rode him slow and steady, grinding deep, letting him feel every inch of you.

“You think anyone else gets to fuck me like this?” you purred. “You think anyone ever could?”

He shook his head desperately. “Never. Only me. Only me.”

You kissed him, biting his lip, still moving slow and teasing until you both hit that edge together — your moans messy, hands tangled, nails digging in, his name the only word you remembered.

When you collapsed on top of him, his arms instantly wrapped around you.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, still catching his breath. “And I’m so fucking lucky.”

You brushed sweaty curls from his forehead. “You’re also dramatic.”

He laughed, kissed your forehead, and held you tighter. “And you’re my wife. So you’re stuck with me.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fanfics #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal blurb #pedro pascal blurbs #pp #x reader #fanfic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal smuts #pedro pascal hot

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guliexe · 3 months ago

Text

━━━HOTEL VLOG 18+

Hamzah x Female!Reader

.ᐟwarnings/tags: hotel vlog, soft dom!hamzah, friends to lovers, pent up tension, making out, nipple sucking, oral (f receiving), kinda orgasm denial??, dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, praise, creampie, fluff, aftercare

♡ you go to a 5 star hotel with mandy, martin and hamzah for a vlog. hamzah can’t stop thinking about you and you eventually fuck!

.ᐟw/c: 4.6k

It was Martin’s idea to bring everyone to this huge five-star hotel for a vlog, including you. You had become friends with Martin and Hamzah a few months ago, and they started including you in some of their videos and podcasts.

Stepping into the hotel, you, Martin, Mandy, and Hamzah checked in and made your way to your rooms. The place was even more luxurious than you had imagined—marble floors, chandeliers, and the kind of elegance that made you feel a little out of place. You and Mandy were sharing one room, while the boys had their own.Mandy grinned at you as she tossed her bag onto one of the beds. “This is gonna be so fun! Did you see the pools? they’re insane!” she exclaimed.

“Before you could respond to Mandy, a knock sounded at the door. She swung it open without hesitation, revealing Hamzah leaning lazily against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. "You guys settled in?" he asked, glancing between you and Mandy. "Yep! And we're already planning to hit the pool later," Mandy said, grinning. Hamzah’s gaze flickered to you. “You swimming?” You shrugged. “Maybe. What about you? Are you guys joining us?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll let Martin know.” Then, shifting back into his usual laid-back demeanor, he leaned against the doorframe. “Anyway, Martin wants to start filming soon. Meet us in the lounge in twenty?” Mandy gave him a thumbs-up. "Got it." As soon as he walked off, Mandy turned to you with a knowing look. "You so like him." You scoffed. "Do not." She just grinned. "Sure, sure. And I’m the Queen of England."

After filming wrapped up, the four of you finally made your way down to the pool. The area was stunning—soft lighting, crystal-clear water, and a view of the city skyline beyond the glass walls. You emerged from the changing room in your—kinda tiny bikini—adjusting the straps as you followed Mandy toward the poolside. The water reflected the golden lights, casting rippling patterns across the tiled floor. You glanced up just in time to catch Hamzah’s reaction.

He had been mid-conversation with Martin, but the second his eyes landed on you, his words stalled. His jaw tensed, and he quickly looked away, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. Mandy, of course, noticed immediately. She leaned toward you, whispering, “Oh, he so wasn’t ready for that.” You felt your face heat up but ignored her, pretending not to notice the way Hamzah’s gaze kept flickering back to you when he thought you weren’t looking. Martin and Hamzah jumped into the pool, splashing water everywhere. After a minute, you slowly dip into the pool with Mandy, the water was warm as you surfaced, running your hands over your face to wipe away the droplets clinging to your eyes. You pushed your wet hair back, blinking a few times to adjust to the pool lights.

Hamzah was talking to Martin about something, but the second you surfaced, his words completely died in his throat. His gaze flickered to you, just for a second, but it was enough to make his pulse stutter. His eyes traced the way your wet hair clung to your neck and collarbone, the way droplets of water slid down your skin, disappearing beneath the fabric of your bikini. And that damn bikini, so tight on you, wasn’t doing him any favours. It hugged your curves perfectly, molding to your body.

He leaned back against the pool’s edge, stretching an arm over the ledge like he couldn’t care less. But his fingers curled slightly, a small betrayal of the heat creeping under his skin. Mandy, ofcourse, smirked. “Hamzah, you good? You look kinda—flustered.” He exhaled through his nose, side-eyeing my Mandy. “It’s a heated pool, Mandy.” "Right," she hummed, clearly not buying it. You arched a brow at him, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "You sure?" Hamzah met your gaze evenly this time, masking any trace of his wandering thoughts. He smirked, easy and practiced. "Why? You worried about me?" You scoffed, rolling your eyes before pushing off the ledge, swimming to the other side with Mandy.

Hamzah finally let out a slow breath, tilting his head back against the pool’s edge. His body still felt warm—too warm—but his expression stayed cool, unreadable. Martin said something, but Hamzah barely registered it, nodding absentmindedly as he dragged a hand through his wet hair. You swam over to Mandy, laughing about something, completely unaware of the effect you were having on him. And maybe that was the worst part—how effortless it was for you. How you weren’t even trying, and yet, here he was, gripping the edge of the pool a little too hard just to keep his thoughts in check.

After a while, Mandy stretched her arms over her head, sighing. “Alright, I’m getting out. My fingers are all wrinkly.”You laughed, glancing down at your own pruned fingertips. “Yeah, same.” Pushing off the pool’s edge, you made your way to the steps, water cascading down your body as you stepped out. The cool air hit your skin, making you shiver slightly as you reached for a towel. His gaze followed the slow trail of water sliding down your back, the way your bikini clung to you, emphasizing everything. He swallowed, shifting his jaw like it would somehow fix the heat creeping into his chest. Martin said something beside him, but Hamzah barely heard it. “You guys coming?” Hamzah cleared his throat, forcing his expression into something neutral. “Yeah, in a bit.” You hummed in acknowledgment, following Mandy toward the lounge chairs to grab your things.

As soon as you walked off, Martin shot Hamzah a knowing look. “You’re staring, bro.” Hamzah scoffed, leaning back against the pool’s edge. “No, I’m not.” Martin smirked. “Sure.” Hamzah rolled his eyes, pushing himself up out of the water in one smooth motion. He reached for his towel, rubbing it through his wet hair before draping it around his shoulders. “We heading up?” Martin grinned. “Yeah. Before you embarrass yourself any further.”

Back in your room, the soft hum of the AC filled the air as you stood in front of the mirror, towel-drying your hair while Mandy rifled through her suitcase. “So,” she said casually, holding up two of her dresses. “Are we going cute or fancy tonight?” You glanced at her reflection in the mirror. “I don’t know, i’m not trying to impress anyone.” She wiggled her brows at you through the mirror. “It’s a fancy ass restaurant Y/N!! Plus, I wasn’t the one getting eye-fucked in the pool.” Your mouth dropped open. “Mandy!” She only laughed, pointing at the silky dress on your bed. “Wear this. You’ll shut Hamzah up real fast.” You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest, your cheeks already warm.

Hamzah sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it might help him get his head right. He wasn’t sure why his chest felt tight—wasn’t like this was a date. Just dinner. Just the four of them. Still, he couldn’t shake the heat sitting low in his stomach, the way his thoughts kept circling back to the pool. To you. The knock came sharp and quick. He stood a little too fast, hand already on the door handle before his thoughts could catch up. When he opened it and saw you and Mandy standing there, that tension in his chest pulled tighter. “Hey! We’re ready!” You smiled at him. “Hey…you look good” he said before he could stop himself. “Thanks, you too” your cheeks flushed at his compliment, then suddenly Martin comes at the door. “Right, so let’s go then ladies!”

The elevator ride to the rooftop was quiet. Mandy and Martin chatted about the menu, tossing out guesses on what kind of dishes the place might have. You stood beside Hamzah, close enough that your perfume reached him in waves—sweet, clean, and way too distracting. He didn’t say much, hands tucked into his pockets, jaw relaxed like he was perfectly unbothered. When the doors opened, the rooftop glowed under strings of soft lights, the city skyline glittering around the glass edges of the restaurant. A hostess led you all to a sleek corner table with plush seating and a perfect view. You slid in next to Mandy, leaving the space across from you open—and of course, Hamzah took it. He settled in with one arm draped along the back of Martin’s chair, legs stretched out just enough to brush against yours under the table. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. But he didn’t move either.

The four of you scanned the menus, the quiet clinking of silverware and soft jazz filling the rooftop air. Mandy and Martin had fallen into another back-and-forth about what they were ordering, their conversation light and easy. You chimed in here and there, but your attention kept drifting back to Hamzah, across from you. His eyes weren’t on the menu. They were on you. Only for a second. Then he looked down again, fingers tapping against the glass of water in front of him like he needed to keep them busy.

Under the table, his knee was still pressed lightly against yours. It wasn’t much—barely anything, really—but you could feel the warmth of it. Feel the way neither of you had pulled away. “So,” Mandy said suddenly, eyeing the appetizers, “are we sharing or we just get what we want?” Martin grinned. “I’m starving. I don’t care.” You laughed, glancing at the menu again. “I’m good with sharing.” “I bet you are,” Martin said to you with a smirk. “You always pretend you’re not that hungry and then steal fries.” “That’s a lie,” you said, smiling at him. “It was one fry.” “One, she says” Mandy muttered, nudging you.

While they kept going, you felt it again—that shift. Hamzah’s eyes on you. You looked up to meet them this time. “What?” you asked softly, your voice just above the ambient music.He didn’t smile. Just tilted his head a little. “Nothing.” But there was something in his tone—like whatever he wasn’t saying sat heavy behind his teeth. Your legs shifted under the table, and his knee nudged yours again. This time, it didn’t feel accidental. Your breath caught, but you played it off, busying yourself with the edge of your dress.

The evening had dragged on longer than expected, the dinner filling with casual chatter and jokes, but underneath it all, the energy between you and Hamzah never quite settled. Every stolen glance, every near touch, every time he smirked or looked at you a little too long—it was all too much, too slow, but somehow still not enough. Finally, Martin, who had been quietly sipping his drink all night, let out a loud, drawn-out laugh. “I’m feeling it... I’m definitely feeling it” he slurred, trying to hold himself steady against the back of his chair. Mandy raised an eyebrow. “You good, Martin?” she asked, though it was clear she knew the answer. He swayed slightly before nodding. “Yeah, yeah... I think I need to sleep this one off. Mandy, you’re coming, right?” Mandy rolled her eyes but nodded. “Of course. Come on.”They stood up, and Mandy helped guide a stumbling Martin toward the door. The moment they left, the room fell quieter, and you and Hamzah were left behind. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. There was a pause. The tension between you was intense.

“Well,” you said, shifting in your seat slightly, trying to play it cool. “Guess we should probably head up too.” Hamzah didn’t immediately respond, still leaning back in his chair with a lazy tilt of his head. Then, with an almost lazy smile, he pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah, I guess so. Lead the way.” When you turned to head for the elevator, he followed close behind, but the silence in the hall was thick. The distant sound of your footsteps echoed, and each step made it feel like you were both trying to outrun something you weren’t ready to face. As you reached the elevator, you hit the button. The doors slid open with a soft chime, and the two of you stepped inside. It was cramped, the kind of intimate space where you couldn’t help but be aware of every inch of the other person. The air felt charged, heavy, with neither of you speaking as the doors closed behind you.

You could feel Hamzah standing close beside you, just a few inches away, his presence unmistakable. His gaze flickered toward you briefly, and for a moment, everything seemed to pause. "So," you say, trying to break the silence, your voice coming out a little quieter than you’d meant. "Quite the night, huh?" Hamzah glances over at you, the faintest trace of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, more than I expected. Martin’s... interesting when he’s had a bit to drink." You let out a small laugh. "I know. He’s a handful." There’s another brief silence. You glance at him, then quickly look away, focusing on the numbers above the door as they tick upward. "You're quiet tonight" you say softly. Hamzah shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. "Just thinking," he murmurs. You raise a brow. “About what?” He hesitates, then shrugs, looking back toward the elevator doors. “You.”

You try to laugh it off, but your voice comes out uneven. “What about me?” He glances at you again, slower this time. “How you looked tonight. How you always look.” You look away, heat rising to your cheeks. The air feels thicker now, harder to breathe. The elevator hums beneath your feet. You can feel how close he is—your arms nearly brushing, his warmth impossible to ignore. “You know” you say after a pause, your voice quieter, “you don’t usually say stuff like that.” Hamzah leans slightly toward you. Not touching—but so close it feels like a touch. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think it.” Your breath catches in your throat, heart thudding against your ribs like it wants out. You glance up at him again—slowly this time—and he’s already looking at you, that half-lidded gaze unreadable but intense. “Why now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. His lips twitch slightly, but it’s not quite a smile. “Because if I don’t say something tonight, I’m gonna regret it.”Your pulse stutters. The elevator hums softly, rising toward your floor at an infuriatingly slow pace. The air between you vibrates with unspoken things, with every almost-touch that’s happened all day. Every stolen glance. Every lingering second.

“You looked… so fucking good at the pool” Hamzah says quietly, voice rougher now, lower. “And then tonight—” He shakes his head once, like the memory itself frustrates him. “It’s been driving me crazy.” You swallow hard., cheeks turning red. “I’ve been trying to play it cool,” he admits, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back up. “But you make it hard.” The elevator dings softly as it passes another floor. Almost there. And suddenly, the knowledge that you’re running out of time crashes over you. You shift to face him more fully, your back brushing against the mirrored wall. “Show me then” you whisper. “How crazy i drive you.” Hamzah doesn’t move right away. His jaw flexes once, and then he steps in closer, slow and deliberate, until there’s barely an inch between you. His hand comes up, resting just beside your head on the wall behind you, not quite touching but close enough to make you dizzy. “I want to kiss you,” he says, voice deep, looking up at your eyes. “Can i?”

You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly your mouths are crashing together, urgent and messy and hot. You gasp into him, and he swallows the sound, his hands finally landing on your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself as your back hits the cool metal of the elevator wall. His mouth moves over yours like he’s starving—deep, slow, then faster when you tug him closer. One of his hands drifts down, sliding under the hem of your dress, feeling your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin like he wants to memorize the shape of you.

You make a soft sound, and he groans into your mouth in response, the kiss turning hotter, heavier, his body pressing into yours like he can’t get close enough. Then all of a sudden-ding! The elevator doors open to your floor. You both break apart just barely, breathing hard, eyes locked. Neither of you moves right away. Hamzah’s chest is still pressed to yours, his hand resting against your thigh under your dress, like he forgot to pull away—or didn’t want to. You can feel his breath against your cheek, heavy and warm, and when he finally speaks, it’s in a voice so low it’s practically a growl. “You gonna walk” he murmurs, “or you want me to carry you?”

Your lips part, breath hitching as you start to respond,but you don’t get the chance. Suddenly, his arm wraps around your waist and the other around your legs, and you gasp as he lifts you like it’s nothing. Your arms instinctively loop around his neck, your dress riding up slightly as he holds you close. “Hamzah” you breathe, the sound caught somewhere between a warning and a plea. He doesn’t answer. He just starts walking, carrying you down the quiet hallway like he knows exactly where you’re going—and it’s the only place he’s been trying to get to all night.

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you cling to him, chest to chest, your lips brushing his jaw as you glance up. His eyes stay fixed ahead, his grip strong. When you reach your room, he pauses just outside the door. Gently, he lowers you to your feet, hands lingering at your waist, his breath still coming fast and shallow against your cheek. Fumbling slightly, you swipe the keycard. The lock clicks. And you barely wait for the door to swing open before your hand curls around his shirt, pulling him in with you.

As soon as the door shuts behind you, his mouth is on yours again—rougher this time, sloppy. Like now that he has you alone, he’s not holding anything back. The door clicks shut behind you, and then it’s like something snaps. He crowds you back against it without breaking the kiss, his hands gripping your waist, then sliding lower—down your hips, your thighs, tugging your dress up as his mouth devours yours. It’s all heat and teeth and tongue. You moan into him, fingers tangling in his shirt, tugging it up over his head. He barely breaks the kiss to yank it off, tossing it somewhere behind him before he’s on you again, mouth moving along your jaw, down your neck. His teeth graze your skin, and he sucks on the soft skin, leaving a mark.

“I’ve been thinking about this for months” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and low and desperate. “Thinking about you. How you sound. How you taste.” His hands find the backs of your thighs, lifting you again, only this time, he walks you straight to the bed. You cling to him, your dress hiked up, legs wrapped around his waist as he lowers you onto the mattress, his body following, pressing you down into the sheets. You look up at him, chest heaving, lips parted. “Then stop thinking,” you whisper, “and do something about it. That’s all it takes.

His hands are everywhere on your body. He quickly takes your dress off, tossing it away, the cold air of the room hardening your bare nipples. His eyes drop, and for a moment, all he does is stare. He can’t believe you’re real, laid out beneath him like this. “Fuck” he breathes, voice strained. Then he slowly lowers himself and his mouth wraps around one of your nipples. You gasp, arching into him as his tongue swirls, soft at first, then rougher, teasing. His hand cups your other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple as his lips close around the other, sucking with slow pressure that has your back lifting off the mattress.

“Hamzah,” you whisper, your voice already wrecked. “Please, want more” Hamzah lifts his head slightly, his mouth glistening from where he’d been sucking on your nipple, eyes dark with heat. “Yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “You want more?” His hand trails slowly down your stomach, the pads of his fingers caressing your soft skin until they disappear beneath the thin waistband of your panties. The moment his fingers dip lower, he groans under his breath. “Fuck, you’re soaked.” His touch is light at first—just two fingers sliding between your folds, collecting the slick that’s already gathered there.

You jolt slightly, breath hitching, whining softly, hips twitching up toward his hand. His other arm braces beside your head, keeping him hovered over you as his fingers begin to move, slow and teasing, rubbing lazy circles over your clit. After a minute he pulls back just enough to sit up on his knees, tugging your panties down your legs in one smooth motion. He drops them somewhere behind him without looking, gaze fixed between your thighs now spread open just for him. Hamzah leans in again, settling between your legs, hands gripping your thighs, pushing them wider.

A deep sigh leaves his mouth at the sight of you, then lowers his head, and licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy. You cry out, hips jerking, but he doesn’t stop. His mouth latches onto your clit, tongue swirling, then flattening, then flicking in perfect rhythm while his hands pin you down. He eats you like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and finally, finally gets to have you. Your hands move to his hair, gripping tight, and he groans into you at the pull, tongue working deeper, faster, until your thighs start to shake around his head. He doesn’t stop. Not when you whimper his name like that. Not even when your hips begin to roll against his mouth, desperate and mindless.

He just holds you open and keeps licking—slow, messy, relentless. You're right on the edge, the pleasure coiling tight in your core, your thighs trembling around his head “Hamzah,” you gasp, voice high and needy. “Fuck—I’m gonna—” And he stops. He pulls back suddenly, his mouth wet, lips slick with you. You make a broken sound, halfway between a moan and a protest, hips still twitching in the air like your body’s chasing the orgasm he just stole from you. He looks up at you, flushed and breathless. “Nah,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Not like that. I wanna feel you when you cum.”

He’s already pushing his sweats down, cock thick, hard and flushed, leaking at the tip as he crawls over you. Your legs part without second thought, welcoming him, and he grabs himself at the base, dragging the head slowly through your soaked folds. You whimper at the contact, hips tilting up, desperate. Hamzah hisses through his teeth. “Fuck—you’re so wet, baby.” Then he pushes in. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. He’s thick, filling you slow but deep, making you feel every inch as your walls clench around him. Your hands reach for his back, nails sinking into his skin.

He groans deep in his throat, forehead dropping to yours. “Shit—you feel so fucking good.” When he bottoms out, he pauses, buried to the hilt, letting you both feel it—how full you are, how tight, how perfect it fits. Then he starts to move. Slow at first, grinding deep, each thrust deliberate, dragging against that sensitive spot that makes your legs tremble. You gasp his name again, and that’s all it takes—he snaps his hips harder, faster, setting a rhythm that’s rough and needy and so goddamn good it knocks the thoughts from your head. Your body arches into him, mouth falling open, his lips brushing yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“Can’t believe it took us—fuck—so long to do this” his voice deep and unstable. Your body tightens beneath him, every nerve lit up like fire, and Hamzah doesn’t let up. His hips snap into you, fast and deep, filling you over and over. He’s panting against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, like he can’t bear to be any farther than skin-to-skin “That’s it,” he groans, his voice thick and wrecked. “Taking me so fucking well,made for me.” You whimper at his words, thighs trembling around his waist, fingernails digging into his back as the pleasure builds hard in your abdomen. Every thrust knocks the breath out of you, and the way he looks at you—like you’re his, like there’s nothing else in the world but you—pushes you right to the edge. “Hamzah—fuck—I’m close—”

He drives into you even deeper, the tip of his cock hitting that perfect spot that makes you cry out. “Cum for me,” he groans against your ear. “Be a good girl and cum. Let me feel you.” And you do. Your whole body shakes, your back arching off the bed as your orgasm rips through you, wave after wave crashing so hard it makes you sob his name. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing him so tight he swears under his breath. He brings his mouth to yours, kissing you deeply and passionately, leaving both of you breathless. “Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m—please, can i fill you up?” You quickly nod, and cling onto him tighter. “Please, i need you” you whine in his ear. His rhythm stutters, hips jerking once, twice—then he’s spilling inside you, thick and hot, buried as deep as he can get. He curses again, low and breathless, holding you tight as he throbs inside you.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, skin slick with sweat and still trembling from the high. His nose brushes yours, and for a moment, everything is quiet but the sound of your breathing and the dull thrum of your racing heartbeats. Then, slowly, gently, he kisses you again—this time softer, slower, but still desperate. Like he’s trying to say everything he doesn’t have words for. “You okay?” he murmurs, his voice rough but full of concern as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head immediately, pulling him down for another kiss. “No,” you whisper against his lips. “I feel perfect.” He smiles at your words, so full of love that it makes your chest ache. He finally pulls out of you carefully, murmuring a quiet apology at the sensitivity, and disappears for a second to grab a towel from the bathroom. When he returns, he kneels between your legs, his touch gentle as he cleans you up, his eyes flicking to your face every few seconds to make sure you’re okay. Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed beside you, tugging the duvet up around both your bodies.

His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in close, tucking your head beneath his chin. His other hand finds yours under the covers, fingers lacing together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs into your hair. “Wanted you. For so long.” You smile sleepily, fingers trailing over his bare chest. “You have me,” you say softly. “You’ve always had me.” He presses a kiss to your temple and holds you tighter. “Not letting you go now,” he whispers. “Not ever.” And with your legs tangled together and his heartbeat steady under your cheek, you fall asleep in his arms, warm, safe and more his than you’ve ever been.

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#hamzah smut #hamzah #hamzah angst #hamzah fic #hamzah fluff #martin and hamzah #hamzah x y/n #hamzah x reader #hamzah imagines #hamzahthefantastic #hamzahthefanatasticxreader #hamzahsmut #slushynoobz #slushy noobz #slushy virus

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sushirrrry · 2 months ago

Text

AU PAIR

a harry styles x you one-shot cw: solo female masturbation, slow burn, tension!!! word count: 11,408

summary: a working single dad and his au pair start to bond over simple bedtime routines, but a steamy kiss after bath time threatens their professional boundaries tag list: @esposa-do-harry @fangirlstuffsblog @matildasatellite @dipmeinhoneyh @thepopcultureaddict @iloveharrystyles04 @theluckyleprachaun-in-stripes @this-is-tiny-mia @emmie2308

hope you all enjoy <3

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The sound of the house settles into one of those rare, aching silences — the kind that hums against your skin after a long day of toys scattered across the living room floor and tiny feet padding after you, or the sounds of the juice spilling from the table and onto the meticulously kept hardwood.

Quinn, Leo, and yourself are currently sharing one of the small toddler beds for bedtime stories, as you begin smoothing the edges of her quilt on the side of Leo that he is curled up into, the faded colors soft under your fingertips. You can hear the breathing of two worn-out toddlers coming in slow, even puffs now.

Your voice is a whisper as you finish the last page, Goodnight Moon balanced on your knee, thumb running absently over the cracked spine.

“…goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” Your last breath is practically silent as you recognize that the two children have fallen asleep; you knew they would fall asleep seconds after you started reading for the second time.

You close the book quietly, pressing it to your chest for a moment like a shield, before setting it aside on the little nightstand. The main mission now is to get yourself out of the bed, trying to make your way around and down to the bottom so you do not disturb them.

It is not unusual that they fall asleep in each other’s beds; the five- and three-year-old have practically slept in the same bed all along – as long as you have been here to notice it. It was more of a comfort thing, you find. Maybe it has to do with the loneliness that they feel from their parents, you are not entirely sure. All that you know is that you do not find an issue with leaving them to find comfort in each other.

As you’ve gotten off the bed, you place the children’s book on the small shelf beside the bed. For a moment, you simply sat there, watching the slow, even rise and fall of their chests, the occasional twitch of a dream beginning to form in one of their tiny limbs. It was a rare kind of peace—something delicate, something sacred. To be a child is an honor, and you feel it’s an honor to watch them.

As you make your way to the door, you’ve smoothed your palms down the front of your denim shorts, casting one last look at the sleeping children before slipping quietly from the room. You pulled the door almost shut behind you, leaving it open just a crack, just the way they liked it – just in case they ever needed to find you.

In the large home in Hampstead, it was quite hard for the little ones to manage their way around on their own.

The hallway was quiet; the light had dimmed outside in the summer heat but hadn’t completely set as it crept through the windows that lined the hall. There was a stretch of warm wood floors and framed photographs—beaches, birthday cakes, candid laughter caught mid-breath. You padded barefoot down the stairs. The house smelled faintly of cinnamon and soap, a comfortable blend that was beginning to feel familiar.

You made your way to the kitchen space, in the small breakfast nook, where your laptop sat waiting for you on the corner, an abandoned Word document still blinking impatiently on the screen as if it had been just sitting and waiting for written words to come that never would.

There was a mug of cold coffee next to it, forgotten hours ago prior to bath and bedtime, even after Leo had demanded "one more story, pleeeease," and Quinn had chimed in with her irresistible little lisp.

You sat down with a soft sigh, pulling the computer closer, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. There was a paper due for your Early Child Development summer course, which, on a complete ironic level you had decided to write about the role that storytelling played on a cognitive level in early childhood. However, you found yourself staring at the cursor, your thoughts wandering lazily through the evening, replaying the sound of Quinn’s giggles and Leo’s earnest questions about dragons and knights.

A sip of the cold coffee wasn’t what you needed – it was truly something stronger, but you knew that you had to get this finished before Monday. On a normal Friday, you would be trying to find a plan – something to do with some of your friends. But now, it was sitting in your boss's kitchen waiting for inspiration to hit so you could at least write the first sentence.

It was an hour later when you heard the key turn in the lock; the sound that someone had gotten home.

You glanced up just as the front door pushed open and Harry stepped inside, the heat of the summer night air following him in for a moment before he shoved the door closed with his foot. His hands held his satchel, a cup that he used for coffee in the morning, and his keys.

He looked exhausted, a bit of distress coating his face.

His dark hair was a mess, flattened on one side like he had been running his hand through it for hours. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, the fabric rumpled, and his tie hung loose and crooked around his neck. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the hint of a tattoo curling just beneath his collarbone, something you hadn’t dared stare at for too long.

You had never seen it in full detail, but you knew that it was there.

Without a word, Harry tossed the jacket onto the back of the nearest chair and headed straight for the bar tucked into the corner of the living room, without as much as a ‘hello’ to greet you in the dimly lit kitchen space. You heard the clink of glass against glass as he selected a tumbler and set it down with a tired sort of deliberation.

“Long day?” you asked softly, unsure if you should interrupt his brooding, or if he might want to do that in the peace of the space he owned.

He glanced over his shoulder at you almost as if he didn’t see you sitting there, the corners of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile—half amusement, half pure exhaustion.

“Oh, I mean, you could say that,” he muttered, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and giving it a quick once over. The amber liquid caught the light as he poured it, generous and unbothered. “Never-ending meetings. Clients who think they know better than their attorneys – which is ironic considering we’re hired to make sure that they win, and they should keep their mouths shut. Partners breathing down my neck about quarterly numbers. You know, just another day in the office.”

He shook his head as he set the bottle back down with a muted thunk.

You closed your laptop, pushing it aside, the document forgotten for the moment. Something about the slump of Harry’s shoulders, the way he rubbed the back of his neck, made you want to offer him something—comfort, distraction, maybe just company if he needed it.

Harry came home a lot to an empty house – no one to talk to, so your presence might have been needed every once in a while. Once he got home, you would go out with friends or go to class or just get yourself out of the house since you were home with the kids all day.

He took a sip of his drink and exhaled slowly, eyes falling closed for a beat. He leaned against the kitchen counter. One at a time, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbow. When he opened his eyes again, they found you across the room, lingering, uncertain.

“Kids asleep?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that filled the cozy space between you.

You nodded in confirmation. “Out cold. Leo made me read Goodnight Moon twice. Quinn didn’t even last through the first time.”

“How many times does the moon need to be told ‘goodnight’?” Harry’s mouth quirked again, softer this time. “Must mean you tell the story in an enticing way.”

There was something in his gaze then—something heavier, quieter, something that lingered a little too long. You felt your skin prickle with awareness, a flush rising in your cheeks that you tried to ignore.

“They’re good kids, it’s the least I can do.” You said, your voice a little too bright, a little too quick. You stood, tucking your chair in, needing the motion to shake off the sudden, humming tension in the room.

“I-I, uh,” You swallowed as you looked at your laptop that was shut sitting next to you. “I should be writing a paper, actually. It’s due on Monday.”

Harry watched you then, swirling the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly. The look on his face made it seem like had some thoughts in the back of his head.

Then he glanced over at you, almost shyly.

"You want a drink?" he asked, uncertainty in his voice as he didn’t look back up when you didn’t answer right away.

You blinked, surprised at his question. It wasn’t that it was unlike him to be friendly – he was one of the nicest bosses that you could have ever had. It was mostly because it was unlike him to be doing something other than putting himself in his office, shutting the door, and working until two A.M.

"I—" You glanced down at your laptop, the half-finished paper still glowing through the screen. "I probably should keep working..."

Harry’s mouth quirked, a half-smile that felt both boyish and unbearably tired.

"Come on," he said, pushing off the island. "It’s a nice night. We can sit outside. Just for a little while."

You hesitated — but the softness in his voice, the aching loneliness he didn’t even bother to hide, undid you. Something about thinking of him sitting out there alone, in the quiet garden that probably held too many memories, made you nod instead.

"Okay," you said quietly, giving him an encouraging smile.

Harry grabbed a second glass and poured you a measure of whiskey without waiting for confirmation on how much. You slipped your laptop onto the coffee table, accepting the drink he pressed into your hand when you went to receive it. His fingers brushed yours — a light, accidental touch — but it felt like something more.

The dark, tattooed circle on his ring finger always stood out to you, but you never asked.

He led the way through the French doors into the garden that sat off the living room.

The night air wrapped around you, thick and warm, rich with the smell of honeysuckle and something green and wild. Crickets sang somewhere off in the hedges as the warmth of the summer breeze had tickled your skin and left you with an ease. The fairy lights Harry had strung over the small stone patio twinkled overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow.

He slouched into one of the old wooden chairs, sprawling with all the boneless grace of a man who didn’t know how to relax but was trying to anyway.

You settled into the chair across from him, tucking your legs up beneath you. The whiskey glass was cool against your palm as you took another sip.

For a while, neither of you spoke – you stared up into the night sky, seeing the reds and pinks that summer brought to the atmosphere. You just sat there, breathing in the humid, fragrant night, the soft clink of his glass against the chair arm the only sound between you.

Harry broke the silence first. His voice different than usual as he stared at the whiskey glass that settled on the arm of the chair.

"You’re so good with them," he said, meaning Leo and Quinn. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it himself for admitting something he had kept to himself.

You shrugged, a little embarrassed by the compliment. "They make it easy. And it’s my job. I’m sure you’re good at your job, too."

His smile was faint at your own compliment, almost self-mocking. "Not always."

You glanced at him, catching the tightness around his mouth, the way his hands curled around the glass made your eyes want to stare, but your attentiveness made you look up.

There was a moment when you stopped and thought about your next words and if you should say them aloud. You bit on your lip as you tasted the whiskey with hints of vanilla and all-spice.

"You’re doing a good job, you know," you said. "They’re happy. They talk about you all the time.”

Harry made a soft sound — not quite a laugh. He leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the night sky.

"Some days I feel like I’m just...trying not to screw them up too badly," he said. "Trying to be two people at once, and trying to be present, do things with them. But I’m so glad that you’re around because I feel like… I don’t know, I feel like you’re just good at what you do and you’re good with them and they love you.”

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. It felt like he had been waiting for a long time to say those things to you.

"You’re more than enough," you said, not knowing what else to say to him. You didn’t know if it was the whiskey talking, or if there had been more on his mind. You sat with your heart open to allow him to know that everything would be okay – it was just a rough day. We all had them.

He turned his head, looking at you properly. The distance between your chairs felt smaller suddenly, like the air had shifted, pulling you closer as you sat under the lights in the garden.

Harry’s home had been your home for the past six months as you tried to make your way through medical schooling; you wanted to work with children, and you need to make a bit of extra cash. This was a job that was close to your school, staying in the area you wanted, and Harry was kind enough to try to work his schedule around yours just because you were so good at what you did.

There really hadn’t been a moment when it was the two of you like this, so you treasured it, in a way. You were happy to see this adult side of him – not the lawyer, not the father.

His eyes were dark in the low light, unreadable as he blinked staring at his glass tumbler that was starting to sweat with condensation. But something flickered there — something fragile and aching.

"You're kind," he said, voice low. "I don’t know if it’s true, but...thank you."

You smiled, sipping your drink to hide the sudden rush of heat to your cheeks. Harry tipped his own glass toward you slightly, a lazy sort of toast.

"To another day," he said.

You leaned forward a bit, making sure that you could clink your glass against his. "To another one."

The whiskey burned sweetly down your throat, settling low in your stomach as you took your sip. You leaned back in your chair, letting the wood help perch you up a bit.

Harry shifted in his chair, turning slightly toward you, his knee brushing the edge of your chair. The touch was casual, almost careless — but your body betrayed you, hyperaware of the small point of contact.

"You’ve really changed our lives," he said suddenly, voice rougher now. You could tell that he was having a thoughtful moment; he didn't know how to express it correctly, you could tell by his facial expression after he said it. "Having you here."

Your breath caught.

"Harry—" you started, but the words tangled.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling from his fingers. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt rumpled and open at the throat. He looked undone in a way that made your chest ache.

"I’m probably crossing a line just saying that," he said, a hint of a smile ghosting across his mouth, he pushed away the comments just as easily as he made them. "I’m just tired. Ignore me."

But you couldn’t ignore him. The words settled between you, too heavy, too important.

"You’re not," you said softly. "Crossing a line, I mean."

He watched you carefully, like he wasn’t sure he believed you. Like he was waiting for you to push him back into his safe, professional box.

Instead, you shifted a little closer, your drink cradled loosely in your lap.

"It’s nice to just...talk," you said. "To be real with someone."

Harry's mouth twisted, something tender and pained flashing across his face.

"Not many people want the real version of me anymore," he said. "Just the lawyer. Or the dad," He paused for a moment, "Or the ex-husband. The...functioning adult."

You looked at him — really looked — and saw the man beneath all the roles he wore like armor.

"I like the real you," you said before you could stop yourself. "You've been very kind to me since I've been here, and I think sometimes we all just need a break from it all."

Biting your lip, you thought about the plans you had in the morning. You thought about how you were going to leave Harry on his own, taking the kids to the farmers market to shop for groceries for the weekend.

"Why don’t you take the kids to the farmers market in the morning? Maybe it would be good for you – just the three of you."

His eyes flew up to you, like he had been unsure of your intentions, so you interrupted his thought.

"I was going to take them because they had this tulip picking event – a bit selfish, because really the tulips were for my enjoyment," You found yourself starting to smile, "But if you want some alone time with the kids without me, don’t hesitate to ask."

You watched as he took in a breath, finally nodding at your request. "That would be really nice, actually. I probably do need that."

The air between you went very still.

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest, most dizzying second — then back up to your eyes. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it.

You stayed frozen, breath shallow, heart thudding so hard it drowned out the crickets, the soft hum of the garden lights.

He smiled then, slow and deliberate but almost shy, and leaned back in his chair, putting just enough space between you to let you breathe again.

"I should probably call it a night before I make a complete ass of myself and say something so regret," he said, voice warm and rough and fond. He downed the rest of his drink before you heard the ice clink against the glass.

You laughed softly, the tension breaking just enough to make your hands stop trembling around the glass.

"Okay,” You agreed, your voice a whisper in the warm dark.

Neither of you moved, though. Neither of you really wanted to – you weren't sure of why. There wasn’t a rush.

The air between you stayed charged, heavy and tender, even as Harry finally, reluctantly, pushed up from his chair.

He stretched his arms overhead, the hem of his shirt pulling just a little at his hips, before he dropped his arms and looked down at you, smiling in a way that made your stomach twist.

"You staying out here a little longer?" he asked.

You nodded, unable to find your voice. It had been a good idea to come out and get some warmth on your skin.

Harry hesitated like he wanted to say something more. Like maybe there was something he could say to untangle the complicated thing sparking between you — but whatever it was, he swallowed it down and shook his head, voting against it.

Instead, he simply said: "Goodnight, moon.”

Your breath hitched — not at the word itself, but the low, absent affection in it, like it had slipped out without thinking.

"Goodnight, Harry." You whispered.

He gave a small, almost pained smile — and then turned and went back inside, leaving the door cracked open behind him.

You stayed there long after his footsteps faded upstairs, the night humming gently around you, the taste of him still lingering somehow, though he hadn't even touched you.

You closed your eyes and leaned back in the chair, cradling the cooling whiskey glass in your lap, feeling the slow, aching bloom of something new — something dangerous — take root inside you.

THE NEXT DAY

The first thing you noticed when you woke was the sunlight that came in slanting through the gauzy curtains, painting the room in pale gold. That was the peaceful thing that you noticed.

The second thing was the sound of the house alive around you, along with what had been going on downstairs. Small feet pattering across hardwood floors, the clatter of shoes being found, the low rumble of Harry's voice cutting through the chaos with patient authority.

"Jacket, Quinn. No, the green one. Leo, leave the dinosaur — please, bud. We don't need to bring that with us."

You smiled into the pillow as you laid on your stomach, stretching your limbs luxuriously, savoring the rare slow start to your morning.

The front door banged open and shut with a final thunk, followed by the muffled sound of tires crunching on the driveway gravel as they made their way away from the house.

Then, there was that sound. Silence.

You turned onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. The house, usually bustling, noisy, spilling over with half-finished crafts and impromptu pillow forts, was suddenly, blissfully still.

An unexpected, precious pocket of time all to yourself. You took in a deep breath as you found a bit of a thrill as you let your hand touch the lower side of your hip. Your fingertip slowly circled round, feeling the bone of it. Slowly, you let your hand caress the edge of your panties.

Shutting your eyes, you let your hand fall deeper underneath. The touch of your clitoris confirmed your need; it was sensitive and warm to the touch, needing the affection you had time to give.

All alone.

Then, all the sudden, you hear your name said aloud. Your eyes blink up and open; it had felt so real.

But it wasn’t real. The sound of the voice coursing through your thoughts was from him. It excited you – knowing that he was on your mind. But the total encapsulation of his being had turned you on, giving you a scare as you thought about what that could mean or why it happened in the first place.

You were sitting on your elbows, then. Wondering if you should continue with the thought of him. Licking your lips, you think about the way his hand wrapped around the whiskey tumbler– fingers delicate and and poised around the cold glass. You can imagine him flicking the water off his fingers, cold and with ease.

Your fingers dance around you, guiding your thoughts dirtier. Your fingers dive into you, letting out a gasp as you think about the feeling of his cold hands on your hot skin.

You think about the way that the tattoos on his chest dance along the neckline of his shirts, the forbidden heat of it driving you insane. Curling your fingers, you lift your legs to bend to give you further access inside of yourself. Your two fingers are pushing deeply in and out, missing the feeling when you pull out.

A gasp escapes your lips as you feel your two fingers in a way that excites you – it pleasures you too well. Your swollen and warm and filled with something that is not him.

But his voice echos in your head as you let your thoughts hang above you like they're watching you please yourself at just the thought of him. You palm your clit with the thought of his head dipping between your thighs, opening you, letting his tongue work on your clit a way that feel exhausting.

Your thoughts mimic a feeling of guilt as you can practically feel the flat of his tongue, eyes darting up to see your reaction at the surge of pleasure he allows you.

"Don’t stop," Your murmur to yourself, "Fuck, Harry– please."

You echo the words, murmurs, and whimpers alike. A feeling grabs ahold of you and pulls you onto the bed, forcing you to take a moment to feel the excitement that rushes through you at once.

You're pulsating around your fingers; your orgasm holding you hostage for a moment as you feel the comedown of the high that felt so momentarily strong.

A few moments of clarity were needed as you laid on the white sheets, feeling the warm summer sun come in through the windows. Your heartbeat falling back to normal, your breathing starting to come to a normalcy.

There was so much to unpack in just the small moment for yourself. A lot of questions, a lot of solitude was needed.

Without overthinking it, you pulled away your covers, stepping out of the bed The sun outside was shining high, you could feel the heat just from the window.

You decided that it may be nice to lay by the pool for a bit, since you have some time off this morning for yourself. The paper could wait — after the conversation with Harry last night, this would be good for you.

It took a moment to find, but once you did, you pulled on your swimsuit — a simple black two-piece, practical but flattering — and layered a loose linen button-up over it. The fabric, soft and worn from washing, hung almost to your mid-thighs to give you a good cover-up.

Barefoot, you padded downstairs, grabbing your thick paperback novel that had been sitting on the coffee table and a pair of sunglasses from the hall table where you left your purses and keys.

The back door creaked gently as you pushed it open.

Outside, the garden was bathed in the early summer light, the air already warming but still edged with a faint coolness in the shade. Bees floated lazily among the wisteria vines curling over the trellis, and somewhere nearby, a lawnmower buzzed faintly, already at work.

You crossed the flagstone patio and dropped into one of the lounge chairs with a satisfied sigh, tucking your legs underneath you and flipping open your book. The sun was hot – you could feel it on your skin as you laid there in the summer bliss.

The words swallowed you whole into a captivating space where time and troubles didn’t matter.

Hours slipped by, unnoticed. You read and sipped iced water from a sweating glass, shifting positions when the sun crept higher overhead, letting the heat seep into your skin. It had taken you for surprise every moment your drifted off into a sleep; you felt so at peace.

You were so absorbed in your comfort that you barely noticed the car pulling into the driveway on the other side of the stone wall until the faint sound of car doors slamming echoed down the side yard.

You straightened up, heart giving a small, startled flutter. It was almost like in that small timeframe; this had been your paradise. It was like you had forgotten where you were, or who you were living with.

A moment later, the gate door swung open — and Harry stepped on in.

You watched from down by the pool, unseen for a moment as you realized he had been dropping some items off by the gate.

He looked rumpled in the most achingly appealing way — sunglasses shoved up onto his head, hair mussed from the breeze. A bag of fresh produce was slung over one arm; his sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a looseness about him, a casualness you rarely saw after his long days at the firm.

His eyes lifted and found you almost instantly. For one suspended moment, everything froze. You knew that he didn’t expect to see you here, and why should he have? You weren’t one to sit by the pool, or enjoy your time off like this – you barely got time off, as it was.

The bags slipped slightly down his arm as he instinctively jerked to a stop, muscles tightening. His gaze, dark and unreadable, swept over you in one swift, stunned pass: the bare legs folded under you, the black triangle of your bikini top peeking through the loose, open buttons of your shirt, the lazy, sun-drunk way you lounged there with a novel half-forgotten in your lap.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. Maybe two as you drew in a breath. But you felt it like a physical touch, like static sparking in the heavy air between you.

Harry dragged his gaze away with a visible effort, dropping his eyes to the ground as if scorched by what he had seen. His jaw flexed, a faint pink rising over the stubble roughening his cheeks.

You snapped your book shut without thinking, heart hammering suddenly against your ribs.

He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to say something normal, anything — when the kids burst through the garden-gated door behind him.

"Daddy! You have to show her!" Quinn shouted, her tiny sneakers slapping against the ground as she had followed him into the back gate.

You could tell that he hadn't planned for them to follow him, but he had lingered here too long, and they had not been caught.

Leo crashed into his thigh, clutching a brown paper bag like it was treasure.

Harry blinked, as if remembering where he was, and quickly stepped back to let them through. Quinn ran straight to you, a bundle of something crumpled and colorful clutched in her small hands.

"We got you flowers!" She said, breathless with excitement. She thrust them into your lap: reds and yellows spilled out from the paper.

You looked down: tulips, slightly battered from the ride home, their bright heads bobbing on long green stems. Your chest squeezed thinking of your conversation last night and the way he had thought of your disappointment possibly missing out on the tulip festival.

When you look up, you see Harry standing against the gate with a dimpled smile on his face as he watched his children shower you with affection.

"They're beautiful, sweetheart," You said, your voice quiet as you realized you had even really spoken to anyone yet today. You reached out and smoothed Quinn’s hair away from her forehead, smiling. "Thank you."

Leo tugged on your sleeve, brandishing his prize, a small jar of golden honey sealed with a checkered cloth lid.

"Real honey," he said proudly. "We saw the bees and everything!"

"Actual bees," Quinn emphasized, nodding gravely as if her brother could have been kidding, and she needed you to know that.

“As opposed to, you know," Harry stated afterwards, "Fake bees."

With a humorous tone, you stare at him with a smirk, both of your eyes covered by sunglasses. His hands pushed into the pockets of his shorts that came up midthigh, a hat on his head shielded him from the sun.

You laughed, scooping Leo up into your lap without thinking, tucking him against your side as you inspected the jar. His hair was warm and sun-smelling under your chin.

You felt Harry's gaze on you again but it was different this time; heavier this time, lingering.

Something about the way you sat there, barefoot, and golden in the morning sun, arms full of his children, your laugh spilling easily into the bright air… it may have given his heart a ping of something.

He cleared his throat roughly, going to grab at the gate door that had shut behind him.

"I'll, uh," he said, voice hoarse, "grab the rest of the stuff from the car." He disappeared outside before you could answer.

You watched the door swing gently in his wake, your heart still thudding unevenly against your ribs. You couldn’t deny what had passed between you — whatever invisible current had snapped taut across the sunlit garden.

And now, sitting there with the kids chattering excitedly around you, you realized two things with startling clarity: one, Harry was fighting with the idea that you loved his children. And two, you were starting to realize that sense too.

“C’mon, you two,” You say to the kids; Quinn has started to look through the novel you had sitting out but knowing that she couldn’t understand the words made you smile. “Let’s go help your daddy, hm?”

They scrambled ahead of you barefoot, little feet slapping across the hot stone that was baking under the unusually warm England sun, as they darted back into the house from the French doors. You followed at an easier pace, pausing just long enough to brush your damp hair off your neck from when you had taken a dip in the pool earlier to cool off, the thin straps of your bathing suit still just a bit dewy but practically dry. Your cover-up, a gauzy thing that barely reached mid-thigh, fluttered behind you as the breeze filtered through the door.

Harry was just pulling a crate from the boot of the car and into the house when he caught sight of you coming in through the kitchen

His hand faltered slightly on the box.

He hadn’t expected the way the sunlight would frame you like that, haloing your hair, catching the edge of your smile as the kids crowded around his legs to help. His daughter tugged at a canvas bag that he had sat inside and not fully bringing into the kitchen, insisting she was strong enough to carry it herself. Leo squealed with excitement when you bent to lift a carton of strawberries, your cover-up gaping slightly at the neckline as you moved.

Harry tore his gaze away, and grabbed at the list he didn’t really need in his pocket to make sure that he had gotten everything on it.

“Thanks,” He said when you stepped past him with a crate tucked in your arms. He caught the scent of your sunscreen—warm coconut and saltwater—and something else, something that made him dizzy for a beat too long.

“Of course,” You murmured, your voice easy, unaware—or pretending to be, at least.

In the kitchen, the kids were already unpacking the groceries with great ceremony, piling vegetables onto the kitchen counter in chaotic towers as they took one by one out. You joined them, setting down the crate and reaching for a peach to inspect, your fingers brushing the soft fuzz of it thoughtfully.

Harry brought in the last of the bags. He moved slower now, like he didn’t quite trust himself to get too close. But when he stepped up beside you and saw you standing there barefoot, tan legs bare beneath your cover-up, backlit in the window light—he knew he was in trouble.

“Do you want help with making lunch?” You asked, turning to him. Your lips curved gently, like you knew exactly how he was looking at you and weren’t afraid to let him.

He blinked, taken off guard by your question. “Yeah—uh, yeah, sure. I was thinking something easy. Sandwiches maybe?”

“That’s perfect,” You said, already reaching for the bread.

You moved around him like it was natural. You always had, he realized. Slipping past him in narrow spaces with a hand lightly grazing his back that usually felt like fire on him or brushing his forearm when you passed him the kettle, or leaning just slightly into him when the kids were being rowdy and you both needed a moment of shared silence. It was always small. Subtle.

But now… he was noticing all of it. There was no subtly, it was just happening.

He opened the fridge while you chopped tomato slices. And when you leaned over to grab a plate from the cabinet, the hem of your cover-up lifted just enough to show the curve of your upper thigh, the dark tie of your bikini bottom flashing against your skin. He made the mistake of looking.

Then you caught him; he looked practically ill.

You turned your head slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. “Is everything okay?”

His throat felt dry as he shrugged and tried to play off the behavior. “Yeah. Yeah, just… making sure I’ve got enough…” He trailed off, looking at the list, almost like he hadn’t known what to respond with.

Your heart beat faster at the way he seemed… nervous. You smirked faintly but didn’t press him, only went back to slicing vegetables with quiet focus.

He stood beside you, trying to concentrate on the sandwiches, but every time your arm brushed his, every time your hip nudged his as you both reached for the same cutting board, he felt like the floor might tilt under him. It was unbearable and addictive all at once—the domesticity of it, the small sweetness of this moment that looked, from the outside, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He couldn’t remember what this feeling was, it had been too long since he had felt the draw of someone’s presence. Not with the same ache, the same hesitation. The need was one thing. But the softness of it? The rightness of it? That was new.

You handed him a finished plate with a horizontally cut sandwich, and your fingers touched—longer than necessary. And this time, neither of you pulled away quickly.

From the table, Leo called out, “Are you done yet? I’m starving!”

“Leo, be polite.” Harry stated back at him, acknowledging that the toddler had been a bit rude.

You smiled, breaking the tension, and pulled away to finish assembling the food.

Harry didn’t say a word. But when he caught your profile in the corner of his eye, the dip of your neck, the curve of your shoulder where your cover-up had slipped slightly off, he bit down on the inside of his cheek and looked away fast, chest tight.

Lunch was mostly a noisy affair, as it usually was with little voices bouncing off the walls. The kids sat perched around the kitchen table, chomping on peach slices and crustless sandwiches. You sat beside Leo, wiping mustard from his chin with the corner of a napkin, while Harry stood at the sink rinsing out the tomato-streaked wooden cutting board.

It had almost settled into a rhythm until Quinn suddenly piped up between bites of cheese that she had strategically picked from her sandwich.

“Daddy, when is Mummy coming this year?” The words landed with a thud in the air. Heavy and unexpected. You tried not to make a deal of it, but you had to glance at Harry to catch his reaction to her very innocent question.

Harry froze, hands still under the running water. You glanced at him instinctively and saw his shoulders tense—not a flinch, exactly, but a tightening, like he was bracing himself to give her an answer.

“She said maybe she’d come for the fireworks last time,” Quinn continued, oblivious, swinging her feet under the table. You didn’t exactly know what that meant – a promise made between her and her mother.

Leo looked up from his half-eaten sandwich, interested now. “Yeah, she missed them last year.”

You sat still, carefully quiet.

At the sink, Harry let the tap run another second too long before turning it off abruptly. The silence that followed was too sharp for the easy sunlit mood you’d all just been sitting in, and you felt a shift in the air.

He dried his hands on a dish towel slowly. Then, with a voice that was just a little too calm, he said, “We’ll see, love.”

Quinn frowned at his nonresponse. “But—”

“Let’s not worry about that today, alright?” Harry said, just a touch firmer now. He turned to face them, towel clenched in one hand. “I don’t know all the answers, but I do know you need to finish your lunch so we can continue with our day.”

The kids quieted, sensing the edge to his voice even if they didn’t understand it. Quinn looked down at her plate, nudging a slice of the fallen tomato with her thumb. Leo murmured something about the boat that they had gone on a few weeks ago with Harry’s family and went back to eating.

You felt the air shift like a tide pulling away. Harry caught your eyes across the kitchen. Just for a second. There was something there—something raw and tired and older than the man who’d been smiling moments ago. A look that said: Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

You never did, and you weren’t going to start. But you did know that it seemed to be off limits.

Instead, you wiped Leo’s hands, gathered the empty plates, and stacked them with soft efficiency.

“I’ll take care of this,” you said gently, your voice low but light. “Why don’t you go and get their swimsuits on, and I’ll clean up here.”

“Go swimming?” The kids both perked up again at the mention of it and slid off their chairs after they had their plates removed, already halfway down the hall. Leo followed, dragging a half-eaten peach in one hand.

When they were gone, you placed the dishes in the sink beside Harry who had not made an effort to follow the kids to their rooms, careful to keep your movements quiet. You didn’t want to crowd him, but you didn’t want to leave either.

He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, exhaling roughly as if in thought. “She calls when she wants to. Sends gifts. Postcards.” He laughed, short and bitter. “And somehow they still think she might show up and make jam tarts like she used to.”

You said nothing, just rinsed the plates slowly. You knew that listening was the best you could do right now, so that’s what you did.

“It’s been nearly a year,” He added, quieter now. “But I’m still the bad guy if I say she won’t come.”

You glanced at him, turning the sink off. “You’re not the bad guy.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and there was something like gratitude swimming behind the guarded frustration in his face. Something tired and real.

“I didn’t- I don’t mean to get sharp with them,” He murmured. “It’s just… every time they ask, it sets me back. I think I’ve moved on. That I’ve built something steady for them. But then it all just… it builds up. I hate that their only memory of her is going to be the times she didn’t show up.”

“I get it,” you said gently. “You’re trying to hold it all together. It’s okay to be tired of the cracks, and for trying your best.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, drying his hands again even though they weren’t wet. You were close now—only a few inches of space between you. The hum of the ceiling fan, the distant seagulls outside.

“Kids hold onto the hope that things might go back to how they were.” You tell him, leaning against the counter.

He let out a humorless breath at that, shaking his head. “Yeah. Except she’s off in Provence or Cannes or wherever, living in some gated house, and sending ‘love from Mum’ in cursive on postcards from places she’s been that they’ve never even heard of before.”

You stayed quiet. Not out of awkwardness, but because it felt like he just needed to say it aloud. Needed someone to hear him for once. The way he opened to you wasn’t shocking – Harry was quiet an emotional man, you could tell that he had a lot being carried on his shoulders, but he never opened up to you the way he had been.

It was just someone to listen and to not judge him.

“She left a year and a half ago,” he said, still holding the towel in his hands. “Didn’t want this life anymore. Said she felt stuck. That she wanted to be ‘a woman again,’ not just a mother.”

Your stomach turned a little, not knowing how a mother leaves her children. You didn’t want to judge, but your impression had already soured. You crossed your arms over your chest and tilted your head as you listened.

“She married again to a – I don’t know, CEO of something somewhere. They live in luxury. Not that I didn’t try, not that I didn’t give her all of this,” Harry looked around the spectacular Hamstead home that had accommodations far greater than just the four of us that lived there. “She just didn’t want… responsibility. She wasn’t meant to be a mother, and I do feel that maybe I,” He paused, “Maybe I coaxed her into it. Like, she only did it for me.”

His voice was softer when he said, “Some days, I think I’ve forgiven her. Other days, I look at Quinn when she asks about her mum, and I just—” His jaw clenched. “I get angry.”

“She’s allowed to miss her mum,” you said gently. “But you’re allowed to feel angry, too, especially when your resentment is so high. You’ve been showing up. Every single day. That counts for something – the kids will remember that and see that. They will hold resentment too, but they will grow up understanding who was there for them.”

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice low. “For not making it a thing. With them… or me.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile as you thought of the times that Quinn would ask you questions you didn’t know answers to, so you would deflect. Harry looked at you then with something new in his eyes—soft, searching, a question he didn’t quite dare ask.

And just for a second, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to reach up, thread your fingers through the edge of his T-shirt, and kiss him right there in the middle of the kitchen. To drop the pretense.

But you didn’t. Because the kids were down the hall, and because Harry was still trying to figure out how to let someone in again. So instead, you bumped his shoulder gently with yours and said, “Come on, let’s go make sure that peach Leo was holding doesn’t end up in a bed somewhere.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Goddamn kids.”

You laughed, and it broke the tension just enough.

But the look in his eyes lingered—long after you left the kitchen, long after the kids had rallied for their towels and snacks and toys.

It clung to the warm corners of the day like something unsaid but undeniable.

Later that night, bathtime was always a bit of a circus in the house, especially when you didn’t have help. But tonight it felt even more chaotic, their sun-soaked energy bubbling over in the form of shrieks and slippery limbs.

Harry was also here – a lot of the times, he was at the office or working late, which is why you were there to help. He often came home in the middle of bathtime, getting a run down from the kids on the day and how they were doing while trying to eat his dinner as he stood in the doorway while you worked.

But tonight was different – tonight, you two worked as a team, each of you taking a kid and spending time with them. Leo had somehow managed to dump half a bottle of bubble bath into the tub before you’d even turned on the tap. Now the bathtub was just a sea of foam, the scent of orange blossom rising in the warm air.

You sat on the edge of the tub, shorts damp at the edges, scrubbing Leo’s feet gently while he chattered about how he was going to be “the biggest shark” in the pool tomorrow. Harry was toweling Quinn’s hair, his forearms flexing with the motion, tattoos slick and shining from the steam and water. You had to look away.

Or rather—you tried to, but kept noticing how they stuck out around the tight t-shirt he was sporting.

All afternoon, you’d caught flashes of him in the pool: tossing Leo effortlessly into the air as the boy shrieked with joy, letting Quinn ride on his shoulders during splash fights, his own laughter echoing off the garden walls. The sun had traced golden lines across his skin, catching on the wet curve of his neck and shoulders, the faint pink of a sunburn spreading across his back and cheeks.

And the tattoos—how they shifted and twisted with each movement. You’d noticed the faint trail of water dripping down his ribs, over the anchor inked on his wrist, and how your fingers itched to touch them. Not for the first time.

“I think the bubbles are trying to eat me!” Leo shouted, thrashing like a sea creature, and spilling water over the edge of the tub.

“They’ve claimed you,” Harry declared dramatically. “There’s nothing we can do now – you’re lost in the sauce, brother.”

Quinn dissolved into laughter again, slipping off the towel pile in her giggles as she made her way into her bedroom, Harry following.

By the time both kids were dried, lotioned, and wriggling into their pajamas, it was nearly nine. Harry read to them on Quinn’s bed—something about a traveling mouse—and you sat in the hallway, folding towels from the laundry, as you listened to him read. His voice was low, soft around the edges, full of patience and presence especially when the kids would interrupt with questions.

You heard him wrapping up with the story, both receiving a kiss goodnight; Quinn getting a forehead kiss, Leo a noisy cheek one. Harry soon made his way into the hallway and closed the door behind him softly after saying his goodnights.

You turned toward Harry. He stood just a few steps away, one hand on the back of his neck, his own hair still a little damp.

“They adore you,” You said, your voice quiet in the hush.

“I adore them,” he replied, then added, “and they adore you.”

The air shifted. Like the stillness before a thunderstorm, the pressure obliterating.

You started walking toward the kitchen, meaning to clean up the dinner dishes you’d abandoned earlier, but he followed, falling into step beside you. You had wondered if he had something else to do, to leave you to your job. Neither of you said much as you wiped down counters and stacked plastic plates. Your bodies moved in sync, brushes of skin here and there—a shared space carved out of routine.

You bent to load the dishwasher and felt his presence behind you before you turned into him. Straightening, you found him watching you again.

You didn’t know which of you moved first. Only that one second the air was thick between you, and the next, his mouth was on yours.

It was a soft kiss. Cautious, at first. Just a press, a seeking acknowledgement of being felt. Then, it deepened. Just enough that you felt the tenseness in your shoulders fall.

His hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face slightly, his thumb grazing your cheek as he kissed you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed—but couldn’t help it anyway. You tasted the remnants of toothpaste on his lips, the faintest hint of fresh watermelon from earlier, and something else entirely—desire, long-hushed and finally slipping free.

You kissed him back, stunned by how easy it was. How right it felt as you tilted your neck to meet his lips.

Almost like a light switch had turned on, he pulled away – fast.

“Shit,” he muttered, shutting his eyes at the acknowledge; as soon as your eyes met when he pulled away, it was like you were on fire and he was touching you with bare hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—fuck.”

“Harry—”

“No, I know. That was… that was stupid. I crossed a line.”

You blinked, still catching your breath – he wasn’t wrong, but you didn’t want to make him feel worse. You participated; you didn’t end it – you didn’t stop him. You didn’t… want him to stop. “It wasn’t stupid.”

He ran a hand through his hair, backing a step away from you like it might undo what had just happened, or both of you might just forget it.

“It’s not fair to you,” he said. “I can’t… I shouldn’t blur things. You’re here for the kids, and I’m—Christ, I’m a mess, and I just—”

You stepped forward this time, your voice gentle but firm as you go to touch him, but he flinches at the way your fingers grace him. “Harry.”

He looked at you then, eyes filled with panic and something else—something raw and vulnerable like he feels so conflicted with how he is responding.

“I- it may have been a mistake, but,” you said. “Whatever that was… it didn’t feel like a mistake.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, breathing hard. But when he finally nodded, slow and quiet, you saw it in his eyes: the want. The fear. The pull.

The storm had been coming for a while. That kiss was just the first crack of thunder, and you were feeling the effects of the downpour.

You watch as he threads his hands through his hair, leaning against the counter. The way that he starts to fall into an oblivion of dissociation from his thoughts, you worry that he’s going to spiral.

The kitchen was still, filled with the soft hum of the dishwasher and the sound of your breathing. You stood across from him, heart skittering from the kiss and the way he’d pulled away — not because he hadn’t wanted it, but because he had. He had wanted it so badly that he crossed the invisible line to get it.

Harry scrubbed a hand down his face, eyes darting around the room as if searching for something to ground himself.

You didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I’m – I really am sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “That was—impulsive. I didn’t plan it.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Neither did I.”

He glanced up at you, trying to fidget with whatever he can get his hands on as if you will see his hands shake with adrenaline.

“I just…” he trailed off, exhaling hard through his nose. “You make it too easy. Being around you. It’s like I forget how complicated it is.”

Your brows lifted gently, curiosity tugging at your features. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, “I mean—this house. The routines. The mess. Bath time and sunblock and tantrums and grocery runs. It’s all supposed to be exhausting and a bit miserable in some capacity, right?” His lips curled faintly, staring down at his hands that were now wrapped up in an excess tea towel, “But when you’re here, it just… it’s better. Feels like I’m not doing it alone.”

You felt that—deep in your chest. A tight, warm pinch of something unsaid.

“I like the way things feel with you,” he continued, his voice raw now like it had been crafted by professionals, like the truth had worn down any resistance he had left. “Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff. You make it—”

“Easier?” You offered quietly.

He nodded once, then a few times as if he thought of all the times that you had been there when it was hard, each one running through his mind. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, yes—but with something tender. Something on the verge of spilling. You crossed your arms, mirroring him, your hip leaning against the island. “And that’s what’s confusing you?”

He sighed, running a hand along his jaw in thought, resting his head in his hand now. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to want with you,” he admitted, words very clear and concise as if he was placing jigsaw pieces and not wanting to force them, “You’re here because I hired you. You take care of my children. You live in my house. I don’t want to be—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, almost in a bit of disgust.

You tilted yours, stepping closer. “You don’t want to be what?”

He looked at you then, really looked. His voice was steady, if a little hoarse. “I don’t want to be the guy who takes advantage of the girl he hired to help keep his life from falling apart – it’s,” He grimaced, “It’s not who I am, and I don’t want you to get the impression of that. Really.”

Your stomach twisted. “Harry,” you said gently. “That’s not what this is.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to your mouth, your bare legs with the summer sun-kiss on them from sitting out in the sun all day. “I want it to be more. But I don’t know how to let it be that without blurring everything.”

Your voice was quiet but certain in how you came to this conclusion. “Lines are only useful if they’re helping. But if they’re just keeping you from something good, then… maybe they need to be redrawn.”

Harry looked at you like you’d just opened a door he didn’t know he was allowed to walk through.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, with all of the honesty he could. “Not carefully. Not slowly.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “You don’t have to know everything right now. You just have to be honest.”

You were standing directly in front of him now; leaning against the island as he leaded against the countertops. The space between you now was warm, charged again.

“I think about you,” he admitted, “When I’m rinsing Leo’s cereal bowl. When I’m folding Quinn’s pajamas. When I walk into a room and you’re already there, barefoot, humming something under your breath. It’s like—this house… doesn’t feel empty anymore.”

That one hit you deep. You swallowed; throat suddenly tight at the thought of his loneliness being the culprit. It was one thing to let his mind and body talk, but knowing that it was because he just longed for the security of a partner made you feel touched.

“And that... scares me,” he added, voice low and honest as he came to that conclusion. “Because I’m not used to things feeling good and lasting.”

You nodded slowly, trying to understand where he was coming from. “I’m not asking for forever right now, Harry. I just need truth and honesty, and maybe we just…” You trailed off, shrugging, “We take this as it comes.”

The smile that crossed his face caught you off guard, it was showing his dimples that you knew were hereditary just in the way that his smile replicated Quinn’s perfectly. There was a bit of a blush on his cheeks, “The truth is, I want to kiss you again,” he said. “But I won’t. And like you said, we’ll take it as it comes.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You made the first move, stepping just forward until you were close enough to hear his breath in the quiet space. His breath hitched, and for a long moment, it felt like the world was suspended in that space between intention and action.

But he didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said, voice barely audible.

And just like that, the moment folded back into the quiet hum of the house again. But the charge—that didn’t go anywhere.

When you both padded up the stairs, your fingers still linked, it wasn’t about pretending anymore. It was about the start of something quietly, fiercely real but in the most uncommon of instances.

Harry stopped just outside your bedroom door, still holding your hand like he didn’t quite want to let go yet. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and you watched the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile.

“So…” he said, eyes flicking toward the door behind you, “this is your stop.”

You blinked at him, confused for a second — until you caught the playful tilt of his voice. “Are you—are you pretending this is a first date?”

He gave a dramatic shrug, leaning a shoulder against the hallway wall. “What can I say? Feels like I should walk you to your apartment. Make sure you got in okay. Maybe kiss you on the front stoop, ask when I’ll see you again,” He bit his lip, “I want to take things slow but I have to imagine it this way rather than you just already living with me.”

A breath of laughter left your chest before you could help it. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and the moment slowed, grew heavier. When he leaned in, it was hesitant, like he was asking you to meet him halfway – he was still redrawing those lines.

And so, you did.

The kiss was soft — just the brush of lips, careful and steady, the kind of kiss that lingered long after it was over. There was no rush, no battle for control. Just quiet confirmation that whatever was happening between you had already begun.

When he pulled back, he looked almost dazed, like it had completely changed his perspective. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

You slipped inside your room, closing the door gently behind you. But long after your head hit the pillow that night, you could still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, and you hoped that the phantom touch would haunt you just a little longer.

THE NEXT MORNING

You woke slowly the next morning, the kind of slow that only came after a long, sun-soaked day and a night full of soft, lingering touches and unspoken truths. The sheets were warm against your skin, the pillow still holding the faintest trace of Harry’s cologne – your mind may have just been playing tricks on you. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, as if your body had finally relaxed after weeks of holding tension.

Somewhere downstairs, you heard the faint clang of a pan, followed by the sound of laughter — light and bubbling, the kind that cracked your chest open and made you want to smile without thinking. Afterall, your job was to get the kids up, get them ready for their day.

But the past couple days, you had slept in. you had been given a break from all of that.

You slipped from bed, wrapping your robe around you loosely, bare feet padding softly over the cool wooden floor. The light filtering in through the windows was syrupy gold, lazily stretching across the hallway in slanted lines. You followed the scent first — warm butter, something sweet, something citrusy, and the unmistakable richness of coffee.

When you reached the kitchen, you stopped in the doorway. Time slowed.

Harry stood at the stove, barefoot, in purple shorts and a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and arms in a way you couldn’t quite ignore. His curls were a little messy — like he’d run a hand through them too many times — and he had a spatula in one hand, a steadying palm on Leo’s back with the other.

Leo had his knees on the stool as he sat in front of the stove, eyes wide and focused, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he gripped his own tiny spatula like it was a sword. Quinn hovered nearby in her pajamas, as she watched them from her spot sitting on the counter.

“You see those bubbles?” Harry asked, pointing to the pan, “That means it’s almost ready. Gotta be patient. The flip’s all about timing.”

“Now?” Leo asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

Harry smiled at his son’s impatience, “Few more seconds,” He watched as the little boy struggled with keeping it together before Harry nodded at him to act, “Okay, go on.”

Leo flipped the pancake clumsily and unevenly, but it made it onto the pan — and let out a triumphant yell at he did so. Quinn squealed, clapping, and Harry laughed, tilting his head back.

It hit you, then, the vision of him there, eyes soft with pride, his children giggling around him — the warmth of domesticity seeping into every corner of the kitchen. He looked like he belonged there. Like this was his favorite version of himself.

And then… you saw them.

Tulips.

A fresh bouquet — soft pinks and whites and yellows — tucked into a simple glass vase beside the sink, where the morning light caught the edges of the petals and made them glow. Just beneath them sat two coffee mugs. Steam was curling from the tops of them as if they were freshly poured.

Harry looked up just then, catching you standing there. He stilled, biting on the inside of his cheek.

For a moment, it was just the two of you in the space between that look — his eyes raking down your robe, soft at the edges, knotted loose around your waist. Your hair falling around your shoulders. Your smile barely formed. His entire face softened at your presence. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched like he might want to.

“Morning,” you finally said, voice scratchy as you just woke up.

“Morning,” he murmured, gaze still holding you like something precious.

Leo turned, squealing. “We’re making pancakes! Daddy’s teaching us how to flip them!”

“He said we’re officially his pancake assistants,” Quinn added, nodding solemnly.

You stepped further into the warmth of the room, the floor cool beneath your toes as you reached for your mug. Harry passed it to you before you could reach, already fixed the way you liked it with a caramel color indicating he added creamer. Your fingers brushed his as he passed on the mug. The touch lingered — enough to send heat curling low in your belly again, like last night hadn’t fully settled.

“Thank you,” you said softly, glancing toward the tulips.

His eyes followed yours. “We thought you might like them.”

You didn’t have words for that — for how simple it was, and yet how deeply it rooted itself under your skin.

He turned back to the stove, flipping a pancake with practiced ease, letting the kids chatter around him. You stood at the counter, sipping the warm, rich coffee, watching him — the tattoos swirling down his arm as he reached for a plate, the way he leaned down to ruffle Leo’s curls, how he facilitated when Quinn spilled a bit of batter on her pajamas.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his voice softened when he spoke to the kids to meet their needs, but also to navigate their feelings and help them understand the world around them. The way the kitchen had tulips and coffee and warmth and him in it.

You realized, suddenly, that you hadn’t felt this safe in years. He caught you looking again and smiled.

And you knew — just by the way his shoulders dropped, the easy way he moved toward you — that the night before hadn’t been a fluke; it was just built-up feelings that he had needed to express on how easy this life was. That something had shifted. That you weren’t imagining the way his hand had hovered near yours all morning.

That there was more coming. And it would be slow. And tender. And full of moments just like this one.

Fresh flowers, and all.

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nightingale-prompts · 3 months ago

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Worship Me- DCxDP prompt

Yes, it's slightly horny. Sue me!

Was there anyone in this family that didn't attract crazy? Tim would like to say that it was some more than others but the track record is horrendous for each of them.

Don't ask him how he got here. It was a blur. Mission. Altar. Cursed Mirror.

But all that doesn't matter anymore because currently in what could only be described as an obsidian palace.

The palace floats in the void like a jagged crown. Its structure defies logic—spires twist and spiral in impossible geometries, as though grown rather than built. Every surface is carved from seamless black obsidian that drinks in the light of distant stars, causing the palace to shimmer with eerie inner reflections, like shadows trapped beneath glass.

The entrance is a colossal gate shaped like an open eye, rimmed with glowing runes that pulse with alien intent. Inside, the vast halls echo with silence too deep to be natural. The floors gleam with a mirror-sheen, reflecting not just one's image, but fragments of memories, glimpses of alternate selves, or ghostly figures passing just out of reach.

Chambers are suspended in open vacuum, tethered by bridges of crystalline light or magnetic arcs. Gravity bends strangely; a single step can carry you across entire rooms or into hidden dimensions nested within the architecture.

Tim had memorized every detail of this place in the days since he arrived. Most of the time he was allowed to go about his day staying and learning about this place. He wasn't imprisoned, he had to wait for the portal to open again in a few weeks. But Tim had caught the interest of the ruler of the palace.

Now Tim sat on the edge of the floating bed. It's heaped with a sea of plush pillows in shades of midnight blue, silver, and deep violet, each embroidered with celestial patterns.

How he got to this point—he may have...had a few conversations with who he assumed was the prince. The person who he thought was the king was actually his guardian. Tim just...flirted a little to get a bit of information on this place. Danny—the prince—had been more than receptive.

It might have gone too far but here we are.

Now he was in the bedroom of who he still assumed was the crown prince with said prince currently on his lap with his lips on Tim's neck. Tim is unable to move because he believes that if they get caught Tim might end up beheaded for putting his Richard where it does not belong. Hell, they probably already know with the all-seeing eyes everywhere and the fact that the beings in this dimension phase through walls so using the door was just a polite formality.

"Stop thinking. I can practically hear your thoughts." Danny growled nipping at Tim's neck between kisses.

"Then you can te—ll, haa. Fuck! Your hand. Too fast." Tim gasped.

Danny pulled away as he grabbed Tim by the chin and made him look into his eyes. Those hypnotizing green eyes.

"Do you want this?" Danny asked his eyes narrowed.

"...Yes," Tim couldn't lie.

"What do you want?" Danny smiled his sharp elongated incisors showing.

Tim remained silent his hand pressed against the small of the princes back.

"Good, you don't have to say a word. Focus on me. Think of me. Nothing else." His hand wrapped around Tim's throat. "Worship me as your new god."

Prince—king—these words where actually meaningless titles for Danny. He was not these petty and lowly things. He was a god and he craved worship. Even if it came in the form of a single human devoted to him. How incredibly lucky that a suitable human came here. Clockwork says it was best to let the human go back to his dimension and hopefully share his experience so that others will worship Danny. He had no interest in letting his new priest go so easily, not without a parting gift.

"I wonder how it must feel to bed your new master."

#lock me up #dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #danny fenton #dp x dc prompt #tim drake #deadtired #brain dead

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blueberrisdove-sideblog · 2 months ago

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paint me in your colour.

˖ ࣪ㅤㅤꪮꫀ tws : ares!mydei x aphrodite!reader. nsfw/smut, possessive reader, possessive mydei, lipstick sēx, cock warming, pūssy eating, nipple sucking, blow job, pet-names, breeding kink, squirting, creampie and sub-ish mydei.

˖ ࣪ㅤㅤꪮꫀ synopsis : your husband is covered with your lipstick. mdni.

The temple was soaked in the heavy perfume of sex, heat swirling like silk against your bare skin.

You sat astride Mydei’s hips, your slick pussy swallowing his cock inch by inch, grinding yourself down until he was buried deep in you — hot, throbbing, thick enough to stretch your walls to the edge of pain.

"My fucking war god," you moaned, nails raking down his heaving chest, leaving angry red scratches over his golden skin. "Look at you. Look at how beautiful you are like this."

Mydei bared his teeth, hands gripping your thighs so tight you knew you’d bruise. His golden armor was long abandoned, pieces scattered around like fallen stars. Sweat clung to the carved lines of his body, his muscles trembling from the effort to not slam you down and fuck up into you like a beast.

But you saw it — the wild crackle of restraint barely holding.

He wanted to ruin you.

He was a god of war after all.

But you were a goddess. His goddess.

"You think you can fuck me?" you teased, dragging your lipstick-smeared mouth down his throat, marking him, claiming him. "You think you can tame me?"

A shudder tore through him.

Your lipstick was everywhere — streaked across his sharp jaw, his flushed cheeks, his heaving chest, even smeared across his cock from where you had teased the fat head earlier, circling it with your glossy mouth and dragging sticky kisses down the thick vein.

Mydei’s hips bucked once, instinctive and rough, jostling your tits, still wet from where he had desperately sucked your nipples earlier.

"You paint me like I’m yours," he growled, voice raw and low, "but you’re the one clenching around my cock like you’ll die without it."

Your pussy fluttered around him at the filthy snarl of his voice.

"You are mine," you hissed, riding him harder now, slamming your hips down so his cock speared up into your soaking cunt, drawing broken gasps from both of you. "Every inch of you. My pretty soldier. My ruin."

Mydei grunted, sitting up in a surge of muscle and power, slamming his mouth to yours in a brutal, messy kiss. Your lipstick smeared even further, your tongues sliding wet and desperate as he thrust up into you from below, grinding the thick head of his cock against your deepest spot again and again.

You whimpered against him, feeling yourself start to unravel, your pussy squelching obscenely around him, leaking slick down his thighs.

"You want it?" he growled into your mouth, fisting your hair, dragging your head back so you had to look at him — flushed, wild-eyed, smeared in lipstick, trembling from holding back.

"You want me to fuck this tight little cunt full of my seed? Huh? Make it overflow, goddess?"

You moaned out something broken, clawing at his shoulders.

"Say it," he demanded, voice cracking with the strain, cock throbbing deep inside you.

"Breed me," you sobbed, grinding your hips wildly, desperate now, messy and hungry and owned. "Breed your goddess. Fill my pussy, Mydei. Make it yours. Ruin me."

That was it.

Mydei shoved you down flat onto the temple floor, golden curls wild, muscles rippling under you.

He slammed into you, rough and raw now, owning your pussy with every brutal thrust, cock driving so deep you saw stars behind your eyelids. Your soaked pussy swallowed him greedily, squelching with every wet, lewd slap of skin on skin.

"You’re dripping," he groaned into your ear, teeth dragging along your throat. "Dripping all over my fucking cock, goddess. You're gonna squirt for me, aren’t you?"

You could barely even nod, mind blank with pleasure, the filthy sounds of your bodies echoing off marble columns and gold. His cock pistoned into you, the thick ridge of his head battering your sweet spot until you broke — screaming his name, pussy gushing in a hot flood over his cock, soaking his balls, your thighs, the marble underneath.

"Fuck," Mydei growled, hips stuttering. "Fuck — take it — take it —"

He slammed one final thrust as he came, cock twitching violently inside you, spilling thick, endless ropes of cum straight into your spasming womb. You could feel it — hot, sticky, heavy — gushing out around the base of his cock, dripping down your ass in slow, messy trails.

He didn’t pull out.

He stayed buried in your messy cunt, cock still twitching now and then with little aftershocks, his huge body slumping over you.

You tangled your fingers through his golden hair, pulling him into your chest, smearing more lipstick into his curls, his sweaty forehead.

"You’re mine," you whispered fiercely into his ear, cradling him like a precious thing. "You’ll fill me over and over until I can’t hold it anymore. You hear me, Mydei?"

He shuddered against you, biting your collarbone gently in response, a half-broken sound escaping his throat.

"Yes, my goddess."

And deep inside, his cock thickened again — already hungry for more.

The marble was slippery beneath you, slick with your juices and his cum, but neither of you cared.

Mydei stayed buried to the hilt inside your spent, gushing pussy, panting against your chest like a starved beast, his broad shoulders shaking from restraint he barely had anymore.

His cock never softened.

If anything, he got harder, thickening inside your sloppy, overstretched cunt, greedy for more even as his first load leaked out around his base in thick, sticky mess.

"Greedy boy," you teased breathlessly, dragging your fingers through his messy golden hair, guiding his mouth to your chest. "Come on, Mydei. Suck."

He growled low, almost a snarl, before latching onto your nipple with a desperate hunger that made your whole body arch. His tongue flicked and circled, his mouth suckling sloppily, no finesse, all need. His lipstick-stained mouth left your tits wet and flushed and marked — a canvas of worship.

"That's it," you moaned, cradling his head to you, your other hand fisting the marble for support as you felt him throb inside you again. "My starving war god. Drink from me."

He groaned against your skin, cock twitching inside your slick, abused pussy. Every suck on your nipple sent fresh sparks down to where you were still stretched wide open around him.

When he finally pulled back, your nipple popped free from his mouth with a wet, obscene sound, a string of spit still connecting his lips to your breast.

His eyes were feral. Wild. Desperate.

"My turn," he rasped, voice wrecked from gasping and growling. Before you could even speak, Mydei slid out of your flooded pussy with a filthy wet squelch — and shoved your thighs open wider, manhandling you rough like the war god he was.

"Such a messy little goddess," he crooned, voice dark and sweet like poisoned honey.

Your pussy was soaked — his cum spilling from your twitching hole, glossy and dripping down your thighs in messy rivulets.

Mydei didn’t waste a second.

He dived in, mouth sealing over your sloppy cunt, eating you out like a man starved, like he needed your taste to survive.

He licked up his own cum mixed with your juices, groaning deep in his chest like it drove him insane, tongue fucking into you, drinking everything you gave him.

"Nghh — M-Mydei!" you cried, fists tangling in his blonde hair as he devoured you raw, making the wet, sloppy sounds of a man with no shame.

You were already shaking, already right there again.

He sucked your clit into his mouth — and you exploded, squirting violently, gushing against his mouth and cheeks, soaking his face.

He growled low in satisfaction, lapping it all up — his face, his lips, even his flushed chest dripping with the wetness you forced out of your ruined pussy.

When he finally pulled back, face glossy and glazed with your release, he was panting, cock standing thick and leaking between his strong thighs.

"You’re gonna suck me now," he rasped, dragging you up roughly, voice filthy and commanding but almost begging at the same time. "Get that messy little mouth around my cock. Make it even fucking messier."

You dropped to your knees before him, dizzy and shaking and soaking wet, but you obeyed, because how could you not?

He was glorious — covered in lipstick, smeared in spit and cum, chest heaving, cock twitching with desperate need.

You wrapped your hand around the fat base of his cock, your own cum leaking down your wrist, and dragged your tongue slowly up the underside — licking your own juices and his seed off him, tasting everything, savoring the obscene mess you had made together.

Mydei’s head dropped back with a brutal groan, his fists clenching at his sides as you swallowed him down, cheeks hollowing, lipstick smearing even worse all over the thick, pulsing shaft.

"You’re perfect," he gasped, voice rough and broken. "Fuck — you’re fucking perfect — my goddess, my ruin."

You sucked greedily, tongue swirling around the flushed, leaking head, tasting the salt of his cum and your sweetness mixed into one filthy, addictive flavor.

His thighs trembled under your hands. His hips bucked forward once — rough and instinctive — shoving his cock deeper down your throat until you gagged and drooled all over him.

"Take it," he growled, voice hoarse and shaking. "Take every fucking inch. That’s it — my perfect slutty goddess — mine."

You whimpered around him, sucking harder, throat working, messy and mindless.

You could feel it building again — not just for him, but for you too.

The filthy need to be filled again, to be used, to be bred.

When Mydei finally came with a brutal snarl, hips jerking, thick ropes of cum shot down your throat, hot and endless.

You swallowed around him greedily, still sucking, still milking every drop until he sagged back against a broken pillar, dazed and wrecked, cock twitching weakly against your tongue.

You pulled off with a final wet pop, mouth swollen, lips glossy with spit and seed, lipstick ruined completely.

You smiled up at him — filthy, victorious, drenched in him — and Mydei looked down at you like a man undone by worship.

"Again," he croaked, voice shaking. "Goddess, please... again."

And how could you deny your beautiful, broken war god?

“Okay…”

Mydei didn’t even give you a second to catch your breath.

He yanked you up, his strength bruising and sweet, and slammed you down onto the cracked marble, your back pressed into it, your legs bent up over his shoulders, his cock already throbbing against your ruined, dripping entrance.

He was wild now, not even pretending anymore.

The lipstick marks staining his face, his neck, his chest — even his cock — made him look feral, claimed.

"Need you," he gasped, voice cracked and raw. "Need to fill you. Need to fucking ruin you."

You barely managed a breathless "yes," before he slammed his cock back inside you, bottoming out in one brutal thrust.

Your pussy screamed around him — still puffy, still gushing, still so slick it was sinful — and he growled deep, sinking his teeth into your calf as he began fucking you in vicious, desperate thrusts.

The breeding press left you helpless — folded in half, legs pinned high, cunt stretched to the limit, every brutal, wet thrust punching pathetic gasps out of your chest.

"You take it so good," he gritted through his teeth, hips snapping against you so hard the marble cracked under your back. "My good girl. My perfect, messy goddess. Gonna stuff you full again. Gonna watch it leak out of your ruined little cunt."

"Mydei—!" you cried, tears spilling from your eyes from how deep he hit, how brutal and good and perfect he fucked you.

"That's it," he growled, dragging his thumb roughly over your clit in savage little circles. "Squirt for me again. Be a good little whore. Soak my cock, soak my balls — make a mess, baby."

You broke with a scream, gushing violently all over him, your pussy spasming around his cock, soaking both of you in a flood of slick.

Mydei snarled and jackhammered even deeper, hips slamming messily against your thighs, until with a deep, wrecked moan — he shoved himself all the way inside and exploded.

Thick, endless ropes of hot cum pumped into your spasming cunt, so much it leaked instantly around his cock, dripping in messy, thick spurts down the insides of your thighs, down to the marble.

He stayed buried to the root, panting harshly, eyes squeezed shut as he finished milking you full.

When he finally collapsed over you, his whole body trembling from overstimulation, you whimpered weakly underneath him — your pussy still twitching, stretched wide and leaking hot, sticky cum with every tiny pulse.

"My goddess," he panted brokenly against your hair. "My perfect goddess. I’m yours. All yours."

He pressed trembling kisses along your sweaty hairline, across your swollen lips, your flushed cheeks — his body a trembling, wrecked furnace over you.

Slowly — so gently it made your heart ache — he pulled out of your wrecked, messy pussy with a slow, wet squelch, thick seed spilling in wet gushes down your thighs.

"My poor baby," he whispered, voice thick with guilt and worship, his big hands tenderly stroking over your thighs, your ruined, sloppy cunt. "So full. So fucked-out. Let me clean you."

You whimpered as he lifted you carefully, cradling you like something priceless, carrying you toward a nearby marble basin where clean water shimmered in the moonlight.

He knelt, strong arms holding you against his chest as he dipped soft cloths into the water — wiping your sticky thighs, cleaning the endless mess dripping from your twitching hole, soothing your overstimulated clit with sweet, reverent kisses.

"My warrior queen," he murmured between kisses. "My messy, beautiful goddess. I’ll always take care of you. Always."

He wrapped you up in his broad arms when he finished — still bare, still sticky, still lipstick-stained and covered in your love — and rocked you gently, his heartbeat pounding steady against your ear.

And you both stayed there, in a temple ruined and reborn, messy and claimed and so fucking in love, until the stars faded into morning.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

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i-heart-slashers · 1 month ago

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For Our Girl

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Poly!Lost Boys x Female!Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You never meant to get tangled up with the Lost Boys, but a wrong turn in the woods led you to them—four vampires with glowing eyes and dangerous smiles. Now, weeks later, you’re theirs. Surrounded by their cold skin and sharp promises, you’re not just safe—you’re wanted, desired, and maybe too far gone to care what they are.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.7k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: suggestive themes. sexual tension. possessiveness.

The boardwalk hums with life, the carousel’s tinny music clashing with the roar of motorbikes and the screams from the roller coaster. You weave through the crowd, the salty ocean breeze tugging at your hair, your waitress apron still tied loosely around your waist from a double shift at the diner. Your feet ache, your head’s foggy, and all you want is to collapse into bed.

But the weight of their eyes on you, always watching, always there, makes your skin prickle with something that’s not quite fear anymore.

It started that night in the woods. A stupid shortcut after a late shift, your flashlight flickering, and then those glowing eyes. Four of them stepped out of the shadows like they owned the night. Paul, with his wild grin and a joint dangling from his lips. Marko, all sharp edges and sharper laughter. Dwayne, silent, his dark eyes pinning you in place. And David, cold and commanding, like he was sizing you up for dinner.

You should’ve screamed. Run. Done something. Instead, you snapped at David to get out of your way, or you’d make him. The words had tumbled out before you could stop them, fueled by exhaustion and defiance.

Paul had howled with laughter, Marko’s eyes had glinted with something dangerous, and even Dwayne’s stoic mask cracked into a faint smirk. David, though—he’d just stared, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile.

“Feisty,” he’d said, voice like gravel and smoke. “I like that.”

You thought that was the end of it. A weird encounter with some punks who hung out in the wrong part of town. But then they started showing up everywhere.

Paul slipping a mixtape labeled “For Our Girl” onto your windowsill, filled with Mötley Crüe and The Cure. Marko ambushing you at the pier, dragging you to a secluded stretch of beach to watch the stars his arm brushing yours. Dwayne wordlessly showing up at your rundown apartment to fix the lock after you mentioned it was busted, his hands steady and sure, his gaze lingering too long on your throat.

And David. David, who one night draped his leather coat over your shoulders when the wind off the ocean turned sharp, his gloved fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your face up to meet his icy blue eyes. “Anyone messes with you,” he said, voice low and deadly, “they answer to us.”

Now, weeks later, you’re unsure what you are to them. Not a victim—they’ve made that clear. Not just a friend, either. There’s a heat in the way they watch you, a hunger that’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying. You’re theirs, they say, and the word carries a weight you’re only starting to understand.

Tonight, you feel it more than ever. You’re halfway across the boardwalk when Paul’s voice cuts through the noise, lazy and teasing. “Yo, babe, where you runnin’ off to?”

You turn, and there they are, lounging against the railing like they own the place. Paul’s sprawled out, one leg kicked up, his blond hair a mess from the wind. Marko’s next to him, twirling a switchblade between his fingers, his patchwork jacket catching the neon glow. Dwayne leans back, arms crossed, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches you with that quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. And David—David stands at the center, his cigarette glowing red in the dark, his smirk promising trouble.

“Home,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Some of us have jobs, you know.”

Paul laughs, loud and bright, hopping off the railing to sling an arm around your shoulders. “Jobs are overrated. Come hang with us. We’ve got plans.”

“Plans?” You raise an eyebrow, glancing at the others. Marko’s grin is all teeth, and Dwayne’s expression doesn’t shift, but you catch the faintest tilt of his head like he’s daring you to say yes. David just exhales a plume of smoke, watching you through half-lidded eyes.

“Something… fun,” David says, and the word drips with suggestion, his voice curling around you like a promise.

Your stomach flips. You know what they are. You’ve seen how their eyes glow in the dark, and their teeth glint a little too sharp. You’ve noticed the bloodstains on Marko’s jacket that he laughs off and the way Dwayne’s hands are always cold when they brush your skin. Vampires. The word sits heavy in your mind, but instead of running, you’re still here, caught in their orbit.

“Fun,” you repeat, crossing your arms. “Last time you said that, Marko tried to teach me to surf at three a.m. I nearly drowned.”

Marko snickers, flipping the switchblade closed. “You loved it, admit it. Looked hot in that wetsuit, too.”

“Keep dreaming,” you shoot back, but a smile tugs at your lips, and Marko’s eyes light up with mischief.

Paul tightens his arm around you, pulling you closer. “C’mon, babe. Live a little. Or, y’know… unlive a little.” He winks, and you roll your eyes, but the heat of his body against yours sends a shiver down your spine.

Dwayne finally moves, stepping forward until he’s close enough that you can smell the leather of his jacket and the faint tang of salt and iron that clings to him. “You’re tired,” he says, voice low, almost gentle. “Let us take you home.”

It’s not a question, but there’s no threat in it either. Just a quiet certainty, like he already knows you’ll say yes. You glance at David, who’s still watching you, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. There’s something in his gaze—possessive but not cruel. Like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do.

“Fine,” you say, exhaling like you’re annoyed, but your heart’s pounding. “But I’m not riding on the back of anyone’s bike. Last time, Paul nearly crashed us into a dumpster.”

“Lies!” Paul gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “I’m an artist on that bike.”

“An artist at chaos,” you mutter, and Marko laughs, sharp and delighted.

David flicks his cigarette away, stepping closer until he’s right in front of you, his presence overwhelming. “You’ll ride with me,” he says, and it’s not a request. His gloved hand brushes your cheek, lingering just long enough to catch your breath. “Unless you’re scared.”

You scoff, meeting his eyes. “Of you? Please.”

His smirk widens, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you right there in front of everyone. Instead, he steps back, jerking his head toward the bikes parked nearby. “Let’s go.”

The ride to your apartment is a blur of wind and adrenaline, David’s bike roaring beneath you as you cling to his waist, the leather of his coat cool against your cheek. The others follow their laughter and whoops cutting through the night.

When you reach your place, you expect them to drop you off and peel out, but they don’t. They follow you inside, sprawling across your tiny living room like they own it—Paul kicking off his boots, Marko raiding your fridge, Dwayne leaning against the wall, watching you with that unreadable stare.

David doesn’t sit. He prowls, circling you like a predator as you untie your apron and toss it onto the counter. “You’re tense,” he says, voice low, almost a purr. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, leaning against the counter, trying to ignore how your skin tingles under his gaze. “Some creeps at the diner wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

The air shifts. Paul’s head snaps up from where he’s sprawled on the couch, his grin gone. Marko freezes a bottle of soda halfway to his lips. Dwayne’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. David stops moving, his gaze locking onto yours, sharp and dangerous.

“Who?” David asks, and the single word is a blade.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Just some drunk tourists. I handled it.”

“You handled it,” Marko repeats, setting the bottle down with a thud. “What’d they do?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” you say, but your voice wavers and you curse yourself for it. “Just… got too close. Said some shit. My boss kicked them out.”

Dwayne pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “They touch you?” His voice is quiet, but there’s a lethal edge to it that makes your heart skip.

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Paul growls, sitting up. “Point ‘em out next time. We’ll handle it.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “What, you gonna beat up every jerk who looks at me wrong?”

“Yes,” Marko says, dead serious, and the intensity in his eyes makes your stomach flip.

David’s gloved hand cups your chin, tilting your face to meet his gaze. His touch is firm but not painful, and the heat of his stare makes your breath hitch. “No one touches what’s ours,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “No one bothers you. Ever.”

The possessiveness in his words should scare you, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sends a thrill through you, dangerous and electric. You’re not sure when you stopped being afraid of them—when their sharp edges and glowing eyes started feeling like safety instead of a threat.

“I can take care of myself,” you say, but your voice is softer now, your defiance melting under the weight of their attention.

“We know,” Dwayne says, his voice a low rumble as he steps closer, his hand brushing your arm. “But you don’t have to.”

Paul’s on his feet now, crowding in, his grin back but sharper, hungrier. “You’re ours, babe. Means we’ve got your back. Always.”

Marko’s behind you, closer than you realized, his breath cool against your neck as he murmurs, “And we don’t share.”

Your pulse races, the air thick with tension—sexual, dangerous, intoxicating. You’re surrounded, their bodies close enough that you can feel the unnatural chill of their skin, the promise of something more in every lingering touch. David’s thumb brushes your lower lip, and you swallow hard, caught in the pull of his gaze.

“Get some rest,” he says finally, stepping back and breaking the spell. “We’ll be around.”

They leave as silently as they came, the roar of their bikes fading into the night. But the weight of their promise lingers, heavy and warm, and as you crawl into bed, you know there’s no going back. You’re theirs—and you’re not sure you’d want it any other way.

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dragoneyelashart · 1 month ago

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vlogger

fluff ୨ৎ influencer! r x billie a/n: here's some fluff bc i'm in the mood n i love vlogs

the soft light of the late afternoon stretches across your bedroom, filtering through the gauzy curtains in lazy golden streaks that warm everything they touch. the air smells faintly of lavender and vanilla, a quiet reminder of the candle you lit earlier to chase away the last bits of stress from the day. the dogs are nestled at the foot of your shared bed, half-asleep, their steady breathing the gentle soundtrack beneath the low hum of your laptop. you sit cross-legged, the fabric of your sweatpants soft against your skin, your fingers moving automatically over the keyboard as you trim and tweak the latest footage from your tokyo trip vlog.

the screen glows with snippets of your chaotic day, spilled matcha, street food stalls, neon lights blinking like stars come to earth. the edits are almost done, and your tired brain is already thinking about the next video, the next story you want to tell. you’re deep in that comforting zone where everything slows down to the gentle rhythm of creation, when you hear the soft click of the bathroom door opening.

your head tilts up just in time to see billie step into the room, her damp hair curling at the ends, water droplets still clinging to her skin like tiny jewels. she’s wearing one of your oversized hoodies, the sleeves swallowed past her hands, and a pair of loose shorts that make her look impossibly cozy and relaxed. the warm scent of her shampoo mingles with the vanilla candle, making your chest tighten with that familiar fluttery feeling.

“hi,” she says, voice soft and a little sleepy, the way she always sounds just after a shower, like the world is still a little blurry around the edges.

“hey,” you murmur back, lifting the headphones off one ear and setting the laptop aside. your fingers find her hair, brushing it back gently from her face. she melts into your touch, settling herself sideways on the bed and curling into your lap, her cheek resting against your thigh.

you wrap your arms around her, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath against you, the warmth of her skin through the soft cotton of your hoodie. the dogs shift slightly but don’t move, content to be near you both. the quiet intimacy of the moment wraps around you like a blanket, familiar and comforting.

“what are you working on?” she asks, voice muffled.

“editing the tokyo vlog,” you say, smiling at the memory. ��the one where i turned into a human disaster at that tiny cafe.”

she laughs, a sound like sunshine. “matcha massacre, you called it.”

“exactly,” you say, nudging her gently. “it’s almost done. want to see?”

she nods eagerly, her eyes brightening as you pick up your laptop and angle the screen so she can see. she watches the clips with a grin, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your knee.

after a moment, she sits up, pulling her knees to her chest. her cheeks are still pink from the shower steam, and her eyes hold that spark of curiosity that always makes your heart skip. “can i ask you something?” she says softly.

“anything,” you answer without hesitation.

she hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “can you teach me how to make vlogs? like, for when i’m on tour, or traveling. i want to remember everything, but i don’t know where to start. and you’re so good at it.”

your chest warms all over. she wants to learn from you. she trusts you. you close your laptop and reach for the drawer beside the bed, pulling out your favorite camera, the one you carry everywhere, the one that’s been your companion through every adventure.

“of course,” you say, holding it out to her. “i’ll show you everything.”

billie’s eyes widen, and she scoots closer, curiosity lighting up her face. “really?”

“really.” you smile, flipping the camera on so the screen lights up between you.

“okay,” you say, “so this camera does this—”

before you can finish, billie reaches out and presses a button.

“no, billie, don’t touch that idiot—”

you freeze, heart in your throat.

“i'm sorry! did… did i break it?” she whispers, panic flaring in her eyes.

you laugh, the tension breaking. “no, you didn’t break it. but you just set it to slow motion for the next three hours.”

she hides her face against your shoulder, giggling. “i’m terrible.”

“you’re adorable,” you say, brushing your fingers through her damp hair.

you spend the next hour sitting tangled up on the bed, patiently showing her how to hold the camera, explaining the basics, framing, lighting, how to speak naturally, how to capture moments without feeling awkward. she’s a quick learner, and you love the way she watches you with rapt attention, occasionally kissing your hand or squeezing your thigh.

you teach her how to check the battery, how to review footage, how to choose songs that fit the mood. you laugh together when she tries to film herself and the dogs and accidentally ends up with a bunch of blurry nose shots. she’s clumsy and sweet and so eager, and you’re already imagining how beautiful her vlogs will be.

when she finally gets the hang of it, you help her record a little practice clip, her voice soft and a little shy, telling the camera about the day, about how excited she is to learn. you hold her hand at the end and kiss her cheek.

“you’re going to be amazing at this,” you tell her. “i’ll be your biggest fan.”

she smiles, her eyes shining. after patiently walking billie through the basics, you finally hand her the camera and settle beside her, ready to help. she grips it nervously at first, her fingers just barely steady as she holds the device in front of her face. “okay, your turn,” you say softly, smiling encouragingly.

she clears her throat, looking down at the screen and then back up with a shy grin. “um… testing.... testing,” she says into the camera, voice a little unsure but getting more confident with every word. “can you guys see my beautiful girlfriend?”

you laugh quietly, heart swelling as she glances your way, eyes sparkling.

she presses the camera closer to you and leans over to press a sweet, quick kiss on your cheek, right on camera. “there she is,” billie murmurs, her face lighting up as she leans over toward you, camera still rolling. her lips find your cheek first, a soft, sweet kiss that makes your heart do that slow, stupid flutter.

then she looks up at you, eyes shining like they hold a secret just for you. “you’re amazing,” she whispers, voice tender.

without thinking, you close the small gap between you, your lips brushing hers in a kiss that’s slow and warm, full of everything quiet and beautiful in this moment. the camera tilts slightly as she shifts closer, laughter bubbling between kisses.

“okay, okay,” she giggles, pulling back just enough to smirk. “definitely getting the hang of this.”

you grin, brushing your nose against hers. “best vlog intro ever.”

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

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1nthedarknessofthenight · 5 months ago

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MASTERLIST stray kids

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ot8

﴾ out of the blue, part two (one-shot, idol au, smut)

summary: after some much needed alone time with your boyfriend on his birthday, you somehow forgot about his friends coming over…

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bangchan

﴾ michelin star (one-shot, idol au, smut)

summary: he’s been ignoring you, only leaving you to wonder what exactly you have done to make him so quiet and one night you just have enough of it as much as he had enough of trying to keep himself away from you

﴾ wild side (one-shot, mafia au, smut)

summary: one night, while you were making your way home after work, you came across something you shouldn’t have seen and even if you run away, there was no way for you to escape the man with the scar across his face

﴾ smooth operator (one-shot, office au, smut)

summary: you always get what you want, with a single look, a wave of your hand, dripping with confidence that made him tremble the first time you two met, he watched you quietly from afar, admiring the perfection that you are, but it soon turned into obsession and oh, how he hated how much you got into his head…

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lee know

﴾ haunt me (one-shot, horror au, smut)

summary: on Halloween night, you and your friends gather for a classic spirit summoning, eager to make the most of this tradition, unaware that you will be the one to face the consequences…

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changbin

﴾ lunaris (one-shot, supernatural au, smut)

summary: you are not alone — from the moment you decided to live in the small house at the edge of a lake, a dark, looming phantom, seemed to follow you wherever you go and you cannot do anything other than to wait and see, what it wants from you…

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hyunjin

﴾ i drink your blood and i eat your skin (series, vampire au)

summary: all your life, you have been searching, trying to understand your purpose, to come across a reason to stay in this world — a savior, from all of your pain and fear, was death itself. he came to you so suddenly, crawling his way into your broken heart that had never felt so full until then, biting at your flesh, whispering so sweetly, pleasing to your ears. but even being kissed by death wasn’t enough to make you unsee the thing that’s been truly haunting you…

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han

﴾ she’s my collar (one-shot, idol au, smut)

summary: while playing a game of spin the bottle, you learn some very interesting things about your friends that night, but probably the most memorable one of them is when the cute boy next to you confesses his dirtiest dream

﴾ let me blow your mind (one-shot, high school au, smut)

summary: you noticed him watching you from afar, though it never occurred to you why han jisung, the school’s bad boy, would be watching a shy, nerdy girl like you, but before you can even blink, you are thrown into a world of pleasure and right into his greedy hands

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felix

﴾ out of the blue, part one (one-shot, idol au, smut)

summary: it is you boyfriend’s birthday and you decided to let him unwrap his gift a little sooner…

﴾ rush (one-shot, university au, smut)

summary: he yearns for you, for a simple glance or a whiff of your addictive smell, he dreams of you, because in his mind that is the only way he thought he could have you, you were just a fantasy, but to you he was just someone who needed to be shown the powerful world of pleasure

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seungmin

﴾ you shook me (one-shot, university au, smut)

summary: you were captivating, you were in his mind and his soul, taking a bite of it each time you would glance his way, you shouldn’t excite him, you shouldn’t enjoy getting under his skin, it was so wrong…so wrong that it felt good

﴾ insane in the brain (one-shot, ghostface au, smut)

summary: a masked killer returns to the town, leaving you terrified, paranoia seems to follow you everywhere you go, along with two of your classmates, who seem to grow very fond of you…

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i.n

﴾ insane in the brain (one-shot, ghostface au, smut)

summary: a masked killer returns to the town, leaving you terrified, paranoia seems to follow you everywhere you go, along with two of your classmates, who seem to grow very fond of you…

──────────────────────

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alexanderwales · 9 months ago

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Everyone is born into a Genre, except for those poor souls who are destined to be side characters and bystanders, or occasionally taken hostage.

You were born to parents of different Genres, which was unthinkable a generation ago but now only raises a few judgmental eyebrows. Your father was a spy and your mother was a ninja, which is one of the more acceptable Genre pairings. There's crossover there, people understood it.

But when you were four, you first put on a cowboy hat, and it just felt right. Your parents were appalled. They didn't even know where the cowboy hat had come from.

You'd think, given the struggles they had in their own marriage and the prejudice they faced from the rest of the world, that they would be more understanding, but your father yanked the lasso you made from bedsheets away from you when you were eight years old, and your mother made you do throwing star drills in the family dojo for hours. You were horrible at it, and she blamed your father. Granted, you weren't any better at dodging laser tripwires.

Eventually you settled into dressing "normal". Dad and mom could pretend that it was a disguise, and it sort of was. Dad didn't wear his tuxedo everywhere, and mom only wore her shinobi shozoku when things were getting serious.

But then when you went to college you saw her, a coed walking across the quad in boots with spurs on them. Her blonde hair was in braids that stuck out from beneath her ten gallon hat. She was wearing chaps, and you followed after her like a puppy dog, trying not to be obvious about it but in retrospect being very obvious about it.

It was a rocky start. You made an awkward introduction, then she thought you were making fun of her when you started asking all kinds of questions. Western wasn't a popular Genre. It's time had come and gone. And even when she realized that you were serious, she was skittish, worried that you were interested for the wrong reasons, a Genre seeker.

Eventually she understood where you were coming from, that you were Western too, even if you didn't look like it, even if you didn't speak the language or have the skills.

One night, a week after you'd met, you asked her some innocuous question and she gave you a playful shove and called you a greenhorn. You felt your heart soar and a frission go across your skin. "Aw shucks," she said as you wiped away a happy tear, "Weren't nothin' but the truth."

From then on it was a blur of rodeos and saloons. You bought new clothes from the one general store they had in the city. You learned how to hogtie and cattle call. You ate beans around a campfire and then went to class the next day smelling like wood smoke and yearning for the wide open plains.

Going home felt itchy. It was too difficult to ignore how the clothes didn't feel quite right, and you wore flannel and jeans, on the edge of acceptability, flirting with the line. But you carried yourself differently too, and that was harder to disguise, especially since it was hard to remember the mask you'd been wearing.

One of these days you'll tell yours parents who you are, but there's a nagging feeling that they should have known all along, that they deprived you of a childhood that could have been happier if they hadn't tried to mold you into a version of them.

But until then, you'll guide your horse through town, moseying along, eating your vittles, and maybe with a cowgirl by your side.

#microfiction

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t4kalcvr · 20 days ago

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WHEN THE WIND CHANGES

𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈 word count :: ( 12,400 ) genre :: fluffyyy, angsty, gore, && slow burn content contains :: stabbing/cutting, knives, bats, fighting, pretty much just regular bofurin behavior part one right here !!

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

you didn’t know which snapped first — your fear or your patience.

the bat pressed tighter into your spine. the knife guy let his words drag out, lazy and amused, talking about your face like it was something to be hunted.

familiar.

recognizable.

too much like suo’s.

no more.

without a word, you slammed your elbow backward, hitting the gut of the guy behind you. he cursed and staggered just enough for you to twist — fast — grabbing the glass pitcher from the table and smashing it across his shoulder. shards exploded in a spray of water and glass.

kotoha in motion.

“what the—?!”

the one with the knife swiped wildly, barely missing your side. kotoha screamed your name — and then you saw it.

the girl who usually worked with practiced grace now moved like a whirlwind. she grabbed the nearest coffee tray, launching it like a discus. it slammed into the head of buzz-cut, knocking him half-off his feet.

“don’t touch her!” she barked, running around the counter.

the third guy lunged for you, so you dropped low, sweeping his leg with your foot — a move your brother definitely taught you. he hit the tile hard, knocking over a table with a crash. dishes shattered everywhere.

you didn’t stop.

you spun toward the one with the knife again — he was up, cocky, swinging. your shoulder caught the edge of the blade before you turned your weight and punched hard into his ribs. the blade grazed your cheek.

warm blood trickled down. you didn’t flinch.

behind you, kotoha used the coffee pot. full and boiling.

it shattered against one of the guy’s backs with a scream.

“don’t touch my staff, you asshole!” she shouted.

tables were overturned, chairs smashed, glass glittered across the floor like broken stars. the café was chaos, and your adrenaline was burning hot — your vision narrow, focused, animal.

the guy you hit last slumped down near the wall, dazed. the one with the bat was back up, but slower, angrier.

he swung wide.

you ducked, grabbed the edge of a table, and used your entire weight to shove it straight into him — the corner catching his thigh. he stumbled and fell into a heap of mugs and splintered wood.

panting, dizzy from blood loss, you and kotoha backed up toward each other in the center of the wrecked café, hearts pounding in unison.

all three guys lay groaning and broken in scattered corners of the floor.

the silence that followed was thick, except for your breaths and the clinking of something still rolling across the ground.

and then—

“oi!”

the door burst open.

umemiya’s voice was loud and commanding, immediately followed by the stomping of several pairs of shoes.

“what the hell happened?!”

ren, sakura, kiryu, hiragi, nirei, and suo poured in behind him — some wide-eyed, some already snapping to attention.

they froze at the scene: the café wrecked, glass underfoot, furniture scattered like a battlefield.

and you — shirt torn at the shoulder, bruised, bleeding down your cheek, knuckles scraped raw — standing next to a panting, wild-eyed kotoha.

“we… handled it,” kotoha breathed, trying to catch herself, palms scraped, hair loose from her ponytail.

you stood with your fists still clenched, chest rising and falling like a drum.

“barely,” you mumbled.

ren’s lollipop fell from his mouth.

kiryu let out a soft whistle, expression still calm but surprised. “damn.”

nirei was already halfway to a panic attack. “w-what—what happened? are you—are you both okay?!”

“those guys,” kotoha pointed to the jackets, “aren’t shishitoren. they jumped some kids and came in to mess with us.”

“they recognized her,” kotoha added, quieter now. “said she looked like someone.”

suo’s smile twitched, almost dropped.

you didn’t meet his eyes.

ren, meanwhile, was still frozen. your blood — the cut on your cheek — the way you stood, ready to go again if you had to.

you were fire.

and something in his chest twisted sharply.

you sat on the edge of the booth seat with one arm resting on the table and the other pressed tightly against your thigh. the adrenaline was wearing off, and now all the cuts you hadn’t noticed were starting to throb.

your arm had a thin, angry gash from where a broken plate had slashed across it. your thigh—worse. the blade had grazed deeper there, your jeans torn and blood darkening the fabric, sticking it to your skin. and your ribs ached with every breath, bruises blooming beneath the surface like ink in water.

suo crouched in front of you again, this time quieter. less teasing.

his eyes flickered down to your leg, the blood there, and he exhaled.

“…you should’ve told them where im at. not stayed behind.”

you shrugged. “i didn’t have time to think. besides, we won.”

“barely.”

“still counts.”

his jaw clenched. “this isn’t a game.”

you looked at him for a long beat. then: “do you think this was a mistake?”

he didn’t answer right away. his hand reached for a clean towel from the supply kotoha had tossed your way, dampening it before gently pressing it to the cut on your thigh.

you flinched. he paused.

“do you?”

his voice was low. too calm.

you avoided his eyes. “…maybe. maybe it was stupid to think i could be here. with everything going on.”

you heard the creak of a booth behind you, followed by low voices:

“okay, but seriously,” kiryu drawled, half-laughing and half-tired. “can we just ask them already?”

“no,” hiragi said immediately, annoyed. “because we’ve tried that. like four times.”

“siblings?”

“doesn’t make sense. they act too close.”

“dating?”

“too snappy.”

“exes?”

“too affectionate.”

“…married and in denial?”

“oh my god.”

nirei, pacing anxiously near the entrance, added, “w-what if they’re both spies from some other gang who infiltrated bofurin as emotional informants?!”

“nirei,” kiryu muttered, “please drink water and sit down.”

umemiya was leaning against the counter now, sweat drying at his temple, arms crossed with a lazy grin. “i think they’re siblings,” he said plainly, “but they’re hiding it ‘cause they like causing chaos.”

“shut up, hajime,” kotoha groaned from behind the counter as she wrapped a bandage around her palm. “that’s actually not the worst theory.”

you and suo both glanced over.

then you looked back at him.

“they’re not totally wrong,” you said, wincing again as he dabbed more gently.

“they don’t need to know,” he muttered. “it’s not about hiding it forever, just—keeping you safe.”

“but i’m not safe, suo.”

he stilled.

you continued, “i came here thinking it’d be normal. calm. but it’s just a different kind of storm. i didn’t want to be a liability.”

he let the towel fall from your thigh.

“you’re not,” he said firmly.

“i just thought i’d find peace here,” you whispered. “with you. and them. and now it’s… this.”

he leaned back, hands on his knees, looking up at the ceiling like he was trying to come up with an answer that didn’t exist.

then finally, quietly: “i don’t know if it was a mistake… but if it was, it’s already too late.”

you nodded slowly.

behind you, someone (probably hiragi) muttered, “alright i’m just gonna say it — if they are secretly married and have three kids in the countryside, i wanna be the godfather.”

“shut. up,” sakura gritted through his teeth, tugging his hoodie over his head and hiding his face.

you couldn’t help it—you laughed, blood on your sleeve and all.

suo rolled his eyes and shook his head. “idiots.”

but he was smiling too.

just a little.

ren hadn’t meant to overhear.

he was just passing by — at least, that’s what he told himself. passing by, lingering at the edge of the wrecked café with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his bluetooth headphones slung over his ears, but not playing anything. a lollipop no longer in his mouth.

the sun was low. golden. soft.

you were sitting on the steps near the side entrance, head dipped forward slightly, hair in disarray, bruises painting your skin like ink stains. suo was crouched beside you, his voice low. too low to fully catch, but sharp enough in tone to carry fragments.

“…was it a mistake?”

“…just wanted to find peace here…”

“…i’m not safe, suo.”

“…with you. and them.”

his brow twitched. his jaw tightened.

he didn’t know what he was listening to, and he didn’t know why he was listening.

there was a moment — one breath too long — where suo gently lifted the hem of your jeans to check the bleeding at your thigh, and ren felt something hot and bitter twist in his chest.

he looked away sharply, staring at the broken pieces of the café sign scattered across the pavement. pothos, now missing the o and a broken window.

what were you to each other?

why did it matter to him?

“yo!”

ren blinked.

a heavy arm dropped across his shoulders, and he immediately tensed.

“you alive?” umemiya grinned beside him, completely oblivious — or pretending to be. “you were staring at the ground like it owed you money.”

“…wasn’t.”

“right, right,” hajime nodded, clearly not convinced. “well. good news!”

ren arched a brow. “what now.”

umemiya clapped once, loud enough to make nirei flinch from five feet away.

“today’s school assignment,” he declared, pointing toward the half-shattered front of café pothos, “is team-based reconstruction. we’re helping kotoha clean this mess up.”

“…what,” kiryu muttered as he walked out of the café with a broom.

“we’re not contractors, hajime,” hiragi snapped.

“don’t care. team bonding.”

sakura peeked from around the doorway, getting ice and napkins for your fat lip. “kotoha said if we break anything else, we have to pay for it.”

“and if we fix stuff?”

“we… don’t have to pay,” sakura offered, scratching his cheek.

“perfect!” umemiya beamed. “see? win-win.”

ren let the sound of everyone complaining fade behind him.

you were standing now, leaning against the railing as suo said something else in that same low tone, something ren didn’t catch.

he didn’t like the way it made his chest tighten.

he didn’t like the way you looked a little too soft around suo.

and more than anything — he hated how much he cared about something he didn’t understand.

he looked down at the lollipop in his hand, unwrapped it, and shoved it between his teeth.

“…tch,” he muttered.

“what was that?” umemiya asked.

“nothing.”

but his eyes stayed fixed on you anyway.

the inside of café pothos still smelled like sweat, spilled espresso, and broken drywall.

someone had turned on the ceiling fan even though it was missing two blades, so it wobbled above them like it might come down at any second. hiragi had placed a bucket directly underneath it, “just in case,” and then left it there as if that solved anything.

“okay, sakura,” kotoha snapped, hands on her hips, “you’re in charge of the broom. kiryu, windows. nirei, keep track of what’s too broken to fix.”

nirei was already pale.

“i don’t know what counts as too broken!” he whined, flinching as a stool collapsed beside him.

“if it has splinters, it’s probably too broken,” kotoha deadpanned.

“what if i get splinters?!”

“then ren can carry you home.”

ren, sitting on the counter with his lollipop in one corner of his mouth and his headphones resting over his ears, made a noise that sounded like a flat laugh. he wasn’t looking at anyone — but he wasn’t exactly not looking at you, either.

you had your sleeves rolled up, a broom in your hand, and a tight smile on your face. bruises still bloomed along your arms, and the cut on your cheek was a bright, thin slash, only slightly faded under a fresh bandage.

you kept your distance. didn’t say anything.

but every time you turned, you could feel his gaze flicker over to you.

you started testing it.

reaching up to adjust a light fixture — you felt him watch the movement. bending down to grab a mop bucket — you caught the slight shift in his posture, like he was getting ready to step in. not that he did, of course. he just… watched. always watched.

you caught his eyes once.

you didn’t look away.

he did.

“we’re gonna need new signage,” kotoha muttered beside you, tossing aside a snapped wooden plank. “and a new coffee grinder. and probably a new door. great.”

you hummed, nodding slightly, but your eyes drifted again — and ren was still watching you.

he looked annoyed now. or maybe caught.

either way, you smirked to yourself.

“i’ll wipe down the tables,” you offered, grabbing a towel.

as you passed ren to reach the cleaning spray, his foot nudged slightly to the side — not enough to trip you, but enough to make you step a little closer, maybe too close.

he didn’t move.

you looked up, slowly.

“…what?” you asked softly.

he didn’t answer. just popped the lollipop back between his teeth and looked the other way.

“nothing.”

but the red tips of his ears said otherwise.

you smiled, more to yourself than anyone else, and walked past him, letting your shoulder graze his on the way.

from across the room, umemiya paused with a chair balanced on one arm and nudged suo. “…hey. that tension? do we know what that is?”

suo tilted his head, watching you both for a second, then shrugged with a crooked grin. “not yet.”

the café looked like a battlefield with sunlight bleeding through the shattered front window and motes of dust floating where pastries used to sit. but there was laughter now, and loud complaints, and the occasional crash followed by someone yelling “not it!” when a shelf collapsed or a chair split.

you were halfway through wiping down the counter when someone behind you tossed a rag. it flopped onto your head like a wet towel from hell.

“i—” you blinked, then slowly turned around.

sakura stood there, frozen, hand still half-raised.

“…you threw this?” you asked flatly.

he shrieked, sweating instantly. “i panicked! you were—too quiet! it was suspicious!”

“that’s your reason?” you deadpanned.

“you looked like you were plotting something!”

“maybe i was plotting to wipe the counter without interruption.”

he looked horrified. “see?! plotting!”

you rolled your eyes and chucked the rag back at him. it hit him square in the face. he made a noise that was equal parts defeat and whimper as he stumbled back and bumped into kiryu, who hadn’t moved from his post at the window.

“yo,” kiryu greeted lazily, not even looking. “you alive?”

“emotionally? never.”

kotoha was barking orders again, and at some point, hiragi was arguing with the fan, yelling, “you wanna fall, huh?! then do it! i dare you!”

you wiped sweat from your brow and reached for a bucket, only to find ren already holding it out.

your hands brushed.

you froze.

he didn’t move. didn’t say anything either, but there was something unreadable in his eyes — the soft buzz of his bluetooth headphones still hung around his neck, and his usual lollipop sat forgotten between his fingers.

“…thanks,” you mumbled, a little quieter than before.

he shrugged, looking off to the side. “suo said if anything broke today, it’d probably be because of you.”

you scoffed, grabbing the bucket. “rude. it was sakura’s fault.”

“not surprised,” he muttered.

still, you caught it — the tiny twitch at the corner of his lips. almost a smile. almost.

as the group split up again, ren moved toward the broken shelving, and you stayed by the front, stacking bent chairs and kicking aside broken glass. at some point, he started sweeping nearby — and somehow you both kept ending up in the same space.

you reached for a box at the same time.

he got there first.

again.

you hesitated, eyes flicking up. “you’re doing this on purpose.”

he tilted his head. “doing what?”

“hovering.”

his brow lifted. “you said you noticed. so now i’m not hiding it.”

you opened your mouth, not sure if you were impressed or annoyed. “…well, at least you’re honest.”

he handed you the box without looking. “don’t get used to it.”

“mm,” you hummed, brushing past him again. “too late.”

somewhere across the café, umemiya was trying to untangle sakura from a curtain rod while shouting, “you are not tarzan! stop swinging on things!” and nirei had been roped into sorting receipts and looked like he was going to cry.

you stood at the window, setting the box down. outside, the light was dimming — golden hour painting everything in soft edges and warm orange. a moment passed. you heard footsteps behind you, slow, steady.

ren.

you didn’t turn around this time.

but you didn’t move away either.

the light from the window spilled in gently now, casting everything in dusky gold — the shattered glass twinkled like stars on the floor, and the wooden counters glowed with warmth they didn’t carry hours earlier.

you didn’t turn when ren approached. you didn’t need to. there was something about the air when he was close — quieter, heavier. not uncomfortable… just present. in a way no one else managed to be.

“you missed a spot,” he said, voice low.

you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “no, i didn’t.”

“you did.”

“where?”

he leaned in slightly, his hand reaching past you, a single finger wiping at a tiny smudge on the glass just beside yours. he didn’t even need to touch you — but you felt the space between you get thinner anyway.

he looked at the glass. “see?”

you looked at him. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re slow.”

“i was cleaning everything else.”

“excuses,” he said, soft, eyes not leaving yours.

your throat tightened a little. you swallowed, slow, careful. “…you’ve been acting weird all day.”

he tilted his head. “you’re the one who said you knew the whole time. thought it was cute to mess with me.”

“maybe it was.” your voice was barely above a whisper.

a beat passed.

he didn’t step away. didn’t look away.

your heart thudded against your ribs. too loud. too obvious.

his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before flicking back up. “…maybe it wasn’t a bad assignment.”

you blinked. “what?”

“watching you.”

it felt like a confession slipped into silence. it felt like something else hanging in the air with the dust and sunset.

and just like that — the sound of footsteps and a clearing throat shattered it.

suo.

he stood by the archway between the front and back of the café, arms crossed, smile not reaching his eyes. “hate to interrupt,” he said smoothly, “but she’s not done for the day yet.”

you blinked, shoulders tensing, and took a step back from ren.

ren stayed still, posture stiff.

“you need something, suo?” you asked, eyes not quite meeting his.

“nah,” he said, but the edge in his voice lingered. “just thought maybe you forgot there’s still broken glass on the other side of the counter.”

you opened your mouth, but he added, softer but not kinder, “you’ve got a thing for danger or what?”

your stomach twisted slightly. the guilt. the understanding. the reminder.

ren finally turned his head, giving suo a slow, narrow-eyed glance.

suo’s tone brightened again. “just making sure no one ends up more bruised than they already are.”

he didn’t wait for a response — just turned and walked off, casually calling over his shoulder, “and don’t make me babysit the cleanup crew again.”

you sighed.

ren didn’t say anything at first. just turned back to the window.

“sorry,” you muttered, brushing your hand against your arm. “he’s… complicated.”

ren’s eyes flicked back toward the archway suo disappeared through. “yeah,” he said. “he is.”

another beat.

“but so are you.”

you looked at him, startled.

he didn’t elaborate.

instead, he pulled his headphones back over his ears — letting them rest, idle, playing some loud hop music. the lollipop returned to his mouth. he glanced at the counter.

“you did miss a spot, though.” he spoke a bit louder, basically shouting.

you couldn’t help the tiny laugh that escaped you.

outside, the orange-pink glow of early evening made everything look warmer than it felt. dust lifted in the air as hiragi, shirt halfway untucked, barked instructions at sakura — who promptly ignored him in favor of lifting an entire beam by himself. kiryu lounged on a bucket near the sidewalk, sipping from a convenience store soda and offering absolutely no help. nirei stood nearby wringing his hands, anxiously trying to keep track of how many trays had actually survived the earlier fight.

inside café pothos, things were quieter. not calm, but quieter.

you stood behind the counter with kotoha, sleeves rolled up, hands stacked full of bubble-wrapped ceramic mugs. she was reaching up to stock the top shelf when she asked, “these new trays feel lighter, right? i think they’re gonna fly out of my hand next time someone pisses me off.”

you laughed. “they probably will.”

“not a bad thing,” she added, smirking.

you rolled the edge of a dishcloth between your fingers. “…kotoha?”

“hm?”

you hesitated, then carefully said, “i might have to leave soon.”

“yeah, the sun’s going down.” she didn’t even glance at you, casually setting a mug on the shelf.

you smiled a little despite yourself. “no — not for the day. i mean town.”

that got her attention.

she turned. blinked. “…wait. what?”

“makochi,” you clarified. “i might have to leave makochi.”

the air shifted. not heavy. just… real.

kotoha slowly leaned her hip against the counter. “why?”

your fingers brushed a tray. you didn’t quite look at her when you answered. “it’s not official or anything. but… it happens. eventually.”

“why though?” her voice was quiet now. curious, not pressing.

your gaze drifted out the large front window.

outside, sakura tripped on the curb while trying to lift a folding sign. hiragi shouted at him, ren muttered something while shifting a crate single-handedly, and kiryu grinned while filming it on his phone. umemiya had joined in too, sleeves rolled up, carrying something far too heavy on one shoulder with an exaggerated “oiii— look at me go!” while taiga squawked at him to be careful before breaking something again.

your chest ached. fondness never hurt so softly.

“it’s because of suo,” you said quietly. “you already know i’m his little sister.”

kotoha turned fully to you now, eyes staring into yours.

you gave her a sheepish smile. “we don’t really tell people. not because we’re hiding it, but… it’s safer.”

she nodded slowly. “safer… because of gang stuff?”

“yeah,” you said. “it’s always been like this. he settles into a town, does his thing. then three months later, i show up. new job, new apartment. we keep a distance. but when people start putting it together, it becomes a problem.”

you swallowed.

“it makes me a weakness. makes him a target. and… it’s harder for him to do the things he loves — leading, fighting, helping. he’s always on guard when i’m around. and i hate that.”

you glanced at kotoha, half-expecting her to say something logical, or comforting, or lighthearted.

instead, she just followed your gaze again.

your eyes had found ren — crouched low now, one earphone slipped off, brows furrowed slightly as he fixed something to the storefront, lollipop tucked in the corner of his mouth.

kotoha watched for a second longer, then looked back at you. “…you’re not just sad about losing the job.”

you huffed out a soft laugh. “no. i’m not.”

“you like him.”

you smiled. “maybe.”

kotoha nudged you gently. “…he’s difficult.”

“so am i.”

“true.”

you sighed, tugging your sleeves back down. “it just sucks. i finally feel like i found a place i want to stay.”

kotoha reached over and handed you another mug. “then maybe fight a little harder to keep it.”

you looked at her.

“you’ve already proven you can fight,” she said, smirking. “try doing it for yourself this time.”

outside, kiryu fell off the bucket mid-laugh.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the café smelled like lemon cleaner and fresh coffee again — a miracle considering the week they’d just had. music played faintly from kotoha’s speaker, something mellow and wordless, curling through the shop like fog.

you leaned on the counter, wiping it in slow, pointless circles. your gaze had slipped again — out the front window, where the street looked golden and sleepy, as if nothing bad had ever happened here.

behind you, chairs scraped. footsteps — steady, deliberate.

you didn’t have to look to know it was ren.

you felt him long before you heard him.

he stopped beside you, leaning slightly on the counter with one forearm, his lollipop tucked in his mouth, bluetooth headphones snug over his ears. the light caught the white strands of his hair, but he didn’t speak right away.

just stood there. watching.

you broke the silence first. “you’re staring.”

“you’re sulking.”

you looked at him with half-lidded eyes. “am not.”

his tone didn’t shift — still flat, still calm — but you caught the subtle change in how long his gaze lingered. like he was trying to understand something he didn’t quite know how to ask about.

“kotoha said something to upset you?” he asked after a moment, nodding toward the back room. “or did nirei cry again and make it weird.”

you cracked a faint smile. “nirei cries at everything.”

“i don’t.”

“should i be worried if you ever do?”

“probably,” ren muttered, eyes back on you now.

the silence between you stretched again, not heavy — not uncomfortable. just full. like there were too many things you weren’t saying and not enough time to sort through them.

he nudged your arm slightly with his elbow. “you’re not usually this quiet.”

“i’m thinking.”

“stop.”

you laughed softly, but it faded too quick. your voice dropped. “what if i have to leave?”

he tilted his head a little, eyes narrowing just slightly behind the sharp white strands that fell into them. “are you?”

you hesitated. “maybe.”

“why?”

you looked at him — really looked — and this time, he didn’t look away.

you wondered what he’d say if you told him the truth. that you were someone’s sister. that you were a risk. that being here, liking someone, letting yourself belong — it all came at a price.

but instead, you said nothing. and still, somehow… he softened.

ren shifted his weight, dropping his head slightly to get a better view of your face. “don’t leave just because something scared you.”

your eyes widened a little. “i’m not scared.”

“then stop looking like you already said goodbye.”

his voice was still flat. his expression still unreadable.

but the words?

they weren’t cold at all.

just outside, leaning casually against a lamp post, suo watched the scene unfold through the window. his usual soft smile tugged more to one side, heavy with something like sadness… or maybe something closer to peace.

he saw the way your eyes met ren’s — that flicker of something vulnerable in your gaze, and the way ren didn’t move away from it this time.

he knew you were planning to leave. you’d told him that much. said it might be time.

but watching you now — your elbow nearly brushing ren’s, your mouth curved with half a smile you were trying not to show — he realized something else.

you weren’t leaving yet.

so he gave you this moment.

just this one.

and for now, that was enough.

you peeked at the clock on the wall above the pastry case — 7:42.

your fingers curled around the edge of the counter as you turned to ren. “my shift’s about over.”

he blinked. “…okay.”

you hesitated, heart beating a little faster than you were proud to admit. “would you walk me home?”

he didn’t answer right away — just looked at you, slightly wide-eyed like you’d asked him to hold your hand in front of everyone. then he nodded, slow and cool like he hadn’t just short-circuited internally.

“yeah. sure.”

you smiled and turned to unfasten your apron, reaching behind you for the strings. ren shifted slightly behind the counter — arms crossed, but his eyes dragged up without his permission.

he caught himself staring.

the apron string looped loosely from your fingers. your shirt caught the low light just right. your expression was soft, focused. and when you tossed the apron aside and looked up to grab your bag, his gaze flicked away — too fast, too obviously.

“ready?” you asked, tossing the strap over your shoulder.

he gave a small shrug, earbuds still snug over his ears, but the lollipop in his mouth shifted slightly as he started walking toward the door. “don’t get all dramatic if we get jumped again.”

you snorted as you locked up behind you. “you get jumped once and suddenly it’s your thing.”

he gave a sideways glance, amused. “i didn’t get jumped. you got jumped.”

“technically we were both in the building.”

“and technically i was standing behind five other people when it happened.”

“…wow. such a dependable bodyguard.”

“you want dependable, you should ask nirei.”

you laughed hard at that — really laughed — and ren, despite himself, looked proud.

the sky was still glowing, a fading mix of soft orange and dusty purple. your sneakers crunched lightly against the pavement as you walked side by side, the breeze tugging at your sleeves.

“so,” you said eventually, “do you always hang around people you’re assigned to like a weird ghost, or am i special?”

ren looked over at you, deadpan. “you’re special.”

you grinned.

“you also talk too much.”

“you’re just mad because i caught on.”

he didn’t deny it.

a quiet settled between you again. comfortable. familiar in a way neither of you wanted to name just yet.

you passed the vending machine outside the corner store — the one that always hummed a little too loud — and you kicked a small rock ahead of you, watching it bounce off a curb.

“i know why you show up,” you said softly.

ren glanced at you again, slower this time. “you do?”

“mm-hm.”

he didn’t ask what that reason was. didn’t offer one either. he just let the silence hold your words until you reached the narrow turn that led toward your building.

your steps slowed.

“i won’t tell anyone,” you said after a beat. “if you don’t.”

ren gave the faintest smile around his lollipop. “deal.”

you reached your door too soon.

you both stood there for a moment — too long to be casual, too quiet to be anything else.

then, a light breeze came and brushed by you both, giving you goosebumps. you had a quick thought of how this is the calmest the wind has blown since you’ve been here.

“thanks for walking me,” you said.

“wasn’t a walk. it was surveillance.”

you gave him a half-laugh, half-sigh. “whatever helps you sleep at night.”

his hand lifted halfway — maybe to wave, maybe to touch your arm, maybe nothing at all — but it fell back to his side.

you watched him turn and walk down the steps.

and just before he hit the sidewalk, he called over his shoulder, voice low:

“see you tomorrow, loudmouth.”

you smiled. “you better.”

the door clicked softly behind you.

the hallway was dim, painted gold by the last bits of sunset slipping through the curtains. your fingers loosened their grip on your bag, and your shoes made almost no sound against the wooden floor as you stepped further in.

then you saw him — suo.

he stood in the middle of the living room, arms already outstretched like he’d been waiting all day just to do that. he didn’t speak. didn’t smile.

he just waited.

you dropped your bag without thinking. it hit the floor with a soft thud, and you walked right into his arms, head tucking beneath his chin as his hold closed tight around you.

and suddenly — it hit you. all of it.

you inhaled shakily as your fingers clutched the back of his shirt.

this was it.

your last night in makochi.

you’d been putting it off for days, holding onto the hope that maybe this time it’d be different. maybe the peace would last. maybe ren— maybe you wouldn’t have to leave.

but the train tickets were already bought. your bag was half-packed in the closet. tomorrow night, you’d be boarding alone again. another city. another new start. another distance from your only real home — the boy currently holding you like he already missed you.

“i didn’t say anything earlier,” you murmured, voice muffled by his shoulder. “i didn’t wanna ruin the night.”

“i know.”

his voice was quiet. steady. but the hand on your back squeezed just a little tighter.

“you have to pack tonight, right?”

you nodded against him.

he let out a long breath. “then let’s do it together. like always.”

you nodded again, eyes burning.

this wasn’t the first time you’d moved. wasn’t the first time you had to say goodbye to the normalcy you’d finally begun to build. but it was the first time it hurt this much. the first time it felt like leaving meant leaving something unfinished.

someone unfinished.

ren.

and you hated that he didn’t even know.

you didn’t speak again for a while. neither did suo. you just stood there in the quiet warmth of your home, holding onto each other like you were both trying to memorize what it felt like before the next goodbye came too fast.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the sound of the zipper echoed faintly through the room.

your suitcase lay open on your bed, half-filled with clothes, small toiletries, and folded fragments of the life you built in makochi — quiet pieces of the job you loved, the friends you started to make, the person you were beginning to become.

you were sitting cross-legged near the foot of the bed, folding your favorite hoodie. suo sat on the floor beside you, back leaning against the side of the mattress, a random roll of socks in his hands he hadn’t moved in five minutes.

neither of you had said anything in a while.

the fan buzzed gently from the ceiling. the world outside had gone still. it was one of those rare, silent nights where even the city seemed to respect what was about to be lost.

“remember when you tried to iron your uniform on the stove?” suo finally said, smile creeping into his voice.

you scoffed, chucking a shirt lightly at him. “it worked for like three seconds!”

he caught it and threw it back. “three seconds and then a fire alarm.”

you snorted. “we nearly got kicked out of the apartment—”

“we did get kicked out. you just cried so much the landlord gave us one more chance.”

“emotional damage is real,” you said, grinning softly.

he grinned back, arms resting on his knees now, head tilted as he looked around the room like he was already missing it.

“feels like we just got here,” he said after a moment, voice lower now. “you were finally settling in… kotoha likes you. the guys were getting used to seeing you.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat. “i know.”

he leaned his head back against the bed frame. “i hate that this is how it always goes.”

“me too.”

you folded another shirt. your hands moved automatically now. everything was familiar. you knew which clothes were yours without looking. you knew which ones you wouldn’t wear but couldn’t bear to leave behind. and you knew exactly what was going to happen once that train left the station.

another temporary version of you would disappear.

“i’ll miss the café,” you said. “the mugs. kotoha’s ridiculous apron collection.”

“i’ll miss her death stares every time i visit.”

you laughed gently.

“what about the boys?” suo asked, nudging your arm. “gonna miss them?”

you looked down. hesitated. “…maybe.”

“‘maybe,’ she says,” he teased, but you could hear the shift in his tone.

he didn’t say anything about ren.

he didn’t have to.

instead, he leaned over and gently bumped his shoulder against yours.

“we’re always gonna be like this, you know,” he said. “just the two of us. place to place. staying only long enough for something good to start before we have to leave again.”

you looked over at him. “isn’t that the worst part?”

his eyes softened.

“yeah,” he said quietly. “it really is.”

you didn’t finish packing that night. not completely. you let the zipper stay open and the light stay on. you laid back on the bed while suo stretched out on the floor beside it, arms folded behind his head, the silence between you comfortable in its familiarity.

no more words were needed. because what hadn’t been said was already understood:

you were leaving tomorrow.

but tonight — tonight — was still yours.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the sun hadn’t fully risen when you made your way to café pothos. the streets were mostly empty, a few tired shopkeepers beginning their routines, the air still crisp from the night before. you walked slower than usual, each step heavy with the weight of your decision.

you held your small bag close to your side as you pushed open the café door.

inside, it was quieter than usual. kotoha stood behind the counter, already dressed in her apron, clutching a coffee mug like it was her lifeline. her eyes lit up when she saw you — but only for a moment.

then they glossed over.

“you’re really leaving,” she said, setting the mug down and pulling you into a tight hug before you could even respond.

“my train’s in a few hours,” you murmured into her shoulder.

kotoha sniffled — loudly. “you’re not allowed to leave unless you take me with you. you know that, right?”

you chuckled. “i’ll carry you in my suitcase if you can survive being crammed between three hoodies and my toothbrush.”

“that sounds like luxury to me right now,” she sniffed dramatically, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “ugh, i hate this part. i like you, you know? that never happens.”

you laughed, throat tight. “i like you too.”

kotoha walked around the counter and handed you an envelope. “your last check. but i added in a little more because i emotionally manipulated myself into thinking you deserve it.”

“i’ll take your pity pay,” you teased, but your fingers curled tightly around the envelope.

you lingered at the door for a moment, glancing around the shop, memorizing every corner, every misplaced mug. “thank you for everything.”

“don’t,” kotoha choked, waving you off. “i’ll sob harder.”

you stepped outside just as the bells on the café door chimed behind you again.

“yo!”

your heart lurched.

bofurin was arriving — umemiya leading the pack, his hands behind his head like usual, sakura yawning with his two-toned hair ruffled from sleep, and the rest all tumbling in like loud chaos incarnate.

“you’re early,” mitsuki chirped with a grin.

“did you just get off shift?” hiragi asked, sharp teeth peeking through a half-smirk.

you smiled. “actually… i came to say goodbye.”

their footsteps slowed, the door barely swinging shut behind them. all of them froze.

“what?” nirei gasped, eyes immediately panicking.

you stepped forward, arms out, and pulled nirei into a tight hug first.

he squeaked like a kettle boiling over.

“w-whoa—wait, i didn’t mentally prepare for affection—”

“bye, nirei,” you whispered, smiling.

he was beet red by the time you let go.

you moved next to kiryu, who lazily opened his arms like it was routine.

“guess i’ll let you hug me. just once,” he said with a teasing grin.

you rolled your eyes and gave him a quick squeeze.

“do i get a hug?” umemiya asked, already opening his arms wide with the biggest smile.

you didn’t hesitate, and he practically lifted you off the ground, spinning once dramatically before setting you down. “take care of yourself, little café sunshine.”

you saluted with a laugh. sakura, next in line, was already breaking into a sweat.

“uh—i-i mean, it’s okay, you don’t have to—i’m not very good with—”

you hugged him anyway, quick but warm.

his entire brain short-circuited. “g-girl hug… real girl hug…”

“bye, sakura.”

then… ren.

he stood off to the side, arms crossed loosely over his chest, that usual cold, unreadable expression settled over his features. he didn’t say anything — just watched you approach the others, watched you laugh and smile and hug everyone else. and then… walk right past him.

you didn’t say a word.

not because you didn’t want to.

but because you couldn’t.

there was too much in your chest. too much you’d regret. too much you wanted to say that would catch in your throat if you tried. so you skipped him — not out of cruelty, but out of fear that if you even touched him, you wouldn’t be able to walk away.

behind you, ren’s jaw tensed ever so slightly. he turned his head just enough to hide the flicker of something bitter across his face. he didn’t speak. didn’t ask why. didn’t move.

but when the door finally shut behind you — bells ringing one last time — his fists were clenched in his pockets, knuckles aching.

umemiya nudged him with an elbow.

“dude… she hugged sakura.”

“shut up,” ren muttered, already in a bad mood he couldn’t explain.

the bell above the café door jingled softly again as bofurin filtered in fully now, kicking off shoes and stretching like it was just another rowdy morning.

“man, what was that about?” kiryu asked as he leaned over the counter, still lazily chewing gum. “she hugged everyone like it was a funeral or something.”

“right?” umemiya chuckled, heading toward the back to grab an apron. “she said goodbye like she’s not coming in tomorrow. kotoha, she switching shifts or something?”

he didn’t notice at first, but the café had gone oddly quiet.

kotoha’s back was turned to them, sleeves rolled up as she adjusted the espresso machine, meticulously checking dials she had already looked at twice that morning.

umemiya looked over. “yo, kotoha?”

she didn’t turn around. “mm?”

“she’s not switching shifts?”

“nope.”

“so what’s the dramatic goodbye for?”

kotoha’s fingers hesitated slightly on the machine’s switch. but she flicked it anyway and replied with forced brightness, “maybe she just wanted a dramatic moment. she’s like that.”

kiryu raised an eyebrow. “she forgot to hug ren. that’s not dramatic. that’s cold.”

ren didn’t comment. still standing near the wall where he’d been before, arms folded, lollipop now in his mouth again like a shield. but something about him felt heavier.

umemiya flopped into a chair, long legs swinging out. “that’s weird though, right? even for her. she usually walks in with snacks or something, not existential dread.”

“kotoha,” hiragi said slowly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, “what aren’t you telling us?”

kotoha finally turned. her face was calm, but her grip on the dish towel was tight. “she just… wanted to make the most of today. that’s all.”

“that sounds like something people say before a funeral,” nirei muttered under his breath.

kiryu leaned over the counter. “so she’s not coming back?”

“kiri—” kotoha warned.

he lifted a hand in mock surrender. “i’m just saying! you’re being weird. she’s being weird. everyone’s being weird.”

umemiya narrowed his eyes. “wait… is she leaving?”

kotoha’s mouth opened—then shut again. her lips pressed together as she dried the same mug for a third time.

“i promised,” she finally said, soft but firm.

that made the entire café fall still.

sakura blinked at her. “…promised what?”

but kotoha had already turned her back to them again, shoulders squared, busying herself with a tray of clean mugs.

no one pushed her further.

but every single one of them, in their own way, began to piece something together.

and ren… ren didn’t move from where he stood, eyes locked on the door you had just walked out of, your absence pressing into him like a weight he hadn’t agreed to carry.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the sky above makochi was already turning a heavy shade of blue-black, clouds low and swollen with warning. streetlights buzzed faintly as you made your way back through furin territory, a plastic bag swinging at your side, stuffed with last-minute impulse buys from your favorite shops. a charm keychain, a warm drink from the convenience store, a sticker you didn’t need.

the corners you walked were familiar now — the vending machines, the bent street signs, the stray cat that always hid behind the tobacco shop. you memorized them without meaning to.

you reached café pothos just as the wind began to pick up, rustling the row of potted plants kotoha always fussed over.

the inside was warm. the lights were low. and there they were — kotoha wiping down the counter, and suo leaning back in a chair with a lukewarm drink in hand.

kotoha looked up first.

“you came back,” she smiled, setting the rag down and walking toward you. “didn’t expect you to.”

you gave her a soft laugh. “i wanted to see you both one more time.”

suo set his drink aside, arms open like he had been waiting. “we’re not dying, y’know.”

you walked into his hug anyway.

“kotoha told me you bought out half the shopping district,” he murmured with a smile as you pressed your forehead to his shoulder.

“might as well stimulate the economy on my way out,” you mumbled.

kotoha leaned against the counter, arms crossed, but her expression was unusually soft. “you’re really going tonight?”

you nodded.

“the storm’s gonna be rough,” she warned, voice just a little quieter. “radio says the train might be delayed.”

“then i’ll wait it out.” you looked between them. “but i need to go.”

suo didn’t say anything at first. then: “if anything happens—”

“i’ll call,” you promised.

his jaw ticked slightly, but he nodded. “good.”

kotoha stepped in, pulling you into a rare hug, her arms tight. “you better. i mean it. i’ll kick your ass if you disappear and leave us wondering.”

you laughed, the sound muffled in her shoulder. “you’ll have to catch me first.”

the café door rattled slightly with the rising wind, the windows trembling just a little in their frames. it felt like the town itself was getting ready to let you go.

you stepped back from the hug, looking around at the quiet shop — every mug, every polished surface, every memory tucked into the corners.

and then you looked at them one last time.

“thank you. for everything.”

suo only gave you a nod, jaw tight.

kotoha tried for a smile. “go. before it gets worse.”

you turned to the door, pulling your coat tighter. but you paused before stepping out, glancing back one last time at the place that had slowly become your second home.

“bye.”

and with that, you stepped into the storm.

you hadn’t meant to run.

but the wind had other plans — fierce and sudden, pushing against your coat as you turned a corner, the street lights flickering with each gust. leaves and bits of litter spiraled across the pavement like they were trying to stop you, like they knew something you didn’t.

your shoes slapped against the sidewalk, damp from the drizzle that had just started falling. you clutched the strap of your bag tighter, eyes squinting up toward the clouds, watching as they swelled with something darker, heavier, inevitable.

by the time the station came into view, your breathing was uneven — not from the distance, but from everything building in your chest. the ache. the weight. the choice.

you slowed near the edge of the platform, pulling out your phone and checking the weather app with trembling fingers.

severe storm warning. flash flood potential. high winds. avoid travel unless necessary.

you bit the inside of your cheek, thumb hovering over the screen.

it was already starting to sting — your cheeks, your eyes. your throat tightened. the sky cracked faintly overhead.

“you’re really gonna go in this?”

your heart jumped.

you spun around so fast you nearly dropped your phone.

and there he was.

ren.

hood up, black coat tugged tighter around his frame, his white bluetooth headphones hanging slightly crooked over his ears — probably forgotten in the rush. and even now, in the rising wind, a lollipop was tucked in the corner of his mouth like it belonged there.

he wasn’t smirking. wasn’t teasing.

just… watching you.

calm. serious.

and it knocked the breath out of you.

“what are you—” you started, voice small against the howl of the wind.

“it’s not safe,” he said plainly, glancing up at the sky as if to prove his point. “you saw the warning.”

“i have to go,” you murmured, unsure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

“why?”

that made you pause.

you hugged your arms around yourself, heart pounding like thunder in your ears. the station sign buzzed overhead. the screen flashed an alert about a delay.

“ren…”

he didn’t move closer. but something in his gaze softened — just barely.

“you’re not gonna make it out of town before the worst of it hits,” he said, voice lower now. steadier. “it’s not worth it.”

you blinked, raindrops clinging to your lashes now. “you don’t get it.”

“then make me get it.”

that stilled you.

he wasn’t asking as a fighter. or a classmate. or even the guy who’d been showing up at your café every day with barely concealed glances.

he was asking because he cared.

you looked down and gripped the train ticket tight in your hand, fingers trembling, the paper starting to warp from the moisture in the air. you hadn’t even realized ren was moving until he was right in front of you, his silhouette carved out by the hazy yellow of the station lights behind him.

the wind tossed your hair into your face as you glared at the ground, jaw clenched.

“you’re really still going?” his voice was low, but sharp. “even with the storm?”

you nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

“why?!”

you looked up.

ren’s eyes were burning now, not with anger — with something heavier. “what about bofurin?” he asked, stepping forward despite the rain starting to fall. “what about kotoha? the café? your job?”

your heart pounded harder.

then — he said it.

“what about suo?”

you flinched.

and that’s when it snapped.

“he’s the reason i have to leave!”

the words burst out of you like thunder, loud and cracking, and ren froze.

you took a shaky breath, ticket now crumpled in your fist. “i’m tired, ren. i’m tired of being the reason he’s distracted. the reason he can’t focus. the reason other people look at him like he’s weak.”

the rain fell harder now — thick drops soaking into your clothes, your hair, your skin. neither of you moved to hide. the storm was already here.

“every time we settle, i follow him. three months later, always three. always careful. always behind. i sneak in and out of towns like a damn ghost just so i can see my brother and not ruin everything for him!”

ren’s brows pulled down. “your… brother?”

you nodded fiercely, tears mixing with the rain on your face. “suo is my brother. and because of that, every single gang that has beef with him uses me to get to him. i’ve been jumped twice already and this week was the worst yet. i’m not safe here, and he can’t protect me forever.”

you took a step back, barely catching your breath as lightning split across the sky.

“so i have to go. i have to leave before someone uses me again. before you get dragged into it. before everyone in bofurin starts suffering because i got too comfortable.”

ren was speechless.

drenched, stunned, and rooted to the ground.

you sniffled, trying to wipe the rain and tears from your face, but it was useless. your voice cracked, barely louder than the wind now.

“i don’t want to go.”

and that was the truth.

your lip quivered. “but i have to.”

the moment shattered between you like glass.

and suddenly, ren’s voice tore through the storm.

“you think i care about any of that?!”

you blinked, head snapping up.

he was yelling now, too — face twisted, soaked, desperate.

“you think i’d rather you leave just so you’re out of the way?! you think bofurin gives a damn about some messed up gang logic more than you being alive?!”

“i think you’d be safer without me—”

“then let me decide that!” his voice cracked. he jabbed a finger toward you, chest heaving. “you don’t get to choose what you mean to people! not to kotoha! not to suo! and not to me!”

your breath caught.

everything in you screamed to look away. to leave. to run. but you couldn’t.

not from him.

ren’s expression crumpled slightly, just for a second. his voice was still loud, but softer now. “you think this is what i want? watching you say goodbye like it’s nothing?”

the rain kept falling. the storm raged on.

and there you stood — two soaked silhouettes on a train platform that didn’t matter anymore.

“if you walk away now,” ren said, voice barely holding, “i’m not gonna follow you.”

your grip on the ticket loosened — just a little.

“but i’m not gonna forget either.”

you didn’t speak.

you couldn’t.

you were too afraid of what might come out next.

the station clock ticked on, unbothered by the chaos in your chest.

rain beat down in a relentless rhythm, pooling at your feet, soaking the edges of your jeans. your hair clung to your skin, cold and sticky, but all you could focus on was the boy in front of you — ren kaji, soaked to the bone, staring at you like the wind had knocked the breath out of him.

he still hadn’t moved since your outburst.

his eyes searched your face as if trying to rewind what had just happened. maybe he was still stuck on the word brother. maybe he hadn’t expected the truth. maybe he hadn’t expected you.

and in the breath between thunder and silence, you reached into your bag.

“here,” you said quietly, your voice raw from shouting, but soft now. gentle. like the eye of a storm.

he blinked as you held out a small, damp box — plain and simple, wrapped with care in brown paper and tied with a slightly frayed ribbon. it was a little crooked now, wet and struggling to hold shape in the downpour, but you cupped it carefully in your hands, as if that could protect it from the weather.

“what is it?” he asked, still breathless.

“don’t open it until after i leave.”

his brows furrowed. “what—”

“promise me.”

you stepped closer, the water sloshing beneath your shoes. the wind whipped between you like a warning, but you ignored it.

“just… please, ren. wait.”

he stared down at the box in your hands before reaching out — hesitant, like touching it might burn him. but his fingers brushed yours as he took it, and you felt the way his touch trembled.

you stared up at him.

and then you did the unthinkable.

you leaned in — slow, deliberate — and wrapped your arms around him.

ren stiffened.

completely and utterly still.

his body locked, unsure of where to put his arms, unsure if this was real, unsure if the warmth seeping through his soaked hoodie was something he was allowed to hold onto.

you buried your face into his chest, your fingers clutching the back of his shirt. it smelled like cold rain, like cheap detergent and mint from his lollipop, like something you would miss more than you could ever prepare for.

“i wasn’t supposed to fall for you.”

you said it barely above a whisper, but he heard every word.

his breath hitched.

you kept going.

“i was supposed to stay hidden. stay unnoticed. slip in, slip out. like always.”

your voice cracked.

“but then you started showing up. every day. and at first i thought it was just suo being stupid. but then you didn’t stop. and then you started looking at me like i was something worth protecting. and then i started hoping you’d come.”

his arms twitched at his sides.

“you’d show up, headphones on, lollipop in your mouth, pretending you weren’t paying attention, but i knew you were. i always knew.”

you could feel your tears falling again, mingling with the rain. it didn’t matter now. there was nothing left to hide.

“i’ve never had a place. i’ve never had people. it’s always just been me and my brother, never staying long enough to matter. but this time… i let myself believe i could stay.”

you lifted your head just enough to look up at him, your hands sliding up to rest against his chest.

“you made me believe.”

ren was still frozen.

his jaw clenched, his lashes soaked. his eyes had this storm in them now — not anger. not confusion. something heavier. something raw.

you smiled through the tears, even though it hurt.

“you’re gonna be okay without me, ren.”

“stop saying that,” he whispered, barely audible.

“you are.”

and before he could say anything else, before he could stop you, you reached up and kissed his cheek.

slow.

tender.

trembling.

he flinched, not in a bad way — in a holy shit kind of way. like his entire body forgot how to breathe. like time bent in on itself and everything in his mind suddenly turned to you.

and when you pulled back, your foreheads touched.

the space between you and him shrank to nothing.

you could feel it. so could he.

his breath was shaky, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. yours were too.

it would’ve been so easy.

just one lean forward.

just a second.

just one kiss to anchor everything you’d said.

but then — the voice came over the intercom.

“last call for train 312 to akayama. please prepare for immediate boarding.”

your heart dropped.

you pulled back, slowly, painfully.

“that’s me,” you whispered, voice catching.

ren didn’t say anything. his eyes just stayed locked on yours like he could memorize you in the seconds he had left.

“goodbye, ren.”

and before he could move — before you could change your mind — you stepped back.

the distance opened like a chasm. wind howled between you. lightning cracked in the far distance.

and there he stood.

drenched. silent. still clutching the box like it might shatter.

he didn’t chase you.

he didn’t know how.

and so you turned and ran toward your platform, footsteps echoing against wet cement, the sound of your name dying in his throat before he could say it.

the streets were quieter now.

ren didn’t remember how long he’d been standing there, water dripping from his bangs, the station emptying around him. trains came and went. people passed. no one stopped for the boy who stood frozen in the storm, clutching a small, soggy box like it was all he had left.

his fingers were stiff as he finally moved — slowly walking until he found a small alcove across the street from the station, just enough shelter to sit down and not be drenched any worse than he already was.

his legs folded under him. he sat against the wall.

the box sat in his lap.

he stared at it for a while. the ribbon was undone from the wind, the paper soft and torn at the corners. he didn’t want to open it.

not really.

because opening it would mean you were really gone.

and part of him still thought this was some stupid dream. some prank. a cruel joke from the world.

but your voice still echoed in his head.

you made me believe.

his thumb brushed the edge of the lid.

he opened it.

inside — nestled with an almost obsessive amount of care — was a pair of brand-new headphones.

white, sleek, clean.

but with black cushions on the inside. not gaudy, not flashy. just enough to fit him.

he stared.

he didn’t realize he was holding his breath until his eyes flickered up to the headband and he saw it — tiny, etched with delicate precision into the underside.

his name.

kaji.

not “ren.” not “bofurin.”

just him.

his chest tightened.

and as he lifted them out, they shifted slightly — revealing what was underneath.

a bunch of individually wrapped lollipops spilled into his lap.

strawberry. cherry. berry. watermelon. his favorites.

every single one of them.

he swallowed.

the weight in his throat burned.

his fingers brushed past them, catching the edge of a folded paper. a note.

his name was written at the top — messy handwriting, a little waterstained, but still clear.

kaji,

if you’re reading this, then i guess i really gave it to you.

…shit.

okay well first off, don’t complain about the box, i worked really hard on it, and if it’s a little ugly it’s because the guy at the packaging store was a jerk and gave me the wrong size.

second — yes, i got you new headphones. because the ones you have now are scuffed and scratched and the wire’s fraying and they make you look like a cyberpunk grandma. and the all-white theme clashes with your hair, i’m sorry but it does.

a little black cushion was the least i could do for your style points.

…i don’t really know how to say any of this.

you’re hard to talk to. but not in a bad way. you’re just… you. you don’t say much, but you see everything. and you probably saw right through me from the beginning. i don’t know when it started. maybe when you first showed up to hover around me awkwardly. or when i caught you pulling gum wrappers out of my trash while pretending you were just checking the weather.

but you made me feel safe.

even when i didn’t want to admit it. even when i knew it was temporary.

i’ve been moving all my life. but this was the first place i didn’t want to leave. and a lot of that is because of you.

don’t let it go to your head.

a little, maybe.

okay a lot.

i’m sorry for not saying goodbye properly. but i didn’t think i could, if i looked at you any longer.

be safe, ren.

eat something other than candy once in a while.

and if you ever hear a new train whistle late at night — just know i’m probably out there. somewhere.

- y/n

his hands were trembling by the end.

he sat in silence, the words like ghosts pressing into his skin, each sentence heavier than the last.

his throat felt tight. his fingers curled around the paper like if he squeezed too hard it might disappear.

and for once, ren kaji — who always had a lollipop in his mouth, who wore his headphones to block the world out, who never looked twice at anything that didn’t involve bofurin — couldn’t pretend.

not anymore.

you were gone.

and he’d fallen in love.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

you stepped off the train.

a soft wind tugged gently at your coat, the kind of breeze that whispered against your skin — familiar, like a memory brushing past your cheek. it carried with it the scent of rain-soaked pavement, late summer air, and something warmer — something like home.

makochi.

you hadn’t said the name aloud in almost two years.

and yet here you were, standing on the platform again, with your suitcase at your side and a heart that hadn’t quite caught up to your body.

the streets hadn’t changed much. the corner flower stall still had sun-wilted hydrangeas, the vending machines still buzzed by the alley near the bridge, and the lamppost by the first crosswalk still flickered uncertainly despite being “fixed” several times before.

it didn’t feel like nothing had changed.

it felt like everything had waited.

your footsteps found the path without hesitation — past the small market, down the sloped street, until the soft gold lettering of a wooden sign caught your eye.

café pothos.

your breath caught.

you hesitated at the door, hand hovering just above the handle.

then you stepped in.

the scent hit you first. sharp, earthy coffee grounds and freshly cracked eggs. hints of caramelized onions and warm rice. a rush of warm air curled around you, like the space itself exhaled as you walked in.

“oh. my. god.” came a shriek.

you didn’t even get the chance to smile before kotoha launched herself from behind the counter, almost slipping on the edge of the rubber mat as she rushed toward you, arms wide like wings.

you barely had time to brace yourself before she threw herself into your arms, squeezing so tight your ribs groaned in protest.

“you’re back?! you didn’t tell us you were coming back, you little traitor—!”

“i wanted to surprise you,” you laughed, the sound catching slightly in your throat.

kotoha pulled back just enough to slap your arm — hard.

“we almost held a funeral, do you know that?! a full-on memorial, complete with black umbrellas and cupcakes.”

“cupcakes?” you blinked.

“well, you know. to make it cute.”

before you could respond, another figure approached from behind the counter.

suo.

he didn’t say anything right away — just stared for a second. his eyes softened almost immediately, that familiar smirk barely visible through the tightness in his jaw.

then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you wordlessly.

your face buried in his shoulder, and for a moment — just a second — time folded in on itself.

you were fifteen again, holding onto him in a cramped apartment. sixteen, sitting across from him on the floor with takeout and nowhere to go. seventeen, saying goodbye at a train station you didn’t want to walk into.

and now.

two years later.

home again.

“you could’ve warned us,” suo mumbled into your hair. “i would’ve worn something cooler.”

you let out a watery laugh. “this is your coolest hoodie.”

he pulled back with a faux-offended glare, but kotoha cut in before he could start sulking.

“soooo…” she leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief. “what’s the plan, huh? just casually walk back in after two years and act like a certain someone hasn’t been coming in here like clockwork every afternoon like some moody anime character?”

your eyes widened slightly. “moody?”

“grumpy. broody. headphones on, hoodie up, silently drinking his iced coffee and pretending not to care while staring holes into the doorway.”

“…ren?” you asked, voice softer now.

kotoha gasped dramatically. “she speaks his name!!”

you gave her a flat look, but couldn’t stop the way your pulse kicked up.

suo shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but even he couldn’t quite hide the way his eyes flicked toward the back of the café. “he’s been around.”

kotoha nodded. “he’s still the same. taller. sharper. still eats lollipops like it’s a religion. but you should’ve seen him the first few months after you left. like a kicked puppy, but, you know. a scary one.”

your hands clenched around the strap of your bag. “i don’t know if… if seeing me again is a good idea.”

“what? why?” kotoha blinked, voice losing some of its teasing edge.

you looked down at your feet.

“because two years is a long time. and we didn’t exactly say goodbye like we should have. and maybe he’s different now. maybe i am too. and maybe i left things too messy. i don’t know what he thinks. i don’t even know what i’ll say if—”

“relax,” suo cut in gently. “you don’t need to have some grand speech. just… be here.”

“he never stopped thinking about you,” kotoha added, voice soft for once. “you’re not the only one who’s nervous.”

you glanced between the two of them — your oldest constants. your roots.

your gaze flicked to the door.

you weren’t sure if you were ready.

but maybe that was okay.

because something about makochi — about this café, about them — reminded you that sometimes, the wind brought things back just as easily as it carried them away.

the bell above the café door chimed with a cheerful little ring, and the moment it did, chaos erupted.

“she’s here!!”

the voice came from none other than akihiko nirei, who nearly tripped over his own feet as he stumbled through the entrance, arms wide open and eyes already welling with tears. right behind him, mitsuki kiryu strolled in with his usual lazy grin, lollipop tucked into his cheek, while taiga tsugeura yelled something about how he owed him five bucks for actually showing up again.

“you’re really back!” haruka sakura exclaimed from the doorway, hair still split between black and white, eyes sharp and wide with disbelief. he stood stiff as a board for a second—then quickly started sweating nervously and waving both hands, “w-welcome back! i-i mean not that i missed you or anything!!”

toma hiragi, sharp teeth glinting as he smirked, gave you a nod, arms crossed as he leaned against the frame. “you’re still short,” he teased.

“and you’re still ugly,” you shot back, making everyone laugh.

hajime umemiya was the last to step in, towering with his usual calm, warm energy. his swept-back hair was the same, and as always, he ruffled your hair like a big brother would. “makin’ us all wait like that? tsk, so rude.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, arms full of hugs and your heart even fuller. they circled you one by one, some dramatic (nirei sobbing into your shoulder), some chill (kiryu offering you a lollipop instead of words), and some weirdly intense (sakura who still hadn’t stopped sweating).

you looked around as the noise settled slightly, your gaze scanning the group.

“wait… where’s…”

they already knew who you meant.

“ren and sakura had to finish patrol,” kiryu said casually, leaning back on a chair, “they took the long route. y’know how he is.”

your heart skipped, but you nodded, pretending like you weren’t mentally preparing yourself.

and then—

the bell chimed again.

a gust of warm wind slipped into the café, carrying with it the faintest scent of fresh rain and asphalt.

everyone turned.

your breath caught.

the door shut with a soft thud behind him.

and for a moment… no one said a thing.

ren kaji stood in the entryway like a ghost stepped out of memory — taller than you remembered, broader too. his snow-white hair was messier, a little longer, slightly damp from the humidity. his headphones—not the old scuffed white ones, but the black-cushioned ones you gave him—rested around his neck. a fresh lollipop was tucked between his lips, but the moment his eyes locked with yours… it dropped.

literally.

it hit the floor with a tiny click.

his gaze — sharp, unreadable, and entirely too intense — dragged across your face, over the curve of your shoulders, and lingered at your hands, as if confirming you were real. the silence roared in your ears.

you took a shaky breath.

“hey, ren.”

that was all it took.

his eyes narrowed, jaw clenching. he moved. slow at first, like even he didn’t know what he was doing. but each step came faster than the last, closing the distance between you and him. every second stretched thin with years of unsaid words, near-kisses, aching memories, and the weight of your absence pressing heavy on both your chests.

you didn’t back away.

you stepped forward.

and the moment your hand brushed his hoodie sleeve, his hand grabbed your wrist.

firm.

warm.

real.

“you left,” he said — voice low, hoarse, and sharp with something he couldn’t contain. “you left without helping me understand all the way.”

you blinked, heart pounding. “i explained.”

“not well enough.”

his voice cracked slightly, his grip tightening just enough to make you ache.

“you ran away like a coward. and now you’re just—here? like nothin’ happened?”

“i wasn’t safe here,” you murmured, stepping closer. “i was hurting people by staying.”

“you hurt me more by leaving.”

it hit you like a freight train. your breath caught.

he exhaled sharply, fingers loosening. “…i waited. every day. with those stupid headphones around my neck. every time i put ‘em on, it felt like you were right there whispering in my ear—like maybe you’d turn the corner or walk back through that door—”

his voice broke again.

“—but you never did.”

your eyes stung.

behind you, you could vaguely register the bofurin boys frozen in the background, wide-eyed, holding mugs mid-air or half-biting into snacks. kotoha’s jaw had dropped, her eyes darting between you two like she was watching a live drama.

“ren…” you whispered, your hand now resting over his.

his gaze dropped to your fingers, and when he looked back up — he didn’t speak.

he kissed you.

no warning.

no hesitation.

his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in as if you were about to disappear again — and he wasn’t going to let it happen this time. the kiss was rough, desperate, and soaked with two years of longing and bitterness and love that had no place to go.

your hands found his hoodie, gripping it like it was the only thing anchoring you to this moment.

when you finally pulled away, breathless and eyes wide, your foreheads touched — not in sadness this time, but in something painfully, beautifully new.

you were home.

and then—

“WHAT THE HELL?!!”

nirei dropped a tray.

kiryu choked on his lollipop.

tsugeura screamed. “YO—DID THEY JUST—???”

toma cursed under his breath, looking away dramatically.

“i KNEW IT—i called it—someone owes me a damn soda.”

sakura passed out.

kotoha threw a dish rag at both of you.

“FINALLY, MY GOD, DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG WE’VE BEEN WAITING—?!”

umemiya, cool as always, leaned over the counter and calmly sipped his iced coffee.

“…took ya long enough.”

ren didn’t even blink. still holding you, still looking at you like the rest of the world could burst into flames and he wouldn’t move.

and you?

you just smiled.

“…hi again.”

꒰ bonus ꒱

the sun was beginning to melt into the horizon, painting the lake in soft golds and sleepy oranges. the wind was light — just enough to kiss your cheek and rustle the hem of your shirt. birds skimmed the water, and the ripples danced in tune with the quiet laughter from the other side of the hill.

you walked beside ren in step, the gravel path crackling faintly under your shoes.

his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, his shoulders relaxed, eyes darting every so often to you like he didn’t quite believe you were still here.

“you know,” you said, looking up at the sky, “i used to sit in train stations just to people-watch. i’d imagine i was meeting someone… or being met by someone. kept thinking if i looked sad enough, you’d magically appear.”

ren snorted. “what, like some tragic drama heroine?”

“exactly.”

you grinned. “i was committed. i even cried one time just for effect.”

he raised a brow. “you’re ridiculous.”

“oh, please. like you didn’t do anything weird to cope.”

ren rolled his eyes — but there was a small blush blooming on his cheeks. “…i might’ve eaten your favorite candy until i couldn’t stand the taste anymore.”

your mouth fell open. “no. not the strawberry ones.”

“the strawberry ones,” he confirmed solemnly, staring ahead like it physically pained him. “to this day, i can’t smell one without hearing your dumb laugh in my head.”

you laughed. loudly. unrestrained.

and he smiled.

a real one. not a smirk, not a scoff — just that rare, quiet stretch of his lips that softened every sharp edge of him. and it was yours.

you both paused at a clearing, where the view of the lake stretched endlessly, catching sunlight like glass. from where you stood, you could hear the familiar chaos of the others behind the hill — umemiya shouting at tsugeura to stop pushing people into the water, kiryu cackling with a half-drenched kotoha, and nirei wailing about his soaked socks while toma threatened to throw him in again.

you glanced toward them, eyes warm.

“they haven’t changed,” you said fondly.

“nope,” ren replied, nudging you with his shoulder. “but you came back.”

you glanced at him. “i missed you.”

“i missed you more.”

you squinted. “liar.”

“prove it.”

you smirked. “okay. i once tried to draw your face from memory. turns out i’m horrible at noses. the sketch looked like an angry turnip.”

he burst out laughing. an actual laugh — rough and loud and so good you wanted to bottle the sound and keep it forever.

“an angry turnip?” he wheezed.

you nodded, cheeks warm. “i burned it. ceremoniously.”

ren shook his head, eyes crinkling.

“…i tried writing you a letter once. couldn’t finish it. got pissed halfway through and tore it up.”

“aww. was it sweet?”

“no,” he said quickly. “i called you an idiot like four times.”

you both fell into soft laughter again, standing still as the breeze swirled between you, carrying the scent of the lake and distant flowers. the sun dipped lower, setting everything around you aglow.

after a beat, you stepped closer, letting your hand brush his.

he didn’t flinch away.

“…do you think it’s okay?” you asked softly. “for me to stay this time?”

ren didn’t answer right away. instead, he turned, slowly, to face you.

“if you go,” he said quietly, “i’m coming with you.”

your breath caught.

“but,” he added, a little softer, “if you stay… i’ll be here. every day. with the dumb headphones. and your favorite candy. and that stupid look on my face every time you laugh.”

you blinked at him, completely still.

he tilted his head. “your choice. but i’m not letting you disappear again.”

your chest ached in the best way.

you reached out, lacing your fingers with his — and this time, he held on tight.

“i’ll stay,” you whispered, smiling. “for the dumb headphones.”

his eyes narrowed. “you’re the worst.”

“and yet—” you bumped your shoulder against his, “you’re still smiling.”

“…shut up.”

but he didn’t let go.

and somewhere behind the hill, nirei let out a dramatic gasp, shouting,

“GUYS I THINK THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS—”

“shut UP!” came kotoha’s yell, immediately followed by a splash and umemiya’s proud cheer.

you turned back to ren, laughing once more.

and as the wind rolled in again, soft and perfect, you leaned into each other.

not a goodbye.

not a beginning.

just… a continuation.

💬, thank you to EVERYONE!!! i honestly felt bad about this story, i felt like it was going so bad and i wasnt writing it good enough but yall helped me feel so much better!! ima give yall a big fat wet kiss on the lips, yall are so amazing 🫶🏼 thank you guys so much for the support on this story !!! AHHHH THE EEENNNNDDD also please dont be afraid to request things!! i do write for any anime !!! lwk might try DS next or HXH 😛

look here for another read 📚!

🔖 everyone who was patient : @cristalania @gieeee @sinamew @poppyflower-22 @icangiveyoumyeverything @choppedballoondetective

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