#he never spoke about her when they were dating

[carlislefiles]

someone to come home to | nanami kento ╰►for the first time in a long time, nanami had started to imagine a future. something domestic, something soft. you, in his kitchen. your socks on his floor. it wasn’t a dream he spoke aloud, but he felt it growing roots. it’s not that nanami can’t survive without you—he’s survived many things. it’s that everything is worse. food doesn’t taste right. his bed is cold. the silence is heavier. but when you stir, when you lean into his touch even in sleep, he knows: things can be good again. not easy. not painless. but better. and he will do whatever it takes to keep you here, with him, where life still makes sense. 13.8k words

a/n: about halfway through writing this, it dawned on me that there is genuinely no point to it...but one of the joys of writing is getting to force your selfships to dote on you, so that's exactly what I did hehehe hopefully you like it as much as I did :]

it hadn’t been a grand decision. there were no dramatics, no cinematic declarations, no final straw. just a morning like any other, a quiet sip of coffee in his overpriced penthouse, and a soft ache in his chest that had never quite gone away.

the corporate world was never meant to last. nanami had always known that. he wore the suits because they fit, not because he felt at home in them. the meetings blurred together, the deadlines grew stale, and even the money—once a seductive whisper—grew tired in his hand. he had clung to it for a while, hoping it could buy the life he wanted: breakfasts for two, slippers by the door, children’s laughter trailing through the halls like wind chimes. a wife with flour on her cheek and perfume on her wrists. nothing extravagant. just...quiet. love. stability. but the office lights were cold, and his apartment colder. the money sat untouched, meaningless without someone to spend it on. without someone to come home to. so he left.

he called gojo. begrudgingly. got reinstated. he didn’t tell anyone right away. there was no party, no “welcome back,” just the low hum of cursed energy pulsing through his fingertips again, like remembering a language you never truly forgot.

for a while, it helped. there was purpose in fighting. there was clarity in the blood and the bruises, in the moment a life was saved. sorcery was cruel, but honest. he had missed that. gojo and shoko took him out once a week—drinks, food, a movie if they could convince him. nanami went, mostly to humor them, partly because he was afraid of what he might do if he spent another evening alone. sometimes, he brought someone home. they never stayed. their perfume clung to his sheets longer than their presence ever did. it was transactional, fleeting, and each time he swore it would be the last. eventually, he stopped trying. the dates dried up. the hope did too.

he began teaching again. missions during the week, lectures on the weekends. ino became his apprentice—rough around the edges, eager, the kind of good-hearted idiot nanami begrudgingly admired. he didn’t say much. he wasn’t one for pep talks or hand-holding. but he showed up. he always showed up. when missions went south, when curses hit harder than expected, when ino needed backup—nanami was there. silent. steady.

for the first time in years, he felt useful. not just as a blade, but as a blueprint. gojo, naturally, took credit for this too. and then you arrived.

it was supposed to be ijichi giving you the tour. the man had a laminated itinerary and everything. but gojo, in all his loud, sunglasses-clad glory, intercepted halfway through and declared himself your “unofficial orientation guide.”

nanami had a list of things to do that day. a stack of mission reports to read, a student evaluation to file, a meeting with the kyoto branch. but he stopped. he stopped because he saw you. you weren’t extraordinary in a way that could be easily described. it wasn’t one thing. it was everything. the warm way you tilted your head when gojo spoke, eyes wide and curious. the color in your clothes—soft, rich tones that made the hallway seem less gray. the way you smiled, like it cost you nothing. you glowed, and nanami, long accustomed to shadows, stared longer than he should have.

later, in the teacher’s lounge—a place he rarely entered—you sat alone at the corner table, sipping tea and annotating what looked like lesson plans with pastel pens. he introduced himself. stiff. too formal. awkward, even. you smiled at him like he’d told a joke. he hadn't. “you’re nanami-san, right?” you said. “I've heard about you.” you sip your matcha. 

“have you?” he asked, bracing for whatever disaster gojo had likely shared.

“all good things,” you said with a teasing grin. “though gojo says you wouldn’t know a good time if it bit you.” nanami didn’t respond. but your laugh stayed with him for hours after.

you were…bright. unapologetically so. you decorated your classroom within the first week—posters, cozy lighting, a snack drawer that gojo discovered immediately. you knew all the students’ names before your second monday. you asked megumi about his dogs, even though he never gave you more than a nod in response. you watched horror movies just to talk to yuuji about them, even though they made you cover your eyes half the time. you didn’t just teach. you cared.

nanami didn’t understand you. not at first. you were a capable sorcerer. strong. your cursed technique was subtle but deadly. yet you kept your distance. you only went on missions when asked, and even then, you preferred ones with low risk. gojo told him why, eventually. your entire family—gone. friends, colleagues, all eaten up by the same world you refused to let consume you. you had known loss. you had learned to live beside it. and still, you smiled.

nanami began to linger more. he’d bring you your exact matcha order from the shop down the street, even though he hated the place. pack an extra snack in his bento, just in case yours got eaten. offer to accompany you on missions you didn’t need help with. you didn’t notice. or pretended not to.

gojo teased him endlessly. whispered conspiratorially about “love blooming in the rubble of battle,” earning a tired glare each time. but nanami didn’t mind. because something in him had shifted. something old, buried beneath years of quiet despair, stirred again. he didn’t know it yet—not fully—but something had begun the moment he saw you. something soft. something permanent. it would take time. of course it would. nanami was patient. and you…you were still healing. but that first day, in the fluorescent glow of the teacher’s lounge, with tea in your hand and sunlight catching in your hair—nanami allowed himself the thought. maybe I won’t end up alone.

the life you and nanami built together was something like art. it was beautiful, you were beautiful. for fear of them becoming sorcerers, you may never have a big family, but that isn’t something nanami’s terribly concerned with. you love him and that is truly, genuinely all that matters.

nanami changes. he shifts. he’s never quite the same man he was when you met him—tired and alone, barely clinging to a sense of purpose. there’s a lightness to him now, subtle but perceptible, like steam rising from a fresh cup of tea. he starts accepting invitations to faculty dinners and weekend brunches with gojo and shoko, not because he enjoys the noise, but because it means he gets to walk in beside you, hand on the small of your back, watching people do double takes. is that nanami kento with a soft smile? yes. yes, it is.

he’s still himself—structured, composed, fiercely principled. but the edges of him are rounded now, sweetened with you. he compliments ino’s performance during missions more readily, even high-fived yuuji after a particularly clean exorcism. the memory haunted him for a week. gojo was insufferable about it, miming high-fives every time he walked into a room. but even that—gojo’s endless teasing—bothers him a little less than it used to. you’d kiss his cheek, hide your smile behind your hand, and he’d let it go.

everyone at jujutsu tech knows. they talk. the whole school’s in on it, really—the way nanami hovers in the doorway of your classroom like he’s forgotten how to leave, always showing up with a fresh cup of your favorite drink or a new book you mentioned once in passing. they know how he drives you to work, how you never seem to carry your own lunch, how your coffee somehow always arrives in your hand, still hot, without you ever having to ask. they see the way he brushes your hair from your face like he’s scared to disturb a masterpiece. how his eyes soften—really soften—when he looks at you.

and you, in your bright clothes and warm perfume, your always-full candy jar and open door—you adore him right back. you leave notes in his bento box, each one folded into a little origami shape. “remember today is takuma’s birthday. <3” or “come see me on your break—I miss your face.” he keeps them. every single one. he tucks them into his desk drawer and pretends not to read them during meetings.

he’s not particularly expressive, not publicly. but when he slides your heels off at the end of the day, kissing the slope of your ankle, pressing his forehead against your shin like he’s praying—that’s when you know. when he carries your exhaustion like it’s his to bear. when you come home with a fresh bruise and he can’t stop pacing the kitchen, can’t stop thinking about how close he came to losing you. that’s how you know. he worships you, yes. but he also worries. deeply. constantly. it’s love. big, dangerous, real love.

he hates when you come back from missions hurt. even small things—cuts on your knuckles, a limp in your walk—rattle him. he bandages your wounds himself, always. his fingers are deft, precise. he takes his time with it, methodical as ever. but his mouth is tight, his eyes a little too wide. you try to make jokes, to lighten the mood. he never laughs at first. but later, when you’re curled up on the couch and he’s got you tucked beneath his arm, when he’s kissed your temple and your shoulder and your wrist, he’ll whisper something like, “don’t scare me like that again, sweetheart.” and you’ll kiss him back and promise nothing, because you both know better.

you tell him once—offhandedly, a passing comment—that you’re worried about dying young. that you’ve lost too many people, that sometimes it feels like a curse in and of itself. he doesn’t respond right away. just looks at you with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he wants to rewrite the world just to make sure it keeps you safe. that night, he holds you tighter than usual, arms wrapped around your middle, chin resting on your shoulder. he murmurs, “you won’t die before me. I won’t allow it.” and he means it.

sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night just to watch you sleep. you’re soft in sleep, peaceful in a way that hurts him a little. he touches your cheek with the back of his hand, marvels at how lucky he is to have found you—you, of all people. he kisses your forehead and thinks, this is what I was working for. this is what I was waiting for. this is it.

the other teachers notice the change in him. even ijichi, who’s too polite to comment, lets it slip once: “nanami seems…different. happier.” gojo, of course, never shuts up about it. claims full credit for your relationship, as if he didn’t find out about it from shoko, three months late, after walking in on you both sharing lunch in the faculty lounge like teenagers. he was offended that you hadn’t told him. said something like, “I'm the whole reason you two eve met, dammit, I should’ve officiated the first date!” you threw a paper cup at him. nanami looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and die.

still, gojo’s theatrics don’t matter. not really. not when nanami comes home and sees you curled up on the couch with a blanket around your shoulders. not when you wrap your arms around him like he’s the best part of your day. not when he gets to press his mouth to your pulse point and feel you exhale into his neck, like being with him is a kind of peace. and maybe it is. you made him soft, in all the best ways. and in turn, he gave you strength again. taught you to trust. to hope. to live in the present and not just the past.

some nights, after dinner, he’ll rest his head in your lap while you read aloud from whatever book you’re working through together. he closes his eyes and listens to your voice, calm and certain. your fingers card through his hair. he sighs like he’s found the meaning of life. other nights, he cooks. you sit at the kitchen counter and sip wine, kicking your feet like a kid, and he lectures you about knife safety like you haven’t survived two decades of cursed spirits and exorcisms. you smile at him and say, “yes, chef,” just to make him roll his eyes.

you joke that he’s a househusband in training. he tells you you’re not wrong. because the truth is—if he could, he’d retire tomorrow. trade missions and bloodshed for grocery lists and morning walks. he’d do it for you. only for you.

but for now, this is enough. coming home to you is enough. loving you, being loved by you—it’s more than he ever thought he’d have. he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the world to remember who he is and what he’s done. but every morning he wakes up and you’re still beside him, warm and real and breathing—and that’s how he knows he’s lucky.

it’s terrifying, how much he loves you. but it’s also the only thing in the world that’s ever made him feel truly, unquestionably awake, alive.

……

nanami had been having a good day. which, retrospectively, should’ve been the first warning. it had been one of those rare mornings when the light didn’t feel like an affront to his senses. the sun had slipped through the slats of the blinds in golden slivers, cutting across your sleeping form like god’s own paintbrush. you’d rolled into his side the moment he stirred, still half-asleep, mumbling something unintelligible before nuzzling under his chin like you always did when you didn’t want to get up. and he—stupid, stupid man—had thought this was the kind of peace that could last.

getting you to move in with him had been like negotiating a treaty with a foreign power. every reason you had not to do it came dressed in layers of self-deprecation: I don't want to be a burden; what if you get sick of me; I'm so messy you’ll hate it; you live too far from the subway—“absolutely not,” you’d muttered when he brought up driving you every day. “no way am I just going to let you chauffeur me around like I'm some high-maintenance—” he'd kissed you to shut you up. not for romance. out of frustration. out of please, for once, just let me love you the way you deserve.

and then finally—finally—one perfect day off had melted your resistance. a date that shouldn’t have been special but was: his favorite bakery, a long walk through the city just because you liked watching the people, making dinner together. you’d ended up sated and soft and nestled into him, legs draped across his lap, head buried into the crook of his neck, your fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt like you always did when you were content. that was when he’d asked again, gentle but firm. offered you pictures of the life he wanted to build with you—coming home together, never sleeping alone, no more duffle bags stuffed with half your life and shoved into school cabinets. and you’d said yes. he had not cried, not jumped for joy, not had some big dramatic reaction, though something deep and vital had cracked open in his chest. happiness, unadulterated, unbridled happiness, the kind he was sure he’d never have, never deserve, never earn, and yet here it was, being offered up on a silver platter to him. 

and now—now that life was slipping through his fingers like water. now you were in a hospital cot in the dim, fluorescent-humming basement of jujutsu tech. and nanami couldn’t breathe.

it started that morning. your name had come up during the debrief. a mission restructuring. your class with the students was reassigned—something about gojo being occupied, yaga pulling favors. you were to take a handful of students out instead. nanami had looked up sharply at that. you? on a mission with students? you barely went on missions.

you were backup. reinforcement. a historian of curses and spirits, not a frontliner. you always said there was nothing you could teach the kids in the field that gojo or nanami couldn’t teach better. but you didn’t argue, and that—that—was what left his stomach twisting. you never argued with authority, even when you should. you followed orders like it was a moral code, even if it put you in harm’s way.

and nanami hadn’t fought back. he hadn’t insisted. he had swallowed his concern like always, told himself you were capable—brilliant, even. smart enough not to make reckless decisions.

except when it came to the kids. you would never let a student get hurt. he knew—knew—without needing to be told, that you’d thrown yourself in front of yuuji when the curse blindsided him. you would have done it without hesitation, with no thought of consequence. when the call came, he was still on campus. sparring with ino. a routine day, going through the motions of a job he barely believed in anymore, until gojo appeared, white-faced and solemn. nanami had never seen gojo look like that. not even when haibara died.

he didn’t remember the sprint across campus. didn’t remember the doors he flung open or the hallways he tore through like a man possessed. just—you. there. unmoving. unhealed. pale in a way that you should never be. a sheet of gauze pressed to your side, already browning with blood. scrapes across your cheeks and temple. breathing—yes—but slow and fragile. all that light he used to complain about, the way it used to suffocate him in the best of way, that light—the sunlight in your laugh, the moonlight in your eyes, the firefly glow that clung to you like warmth—gone.

shoko’s voice was distant and cruel. “she’s been unconscious since she was extricated.” “…can’t seem to heal her…” “she’s stable for now, but—”

he didn’t hear the rest. just a buzzing roar behind his ears as his knees went numb and the world tilted sideways. this can’t happen. not to her. not to her. he didn’t speak. couldn’t. just stared. at your body. at your stillness. afraid to touch, afraid to even breathe wrong.

“she’ll stay here until we know if the curse’s residual effects wear off,” shoko said gently, dragging a metal chair to the side of the cot. “you should stay with her.” as if he had anywhere else to be.

he didn’t sit. not right away. he just stood there. rooted. staring at you like if he blinked you might disappear. and then he did sit. cold metal biting into him, grounding him in a way nothing else could. his eyes never left you. not for a second.

he didn’t know how much time passed before gojo came. he didn’t care.

gojo spoke softly, too softly, offering reassurances he had no right to give. said something about how shoko thought maybe you could go home soon. that your injuries weren’t that bad. nanami had heard enough. the growl came unbidden, low and rumbling from the back of his throat. “you can leave now, gojo.” to gojo’s credit, he didn’t argue. he just nodded, offered his help, and backed away.

once he was gone, nanami’s restraint shattered. he leaned forward, took your limp hand in both of his, and pressed your fingers to his lips like he was praying. and maybe he was.

his thumb brushed your cheek. so gently. just under the row of stitches shoko had placed hours ago. "I should have been there,” he whispered. "I should have told them no. I should have—god, I should have fought.” he was drowning. drowning in the “should haves.”

he should have noticed the debrief was off. should have told yaga he’d take the mission instead. should have followed his gut instead of silencing it. should have screamed when gojo dared to suggest your injuries weren’t bad. should have demanded more. but he hadn’t.

and now you were the one paying the price. he looked at you—your perfect face, marred by bruises and dried blood—and he hated himself. you’d been living with him for two weeks. together for half a year. six months of light and laughter and slow, soft love. and he’d let himself believe it was forever. now he could lose you.

nanami had always been composed. stoic. a man of logic. but there was nothing logical about love. there was nothing rational about watching the only good thing in your life bleed out on a cot. so he let himself fall. fell into the grief, into the guilt, into the ache. you cannot die. you cannot leave. you cannot give him heaven just to rip it away.

the tears came in slow, silent streams. he didn’t sob. he just wept, hands trembling around yours, as the weight of every choice he didn’t make crushed him. and still—still—he whispered to you. promises he couldn’t keep. deals with gods he didn’t believe in. I'll make it up to you. I swear, I'll take every mission. I'll train twice as hard. I'll do anything, just—come back to me. I'll never raise my voice. I'll never ask you for a thing you don’t want to give, I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never hurt again. and then softer, desperate: “you can’t leave me.”

the hours blurred. shoko came back once to check on you. said the curse’s effects were resisting healing, but that it wasn’t worsening. that was the best she could do for now.

nanami didn’t sleep. he couldn’t. he just sat there. hand in yours. bent over your bedside like a man keeping vigil for a lost god. and when he couldn’t hold the silence anymore, he let himself dream.

dreamed of you in his kitchen, dancing barefoot to some ridiculous song. dreamed of you, pregnant—glowing and annoyed, swatting him with a dish towel. dreamed of you kissing his bruises, muttering about how he “had to stop bleeding on the good towels.” dreamed of quiet, ordinary days. coffee. laughter. your hand in his.

he’d spent so long convincing himself he didn’t need these things. that love was a distraction. a danger. but you had made it easy. you’d made it holy. he was never going back. not if you didn’t wake up.

and still—you didn’t stir. so he sat. a man made of grief and guilt and hope. waiting for the light to come back. waiting for you.

it’s during this particularly horrific bout of self-loathing that you come to.

the room is dark—dimly lit by the blue glow of machines and the faint, flickering overhead light that someone forgot to turn off. it’s sometime in the early morning, hours before the sun even considers rising. you feel…weightless and weighted at once. dizzy. the pain is everywhere, dull and throbbing, blooming like ink in water beneath your skin. your body is heavy with ache, but your mind is cottoned over with fog.

where are you? what happened? why does it hurt so fucking bad? you let out a breath trapped in your lungs, and even that small effort sets your ribs alight.

but then—he’s there.

your eyes, fluttering sluggishly open, land on a figure beside you, a familiar silhouette haloed in sterile light. he’s hunched over you in that horrible hospital chair—spine curved unnaturally, broad back too big for something so poorly made. he’s been there for hours. days, maybe. decades, in his mind.

kento. his name flutters in your chest before it can form on your lips. you try to call out to him, but your throat is raw, dry as paper. all you manage is a whisper of breath.

he’s not even looking at you. his head is bowed, forehead resting against your knuckles, hands wrapped tightly around yours like they’re the last real thing in the world. you’re struck by the way his whole frame seems suspended, like he’s carved from tension and silence and guilt. he’s not a religious man. you know this. but in this moment, you would swear he’s praying. to you. for you. with you.

you can’t speak, so you do the only thing you can: you move. just slightly. just enough. your fingers twitch and slowly, painstakingly, your free hand lifts and brushes into his hair. his whole body shudders. at first, he doesn’t move. then he leans—leans into your touch like it’s the first kindness he’s been allowed to feel in years. his breath catches. you watch, silent and still, as his eyes open and lift to you, disbelieving.

“you…you're awake,” he breathes, like a broken hymn. “you’re alive. you’re here.”

his voice cracks on the last word. he says it again, again, again, like if he doesn’t keep speaking it into the world it might not stay true. a chant. a plea. a sacred truth. you smile at him—slow and crooked, soft with pain—but it’s real. so real. you would tell him you love him if you thought the words could make it past the gravel in your throat.

instead, your thumb moves gently to the edge of his face, brushing the damp corner of his eye. you tut quietly at him, coaxing. he leans into the touch again, trembling, blinking furiously. you’ve never seen him cry. not really. not like this.

“don’t—” he chokes. “please don’t do that. don’t be kind to me right now.” your brow furrows faintly. his hands tighten on yours.

"I should’ve protected you,” he whispers. "I should’ve been there.” you shake your head—barely, but enough—and he moves instantly, almost frantically.

“does it hurt?” he asks. “I'll get shoko, I’ll—” but he doesn’t move. he can’t move. his body is rooted beside you, eyes glued to your face like the world might fall apart if he looked away.

you squeeze his hand. “it’s okay, kento,” you rasp. “I'm okay.” you’re not. not really. the pain laces your every breath. but the way his face shatters—utterly, visibly—at the sound of your voice? you’d say it a hundred more times just to undo the devastation in his eyes.

“don’t talk,” he pleads, fussing instantly, voice low and tight. “you’re not supposed to talk yet. your throat—your ribs—darling, please.” he moves quickly but gently, fixing your blankets with shaking hands, brushing your hair from your forehead, lips brushing against your temple. his tie is loosened, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes red-rimmed. you’ve never seen him like this. he looks utterly undone. fragile, like glasswork.

still, he moves like a man with purpose. a man remade by grief and given a second chance. “I'll be right back,” he says finally, reluctant, like the idea of leaving you is a foreign wound. “I'll get her. and some water.” he forces himself away, fingers trailing off your wrist like it pains him to let go.

out in the hall, megumi sits hunched in a chair, face in his hands. yuuji is curled awkwardly in the corner, asleep and snoring softly. nanami pauses.

he doesn’t blame them. but he doesn’t quite not blame them either. which is ridiculously irrational, and he knows that, he parades on and on about it, how he’s the responsible adult and how it’s his job to keep the students safe. that’s your job, too, but this situation is just so fucked up, the wires are crossed in his mind, and he finds himself absurdly pissed off at anyone that isn’t you. 

he clears his throat. megumi bolts upright, wide-eyed. “i-is she—? what can we do—?”

“go find shoko,” nanami says shortly. the boy obeys without hesitation, dragging a bleary yuuji along with him. nanami finds the water cooler, fills a flimsy plastic cup, and walks slowly back. each step aches. everything aches.

when he returns, you’re trying to sit up. his heart nearly stops. “stop,” he says immediately, rushing forward, placing a steadying hand on your chest. “you’ll tear your sutures. let me—just—lay back down, please. please.”

you obey him with a frown and a sigh, lips chapped, eyelids heavy. he raises the cup to your lips. but you brush your fingers against his instead. as if he isn’t already watching you like a dying star. as if he isn’t holding the weight of you in every breath.

“I'm alright, kento. really. you don’t need to fuss.” that smile again. gentle. kind. completely unearned, as far as he’s concerned. it shatters him like glass on tile. he closes his eyes. breathes once, slow and frayed.

you don’t need to fuss.

if only you knew. if only he could explain that he no longer understands how to exist without orienting his every breath around you. that his hands only know peace when they’re on you—soothing your fevered skin, brushing your hair from your face, holding you still and here and alive. that he would gladly make a life of this. of serving you. worshipping at the altar of your continued survival. but he says none of this. he can’t. it would overwhelm you, and worse—it might frighten you.

so instead, he reaches for simplicity. for gentleness. “let me,” he whispers. just that. “please.” your lashes flutter. the silence stretches. then, a tiny nod. and he presses the water to your lips.

shoko arrives a few minutes later. she’s clinical, calm. assesses your wounds with a precision honed by necessity. your injuries are serious, but not critical. you should be okay to go home sometime this week, pending tests. she offers nanami a cot. he doesn’t hesitate.

“I'm fine here.” she doesn’t argue. but you do.

“kento. you can’t sleep in that chair again.” he opens his mouth to protest, but you beat him to it. “please,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “just…hold me. just for a little while.” and that’s it. that one word. please. it crushes him.

“okay,” he breathes, almost tenderly. “okay.”

he climbs into the cot carefully, awkwardly. it’s too small, but he fits himself around you like you were made to be there. he holds you as delicately as possible, arms tucked around your fragile form. his tie brushes your collarbone. his hands shake.

you fall asleep like that. safe. sheltered. he doesn’t. he watches you for hours, memorizing the way your chest rises and falls. the little tremble in your lashes. the blood in your hair, where he won’t touch. the soft exhale against his collarbone. he wants to scream. to cry. to rage. to protect you in all the ways he failed to. but instead, he runs his fingers through your hair. presses kisses to your crown. whispers your name like a benediction.

this will never be okay. but you’re here. and that’s enough. for now.

……

he’s awake well before you are. the lights are dimmed now, not the piercing fluorescents from the first night, but softer—still institutional, still cruel in how they flatten every warm color into gray, but gentler than before. still, they make your skin look paler than it is. waxy, he thinks. too quiet. too still. he’s already adjusted the blanket three times by the time your fingers twitch faintly in your sleep. it’s your blanket—the pale blue one with worn edges, the one you drag over the two of you on the couch, toss across your lap when grading late into the night. you claim it smells like safety, like lavender and faint detergent, but nanami suspects it just smells like home. like you.

he sent gojo for it—reluctantly, because trusting gojo with tasks that required subtlety was usually a mistake. but miraculously, gojo had returned with the blanket, one of your pillows, and—unprompted—a change of clothes for nanami himself. slacks, a soft sweater. even socks that matched.

nanami hadn’t thanked him. hadn’t said much of anything, really. just took the items with a quiet nod and disappeared into the staff bathroom to change, where the man in the mirror looked like someone else entirely.

he sits now, hunched awkwardly in that cold metal chair, the blanket tucked up to your chin. he checks your iv. again. and again. then your temperature, his hand on your forehead as though his own skin could tell him something the machines couldn’t. then your pulse, two fingers against your wrist, breath catching in his throat each time he feels the gentle thump beneath your skin. still there. still beating. still with him.

you make a soft sound in your sleep—half a whimper, half a sigh—and he’s immediately on his feet. “sweetheart,” he breathes, crouching beside the cot. “is it the pain? are you awake?” you aren’t. or maybe you are, but the drugs make it impossible to tell. your brow furrows. your lips part. but no words come.

he presses the back of his hand to your cheek. warm. too warm? he stands again, checks the drip. still flowing. still steady. he makes a note in the small spiral-bound notebook shoko left by the bed. she told him it wasn’t necessary. told him she’d be tracking your vitals. but he takes notes anyway. writes the time down every time he changes your iv, every time you so much as murmur. every breath you take feels like a gift he might forget to be grateful for.

if you were awake enough to speak, you’d probably tell him he was being ridiculous. dramatic, even. maybe you’d call him your mother hen. and when you were less loopy, less pain-stricken, he’d grumble about that. but secretly, he’d like it. secretly, he’d wear it like a badge of honor. 

you shift again. a wince this time. a full-body tremor. and nanami’s fingers twitch helplessly at his sides. he’s becoming something else in these moments—less man, more machine. more caregiver than combatant. he hasn’t thought about curses since the moment he saw you lying in that cot. hasn’t checked his phone. hasn’t gone outside. he doesn’t remember the last time he slept. or ate. or exhaled fully. his hair is a mess—no longer parted neatly, no longer combed back in that careful, corporate way. he’s raked his hands through it too many times. it clings damply to his temples now, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. he hasn’t noticed. he doesn’t care.

the rings beneath his eyes are deepening, blooming into something almost bruised. his hands shake when he pours water into your cup, when he tries to spoon soup into your mouth. but he does it anyway. asks if you're alright every fifteen minutes. asks if you need shoko, though he never knows what for.

you tell him you’re fine. over and over. that he doesn’t need to hover, doesn’t need to worry. but the very suggestion makes him laugh—quietly, bitterly. not at you. never at you. just at the absurdity of the thought.

leave you?

you’d nearly died. you'd almost—he doesn’t finish the thought. because he had. he had left. had let you out of his sight. and when he’d found you again, the light was gone from your eyes, your body broken open like a thing discarded. he can’t let that happen again. he won’t. still, you try to reason with him. always so damn calm. even when you’re pale and shaking. even when you can barely lift your head.

“kento,” you rasp, “you need to rest. please. just for a little while.” he only strokes your hair back from your face. presses your knuckles to his lips and says nothing.

when you manage to talk him into sitting for longer than a moment, into actually sitting, into letting the stress coil itself out from his spine for even half an hour—he’s the man you remember. your kento. warm and quiet. attentive, dutiful. he feeds you slowly, spoons broth to your lips like it’s the most sacred ritual of his life. he helps you sip from the straw. he adjusts your pillow, your blankets. always touching you like you’re made of porcelain. like something fragile and irreplaceable. and when he finally sees you close your eyes, when you aren’t grimacing, when your breathing is even—he reads to you.

your book had been in your school bag. he doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t really care. he just opens to the bookmarked page and reads in that soft, even voice of his. and you listen. not to the words, not really. but to him. to the cadence. to the sound of him here. you ask for distractions when the pain is too much. you ask about high school, about gojo, about silly things. what his part-time jobs were like, if he ever failed a class, what music he listened to when he was your age. he always answers. always.

but when shoko walks in, or you make a soft sound of pain, he forgets mid-sentence. snaps upright. abandons the story to check your iv, your pulse, your temperature. always cycling through the same desperate checks, always one step from panic. you try not to show how much it hurts. you try not to wince. but you’re not a good liar. not with him.

……

the first visitors arrive the next morning. yuuji and megumi come in with their shoulders hunched and their eyes wide, like boys walking into a funeral. megumi holds a bouquet of grocery store flowers that looks like it’s been clenched in a death grip the entire way down the hall. yuuji fidgets with the hem of his hoodie, eyes darting from you to the floor and back again. neither of them says a word at first. just stands there, a little awkward, a little guilty, like they’re waiting to be scolded.

nanami stiffens in the chair beside you—protective, alert. he doesn’t say anything either, just watches them with careful eyes as you blink up from the bed, tired but curious.

“stop looking at me like that,” you joke, but they both immediately avert their gaze to another part of the room. you laugh with a wince. "I didn’t say you had to completely look away.” your voice is chastising and painfully kind, all at once. 

yuuji flinches. “we almost let you—”

“don’t,” you cut him off, voice firmer now. “don’t you dare.”

his mouth opens again, some sweet, stupid apology on the tip of his tongue, but you hold up a hand—shaky, weak, but still commanding enough to silence him.

“this wasn’t your fault,” you say. “it was a bad mission. things went sideways. it happens.”

“but we—” megumi tries, probably to apologize.

“stop,” you say again, softer this time. “I'm okay.” you aren’t. not really. your body is aching and heavy and every breath feels like dragging yourself uphill, but you’re alive, and that has to count for something. and you won’t let them carry the guilt for something they couldn’t have stopped. they’re kids. brave and powerful, sure, but still learning. still vulnerable. you love them too much to let them carry this kind of weight.

they settle beside your bed eventually, yuuji on the floor, megumi in the stiff plastic chair in the corner. yuuji babbles about a new manga release, megumi interjects with his usual deadpan corrections, and for a moment, it feels normal. like any other afternoon at school. like you're not half-broken in a cot in the bowels of jujutsu tech.

nanami doesn’t say much, but he watches you. watches the way you soften when yuuji says something funny, the way your hand drifts toward megumi’s arm when he speaks. like you’re trying to remind him you’re still here. still real. they leave reluctantly, but only after you promise—three times—that you’ll be okay. nanami walks them out. thanks them. tells them it’s not their fault, though his voice is tight when he says it. he’s trying.

gojo shows up two hours later. he’s loud, of course. drops his sunglasses on your bedside table like he owns the place, immediately helps himself to the chair megumi had used. he talks nonstop—about the mission he just got back from, about the girl he met last night, about a new limited-edition dessert he insists you have to try when you’re better. nanami scowls at him. visibly. but you laugh. not much, just a huff of air through your nose. but it’s something. you let gojo ramble, let him paint the room in noise and distraction. for a little while, you don’t have to think. don’t have to feel. it helps. more than you want to admit.

ijichi comes by later with a clipboard in hand, looking entirely too official, but his voice is gentle when he asks how you’re doing. you thank him with a small smile, and the blush that covers his face is laughable. 

nobara and maki arrive together just before dinner. maki brings snacks—nothing healthy, all crunchy and salty and deeply frowned upon by any real medical professional. nobara pulls a nail polish kit from her bag and insists you need a color change, saying something about how healing faster is all about aesthetics. nanami sits quietly in the corner while they laugh, while nobara holds your wrist delicately in her hand and paints soft, even strokes of polish onto your nails.

he watches you the whole time. eyes heavy with something like awe. this, he thinks. this is who you are. this is who the world sees, who they love. you, bright and stubborn and brave. you, with paint on your fingers and silly teenage girl gossip in your mouth. even in a hospital bed, even pale and stitched and hurting—your light is blinding, and somehow, that light has chosen him. he doesn’t understand it. never has. never will. but he feels it, deep in his chest. like something precious cupped between trembling hands.

nights are harder. the chatter dies. the hallways go still. the beeping machines fill the silence, and nanami can feel the weight settle again, heavy and thick in the space between heartbeats. you don’t sleep well. too much pain. too much nausea. but you try. and he won’t speak, not at night. not when he thinks your body needs rest. instead, he holds you—gently, reverently. like he’s afraid he’ll break you if he moves too quickly. his arms cradle you, his hand moves slowly up and down your back, or across your brow, soft and methodical.

every time you grimace, he shifts. sits up. checks your forehead, your pulse, your expression. murmurs little comforts into your hair. brushes strands away from your cheeks. you grumble that it’s not so bad. insist you’re okay. but your hands clench the sheets. your body flinches when the pain creeps in, and he sees it. he sees all of it.

you try to talk, one night. try to explain. “I'm really okay,” you whisper. “it was just a mission. they go bad sometimes. it’s not going to happen again, I—”

but he doesn’t let you finish. his hand finds yours, squeezes gently. and then he shushes you—softly, but with a finality that surprises you. that shakes you. he never interrupts. never. you can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken over you. but he does now, because he can’t bear to hear it. can’t bear to let the words form. because he knows what you’ll say, and he can’t take it. not tonight. not like this.

because yes, maybe it was just a mission. maybe you are going to be okay. but he’s not. he’s still seeing you on that cot every time he blinks. still tasting the copper in the air. still hearing shoko say she couldn’t heal you, like the world was unraveling in real time. and if he lets you talk like it was nothing—if he lets you shrug it off like you always do—he’s going to break.

he wants to march to yaga right now. wants to demand you be benched indefinitely, wants to argue that he can protect you better if you never leave the apartment again. wants to keep you wrapped up in his sheets, feed you with his hands, watch over you until the end of time. but he knows you. he knows that kind of love would undo you.

you’re already skittish with affection. always have been. you flinch when it’s too much, not because you don’t want it, but because you don’t know how to carry it. because you’ve always lived like it could be taken away. so he swallows it down. all of it. every desperate, all-consuming plea to keep you tethered to him. every vow that he’d sacrifice everything just to make sure this never, ever happens again.

he just shakes his head instead. spoons another bite of soup toward your lips. says, “we’ll talk about it later. when you’re better.” and you hate it. hate how gentle he is. how good. you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. you’ve never been allowed to keep it. but he gives it anyway. over and over again. like he doesn’t know how to stop.

you hold his gaze for a long time after that. say nothing. just breathe. and then, because you don’t know what else to do, you go back to picking at the skin around your nails. he notices. of course he does. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t scold. just reaches out, warm and slow, and takes your hands in his. thumbs brushing over each knuckle, each tiny wound. his eyes fixed on your palms like they’re scripture.

and when he lifts your fingertips to his lips, presses a kiss there like a promise—you feel something in your chest give way. 

……

“you need to go home,” you tell him one afternoon, voice hoarse but insistent.

it’s been a few days. three, maybe four—it’s hard to tell in the basement infirmary with its flickering lights and recycled air, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to your hair.

he doesn’t say anything, and you know that the silence is his answer, that he’s not going anywhere. a sigh pushes out of you as you sink back into the pillow. you’re exhausted. not just from your injuries, though they still throb with a vengeance, but from the sheer weight of his concern. the way he hovers. how he hasn’t left your side. not once. it’s sweet, it’s grounding, it’s everything you love about him—but it’s also starting to crush you.

“kento,” you murmur. "I need space.”

his shoulders jerk, just slightly, like the words sting more than they should. and they do. god, they do. because he knows what you mean. he does. you’re tired. you need a real bed, a real shower, a moment where someone isn’t watching your every move in fear that you’ll fall apart. and he knows, in the rational part of his brain, that giving you that space is necessary. healthy, even.

but still—it feels like a blade slipped beneath his ribs. he says nothing at first. just stands there, silent, hands flexing at his sides. he looks like he’s preparing for battle, though the only thing he’s fighting is his own instinct to keep you within arm’s reach for the rest of time.

you sigh again. softer this time. "I didn’t start dating you so you could be my personal nurse. you know that, right?” he does. but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to be.

you reach for his hand—his big, calloused hand that has held yours through so many quiet storms—and give it a squeeze. “just a few hours,” you say. “go home. change. breathe.” he doesn’t move. you groan. “please?”

he nods, eventually. relents in that quiet way he does, where he’s clearly still calculating every possible outcome in his head. he checks your iv drip again, frowns at the number even though he knows it's fine. he checks the fluid levels, reads the monitor three times. he asks shoko a half-dozen questions she doesn’t even blink at.

“are you sure she’s okay?”

shoko gives him a look. tired. unimpressed. “if she wasn’t, I'd say so.”

“but her temperature—”

“nanami.”

he shuts up. lets her finish. but not before you have to reassure him again. again. again. until your voice is dry and your throat hurts from repeating I'm fine and I love you and you need to take care of yourself, too.

he finally leaves. you should’ve timed it.

the drive is quiet. unsettlingly so. no radio, no traffic, not even the sound of his own thoughts, really. just a dull, buzzing pressure in his ears and the thudding of his heartbeat against the steering wheel.

he pulls into the parking garage like a ghost. unlocks the door without thinking. steps inside.

and that’s when it hits him. the silence. real silence—not the kind you learn to live with on solo missions, or in hotel rooms between red-eye flights. this is the kind that aches. the kind that used to feel familiar. comfortable, even. but now—now it just feels wrong.

he walks into the kitchen. everything is where you left it. your tea mug beside the sink, your sweater folded over the back of a chair, your shoes tucked haphazardly by the door. you’ve been here. you live here. but the apartment feels hollow without your voice bouncing off the walls, without your laughter slipping down the hallway. how did he ever live like this? how did he ever live without you?

he thinks back—tries to. and he can’t. not really. not in any meaningful way. there were years here, entire years he spent alone in this space, eating bland takeout in front of the television, sleeping in a bed that felt like a coffin. he was alive, sure. working. moving. but he wasn’t living.

you changed that. you came in with your books and your perfume and your endless capacity for love and you woke him up. and now that he’s tasted that life—with you in it—he doesn’t know how to exist any other way.

he showers. doesn’t remember turning the water on. scrubs his skin until it’s raw, trying to rinse off the smell of fear clinging to him like smoke. he eats something. probably. he finds a leftover container in the fridge, heats it up, eats it with a fork he forgot to wash first. it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t taste like anything.

and then, before he can stop himself—he’s grabbing his keys again. maybe an hour has passed. maybe. he doesn’t remember the drive back. doesn’t remember parking, or walking in, or passing ijichi on the way down. he just remembers the moment he sees you again. you’re still there. right where he left you. pale, bandaged, bruised—but smiling. and it guts him.

“there you are,” you whisper.

he crosses the room in three long strides, drops into that metal chair like it’s magnetic. his hands reach for yours on instinct, gathering them in his own, cradling them like something precious. his thumbs press over your pulse points—feel the steady beat.

you’re alive.

you’re alive.

you’re alive.

you smile at him, warm and soft and devastating, like you’ve been waiting for him all day. like it hadn’t only been an hour. like you’d missed him more than you knew what to do with. that smile—so familiar, so disarming—it nearly floors him. again.

shoko is across the room, calm as ever, flipping through the chart at the end of your cot. she’s unreadable, as usual, her brow furrowed in clinical concentration. nanami watches her with held breath. as if every movement of her pen might rewrite your fate.

“good news,” you say, voice light but steady. it carries in the sterile stillness of the room. “tell him, shoko.”

shoko glances up, eyes darting between the two of you. you, bruised but smiling; nanami, rigid and terrified.

“clean bill of health,” she says. “more or less. tomorrow afternoon, you can take her home.” there’s a beat. and then the sound that escapes nanami is closer to a laugh than a breath, except it’s dry and trembling and half-choked in his throat. the weight doesn’t fall off his shoulders—it shifts slightly. just slightly.

your smile widens. you look over at him like you're not covered in bruises and fatigue, like you're not stitched up and held together by borrowed time. and he wants to crumble. because you shouldn’t be the one smiling. he should be. he should be smiling for you, beaming, cheering, crying with joy—but all he can manage is to hold your hand a little tighter, like that’ll be enough to convey everything roaring inside him.

relief. guilt. love. so much love. he still doesn’t feel like enough.

rationally, nanami knows better. he knows he did everything he could. he knows this wasn’t his fault, that you’re a sorcerer just like he is, that danger comes with the job. he knows. but logic doesn’t live in the same place that love does, and right now, they aren’t even speaking.

he follows shoko into the hallway the second she closes the chart.

“is she really okay?” he asks, voice low. urgent. “completely stable?”

shoko exhales slowly, leaning her back against the wall. “she’s banged up. but stable. her vitals are consistent, scans look clean. no internal bleeding, no residual cursed energy.”

“but the side effects from the curse—”

“will pass,” she cuts in gently. “it’ll take time. but she’s on track. nanami, she’s going to be fine.”

he nods, barely. stares at a spot on the tile like it might blink back at him. but his hands are still shaking. and his chest still feels like it’s full of broken glass.

he doesn’t answer. just looks through the window, where you’re sitting upright now, sipping water slowly. when your eyes meet his, you tilt your head, confused by his absence. he nods once and steps back inside.

it’s later now. hours, maybe. the lights are dim, and the hallway is quiet. he’s sitting next to your cot again, more calm than before, watching you pick half-heartedly at your dinner, coaxing you into at least a few more bites. you humor him. he praises you like you’ve moved mountains. you sip water. he adjusts your blanket. he takes the empty cup from your hand and sets it on the side table, brushes your hair from your eyes. all small things. but they keep his hands busy. keep his panic at bay.

when you’re settled again, tucked and warm and vaguely annoyed by how tucked and warm you are, your hand starts to move. you don’t even realize you’re doing it. your fingers are pulling at the skin around your nails. little tugs, soft scratches. it’s old muscle memory. you’ve done it for years—since school, since grief, since the first time someone you loved didn’t come home. it’s a nervous tic. you’re not even in pain right now, not exactly. but your brain is louder than your body.

nanami notices instantly. he always does. he doesn’t say anything at first. just reaches for your hands and gently pulls them into his lap, turning them over, inspecting the little raw spots forming at your cuticles. he rubs his thumb over the worst of it.

“what’s wrong?” he asks quietly.

your throat tightens. because of course he knew. of course he always knows. you swallow. blink down at your hands in his. his grip is so warm. so steady. your hands look small there. like they couldn’t possibly do the damage they’ve done.

“kento,” you start, voice cracking a little. you don’t know where you’re going with it. you just have to say something. he waits. doesn’t rush you. never rushes you. "I don’t want it to be like this,” you say eventually, the words halting. "I know this was scary for you. but...we’re sorcerers. this isn’t new. it’s going to happen again. you can’t—” you don’t get to finish.

“no,” he says sharply. too sharply. his voice cuts through the room, firm and final. you freeze. eyes wide. again, he almost never interrupts you. he thinks it’s rude, always listens, always gives you space. but this—this he cannot let pass.

he leans forward, holding your hands tighter, anchoring you both. "I went so long without you,” he says, his voice low and steady but fraying at the edges. “you have no idea. I was sleepwalking through my life. until you. you woke me up. and I can’t—” he breaks off, jaw locking. "I cannot bear the thought of losing you.” your eyes sting.

he swallows, eyes flicking to your blanket, your bandages, your still-pale face. he knows he’s said too much. been too heavy. he’s trying to back off, to keep from collapsing under the weight of how he feels. but you’ve always made it hard to hide anything. “we can talk more about it,” he says, softer now. “eventually. but for now...please. just focus on healing. and let me take care of you.” you try not to look away. you try not to flinch at the devotion in his voice. it scares you sometimes, how much he cares. how much he’s willing to care. and he knows that. he always has.

he sees you flinch. sees your eyes dart to the side. your fingers twitch like they want to go back to their habit. so he tightens his hold. not too much. not too tight. just enough. his thumbs sweep over your palms, over every callus, every scar. he brings your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers. one by one. don’t you know? don’t you know that you hold his heart in your hands, too?

……

the drive home is quiet. not peaceful, not companionable—quiet in the way cemeteries are. dutiful. heavy. nanami’s hand is a vice on the steering wheel, the other resting gently over yours where it sits limply in your lap. your fingers twitch occasionally, the only thing reassuring him you’re still with him. he glances over every chance he gets. not subtly, either. it’s shameless, obsessive, each flick of his gaze a silent prayer—are you breathing? are you grimacing? are you okay?

you don’t say much. not because you’re mad, or tired—though you are both—but because you can feel the tension radiating off of him like a heatwave. his knuckles are white. his jaw tight. and if you opened your mouth now, you might say something cruel. something like, “kento, stop looking at me like I'm going to die.” so instead, you let the silence stretch. you watch the road. you count how many times he glances your way (eleven, just between the hospital parking lot and the first red light). it’s maddening and it’s sweet, and it makes your chest feel too full and too empty at the same time.

when he pulls into the parking garage and shuts off the engine, he doesn’t move right away. just sits there, staring out the windshield like it might offer him answers. you open your mouth to insist that you can walk. you’ve been walking around the hospital fine for a day now, albeit slowly. but before the words can form, he’s already out of the car, door slamming shut behind him with more force than necessary.

you don’t even get the chance to reach for the handle. your door opens, and there he is—silent, suit wrinkled, sleeves rolled, eyes tired in a way that makes your heart clench.

“don’t argue,” he murmurs, already slipping his arms beneath you, “please.” you sigh, weakly, but don’t protest. it’s not worth it. and if you’re being honest—you don’t mind the way he holds you. like you’re something precious. like the thought of putting you down physically hurts him. he lifts you with ease, cradling you against his chest like a bride in an old painting. his suit jacket falls open and brushes your cheek. you press your nose into the lapel. he still smells like the hospital, antiseptic and stress and coffee—but beneath it, there’s still him. always him.

inside, everything feels foreign and familiar at once. the apartment is exactly as you left it—books on the coffee table, your slippers by the couch, a mug in the sink—but it feels changed. heavier. like it held its breath while you were gone. he takes you straight to the bedroom. the sheets are fresh. your blanket—the one gojo retrieved—is folded neatly at the foot of the bed. your pillow is fluffed. the curtains are drawn to keep the light soft. of course it’s perfect. of course he’s thought of everything. he lays you down with the same gentleness one might use to place flowers at a grave. his hand lingers on your shoulder. he doesn’t say anything.

you shift slightly, trying to get comfortable. he straightens the blanket around you automatically. hovers. steps back. starts to turn toward the door. “kento,” you say softly, reaching out. your fingers curl around his forearm. “stay, please.” he stills. there’s a beat. then he nods. he sits beside you on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap, body tense like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. you slide your fingers from his forearm to his hand, tuck yours between his like it’s the easiest thing in the world. because it is.

you fall asleep like that—his fingers wrapped around yours, his eyes on your chest, watching every single rise and fall like they might stop at any moment. he doesn’t sleep much that night either. he sits there long after your breathing evens out, long after your fingers go slack in his. he watches the way your mouth twitches in your dreams. the furrow in your brow. the half-healed wounds peeking from beneath your collar.

he can’t stop imagining what this room would feel like without you in it. what the sheets would look like untouched, your slippers unmoved. he imagines lying in this bed alone, staring at the ceiling, begging to remember the sound of your voice. and then he gets up—suddenly, quietly—and goes to the kitchen.

he returns a few minutes later with water, your medication, and a bowl of something bland and warm. he sets it all on the nightstand, then brushes your hair back from your forehead, fingers reverent, like he’s afraid to wake you and afraid not to. he stays like that until dawn.

……

the next few days blur together.

he becomes almost a robot. a caregiver. a sentinel. there’s a schedule written on the fridge in his neat, meticulous handwriting—your meds, your meals, your bathroom breaks. he sets alarms. he stocks the nightstand with tissues and hand lotion and that lip balm you always lose. he refuses to let you lift a finger. not for water, not for food, not even to change the channel on the tv. it’s…a little much.

he helps you bathe, too. insists on it, actually, even though you argue that you can do it yourself. and maybe you can—but when his warm hands are on your shoulders, gently helping you out of your clothes, his eyes trained firmly on the tile, you realize you don’t mind. not when he’s this careful. not when his voice is soft and steady, guiding you through it like a dance.

he dresses you in one of his shirts afterward—soft and worn, down to your thighs. it smells like him. he says it’s because it’s easier than your usual pajamas. but the way he looks at you afterward, like he’s trying not to cry or fall to his knees, tells you it’s more than that.

every morning, he wakes you gently for your medication. he tries not to stare at you all the time, though he’s not entirely aware of it. when you grimace at a bite or sigh that you’re not hungry, he doesn’t push. just tuts and says, “try a little more, sweetheart,” and somehow, you always do.

you walk together, eventually. slowly. carefully. once around the apartment, then down the hall, then down the block. you pass a stray cat sunbathing on the curb and you crouch to pet it, smiling as it nuzzles into your palm—only to wince, softly, as pain shoots through your side. nanami is at your side instantly.

“that’s enough,” he says, helping you up. “we’re going back.”

“kento,” you start to protest. he doesn’t answer. just walks you home in silence, one arm around your waist, the other carrying your dignity in both hands.

at night, you curl into his side while he finishes the chapter he’d started in the hospital. you fall asleep to the sound of his voice. peaceful. content.

one evening, nestled against his chest, you murmur, “you’re my favorite version of yourself like this.”

he pauses. “like what?”

“like this. here. home.”

he exhales slowly. presses a kiss to the top of your head. doesn’t say anything. but you feel his arms tighten around you.

you don’t talk about the mission until the fifth night. the light is low. dinner is finished. your stitches itch and your chest aches, and you find yourself staring at the ceiling, heart too full to hold it in anymore. "I went on a mission when I was a teenager,” you begin. “back in school. supposed to be routine. clean. easy. but of course it wasn’t. people died. people I knew. people I…loved.” nanami looks over at you. doesn’t interrupt. “my efforts didn’t matter. not the way I wanted them to. I started taking less missions after that. until I left altogether.”

you swallow, voice soft. "I came back because I wanted to make a difference. for the kids. not for…this.”

you don’t have to say it. he knows what you mean. he’s quiet for a long time. then, "I want to stop you from ever doing anything like that again.” your throat tightens. you’d worried it would come to this. “but I won’t ever hold you back from what you want.” his voice is steady. raw. “it just…seems like maybe this isn’t what you want.” you don’t respond. not right away. not with words. but you know he’s right.

from then on, his care softens. not in quality, but in intensity. he still wakes you gently for your meds. still stocks the fridge with things you like. but the worry that once bled from him like a wound is quieter now. steadier. he’s still yours. but more than that—he’s here. not a sword. not a shield. just a man. tired and healing. loving you in all the ways he knows how. and somehow, that’s enough.

……

after two weeks, you have to come back to the school to get your stitches removed. the smell of rubbing alcohol burns at the back of your nose. nanami is at your side, of course, seated just slightly too close, his knee brushing yours every time he shifts. you can feel the nerves humming off him, like static. it’s almost funny, really. if you weren’t the one getting stitches removed from your stomach and shoulder, you might’ve teased him about it.

“you can sit back, kento,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. “I'm not about to die in shoko’s office.”

he doesn’t look at you. just says, "I know,” like he’s trying to convince himself. his hands are folded in his lap, but you know the tension in them would snap bone if he wasn’t careful.

shoko walks in moments later, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable as always. she gives you a small nod, then glances at nanami. “you look like hell,” she says casually, flipping through her notes. "I thought she was the patient.” you stifle a laugh. nanami doesn’t respond.

“he’s taken to the nurse routine,” you say for him, smiling. “turns out, he’s a natural.”

“not surprised,” shoko replies. “he was the only one in our class who actually read the textbook. alright.”

the process is quick. methodical. shoko’s fingers are deft as she leans in, tweezers catching the first black thread. she doesn’t even warn you before she starts. it doesn’t hurt, not really. the healing has done its work, what little your body could manage. but you feel every motion, every gentle tug. and you feel nanami’s gaze even more—burning into your skin like a second pair of hands. he watches you like he’s memorizing the way you wince. like every flinch carves itself into his chest. you glance at him once, and it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. he’s all sharp edges and furrowed brows, eyes wide and solemn and worshipful. like this is a religious experience. like watching you be sewn and unsewn is some kind of penance.

you shift your focus back to the ceiling. any longer and you might cry—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming weight of his love.

“this curse really did a number on you,” shoko mutters as she leans in to inspect the last row of stitches. “resistant to healing techniques. scarring’s pretty deep. can’t say I've seen many like it, but you’ll be fine.”

nanami exhales. not relief, not exactly. more like a breath he didn’t realize he was holding finally escaping against his will.

shoko steps back, tugging off her gloves. “you’re free to go. rest. move slow. hydrate. try not to fall down the stairs or anything.”

you shoot her a look. “you always make me feel so special.”

"I try.” you both smile.

as you pull your shirt carefully down over the bandaged scar on your shoulder, the door swings open. of course. it’s gojo, followed by megumi and yuuji—all crammed in the narrow hallway like a fanclub waiting to meet their idol.

“hey, you’re alive!” gojo beams. "I mean, obviously. but still. nice to see it with my own eyes.”

you raise a brow. “weren’t you the one who told nanami I'd be fine the whole time?”

“yeah, well, it was mostly for his sake.” he jerks a thumb toward where nanami stands, still silent, hands now clenched at his sides. “he looked like a ghost for two days straight.”

megumi steps forward, subdued but clearly relieved. “we were worried.”

“so worried,” yuuji adds, eyes wide. “like…actually scared.”

you wave a hand. “I'm fine now. all good.”

“when are you coming back?” yuuji asks, all hope and brightness and completely unaware of the way nanami’s whole body seems to still beside you. you pause. feel his breath catch. feel the world stutter.

you smile, smooth and sweet. charming. practiced. “I'm not sure yet. still resting. maybe soon.” soon. you don’t miss the way nanami’s fingers twitch. how he leans ever so slightly forward, like he might be sick. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t breathe. just…sits with that word festering inside of him.

you finish up the visit without issue, fielding more questions, deflecting gently, laughing when gojo starts a fake countdown for your triumphant return. but nanami doesn’t laugh. not once. not even a smile. he stands behind you like a ghost, one hand on the back of your chair, too quiet for someone who usually speaks volumes just by being present. on the way home, he doesn’t hold your hand. not because he doesn’t want to, but because it’s clenched tight around the steering wheel again.

……

he tries to give you space, now. or he thinks he does. it’s laughable, honestly. he still brings you every meal, still insists on fluffing your pillows and laying out your clothes, still stands just outside the bathroom when you shower in case you slip. but he doesn’t hover. not quite. he lets you wander into the kitchen on your own. lets you reheat your tea without intervening. lets you walk the hallway once without shadowing your every step.

you notice the difference. and you know it’s not because he trusts you to be fine. it’s because he’s afraid if he touches you too much, he’ll never be able to stop.

you try to be gentle about it. you appreciate his care—god, you do. but you don’t know how to sit in that kind of love for too long without it feeling like drowning. it’s too much. too deep. you’ve spent your whole life learning how to survive on scraps, and now this man is feeding you banquets of affection and expecting you to know how to digest it.

but still, you take the walks. short ones, under his strict supervision. your bruises have faded from deep violets and angry blacks to a pale, mottled green-yellow. they no longer hurt when you move. the pain that once seized your ribs with every breath is now a dull whisper, easily ignored. the scars remain, of course. thin and pale and permanent. but they don’t ache. not anymore.

you sit beside nanami on the couch one afternoon, feet tucked beneath you, sipping miso he made from scratch. he pretends not to watch you while you eat. pretends not to study your every expression, your every twitch. “I'm fine,” you tell him, softly. he nods. doesn’t answer. you didn’t expect him to. you wonder if he’ll ever believe you again.

……

things start slow. neither of you have the heart or the energy to rush back into the routine like nothing happened. it’s not avoidance, not really—it’s caution. like life suddenly became something delicate, something to be handled with care.

he goes back to work first. it’s inevitable. responsibility clings to him like a second skin, always has. he’s needed—by students, by colleagues, by the job itself. he can’t say no to duty, even if it leaves you tangled in the sheets he’s still warmed with his body. even if it feels like leaving you behind again.

ino asks about you almost immediately. nanami deflects, of course. the usual clipped answers. she’s recovering. resting. none of your concern. we’re not here to gossip. focus on your form. but after an hour of drills and corrections, he finds himself saying something about the way you tried to pet a stray cat last week, even though you winced the whole time. how you laughed when he scolded you. how you called him insufferable and kissed his nose. he tells ino that you’re tough. that you’re smart. he doesn’t say you’re the love of his life, but he might as well have.

you return to work eventually. gradually. not with any big announcement, no fanfare or dramatic entrance. just one morning, you’re there. in your classroom. a mug of tea in hand. your name on the whiteboard in that same messy script. students blinking at the sight of you like they’re not sure if it’s real. they swarm. megumi hides it better than the rest, but yuuji hugs you too tight. nobara demands to paint your nails again. even gojo claps obnoxiously, offers you a homemade coupon for one free dinner “with the sexiest teacher on campus,” which you promptly rip in half. everything, it seems, is exactly the same. but it’s not. and nanami feels it in his marrow.

you’re here, yes. smiling, teaching, living. but he knows the scar tissue you don’t talk about. he knows what your breath sounds like when it catches in your throat as you pass by the infirmary. he knows what your eyes do when you think no one’s watching. and maybe you’re better now. physically. outwardly. but in nanami’s mind, you never fully came back. or maybe he never did. he doesn’t know.

he drives you to work each morning, without fail. waits for you at the front with a thermos of your favorite drink. drives you home every afternoon, listening with something between fascination and devotion as you recount each tiny, ridiculous detail of your day. you once told him you spent fifteen minutes mediating a fight over who took the last strawberry milk in the vending machine, and he’d nodded like you were delivering a lecture on international politics. he needs to hear it all. it makes him feel close to you. tethered to you.

he files your paperwork. reorganizes your classroom supply closet. eats lunch with you in your office every single day, knees bumping under the table. you share a sandwich and he listens to you talk through lesson plans and theory debates and new teaching methods. you say you’re trying to find joy in the little things. he thinks you are joy, and that the little things are only worth anything because they happen with you.

in some ways, it feels like everything is back to normal. but nothing is meaningless now. not a single thing. not the way your pinkie hooks around his in the hallway. not the way he watches you sleep, even when you’re fine, even when he knows you’re okay. not the way his heart clenches when he hears your voice echo down the halls. this isn’t just a relationship anymore. it’s not a phase or a fling or a soft chapter in an otherwise gray book. he’s rooted here. deeply. permanently. and he knows you are, too.

it happens without announcement.

just a quiet meeting behind a closed door—yaga’s office in the early hours of a thursday. you go alone. come back the same way. say nothing.

you fold laundry. skim your book. eat a quiet lunch. you sit beside nanami on the couch like always, lean your head against his shoulder like always. he doesn’t ask. doesn’t need to. he senses the shift—feels it like a change in barometric pressure. the air around you feels...lighter. like something heavy’s been quietly set down.

he doesn’t push. just presses a kiss to the crown of your head and lets you rest.

it isn’t until three days later that he finds out.

he and gojo are leaving a joint training session—ino’s still wiping sweat off his brow, grumbling something about pushups being a war crime—when gojo hangs back, strides lazily at nanami’s side, mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown.

“so,” he says. “she really pulled herself from active duty?”

nanami stops mid-step. turns. “what?”

gojo blinks. “you didn’t know?” nanami stares. gojo raises his hands like he’s warding off a tantrum. “not gossiping. yaga mentioned it in passing. said she turned down a mission this week. asked to be removed from field ops altogether.”

the world slows. a long breath escapes nanami’s lungs, something tight in his chest unspooling so quickly it nearly hurts. the world rights itself, slightly, softly.

gojo keeps talking. "I mean, I get it—she’s good, but that last mission was...rough. thought maybe it was a temporary thing, but she signed the paperwork. she’s out.” nanami doesn’t respond right away. his heart is a strange, uneven thing in his chest. part disbelief, part awe. gojo watches him a second longer, then squints. “she’s okay? like—actually okay?”

“physically? yes.”

“and otherwise?”

nanami’s voice is steady. “she made a choice to protect herself. she’s okay.”

gojo nods, a little softer now. “then good. that’s good.”

and—for once—gojo doesn’t push further. doesn’t crack a joke. just walks a little quieter beside him the rest of the way back. he never asked you to quit. but he’s so glad you did.

that night, nanami gets home before you. he tidies a little, starts dinner. when you walk through the door—hair tousled, cheeks slightly pink from the cold—he doesn’t even hesitate. doesn’t say a word. he meets you halfway, wraps his arms around your waist, and buries his face against your stomach, kneeling there like he’s come home from battle.

you let out a breath of laughter, your hands sliding into his hair. “what’s this for?”

he doesn’t answer at first. just holds you like he’s still afraid to let go. then: “thank you.”

you hum softly, resting your cheek on top of his head. “for what?”

“for staying.” and it’s everything.

after that, the world moves a little softer. you’re still healing in ways neither of you can name, but at least now there’s no pretending that you’re not. there’s only space—made for you, held for you, by a man who would bend the universe if it meant keeping you safe.

each night, nanami pulls you into his arms and murmurs how much he loves you. how perfect you are. how grateful he is that you came back to him. that you stayed.

you used to flinch a little. shrink beneath it. you’re still not used to the weight of being loved like this—unconditionally, unapologetically, all-consuming. but something’s changed. you don’t squirm as much now. don’t duck your head or wave him off. instead, you touch his cheek. you kiss his temple. you whisper back, I love you, too.

nanami notices. of course he does. he always does. he notices how your shoulders don’t tense when he brushes his fingers down your spine. how your breath stays steady when he worships you with words, not just touch. how you let him love you like it’s a given, not a question.

your relationship is different now. deeper. messier. more real. the bubble popped the moment he saw you bloodied on that cot. the honeymoon phase shattered the moment he thought he might lose you.

and he doesn’t miss it. not really. because what you have now is built from something harder to break. something stronger than fantasy. love forged in fire, carried on broken backs and sleepless nights and whispered devotions in the dark.

he hates that it took something so terrible to get here, but he loves you now more than he ever thought possible. and you finally let him.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[guhamun]

HEH, BITING BACK, HUH? It was not a full-on chomp, but it was enough to earn a slight quirk of his lips. ❝I’m not used to talking to someone’s mother.❞ And it wasn’t necessarily a lie either. He really wasn’t used to being put in situations like that. Calcharo was often left feeling awkward whenever Jiyan’s mother appeared, primarily because he had no idea how to talk to her. She knew a great deal about him thanks to her son (though why Jiyan spoke of him so much was a mystery in itself), yet she was a mystery to him. All he knew was that she was a medic, and probably just as headstrong as Jiyan was. One had to be in order to deal with such a stubborn child. ❝You won’t find anything there, Jiyan, so don’t bother on trying to put me in the spotlight.❞ Nothing that the other man did would ever take the focus away from him – not after that display with his mother. If anything, that only heightened Calcharo’s curiosity.

     Those extra scales still lingered upon Jiyan’s cheek, reddened skin hidden away by his hand as if that would do anything to cover up what was easily seen. Such a sight would never cease amusing the mercenary. Falling quiet upon the other’s explanation about the nickname, he hummed softly, arms slowly crossing over his chest. ❝I see.❞ It made sense that he would change, though. The things that Jiyan had seen, the things that he had experienced… It left a mark. You were never the same after all of that. He, of all people, understood this. Deciding not to say anything further about that topic, he moved on. Acknowledging what was said, yet leaving it be. Though there was nothing else in particular he wished to say, it was Jiyan’s latter words that made a brow lift slightly.

     Oh? What was that?

     Was he going to say, ‘never dated’? There was nothing at all odd about that statement considering the other man was so duty bound and driven. A relationship more than likely just didn’t factor into the cards when he had joined the Midnight Rangers so young, his focus only on what he saw ahead. Calcharo wasn’t really any different either. Such things hadn’t meant anything to him as a child – still didn’t even as an adult. There was nowhere in his life that he could ever have a relationship, so the concept of dating was one he cared little to explore. He’d spare Jiyan any questioning (there was nothing to ask). ❝Mm, I agree. Although, there isn’t much to get ready for.❞ Pushing himself up from his seat, he slid it back under the table before making his way into the room. The warmth that encompassed him was almost stifling after being out in the cold air. ❝It’s good you have such a close relationship with your mother. It makes me see you in a different light.❞ He huffed, the sound akin to a chuckle.  

Jiyan was still covering his face when his mother hanged up, and silence reigned for a few seconds until Calcharo spoke up... just to further embarrass him. Rather than reply to Calcharo's teasing (which he knew he would fail at, terribly), he pointed out a small detail he had noticed. "And you were oddly quiet and sheepish while my mother was talking. It happened before, too. I wonder why that is." Usually, he would never bring something like this up, as it was a 'low blow', but Calcharo has shown him again and again that he can't afford to play fair with them.

Only after his 'attack' did Jiyan lowered his hands and looked at his companion. His face was red, and he still had an extra temporary scale on his left jaw, though it was already fading. When he met their icy gaze, he couldn't help it but feel a bit of guilt for 'exposing' them, even though he was certain that Calcharo wouldn't feel the same way if their roles were reversed. "She used to call me that when I was little. And she believes that something in me changed after I joined the Midnight Rangers, even though my ideals stayed the same. I stopped smiling as much and wasn't as 'starry-eyed' as before." Soon after joining, he saw the other new recruits and his temporary team get brutalized by TD, an incredibly traumatic event, so it was understandable why his eyes lost their shine after that. Jiyan didn't mind, but for his mother to bring this up again...

"..." Is he really that different when he's with Calcharo?

"As for everything else, please pretend you didn't hear any of it. She just enjoys saying things to tease me, especially because she didn't get the chance to do so when I was a teen, since I never dated-" He stopped talking then, aware that he had accidentally said too much. So he stood up and walked to their room. "We should get ready and go downstairs. They'll be serving breakfast in less than half an hour." Probably, hopefully.

[yasministration]

love the concussions n interruptions series!! was wondering how did each friend group react to the relationship :3

pansy knew... she knew every single step of the way. she knew when you had a week long crush on harry in third year after watching slytherin play a game against gryffindor for the first time. she knew that despite being there to support your friends, you were staring at harry potter from the game's start to finish. that entire week, you couldn't help yourself from staring a little too long in shared classes, but you eventually shook it off. pansy made fun of you for it the entire time, and when you finally came running to her that harry potter kissed you three years after that, it was the first thing she referred back to. 'i guess that crush never really went away, did it?' she asked, and you felt your face heat up 'pansy, you know that's not what happened. we've gotten close' and she'd roll her eyes a little too hard and say 'i know, i know'

but the rest of the friend group found out by mistake.

when you came back from another date with him, after he kissed you too lovingly - in a way that your lips would remember forever. you were giddy, obviously. the boy you liked had feelings for you too, and he spent every moment around you showing you. he even smiled at you in the hallways, and you returned the smile, neither of your friends noticing anything. it wasn't that you didn't want them to know, it was just so new. so when you returned to the common room after that date, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt, pansy couldn't help but ask 'what has he done now?'

'pansy, he's such a good kisser' you'd say, sinking into the couch next to her. unanimously, draco, theo and blaise would all straighten up, heads snapping towards you like protective older brothers. 'who's this?' you went silent, face falling as you thought up an excuse, but pansy was quick to let them know exactly who had kissed you.

the slytherin common room was chaos that night. blaise had leaned back in his spot and muttered 'yeah, i had a feeling something was going on between you', while draco and theo went insane over it. it was a surprise, but who were they to tell you who you could and couldn't date? (unless it was mclaggen). they upped the rivalry with your new boyfriend from then, testing his patience, seeing how much he could take before snapping. he never did, only ever finding your eyes in the room and smiling at the apologetic look on your face. you'd make it up to him with kisses later, so it would all be okay.

harry began catching feelings for you a few months before he finally made his move, and he was conflicted. he knew about the drama his parents had with many slytherins during their time at hogwarts. he was warned about them - not in a 'stay away at all costs' way, but in a 'be careful who you become friends with' way. it certainly didn't help that ron had such a deeply rooted hatred for slytherins, or that he had some sort of rivalry against some of your best friends.

so he went back to his most trusted friend, and waited until everyone else had gone up to the common room to tell neville about everything. it felt good to get things off his chest, to put it out in the open instead of keeping it secret. and neville understood, said he could see you both as a couple. it wasn't difficult to notice the chemistry you had from the friendship you had built the past couple of months. hermione was the next to know - not because he told her but because she was so observant. she noticed the way you and harry smiled at each other across the classroom, or how your sarcastic comment when you were paired together in potions was only half-hearted. she saw the way he waited for you to pack your things up after class, and you placed a hand over his forearm as a silent goodbye before leaving.

but above all that, she watched you in the corner of the library, with matching smiles on your faces as you spoke softly, only pretending to study. she had been looking for a quiet space to study, but found something so much better. hermione couldn't help the smile on her face when harry shuffled closer to you, and your faces were only inches away from each other, and she didn't feel guilty for watching as you cupped his face in your hands, caressing his soft skin before harry pushed his lips against yours, glasses immediately going crooked on his face. you kissed for a long moment, giggling when the kiss broke, and hermione decided to walk away then.

harry caught the movement in the corner of his eye, recognising the curly hair that disappeared behind a bookshelf. he confronted her that night, and she just said in a comforting voice 'if you don't want me to have seen anything, then i didn't'. harry smiled, telling her he was just worried what ron would think.

'what i would think about what?' harry laughed. of course this would happen. but he still turned to look at the ginger boy who sat down next to them, saying 'my girlfriend.'

it was a guessing game from there. ron thought up a list of every girl in the castle he wouldn't approve of harry dating and began naming them. harry was oddly comforted when your name didn't pop up in the list, and even happier when seamus, lavender and dean joined in the little game, until they ran out of names. when he finally told them, they had all made a little noise of surprise. it was silent until lavender said 'oh yeah, i really don't mind y/n, she always gossips with us in the bathroom between lessons and she's pretty funny. also, gorgeous.'

harry was relieved to know that lavender didn't have any dirty stories on you, instead giving him her word of approval. 'yeah,' added ron 'i thought it was going to be goyle or something' and the entire group had laughed.

the next day, harry found you in the courtyard, and you had grinned widely at the sight of him, pansy sitting across from you. you extended an arm towards him, and he immediately brought you in a hug, kissing you softly on the lips as he pulled away. pansy's eyes widened, and your breath hitched in your throat at the bold move. you felt eyes following you from across the courtyard, but harry kept his hands on your waist as he told you that his friends knew. you let out a relieved sigh and brought your boyfriend into another hug, but in that moment, draco, theo and blaise decided to join you.

the three of them immediately through sarcastic comments his way, but harry somehow knew it didn't mean anything bad. if anything, it was only the start of something good.

[ilxlita]

ヾ( ￣O￣)ツ 𝙆𝙄𝙇𝙇𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙏 !!

SYNOPSIS bakugou katsuki is just pining after this cute friends with benefits that he has !! no big deal !!

PAIRINGS: adult! bakugou katsuki x literally the hottest femme girl (you !!)

TAGS: implied nsfw (enter at your own peril), adult bakugou katsuki (i imagine him around 24 in this), bakugou katsuki pining after you because im so sick of y/n crying over this man.

AUTHORS NOTE: might fuck around and write a part two if this doesn't flop

the smell of sweat, vanilla perfume and cocoa butter shampoo was the first thing katsuki took note of when he regained his senses that morning. it was always the first thing he noticed each morning after you had climbed out of his bed and clumsily snuck out of the apartment; he noticed how your presence would linger even after you made a hasty exit.

he would find bits of your hair still permeated into his pillows and blankets, your scent trapped in the sheets like a lingering memory, even your side of the bed was still indented; the memory of your body still pressed into the foam. 

it was honestly pathetic how katsuki would notice these little details of you starting to take hold in his home, even more so pathetic that he was hoping you would leave more impressions onto his apartment; like little clues to a bigger mystery that was your feelings for him. so far you have left a hoodie in his apartment, a travel size body wash, and a pair of lacey pink underwear, and in return you have only taken a large oversized black t-shirt of his.

the male slowly arose from his bed like the dead slowly creaking to life, his bones cracking, his jaw sore and his underwear launched to the other side of the room. a groan even escaped his lips as if he were a zombie threatening some unsuspecting victim. from his side table, his phone lit up with a text message from you. 

“had a great night, handsome! let’s do it again sometime!”

when did he start getting excited for your text? of course he would never say that out loud, but a part of him genuinely got excited each time you sent him a cute little request for a ‘sleepover’. even though he knew it would be just one night where you quickly dashed away in the morning, it was still better than not seeing you at all. god, even in his head he sounded pathetic. 

♡

“i don’t understand why you don’t just ask her on a date, man.” you didn’t know this, but your existence was no longer contained to the confines of his apartment, it was now starting to permeate his friendships. katuski glanced up at eijiro, his face slightly scrunched up in annoyance. “i mean! instead of waiting for her to text back you could just ask her if she wants to go on a date!”

“shut the fuck up, if i wanted the advice of some shitty haired single loser i’d go to deku and then that icy hot bitch before i ever ran to you about, eijiro.” katsuki snapped back in response, but it was performative. he had thought about asking you out again and again and again, but each time he made up an excuse not to. 

he wouldn’t know where to take you for dinner, he has never been on a date before what if he fucked it up, what if you were actually just in a open relationship; what if you just weren’t interested in him?

the male grumbled as eijiro shrugged, clearly shaking him off. “nah man if you want my advice-” eijiro started.

“i don’t. i remember specifically not asking for it.”

“i’d say just go for it! it seems like she likes you enough to stay over and cuddle. most chicks wouldn’t do that if they didn’t at least kinda enjoy your personality!” eijiro looked proud of himself when he spoke, he was so sure it made katsuki wonder how this man ended up single all these years. “besides if she doesn’t like you then she clearly isn’t worth it, man, you have me!” and then katsuki stopped wondering why the male was still single.

♡

this time instead of texting his usual “u up?” message, he called you. it rang a few times before you answered him with a sweet; “hello, katsu!” like you were purring his name.”you asking me to come over again? well you better not be as rough on me as you were the other night, my boss was worried about the way i was limping into work, you know?”

he swallowed thickly and for a moment he almost lost his nerve. “what? not everyone is calling you for fucking sex.”

“you do, katsuki.”

his nerve was almost shot, but he’s taken on villains that have literally murdered millions and he shouldn’t be scared of you. you are not scary, you laugh at eijiro’s bad jokes and frequently smell like a sweet bakery. “no, fucking moron, i was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner some time or something.”

“like a date?”

“if that’s what you want to call it.” when he said that there was a long pause on your end. he almost asked you if you were still there but he heard soft rustling in the background of the phone call. 

“sure, text me a time and a place.”

[sonnetsarepoems]

can you please do Dallas job is a police officer when him and reader are married? hope this makes sense thank you!! (freaky or not i don’t mind)

Cop!Dallas Winston x Reader

wait because yes!! I hope you enjoy!!

Warning: use of y/n, petnames, suggestive (if you think hard enough), cussing.

(Y/HC= your hair color; Y/EC= your eye color. Y/NN= your nickname)

Officer Winston

"hood"

"lowlife"

"criminal"

That is what ran through the heads of the people in the city of Tulsa, when the teenager's name was brought up. People were scared of him. They thought he could never change, that he would always be a low life and never change for the better. Dallas knew himself. He knew he was tuff and had an unbreakable spirit.

His younger years were spent running around town, hanging around the wrong crowd and living his life on the edge. For the most part, Dallas was having the time of his life; Not having a care in the world. But that feeling went away, as soon as Y/n came into his troubled life. Suddenly, Dallas knew he couldn't continue this careless life. Dallas had an urge coursing through his veins.

He knew he needed to change, for her. Dally and Y/n started to become closer. Dallas wanted her around him more and more. It was like he couldn’t breathe without her. Y/n was there for him, every single day. Those lazy Sunday mornings, Y/n was in the comfy bed cuddled up beside Dallas’s chest. Late night Fridays at the Curtis house, Y/n was right next to Dallas, laughing along whatever joke Two-bit had cracked.

Dallas stopped his life of felonies. For once in his life, he saw a future, with Y/n. The more and more time he spent with her, Dallas knew she was the one. Y/n thought the same about Dallas, even though half of Tulsa told her she was “outta her mind for datin’ a Hood like Dallas Winston.”, Y/n knew he would change for the better, for her. And Y/n wasn’t wrong.

It was a warm summer night as the couple laying on the hood of Buck’s T-bird Dallas had borrowed. Dallas held Y/n as they watched the sky and the way the clouds flowed. He ran his hands through Y/n’s soft Y/hc strands of hair. The velvet box in his back pocket was starting to puncture his back. Dallas sat up with a low groan, he looked at his beautiful girl, his gaze lingered on her for a while. He looked back up at the clouds, letting out a sigh. Here goes nothing.

“Baby..I-um-want to talk to you about something?” Dallas scratched the back of his neck, hesitating with his words.

Y/n started to sit up as well, her back leaned against the windshield of the car.

“Yeah, what is it?” Y/n spoke quietly, picking up on Dallas’s nervousness and seriousness laced in his sentence. 

Dallas took another deep breath, hopping off the hood of the car and standing at the front. 

“I love you so much and you know how much I do. I remember our first date and hearing you laugh and seeing your smile…” Dallas started off, pausing in the middle to catch his nerves. 

“-that-um-that’s how I knew I wanted to be with you. For the rest of my life. Ever since then, I knew I needed you and I adore every time we have spent together. You make me smile on the days I need it, you make me laugh, you want me to change and become a better person. You believe in me and no one else does.” Dallas spoke slowly, occasionally looking up to see how Y/n was taking his speech in. 

Finally, Dallas pulled out the soft velvet box from his back pocket. He opened it up and got down on one knee. The sparkly ring showing off every color inside. He looked back up at Y/n to see her eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. 

“So what I'm saying is, Will you marry me?” Dallas smiled and looked up at her, his eyes begging that she says yes.

“YES! OMG YES BABY!” Y/n screamed with no hesitation and jumped off the car. She tackled Dallas into a hug and pressed a passionate kiss on him.

Dallas laughed as Y/n bear hugged him. He carefully pulled away from the kiss and smiled. He took the ring from the soft box and slid it on her delicate ring finger. 

“I love you.”

Ever since the proposal, Dallas and Y/n moved into a small, cozy but a little run-down house. The newlyweds held a small beautiful wedding, only inviting a small number of people. The wedding was peaceful as the couple both spent their time with one another. 

As the sun seeped into the windows of the tiny kitchen, Y/n was cooking a delicious meal for breakfast. She stood in the kitchen flipping over easy eggs and slipping her coffee. Once the small breakfast was finished being cooked, Y/n walked over to the table with the plates of food that was perfectly enough for the two of them. She pulled out the chair and sat next to her husband. 

Dallas sat on the edge of his chair, his head buried in his arms as his warm cup of coffee was in front of him. He stared at the dark liquid as thoughts coursed through his mind, feeling uncertain. He didn’t even hear his wife pull out a chair next to him.

“So you just gonna stare at that coffee all day or..?” Y/n teased, looking at him with a smile that always made his heart skip a beat.

Dallas lifted up his head, a little startled. He shook his head and chuckled softly.

“Sorry sweetheart, I've just been thinking, you know ‘bout the whole police officer thing. It’s a big step, I dunno if I could do it..” He picked up his mug and took a little sip.

“You’ve been thinking about this for weeks, baby. What’s stopping you?” Y/n spoke, setting down his plate of eggs and hash browns in front of him.

Dallas took a sigh, placing back down the mug and picking up the fork and picking at his food.

“I don’t know if I could do it, Y/NN. I’ve seen the other side of this..” Dallas spoke quietly, pausing to eat a piece of a hash brown.

“What if they don’t trust me or they deny my application because of my ‘criminal’ history?” Dallas mumbled out, his hand running through his bed head. 

“Dallas..you’ve changed. You’re not the same kid from the wrong side of the tracks anymore, and everyone has seen it. Baby, you are a fighter and you buried yourself out of that place. I believe you should do this. This is the next step. For you.” Y/n spoke gently, her expression softening as her hand squeezed his hand.

Dallas looked into her Y/ec eyes, trying to find if she was really telling the truth. “What if I mess it up? I know they’ll look at me as a criminal in a uniform.” 

“No they won’t, and you know it.” Y/n stated firmly, "You know what it is like firsthand to struggle and to feel lost. I know you will make a difference for the people who are the same way you used to be.” 

“You really think that I will make a difference?” Dallas spoke as a sparke of hope came out from his chest.

“Yes baby, 1000%.” Y/n replied, “You will become a cop that kids look up to, who shows them that there is a way to change.”

After the conversation at the table, Dallas sat on the couch, zoned out as he gazed at the TV. Y/n walked over to the couch and curled up beside him, her head resting on his chest.

“What do you wanna do Baby? You know you can’t keep working small jobs anymore.” Y/n spoke as she watched whatever was playing on the TV.

“I want to be a cop, I really do..” Dallas whispered, his arm wrapping around her waist.

“But..” Y/n looked up at her husband, knowing he was scared of something.

Dallas chuckled to himself, knowing Y/n knew him like the back of her hand. “I’m scared..what if I fail?”

“Dallas Tucker Winston being Scared?” She laughed jokingly. 

“Look Baby, You won’t fail, I know you won’t” Y/n encouraged him as she interlaced their hands. “Look, I’m always going to be right here, but on your side. We’ll do this together, I believe in you.”

Dally took a deep breath in and nodded his head. “Okay, you convinced me. I’ll apply to the academy today.”

Y/n looked back up at him and smiled softly at him. “I promise to be with you, every step. You’re not just doing this for yourself. You’re doing it for us, our future.”

As the next few weeks passed, Dallas spent his time studying for the Police Academy application. He studied hard and worked on his physical fitness and went into the requirements that he needed. And Y/n was there supporting him as she promised. She encouraged him to push himself a little harder, and reach further. 

Late at night, the couple was laid on the bed together. Y/n sat on his lap, playing with his hair. Dallas looked down at her with a serious expression. “Gorgeous, what if I don’t get accepted? What if they see my record and know I’m not worth their time.”

Y/n frowned as Dallas spoke, she continued to run her hands through his dark hair. “Then you try again." She spoke with no hesitation. “Look honey, you’re not the person to give up, you’ve never been like that. You’ve been through so much and this is simply just another challenge.” 

“Yes, I know but this one is different.” Dallas admitted, running his hands over her hips. “T-this is my last chance to prove I'm more than who I used to be.”

“And you are going to prove it.” She spoke, her voice stern and steady. 

“I want you to walk in there tomorrow and show the real you. The man who cares about others and is ready to make a difference.” Y/n smiled as she leaned in for a soft kiss.

The weeks turned into months ever since that late night conversation. Dallas had worked tirelessly every single day. After what felt like a decade, a letter was in the mailbox addressed to Dallas Winston. He ran into the small house opening the letter like a little kid who had just received a letter from the north pole. Y/n sat on the armchair and was startled as Dallas ran inside. She saw the letter from the academy in his hands. Y/n shot up from the couch and ran over to the dining table. 

“Let me see Tucker!” Y/n shouted as she tried to push his arm out of her eyesight. 

Dallas read the letter and his face dropped in shock and joy. “I got in..I GOT IN BABY!” He shouted as he gave her the paper. 

Y/n quickly scanned the paper, reading the ‘accepted’ over and over again. She looked up at him and jumped into his arms. “OH MY FUCK BABY! I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT!”

Dallas lifted her in a tight embrace, the weight of his worries were gone. “Thank you, you believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.” He whispered in her eyes as he gave a passionate kiss.

The day of the academy orientation arrived. Dallas put on his new uniform, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. Y/n helped Dally adjust the collar of the blue suit, her hands steady as the couple both helped each other. “You look sexy,” she said, stepping back to admire him, giggling as she did. 

“Are you excited baby?” Y/n smiled excitedly, her hands covering her mouth in amusement of how handsome Dallas was.

“Yeah, I’m also terrified ,” he mumbled to himself, glancing at his reflection of his uniform in the mirror. He turned around and faced his wife. “What if I can’t keep up? What if they see me as a failure?”

“Then keep trying to prove yourself handsome. You’ve come too far to let your own fears hold you back,” Y/n encouraged, resting her hand on his bicep. “You’re doing this for us, our future. Remember that baby.”

With her words echoing in his mind, Dallas made his way to the academy, feeling the heavy weight of his past lingering behind him. But the hope of a better future was ahead. The first few weeks were hard and he knew it. The days were filled with training, lectures, and evaluations. But with each day that passed by, Dallas felt stronger, more confident in his abilities and himself.

One evening, he returned home, exhausted but yet filled with energy, he found Y/n waiting for him in the kitchen, her face glowing with happiness as soon as she heard him come in. “Hey handsome, how was today?”

“Intense,” Dallas replied, a smirk breaking through his tiredness. He walked into the kitchen and wrapped his arms over her waist, leaning his head on Y/n shoulder. “But I loved every second of it. I think I’m starting to fit in. The others see me as an officer.”

“I knew you could do it,” she spoke softly, leaning her head up to give him a soft kiss on his cheek. “You’re becoming the man you were always meant to be.”

As the months rolled on, Dallas faced many many obstacles that tested himself. There were days when he felt like he couldn't do it anymore, days when the memories of his past almost came out. But Y/n was always there reminding him of the change he had made and how much she was proud of him.

“Baby, look at how far you’ve come,” she would say, her voice calm and reassuring. “Every time you feel like giving up, I want you to remember why you started this.”

“You’re not just training to be a cop. You're training to become a better person.”

The day finally arrived for him to graduate from the academy and his training. Dallas stood proudly in his uniform, surrounded by his fellow officers. He felt himself smile to himself as he listened to the speeches about duty, honor, and service. When it was his turn to speak, he glanced at Y/n, who was beaming with joy for her husband.

“Today, as I stand here, not just as a graduate of the academy, but as a man who has fought hard to rewrite his story. I’ve made horrible mistakes, but I’ve learned from all of them. I’m here to serve my community and make a difference. I owe it all to the love and support of my wife, Y/n, who believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. Thank you.”

As the applause ripped through the auditorium, Dallas felt a sense of acceptance wash over him. He had changed, becoming the man he always wanted to be. Dallas stood there, remembering when everyone thought he would never change. A ‘lowlife’ who would be the same person his whole life. But no, he proved them all wrong. With Y/n by his side, he was ready to face whatever came his way.

(AAA THIS IS A LONG ONE BUT IM SO PROUD OF THIS!! I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED THIS)

[fartquen12]

Ghetto X Gojo x y/n !!

trigger warnings: angst, cheating, violence, mentions of self harm, ed, etc.

A/N: I hope you guys like it 😭🙏🏻 I've never written for jjk and I haven't made a fic in ages so bare with me </3

You're dating Ghetto. You and Ghetto have been going strong for about 5 months now. You've always had the perfect relationship, failure to create any flaws. That is until GOJO came back into Ghettos life for the worst....

5 MONTHS AGO

You don't know Gojo that well. You've heard of him a few times through Ghetto. Ghetto always spoke positively of Gojo. One day you had noticed a dramatic situation between Gojo and Gojos boyfriend Chooshoe. Chooshoe and Gojo had been getting into frequent arguments and Gojo had been messing around with Mahitoe in

PRIVATE.

You didn't want to get sucked into any of this drama because you honestly couldn't care less. You didn't know this people you just focused on Ghetto and your current life. That was until your friend Nobarsugh came to you and told you all of this drama. She told you this because she had deep feelings for Mahitoe and wanted Gojo to leave Mahitoe alone. Yawn yawn yawn........ you honestly didnt GAF!!!

"Have you hear-"

"Shudup Noboobsuh."

Weeks of this drama went by. Until one day. Chooshoe and Gojo broke up... and this was just the start. Nobara began heavily lying and trash talking Gojo to Ghetto. You and Ghetto never talked about it but Ghetto quickly began ghosting Gojo..... One day Nobara asked you your opinion on the matter. So you spoke up about it. But then.. Nobara took her little snitch azz to Gojo and pulled a bitchy stick up the butt and told Gojo everything you said and more!! And Gojo came right to you to fight your ass!!! And you were all like NAW JIT TRIPPIN!!! But then.. Ghetto was all like

"omg im so sorry i ignored you you're actually such a baddie!!" To Gojo but then Noboobsuh got kicked out of the friend group because she was a lyin ho and no one like her azz and she be creepy weirdo... bud then.... big big catfight happen between you and GOJO get into big boy fight.. and after big boy fight you run to boyfriend Ghetto and you say

"ghetto look at all shid gojo say about me... do u care"

and ghetto basically say ummmm no ho me no care me no gaf!!!

so anyway then ur all like ummmm okay fat azz whatever... so you no care. and you love ghetto with whole heart you say omg!!! ghettoe me love you so much and ghettoe say omg me love u tew and yay!! its all happy!! but then... Gojo and Ghettoe get close like dic and become butt buddies.... and whenever you text ghetto to tell ghettoe about your new sourcer powers ghetto no respond for 3 whole minute and ghettoe say

"."

so you get ANGY!! you cry everday and you no eat food so you be super skinny and everyone love u. but then... ghetto and gojo just keep getting closer.!!! and when you check. ghetto no gaf abt u ghetto only want tew talk to gojo. and now you and gojo kind of friend but gojo and mahitoe are dating but then gojo tell mahitoe he think you two like eachother and mahitoe like ew no wtf but then we find out mahitoe girl and mahitoe have big crush on ghetto and you're all like... UMM WTF!!! WTF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and ghetto no care and you think ghetto and gojo lowk get it in private because they have crazy private sourcer dms that u cant see and you lowk dont trust ghetto at all because what if ghetto think omg gojo so hawt like 🍑🙏🏻🍆👅🔥 and gojo tell ghetto graphic things and ghetto just say "." and yeah.. and then!! ghetto lowkey talk shid about you to gojo!! when u get sad ghetto just say

"ugh y/n no reply umm me no care i guess y/n just doesnt want to talk to me 😔"

um ghettoe we wonder why... and you cut yo self ever day for past month because why ghettoe no love u and GOJOS FAT FUCKING BITCH STUPID ASS WHORE ASS IS SUCH A FUCKING ATTENTION SEEKER ALWAYS SAYING OMG IM CUTTING MYSELF RN I JS STABBED MYSELF SHUTUP YOY FAT FUCKING WHORE NO ONE GIVES A SHIT FUCK YOU I HOPE YOU GET HIT BY A FUCKING CAR THATS SUPPOSED TO BE MY BOYFRIEND WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR STUPID FUCKING FOURTEEN YEAR OLD WHORE ASS DOING FUCK YOU I FUCKING HATE YOU YOU DIRTY ASS RUNNING AROUND WITH ANY GUY YOU MEET FUCKING BITCH ASS GO KYS ASS STUPID ASS BITCH HOLY FUCKING SHIT THANKS FOR RUINING MY LIFE AND MAKING EVERY DAY LITERALLY HELL AND THANKS GHETTO FOR ALWAYS SAYING OMG!! NO BBG IM GONNA FIX IT!! BUT U NEVER FIX IT AND WHY DO I ALWAYS HAVE TO FEEL LIKE YOU AND GOJO SECRETLY GET IT IN PRIVATE JHOLY SHIT DO I HAVE TO PAY MONEY FOR YOU TO LOVE ME WHY CANT YOU LOVE ME WHY ARE YOU SO DISTANT WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU LOVE ME LIKE WHEN WE FIRST STARTED DATING. WHY ARE YOU INLOVE WITH SOME OTHER GIRL WHO I KNOW I CAN LITERALLY NEVER BE NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRY. AM I JUST SO UNINTERESTING TO YOU THAT I GENUINELY JS DONT MATTER THAT MUCH. LIKE WE WILL BE HAVING THE DRIEST FUCKING CONVO AND THEN I LOOK AND U AND GOJO ARE JUST PARTYING IT UP HAVING THE BEST TIME LIKE OMG OKAY!! LET ME GO KMS RQ AND MAYBE?? JUST MAYBE ULL MISS ME AND MAYBE U WILL FEEL BAD LIKE I FEEL EVERY SINGLE DAY WHEN YOU LITERALLY MAKE ME FEEL LIKE IM NOT EVEN A HUMAN BEING IM JS SOMEONE U CAN MAYBE HAVE FUN WITH BUT OH NO GOJO IS WAY FUNNER WHY WOULD U EVER WANNA SPEND TIME WITH ME. AND FUCK YOU TOO MAHITOE. FUCK YOU GUYS 😭😭😭 I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK HOLY FUCKING SHIT. LITERALLY WHY AM I JUST SOME RANDOM HOE THAT U GUYS GIVE NO FUCK ABOUT. I LITERALLY BLOCKED EVERYONE AND SHUT EVERYONE OUT FOR GAYTOE AND GAYTOE JUST BE LIKE UMMM OKAY ME GO TALK TO GOJO NOW

"i dont love gojo i love you"

I SMELL A FAT ASS LIE OVER HERE 😨😨😨😨😨😨😨😨😨

WHY ARE YOU BEST FRIENDS WITH SOMEONE THAT HAS LITERALLY CALLED MY WHOLE LIFE A JOKE AND CONSTANTLY SHOVES ME OUT OF CONVERSATIONS AND WHEN WE TALK AS A GROUP MAKES SURE I FEEL SUPER UNINCLUDED AND LITERALLY DOES NOT GAF ABT ME AND JS LIKES TO MAKE ME FEEL LIKE ABSOLUTE ASS. AND WHENEVER I TALK TO MAHITOE. GOJO GETS SO MAD AND IS ALL LIKE OMG MAHITOE DO U HAVE A CRUSH ON Y/N!! BUT NO. GOJO GETS TO TALK TO GHETTO FOR HOURS AND I CANT SAY "GHETTO DO U LIKE GOJO" BCS GHETTO IS LIKE NO I DONT BUT THEN GHETTO TURNS AROUND AND FUCKING IGNORES ME TO SPEND MORE TIME WITH GOJO.

ummmm!! guys i hope u liked my fic im super creative with ideas and i thought of this on the toilet ofc so thats why its so good quality !! <3

[reluctantbylerblog]

I don't expect to get good feedback but I feel like I need to say this: not everything is about taylor swift. yes, her ex posted an article about gaza on his instagram story the day of her birthday. but to call that a targeted act of malice, done solely to make her look bad, in my opinion, is in very poor taste to the current situation in gaza. don't get me wrong, I love taylor, some days she's all that gets me through the day, but she is NOT the center of everyone's universe. joe alwyn called for a ceasefire LAST WEEK, along with many other celebrities, among which taylor was not one of them. I don't even keep up with what the guy is up to and even I knew he called for a ceasefire. I think it's likely, with this being her first birthday since the breakup and with her living her life much more publicly, he knew fans were going to be paying more attention to what he posted and rather than give fodder to that certain subsect of swifties that like to hate on every person that was once in her life (I'm looking at you, people who were making fun of karlie kloss for her seats at so-fi stadium) he decided instead to turn heads to the current genocide in gaza! let me repeat that: there is a genocide going on! not everyone is thinking about taylor swift rn bffr!

furthermore, if you think his speaking out makes her look bad, think about why that is. I don't think celebrities have an obligation to "speak out" just because they are celebrities, but there is no denying taylor speaking out in support of palestine could literally be a key factor in turning public opinion in palestine's favor.

using the actual human suffering of the palestinian people as a way to make things about cheap celebrity gossip and "throwing shade" just to make your favorite celebrity look good is fucking tacky and it makes me ashamed to be in this fandom. if you're going to be doing that, the least you can do is click a button every once in a while too

[tojicide]

JEALOU$Y. ☆ CALEB.

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦. at the end of the day, you and caleb are just childhood friends—nothing more, nothing less. so, when you mention going on a date, it’s totally logical that he wouldn’t care, right? if only that were the truth.

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. fem!reader, current!caleb, zayne mention, jealousy, pet names, praise, oral ( fem. receiving ), cowgirl, unprotected p in v, creampie. 𝑤𝑐. 5.4k.

𝑛𝘰𝑤 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. jealou$y — the neighbourhood.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Doomsday has finally dawned upon Linkon City, though Caleb seems to be the only person truly affected by this catastrophe.

It was all his fault in the grand scheme of things. He hadn’t been clear enough, hadn’t shown the full extent of his feelings for you. But above all, he should have never offered Zayne those measly words of advice.

He should have known that the doctor had ulterior motives. Why else would he have called Caleb up one week ago to ask about you of all people?

It was a mean ploy, truly. Anyone and everyone knows about Caleb’s inability to shut up about you, his sole weakness was being exploited right in front of his eyes and he was none the wiser. The questions seemed harmless then. Posed as genuine curiosity, Caleb would have never been able to decipher the hidden intent behind each word that Zayne spoke into the receiver.

What are her days off? What does she do in her free time? You said that the restaurant around the corner from Akso Hospital was her favorite, yes?

In retrospect, he should have absolutely seen this coming. But then again, nothing could have ever prepared Caleb to hear those four life-altering words slipping from your lips.

“I have a date.”

A record scratches in his brain, forcing him to halt his steps for an abnormally long time before he slowly turns to face you. “You… what?”

Hearing the words repeated in that saccharine tone of yours only added salt to the wound, oddly enough. It physically pained him to ask for more information about your date, though he managed to hide his disdain with that boyish grin of his and a bit of lighthearted teasing.

But inside? That little green monster was stirring, and there was very little he could do to quell it.

Begrudgingly, he managed to get the key details before forcing himself to stow away in his bedroom and… think. Next Thursday. 6 PM. Maltosio Restaurant. With Zayne.

The next week passed by in an agonizingly slow fashion. It was as though each X that marked a passing day was a physical blow to his already aching heart, and those adorable images of the kittens on his calendar (the calendar that you picked out) did very little to help him.

Subtlety was never his strong suit, but then again, desperate times call for desperate measures. And believe Caleb when he says that he is very much desperate.

“Soo…” he’d drawl, leaning over the back of the couch to peer down at you. “I heard there’s a screening of that movie you’ve been wanting to see at the drive-in next Thursday. Wanna come with?”

You perked up like a ball of excitement, and for a moment, Caleb allowed himself to get his hopes up, but your frown quickly dissipated them. “Next Thursday? Oh, no, I can’t make it! I’m going out with Zayne, remember?”

Of course he remembered. That was exactly why he hadn’t let up—not even once—in his attempts to distract you just enough to make you forget all about your dinner plans. He could take you out for a nice dinner too. Say, that’s actually a good idea…

The next day, Caleb tried that one.

“Oh, pip-squeak,” he sang, his airy voice ringing through your apartment as he walked down the hallway. “I got us reservations at the restaurant in Skyhaven that you’ve been itchin’ to check out.”

You perked up, just like you did before. “Really?”

He nodded with a triumphant grin, internally patting himself on the back for his own good idea. “Mm-hmm. Next Thursday. Got us those window seats you wanted too—the ones that overlook the city.”

And once again, your gaze softened, and an all-too-adorable pout tugged at the corners of your mouth. “Oh, Caleb, I’m sorry. I’m busy that day.”

You really are too sweet for your own good. He can’t even blame Zayne for taking an interest in you, he’d be downright shocked if any man with two seeing eyes had the audacity to not think that you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Caleb sure does. He always has. He always will.

It wasn’t long before the day of reckoning was upon him. Thursday evening. Sunlight cut through the blinds in the living room, casting golden hues across the vast space. Much to his dismay, the trashy reality television you’d left on the screen did very little to soothe his worries.

He fidgeted with the dog chains you’d gifted him, his thumb brushing along the gift that you had so kindly given him. It was a testament to your bond. A bond that something as trivial as a single evening apart couldn’t tamper with… right?

“Caleb!” Your antsy voice cut through the air, forcing his wandering mind to snap back to reality.

He was up and down the hallway before you could even say another word, pressing a flat hand to your door to nudge it open. It was then that he saw you, all dolled up in your robe with your favorite dresses laid out on your bed.

Your hands grasp onto two of the hangers, holding them up side-by-side to help him get a better look at them. Though, his eyes were noticeably distracted, contorted in an unfamiliar lovesick expression as they pierced into yours. “Quick! Which do you think is cuter?”

Caleb blinks—once, twice, three times—until he forces himself to finally look down at the dress options in your grasp. He’d seen you wear them plenty of times before, and the thought of someone else seeing you in such beautiful fabric nearly made his stomach lurch.

He raises his forearm, leaning against the doorframe as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, c’mon, that’s an impossible choice. You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.”

It was a typical response, one that you were expecting, though his lack of advice made you hmph as you lost yourself in your thoughts. “Well… I hear polka dots symbolize happiness and stripes symbolize slipping between realms. Pretty interesting stuff, huh?”

“Very interesting,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging up at the mere sound of your voice. “Is that why you buy so many things in those patterns?”

You quirk an eyebrow, confusion etching into your expression. “Huh? What else do I buy that’s…” It quickly dawns on you, and you can feel heat creep up your neck and reach your face. “You’re a jerk.”

Caleb can’t help but laugh, taking a few steps into the room so that he can properly look at each and every one of the dress options laid out on your bed. “What’s the matter? If I remember correctly, someone was beggin’ me to do her laundry. Somethin’ about the laundry machine being sooo far and your feet hurting sooo bad.”

Huffing and far too flustered for your own good, you shake your head. “Well… well I didn’t realize you were so observant.”

He clicks his tongue, absentmindedly pinching your side as he leans down to rest his chin in the dip of your shoulder. “Tsk. You know I’m always observant when it comes to you. Even if it’s remembering something as trivial as the patterns of your cute little undies.”

You swat him away. “You’re so annoying!”

To that, he can only chuckle, giving your sides a brief squeeze before taking a few steps back. “Alriiight, alright, I’ll leave you alone.” Before exiting the room entirely, he hangs onto the doorframe, giving you a soft smile. “I’m serious though. You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” His lips curve into a smirk. “But if you want my input—you know I’ve always been a sucker for seeing you in florals.”

And with that, he whisks away, silently hoping and praying that this date will fall through on its own. Plopping back down on the couch, his eyes are practically glued to his watch. 5:48 PM. It wouldn’t be long before Zayne would be knocking at the front door—punctual as ever. Oh, it made him sick.

How could he have done this? To you, to himself? Caleb should be ashamed. He should be the one sitting across from you later tonight, holding your hand and listening to you ramble about whatever your heart desires. It should be him. It would have been him if he wasn’t so damn afraid.

But the sound of approaching heels clicking along the hardwood floor quickly snapped him out of his pity party, prompting him to look over his shoulder. And there you were once again, now adorned in a floral sundress that had made him lose his mind more times than he’d like to admit.

Under his breath, he can’t help but mutter, “Yeah, you’re gonna kill me…”

It was his favorite dress of yours, too. You really were trying to kill him. A white dress that was littered with blue flowers, the fabric fit you perfectly, loose and fitted in all of the right places.

Zayne didn’t deserve to see you like this. Plain and simple.

Standing from the couch, he lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “There she is,” he says, taking your hand to spin you around a single time. His smile only widens as he sees yours. “You look gorgeous, just like I knew you would.”

You roll your eyes with a bashful smile, one that he has to physically fight the urge to kiss away. “Oh, you flatter me,” you say through a laugh.

He shakes his head, bringing a hand up to gently smooth down a pesky hair on the top of your head. “Can’t be flattery if I mean every word of it.”

A breeze wafted through the open window, blowing the fabric of your dress ever so slightly. The scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers infiltrates the living room, though the scent of your perfume and something that was uniquely you had his full attention.

“Y’know, you can be pretty nice when you want to be,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

Chuckling, he simply nods, his large hands settling on your middle. “Yeah. When I want to be.”

You brush past him, padding over to the back door. Pushing it open, you step out onto the warm concrete patio, breathing in the fresh air that the backyard had to offer you. Spring in Linkon was always a delight, though the warmth that Caleb radiates behind you serves to be the most comforting thing about the entire scene.

His hand comes to rest on the curve of your shoulder, his fingers nimbly pulling at one of the straps of your dress. With his heart rate shooting through the roof, he forces himself to take a moment. He needs to get this right. This may be the last chance he’ll be able to do this.

“I… look, there’s something that I—”

But suddenly, the sound of rapping knuckles at the front door cuts through the tense silence. Both of your attention is drawn to the closed door, and having left the back door open, you both have a clear view of it.

You turn around to face Caleb, offering him a sheepish smile. “That’s probably Zayne.”

He only nods, forcing his hand to fall back to his side. “Yeah, probably.”

This was it. He was losing you. It stung to know that this was no one’s fault apart from his own. His inability to be honest about his feelings, his lack of forwardness with you… what was he expecting? That you’d never date? That he could keep you happy forever without offering you anything more?

It was a stupid fantasy, one that had earned him this spot. But when he saw you turn to leave, your eyes still locked on his, a surge of panic shot up his spine. His eyes flit around—the grass, the flowerbeds, the hose… that was currently filling up the pool…

“Be mad at me later,” he suddenly says.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Wha— ah!”

Before you could even begin to process what was happening, you were suddenly pushed back into the chamber full of chlorine infested water. Caleb watches with a wry expression as you shoot up from beneath the water, splashing aimlessly as you swim towards the edge.

“What the fuck was that?” you bark, perching one elbow up onto the concrete as you reach the other one out to him. “What the hell are you looking at? Help me out!”

Caleb can’t even protest, not with the incredibly irrational stunt he’d just pulled. “I’m sorry, pip-squeak, I just…” And so, he reaches down, his hand clasping around yours… until you pull him forward with all of your strength and send him tumbling into the pool too.

And when he comes up for air, you splash him the moment he opens his eyes. Serves him right. The chlorine will sting his eyes almost as much as your mascara is stinging yours right now.

With that, you pull yourself out of the pool, a trail of water marking your path as you wring out the fabric of your dress. After that, you disappear inside of the house, leaving Caleb to rub his eyes in utter defeat.

He gives you both a long stretch of alone time before he retreats back into the house like a kicked puppy, his head hanging low as he runs a hand through his wet strands of hair. You’ve evidently told Zayne that today wasn’t going to work anymore, judging by his lack of presence, and that thought alone makes Caleb more happy than he should be.

Sucking in a short breath, he knocks twice at your shut bedroom door. “Honey? It… it’s me.”

“Go away,” you retort without missing a single beat.

Caleb pokes his tongue into his cheek as he leans forward, resting his forehead on the cool surface of your bedroom door. “C’mon. Just… talk to me.”

It doesn’t take long before the door is swung open, revealing an incredibly angry version of you with a freshly cleaned face. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, to try and rectify the situation in any way he can, but you beat him to it. Quickly.

“How dare you?” you spit, jabbing your index finger into his chest. “What was that, Caleb? Are we ten years old again? Your method of communication is… is pushing me into the damn pool?”

He sighs, catching your hand to unfold your closed fingers. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I—”

“No!” you cut him off, sticking your other index finger into his chest. “It’s your turn to listen. You’ve been my best friend for as long as I can remember, you’re all I’ve ever known, all I’ve ever wanted. Do you know how it feels to have everything you want dangled in front of you for so many years, and… and just torn away? Time and time again?”

Caleb is rendered speechless, his brows furrowed in both confusion and a sense of odd relief as you unleash all of the thoughts that you’ve kept hidden for so long. He doesn’t bother catching your other hand, instead, he allows you to repeatedly jab at his chest. It hurts, but he can handle it. Just like he can handle the words you’re saying.

“So, you know what? I decided that enough was enough!” you continue, your index finger pressing wildly into the hard planes of his chest. “I wasn’t going to wait around, I wasn’t going to pretend, I was going to move on! And… and I was going to!”

He tilts his head, his amethyst eyes growing fuzzy as he looks down at you. “Was going to?”

You huff, eyes narrowing as you jab your finger into his chest for a final time before turning away from him. “Well, I’m not exactly going on a date anymore, am I?”

Caleb nods, though you can’t see it. He leans against the doorframe, his gaze tracing your silhouette through the soaked fabric of your dress. Sighing, he straightens off the wall, but before he can turn away, you spin around to face him.

“And you know what else?” you huff. “You know the solution to this problem just as well as I do.”

He nods his head with a single jerk of his chin, beckoning you to continue. “Yeah? What’s that?”

You step closer, and for the final time, you stab your finger into his pec. “You need to grow a pair.”

Inhaling deeply, all he can do is smile. It infuriates you and he knows it, but he just can’t help himself. He takes both of your wrists and tugs you forward until your chest presses against his own, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek.

You’re slowly simmering down, the heat of your outburst dissipating as your skin cooled. With your eyebrows still furrowed, all you can do is look up at him, daring him to speak. To do anything.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip.

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “A little.”

He slowly nods his head, his fingers curving along your jaw before he cups your chin in between his thumb and forefinger. “Is there anything I can do to help with that?”

You can feel his breath fan along your lips, cool and minty and just about everything you could have ever fantasized about on your own. You part your lips to reply, but this time, Caleb is the one who beats you to it.

“We’re making puddles all over the floor, you know.”

Glancing down, you see the truth in his words. The pool water dripped from your respective clothing and gathered around the two of you, making a wry smile find your lips.

“Oh,” you breathe, “I didn’t even notice.”

“I like to think I’m pretty observant when it comes to you,” he murmurs, smoothing his free hand along your side until it grasps onto the fabric of your dress. “Need some help with this?”

You look up, meeting his gaze once more. “With… with what?”

“Well,” he drawls, his fingertips brushing along your outer thigh as he slowly drags the fabric upward. His movements are hesitant and cautious, his eyes flickering between each of yours. “You’re wet. I’m wet. Maybe we can… help each other dry off.”

Your eyelids falter as they flit between his, your gaze instinctively falling to the plush curve of his bottom lip. “Okay,” you murmur.

A smile tugs at his mouth. “Okay. Arms up.”

Slowly, you lift your arms above your head. His hands work together to slowly push the fabric of your dress up and over your head, letting it slip onto the floor with a wet plop.

His breath is nearly torn from his lungs the moment he sees your bare skin, so beautiful and soft and made to be his. Hesitantly, his fingertips trace the curve of your hips with a sense of reverence.

“Do you need help too?” you ask, your voice breathy from the restrained sense of need that has come over you.

Pausing his exploration of your bare skin, Caleb finds himself nodding, almost immediately lifting his arms over his head. “Please.”

And now, you take the opportunity to do the same. Slowly, you peel his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aimlessly into the laundry hamper near the door. Your gaze traces over the defining lines of his abdomen, your touch doing the same as it trails southward.

His lower stomach tenses up as your fingers brush against the hem of his jeans. He can’t help the way his eyes flutter shut, the way a touch so simple can nearly bring him to his knees. Breathing shakily, he leans down to rest his forehead on yours.

“Careful,” he breathes in warning, his voice taking on a raspy tone.

You almost startle at the unfamiliarity of his voice, though you push your hesitation aside as your thumb brushes over the button of his pants. “But… these are wet too.”

A huff of air leaves his mouth, the sound something between a low laugh and a groan. He forces his eyes open, his stare meeting your own. “Trying to get me naked before our first kiss? I have to say, you’re full of surprises.”

Faltering, your hands fall away from his pants. “You’re right, I… I’m—”

Caleb can’t help but chuckle, taking a hold of your hands to bring them right back to where they were before. This time, he guides your fingers through the motion of unbuttoning his pants. “Kidding,” he whispers against your lips. “Besides… we’re good at multitasking, yeah?”

You’re nodding before you can truly process his words. “Yeah.”

His lips crash onto yours with a groan that omits from deep within, the button of his jeans finally popping open from your ministry. The zipper went next, tugged down along with the fabric entirety until he was left in only his boxers.

His hands roam your curves greedily, eating up every inch of skin that he has deprived himself of for far too long. Your waist, your hips, your thighs—he needs to feel you in any way possible.

And you return his eagerness so well, wrapping your arms around his neck as you draw him in even closer. His hands worked quickly, hoisting you up until your legs wrapped around his waist as he walked the both of you over to your bed.

Laying you down on the mattress, he takes the initiative to deepen the kiss, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip to gain access that you readily give him. He can’t help but moan into your mouth, the sweet taste of your tongue tangling with his own forcing his brain to short circuit in a way he’s never experienced before.

You kissed him like there was no tomorrow, and he was loving every second of it. Your hands fisted into his hair while your lips moved in tandem with his, a soft whimper leaving your mouth as his hands gave your hips a firm squeeze.

His lips trail down your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your neck and the curve of your shoulder as he uses his grip on your hips to pull you flush against him. A gasp leaves you at the feeling of his erection pressing against your clothes sex, the friction so delicious that it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach.

Caleb is so far gone, kissing his way along your arms, your neck, your sternum, all up until he reaches the valley of your breasts. He wastes very little time there, licking a trail to your nipple before sucking the peak into his mouth. His other hand palms at your other breast, kneading the soft flesh in his palm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against your skin, his hips rocking forward as he switches sides, latching onto your neglected breast and giving it a hard suck. “So beautiful.”

His descent continues as he mouths at the soft skin of your belly, your hips, your inner thighs. His eyes depart from yours as they settle onto the fabric covering your cunt, and a grin stretches across his face. Polka dots.

You scoff, softly shoving his shoulder. “Don’t even say it.”

Chuckling, he leans in to press a kiss on the damp patch of fabric. “Wasn’t gonna say anything, baby.”

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your legs and tossing them aimlessly. His lips press feverish kisses to your ankles, your calves, your inner thighs, and eventually, the mound of your pussy.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispers into your heat, hiking your legs up and over his shoulders and he pulls your sex closer to his mouth. “So damn worth it.”

A cry leaves you as his tongue delves in deep between your legs, his eyes slipping shut as he lets out an unabashed whimper into your sex. His grip on your thighs only tightens, keeping your legs spread apart as they threaten to press in on his head.

He wouldn’t have that. He couldn’t. He needed to have you in the way that he’s dreamt of for so long, in the way that he’s thought of time and time again as he fucked his own fist to the thought of you. It was filthy, it was lewd, but it was honest.

You tasted better than he could have ever imagined, his tongue eagerly lapping at your inner walls before his lips sealed around your puffy clit, sucking hard enough to make your back bow off the plush mattress.

The stimulation is leaving you feeling overwhelmed, your hands pushing into his hair as your trembling thighs test the strength of his grip. You whine, eyes slipping shut as your head tilts back against the pillows.

“It— it’s too much—”

“Be good,” he finds himself saying, pulling you right back to his mouth as he continues to feast on your pussy like a man starved. “You can take it, baby.” Caleb cracks open his eyes, sucking harshly onto your clit before releasing it with a wet pop. “Go on, pretty girl. Say it.”

You whine, though you hardly have the brain power to say anything else apart from what he’s asked of you. “I… I can take it,” you breathe.

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your sensitive pearl before nipping at it. “There you go.”

It doesn’t take much longer for your legs to begin to tremble once more, your body writhing in his grasp as he sets you any way but loose. Your hips buck up, a final resort for reprieve as he works you over the edge.

Caleb redoubled his efforts, spreading your thighs even wider. Soon, the warmth pooling in your lower stomach was far too much to bear, far more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

“I’m… I’m coming,” you gasp out, hands gripping tightly onto his dark locks of hair.

And when you do, his flattened tongue laps at your honeyed release. He works you through your high, his movements eventually slowing down as the twitching of your hips gradually calms.

He pulls off of you with a wet pop, pressing soft kisses to your swollen clit. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, pressing another peck on your mound before he moves back up your body once more to slot his lips against yours.

You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it only spurs you on further. Your hands grasp onto his shoulders, and in one swift motion, you flip him onto his back. Caleb looks up at you with a starry-eyed expression, but when you straddle his hips and sit in his lap, he has no words of protest. None at all.

“You really are full of surprises,” he says, running his hands along the warm skin of your thighs.

Tugging him free from his boxers, he helps you remove them from his body, leaving you both entirely bare together. He sits up, his back pressing against the headboard as he tugs you closer to him.

“I need you,” he whispers, pressing a longing kiss on your stomach as you shift to straddle him once more. “Please, baby.”

You gaze down at him, your fingers brushing through his hair. “Please what?”

He leans into your touch, his hands settling onto your waist as he pulls you lower, the head of his cock pressing against your pussy. “Make yourself feel good. Please.”

Caleb’s own cheeks were flushed with a rosy hue, both from the embarrassment that his own lack of experience brought upon him and the reality of finally having the love of his life in such an intimate way. His amethyst eyes search your face, as if searching for a permission that he didn’t know how to ask for.

Dipping your head, you press a soft kiss on his lips. Simultaneously, you swivel your hips until the tip of his length catches your entrance. You slowly lower yourself, feeling the way his cock stretches you out, filling you up in a way that only he can.

He smiles at you, cupping your cheek with his hand. Brushing a thumb over your bottom lip, he kisses you gently. “You feel so good,” he whimpers into your mouth, his other hand resting on your hip as you roll your hips in a way that has his breath hitching in his throat. “So fucking perfect.”

Your movements are timid at first, consisting of a slow and meticulous rocking of your hips. His cock stuffed you full, his tip kissing the deepest points of your inner walls with ease, earning a muffled whimper from your mouth that his lips swallowed up eagerly.

Caleb’s hands grasped tightly onto your hips, helping you set a pace that had the both of you losing your mind. He leans backward, his head tilting against the headboard as it slams against the wall with each intense grind of your hips.

“Good girl, give it to me how you like it,” he breathes, eyes cracking open to watch the way you look down at him as you work yourself on his length. “Use me however you need me, baby, there you go.”

Your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him in for a longing kiss. “I… you— you feel so…” you stammer, leaning forward to rest your head on his shoulder as you lose yourself on his cock.

He nods his head in agreement, turning his head to press a kiss on your damp cheek as he gently pets your hair. “I know, I know.”

You lose yourself all together, your legs shaking as you tighten your hold on him. “Caleb!” you moan.

His hips help you the rest of the way, his grip on your hips keeping you firmly planted as he meets your movements with thrusts of his own. “I know it, baby, I’ve got you,” he pants through a smile, guiding you through a few more fleshed out grinds on his lap. “Atta girl, use those hips.”

His arms wrap around you entirely, crushing you against the hard planes of his chest as you slowly ride the both of you through your shared orgasm. In that moment, in your house, in this space that belonged to you and Caleb alone—the two of you became one.

Heavy breathing and hammering heartbeats is all that consumes the two of you for a long while, skin to skin with far too much bliss brewing in your chests for either of you to handle alone.

Huffing softly, Caleb runs a hand up your side. “You okay in there?” he asks, turning his head to pepper soft kisses along your cheek. “C’mon, I need some proof of life.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. “Shut up, give me a second.”

He merely smiles, wrapping his arms around your middle once more as he tucks your head beneath his chin. Thirty seconds after finishing and you’re already mean. “There’s my girl.”

Caleb’s hands smooth over the soft planes of your back, giving your hips a soft squeeze as he revels in the feeling of your heartbeat drumming against his own. He can’t help himself from pressing a few kisses on the top of your head, his arms opting to wrap even tighter around you.

“I love—” he cuts himself off, eyes widening dazedly. Would that be too much? A confession of his undying love not long after ruining your date and making love with you for the first time? After a stretch of awkward silence, he kisses your head once more. “I love… cuddling with you. You’re so soft.”

You smile, nuzzling even closer to his chest, your nose brushing against skin. “Mm, I love you too, Caleb.”

His eyes widened, though he knows that communicating his confusion is futile. You knew him so well, too well.

“You do?” he whispers, turning his head just enough to look down at you.

In response to that, you nod. “Mm-hmm. I’ll love you even more if you tell me that you didn’t cancel those dinner reservations.”

Caleb smiles, running a hand over your hair. As if he’d given up his last ditch effort to take you out. “You know I didn’t.”

𝑛𝘰𝘵𝑒. rip zayne i still love you king!!! also i actually don’t really know how to write for caleb… so… i hope this didn’t suck! this is the only fic that managed to break my intense writer’s block that i’ve had for the past two months. reblog/comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate you reading so much <3

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[kingkaisen]

“What? You’re married? And you’re a dad?”

Yuji finds out that 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 has a family. — same au as this ♡

Yuji Itadori wanted to know more about the world’s strongest sorcerer, who he was lucky enough to have as his teacher.

The two of them walked along the sidewalk peacefully after completing a bit of training.

As Yuji devoured his blue popsicle, his wide eyes stared at the side of his teacher’s face.

Despite the black blindfold covering his ocean blue eyes, Gojo could feel his student’s eyes on him for two minutes straight.

“I’m surprised you haven’t bumped into something yet,” Gojo spoke up, breaking the silence as he smiled slightly. “Why are you staring at me? Something on my face?”

“No, I just had a question I wanted to ask you — can I?” Yuji tilted his head a bit.

“Don’t be silly, of course you can. What is it?”

“There’s a ring on your finger.”

Gojo was silent for a moment, but his amused grin widened. Eventually, he said, “that’s not a question, Yuji.”

“I know, I know, I just . . .” Yuji hesitated. After all, discussing such a personal topic with someone as superior as Satoru Gojo could have been disrespectful. Even so, he took his chances anyway. “Are you married?”

“I am.”

“Really?” Yuji smiled excitedly. He tossed his discolored popsicle stick in a nearby trashcan, and continued his late afternoon stroll with Gojo.

“Yeah, I’ve been married for eight years. Our anniversary is coming up pretty soon, actually. Think I’ll plan some sort of trip.”

“Wow, that’s really cool! Who are you married to? Do I know ‘em? What are they like?”

Due to his unwavering grin, Gojo felt a burning sensation in his light pink, blushed cheeks. Thinking about you had always resulted in him smiling so much, his face would hurt.

“You don’t know her, but Megumi does. Her name is Y/N, and she isn’t a sorcerer anymore, just an ordinary person who enjoys ordinary things, and I love that more than anything. Our daughter is-”

“What?” Yuji suddenly halted his footsteps.

“Hm? Something wrong?” Gojo questioned as he stopped walking, turning around to face the shocked boy.

“You have a daughter? Like an actual kid?” Yuji paused. “How come you never mentioned any of this before? How old is she? I wanna meet your family! Why have I never met them?”

“She‘s four,” Gojo laughed softly, and started to resume his walk along with Yuji. “Guess I had no idea you assumed I had no family, but it’s fine, you can meet them anytime you want. Wanna see a couple of pictures?”

“Yeah!” Flashing a bright smile, Yuji eagerly waited for Gojo to unlock his phone and scroll through his photos.

After only a couple of seconds — as it didn’t take the older man any time at all to find a photo of the two most beloved people in his life — Gojo handed his phone to Yuji, showing him a recent picture of the three of you hanging out at the park.

“Oh man, is that your wife? She’s really, really pretty, and your kid looks like the perfect combination of you both! Well, I guess that makes sense because you’re her parents, but it’s like fifty-fifty! She has your eyes, but Mrs. Gojo’s hair . . .” Yuji zoomed in and out of the photo as he rambled on, even taking it upon himself to search Gojo’s photos for even more pictures. “No way, is that Mrs. Gojo and Fushiguro? Fushiguro looks so young!”

“Yeah, he was around seven years old at the time. Me and Y/N were just dating then, but I knew I wanted to marry her. Best decision of my life.”

“When can I meet them?” Yuji asked, his brown eyes sparkling with hope.

“Why do you wanna meet them so badly?” Gojo reached out and grabbed his phone from Yuji, who had started to scroll a bit too far.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Smiling, Yuji paused. “You’re kinda like family to me now, I guess. So, I wanna meet the people you cherish the most, ‘cause I wanna cherish them too.”

Gojo didn’t say another word. Not to Yuji, at least. Instead, he hummed with satisfaction at his student’s kind words, and pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found yours.

“Hi, baby,” Gojo greeted you over the phone, “Would you mind if I bring a student of mine over for dinner? He really wants to meet you . . . he’s not allergic to anything . . . Okay . . . That works for us . . . Tell my muffin that I’ll be home soon . . . I love you more, bye sweetheart.”

“Okay, we-”

“Great! Which way is your house? Which way? Is it this way?” Yuji excitedly started to run off in no particular direction, and Gojo couldn’t help but laugh.

While Yuji said he simply wanted to cherish Gojo’s family, Gojo knew that it was a bit deeper than that. After all, as far as Yuji was concerned, he had no one. He craved the domestic nature of a loving family. He was all alone.

Once they made it to Gojo’s home, Yuji excitedly greeted you with a hug as if he had known you his entire life.

He adored your food, laughing and chatting at the dinner table.

He adored your home, carefully admiring your decorations and asking plenty of questions.

He was also kind enough to help out with the dishes, and play with dolls with your daughter afterwards, using silly voices as he truly got into the role.

And, later on, when he saw Gojo grab your grinning face and shower it with kisses, and his little girl happily run up to him as he picked her up, tickling her as she giggled, Yuji silently hoped that one day, he too would have a family just as loving.

But, he didn’t have to observe the happy family from a distance much longer, as, suddenly, you and Gojo waved the boy over, and wrapped your arms around him in a silly, loving, group hug.

And he felt loved.

— PART III —

[survivalxofxthexfittest]

He leaned back out instinctively but he'd been too preoccupied trying to defend himself from what he still wasnt sure and her hand still met it's mark. The slap stung and immediately anger flooded his senses. She'd tried to pin a fucking pregnancy on him, disrespected his date, caused an entire scene over what could have been between them, forget that she bit him, and now she had the gall to add in a slap to the face. What the fuck had he done wrong to deserve all of this besides try and live his life??

"I never said that Aspen. You did," he pointed out, nomentarily holding the spot where her handprint now marked his cheek. "But how did you expect me to feel when I found out you were also sleeping with whoever you pleased when I thought it was a you and me thing? A fact you conveniently neglected to share with me by the way if it had been such common knowledge," he spat back.

A small grunt escaped him with her shove followed by a frustrated sigh. Oscar couldn't help the fact that his feelings had been hurt at the time. It had been a natural reaction. Just like when she spoke the word supportive with venom. Something he had been nothing but when they had been whatever it was they were. And something she apparently had never bothered to noticed. Aspen wouldn't have known a good man if it'd bitten her in the ass (not the arm).

"Me rude?! How about how you keep talking shit on Ruth for just being with me? I fucking tried to give you the same chance Aspen and you threw it away," he started pointing out further, closing the space regardless of her silent insistence to keep his distance. He wanted her, and her alone to hear his words.

"And what do you know about being supportive? I was nothing, nothing but supportive of you. I still remember how we can almost say we have matching facial scars," he started ticking off with a point to his forehead. "Or how about the fact that I can still map out the constellations of freckles on your body because I've memorized every inch of it? If that doesn't do it for you, then what about how I know you cant read but never pushed the issue because that never meant jackshit in your value to me?"

Before he could single out further instances of his devotion to her back then her champagne had drenched him. "Okay," he said simply, his patience gone as he sucked in his lip and wiped the alcohol from his face, shaking the excess from his hand. "Congrats to the newly weds," he toasted as he grabbed a glass from the bar and downed whatever was in it before grabbing a bottle and following Aspen's lead and leaving the reception as well - although he opted to retreat in the opposite direction.

~end~

Her silence to his inquiries was enough of an answer that he knew he'd hit the nail on the head. If Aspen had given him even ten percent of what Ruth had maybe things would have turned out differently because he hadn't just been in it for the sex and god damnit if he hadn't tried to get her to feel the same way. And now he was being punished for finally giving up and riding the same wave as her.

God fucking damnit Aspen!

He should have just listened to Emily and known better than to get involved with a Hororwitz. As if his experience with Anora hadn't been enough of a warning sign. Her constant need to have his attention. The unwillingness to share him with others. The silent red flags should have sent him running for the hills the moment the appeared. And now she was claiming he'd knocked her up, seemingly airing all their dirty laundry for the world to hear. Sadly, Ruth included.

There wasn't an ounce of sympathy in the scoff that fell from him in response to her revelation. "I'd say nice fucking try, but you know all those scars you loved tracing, well if you'd ever bothered to ask about any of them, especially your favorite one by my ball sack, you'd know I was left sterile from the injury that caused it," he countered with spite in his voice, hoping the tidbit would throw for as big of a loop as she had him with their fight.

"Maybe it was Ethan or Knox that knocked you up. You should probably track them down and see what they say about being your baby daddy because it ain't me," he spat at her further, the sting of hurt when he'd found out just 'how important' he'd been to her returning with his words - further proving his supposed worth to her while they had been a thing.

[yukioos]

katsuki being jealous of you and ochaco

katsuki grumbled once he saw ochaco sling an arm around your shoulder and grin. why the hell was she so close to you? you told him it was normal for girls to act flirty with each other, but this was too much, for him, at least. whenever you had free time, you would spend all of it with ochaco or the girls, not realizing how disturbed your boyfriend was by this.

it came to a point where you could never be with him, and only saw him in class and rarely training. did you like her? there was no way you were cheating, he knew you were loyal, but knew if you lost feelings for katsuki, you would never act on your other feelings and be disloyal.

he began to glare at ochaco whenever she walked or passed by, even bumping shoulders into her and telling her to watch it. eventually, when you almost never saw him, and never laid an eye on him, he texted you after class with a simple, ‘we need to talk. come to my room.’

your heart dropped once you received the message, but you listened to him, nonetheless. whenever you opened the door to his room and closed it behind you, he wasn’t looking at you. you sweat, twiddling with your fingers. he spoke before you had the chance to.

“be honest. do you not like me anymore?” katsuki ashamedly looked at the ground, voice soft and worried.

your eyes widened and your body felt less tense. you asked, “i love you, kats, why would you even ask that?”

he grumbled, “you’re always hanging out with round cheeks. i hardly even see you anymore. you’re my girlfriend, not hers.”

he was so jealous, it was apparent on his face. you tried to hold yourself back from laughing.

you grinned and came up with an idea, “how ‘bout we sit together at lunch? just the two of us? we should go on some more dates too, there’s this one cafe i want to go to—“

you continued ranting for a while, spitting out ideas so the two of you could have more quality time together. you knew katsuki would sometimes get anxious about the concept of time in general, how he felt like he had so much time to live his life but so little at the same time. he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, but he felt that he needed to get ahead. he needed to be with you now.

but to shut you up, he grabbed you by the hem of your shirt and wrapped his arm around your waist. he planted a big, fat kiss on your lips, and in response, you peppered kisses all over his face, ignoring his ‘protests’ to stop.

the two of you began to talk about how to change your schedules to set aside more time for each other. this came along with switching some electives you were interested in to experience them together.

throughout the whole conversation, katsuki was smiling. he was so glad that you were willing to alter so much for him.

this one was super random but i hope u guys enjoyed it! feel free to send in requests for katsuki

[suguae]

Haunted

Toji cannot move on, until he realized too late.

Warnings: Angst, slightest fluff (reader and baby 'gumi moment)

You were just a girl, standing in front of a man, asking him to love you.

How hard was that for him? Yes, he wasn’t good with his words but he wasn’t good at anything else either. He was just there.

Maybe because the woman he truly loved—he was still mourning over her. His sad eyes every time he watched an old couple dance together, wishing he had been doing that but with her. The cute babies babble with their mothers as Megumi babbles with his father, how he wished his wife was still here instead of you. He never said it, but that’s what it felt like. 

And perhaps that's what it was. 

Sometimes he curses himself out when he accidentally calls you his wife's name. During intimate times only. You tried—trying to keep the emotions in as if it wasn’t breaking every part of you, was the hardest part. “Look he’s walking...” You smiled at the dark haired baby who was walking towards you. Toji smiled, making sure he’d record every second of it; deep down he wished his wife was the one the baby was walking towards instead of you.

And it was wrong—so wrong. 

“This relationship, I’m with you but Toji—Toji this is the loneliest I’ve ever felt.” You whispered while he ate his leftovers, his brows still furrowed from the argument occurring earlier. Having Toji work from 9–5 wasn’t the best but good thing he had you, helping him out with so much. Picking up groceries, picking up his lovely son—until you mentioned that one of his teachers mistaken you as his biological mother. That right there was enough to make Toji angry for weeks at least.

But not this time.

He stopped chewing on his food after you spoke, waiting for more of an explanation. Which you figured he needed, “I don’t think you’re in love with me–” 

“I like you [name], a lot.” He cleared his throat. He leaned back on his chair as his arms crossed waiting for you to continue the sentence he interrupted. 

Right, he liked you a lot. These three rough years you’ve been dating Toji—that particular l word was never uttered once, not even if he was drunk, or having a special moment with you. You huffed trying to find the right words for Toji to understand. That was until little Megumi started crying from his room. “I’ll try to put him back to sleep, finish eating.” He watched as your fragile little body sulked its way to Megumi’s room.

He knew this was gonna happen, he knew you were bound to leave him sooner or later. 

You smiled as you opened the door to see the little Megumi standing on top of his little bed. His hands wiping his tears as he ran towards you, his arms now wrapping around your legs. “Sleep with mama and papa.” He cried out as you leaned down to pick up the little boy. “[name] and papa, not mama okay?” You corrected him, if Toji were to find out that he had been calling you that, then that argument would’ve climaxed.

The little boy nodded, his tears now gone as you swayed him around. “Sleep with you.” He mumbled, leaning his head on your shoulder as he played with a strand of your hair. “Just for tonight.” You whispered, watching Megumi pick up his head and smile. Content with your answer. 

Toji’s heart could just swell at the sight. You treated his son as if he was your own and nothing looked so much better right now, except for the fact that he wished it was his wife.

Megumi was now soundly sleeping between you and Toji, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” His eyes shut tightly hearing those piercing words leave your mouth. It hurt when his wife left him, but this hurt was different—different because he knew it was coming yet he didn’t want to do anything about it. 

“I’m sorry—”

“You don’t need to be the one apologizing.” He watched your soft gaze stare at completely nothing. He was confused, this was his fault. He never treated you how you needed deserved to be treated. “It was my fault for throwing myself at a man who simply was not ready.”

The next morning was silent—baby ‘gumi was confused at the saddened look on your face. Constantly walking up to you asking if you were okay. He was still just a baby, yet he read the room so well. “I’m sure we can work this out—” Toji now sitting next to you on the couch, some cartoon playing in the back as Megumi’s little head sat on your lap. “You’re not ready, Toji.” You nodded, eyes still glued on the tv as if it was meant for you and not the little Megumi. 

“And how are you so sure—”

“Tell me you love me then.” Your eyes are now fixed on Toji’s. It was hard, he felt as if his mouth had been glued shut. You sigh, bringing your gaze back to the tv, “I love you—but it’s hard when it’s one sided Toji.” 

It hurt much more, seeing you drive away as the clueless Megumi waved you out. Poor thing thinks you’re simply going to the store. The house that once felt like home was so dull now. Toji sat little ‘gumi down on the couch. 

His constant, “mama?” or “[name]?” while he kept his gaze on the door every so often. Nothing prepared Toji for this. Megumi cried that he wanted to sleep with his mama and papa, his heart swelled knowing that he had been talking about you.

You were gone, just like his wife. But it hurt—it hurt so much more knowing that you’re alive trying your best to…move on. He stayed up late that same night, stumbling upon a video from two years ago. When Megumi first learned how to walk. You and Toji had just started dating but the look of happiness plastered your face as you watched the little baby walking. 

That was one thing Toji never forgot about, how much you loved kids. Telling him how once you had kids of your own you would finally be able to live in peace. How he heard of it less and less as the years went on, he wonders if you still think that.

next part ->

[scarletmika]

Sunflower : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Mitchell!Reader

Summary: Bob Floyd was head over heels for you from the moment you met. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him. But Hangman knew just how to get under people's skin, too well sometimes, and sometimes frustration hits a boiling point when the people you don't want to hurt are standing in the way.

Warnings: fluff, some angst, established relationship, language, Hangman acting like an ass, female reader

Word Count: 3,771 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell always had one rule for his daughter: no dating any Military men, or ladies, until he was dead. You’d always found the rule dumb, but your dad was firm on it. He knew what those men were like, he used to be one of them himself, part of the reason he ended up with a daughter of his own. Though he’d spend your entire life reminding you that you were the greatest gift the world had ever given him, and that’s why he was so protective with his different rules as you grew up.

You adhered to them for a long time…until Bob Floyd came along.

Maverick had just been called back to Top Gun for the first time in years, and while he was excited and terrified to come back, he was excited at the prospect of seeing you. You’d chosen to attend the University of California at San Diego, and loved the city so much you’d settled in it after graduation and never left. Living in a city, surrounded by Military men at every corner, and through the years you’d obeyed your father’s rule and steered clear of them all.

You could remember the first time you met Bob as if it had been yesterday. A text from Bradley Bradshaw, a man you’d grown up to see as practically your blood brother, telling you to meet him down at the Hard Deck. That was news to you, that he was even back in the States in the first place, but you also knew it meant he was most likely here on a mission.

“There’s my favorite girl!” Bradley had whooped out the second he’d finished his song on the piano, the rest of the bar going back to their own conversations as the jukebox was plugged back in. He’d practically jumped off the piano bench, rushing forward to bring you into a hug, lifting you up with a spin as you laughed, hitting his shoulder lightly. “Would you believe me if I told you you’re my favorite part of coming back to the States?”

“Absolutely not one bit, Brad-”

“Hate to interrupt…but who’s she, Rooster?”

You pulled back from your brother, shooting a friendly smile toward what you could tell by their uniforms were other Navy fighter pilots gathered around the piano, watching you both curiously. Bradley threw an arm over your shoulders, giving it a squeeze.

“This right here is my infamous Sunflower-”

“You eat ONE of those as a child and get a stupid nickname-”

“I’ve told you guys about her before, practically my little sister,” he pointed off at the rest of his friends, listing them off. “That’s Mickey, otherwise known as Fanboy and Reuben, also known as Payback. That right there is Phoenix, but when I talk about her with you I just call her Natasha. We’ve got Jake, more well-known as Bag- sorry, I mean Hangman. And that’s Bob.”

You raised an eyebrow, gaze fixed on Bob questioningly as you realized Bradley wasn’t continuing his introductions.

“Just Bob?”

The man in question seemed to get flustered a bit, trying to speak and not seemingly able to find the words as his cheeks flushed.

“Uh, well, you know-”

“We just use Bob as his callsign too,” it was Hangman that spoke up, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder that seemed like it was in mock support. “Baby-On-Board seemed pretty spot-on to call him.”

Your face dropped, already understanding why your best friend seemed to bristle at the entire existence of Jake Seresin. You crossed your arms, shooting the man a pointed look.

“At least babies are cute. They also probably don’t leave their wingmen out to dry, if your own callsign is anything to go off of,”

The howling laughter of the entire group brought a smile to your face, including the look on Hangman’s face that clearly showed he’d been knocked down a peg by your words alone. You took the lapse in conversation to lock eyes with Bob again, sending him a smile and a sly wink.

He wouldn’t admit it, but Bob was head over heels for you from then on.

The team didn’t think they’d be seeing you around that often after that night, until they learned you were Maverick’s daughter. You might not have been on base with them all day, every day, but every second they weren’t on base you were with them all, ingrained with them like one of the family.

Nights at the Hard Deck, beach days learning to work together as a team in preparation for a mission, or the few days some of them managed to get off early enough to swing by and say hello to you at work. You spent all of your time with them, and those Navy fighter pilots had quickly become your best friends.

Many of them, mainly Fanboy and Hangman, had tried to get your number multiple times, to no avail. They were either stopped by Rooster’s protective gaze on you, your own father’s murderous look he’d shoot them, or a simple and polite no from you every single time. Natasha was the only one who got your number.

Bob didn’t think he stood a chance either, having overheard Rooster talking about how your father had a rule for you about dating Military men as it was, so he never tried. That’s why it surprised him so much when you’d walked up behind him at the Hard Deck one night, plucking his phone straight from his hands when no one was looking and typing in your phone number without another word.

Phoenix was the one who noticed more than others, given that Bob was her WSO. How every single time they weren’t up in the air training for the uranium mission, or being lectured back on the ground, he was buried in his phone with a smile and a blush on his cheeks. Or the way he disappeared from the base the second he was allowed to, or how you both seemed to always be around one another now wherever you all were hanging out at.

The bird strike was the first time you’d accepted that maybe you were on the verge of breaking your father’s single rule he had for you your entire life.

Maverick knew how close you’d become with the entire team, and called you the second he could to inform you of the accident. You were already in your car and on your way to the base before your father had told you he’d gotten special permission from Cyclone to let you on base.

You’d practically flew into Natasha’s arms the second you caught sight of her in the medical wing, asking her a thousand times if she was okay and checking her over. Once you’d backed out of her arms and set your sights on Bob, you could feel the overwhelming urge to cry overtake you. You’d stepped into his arms in an instant, burying your head in his neck as you began to cry, and Bob didn’t stop holding you until the tears subsided.

It was right before the Uranium mission where your relationship with Bob changed in an instant.

You were already worried sick, knowing your father was now leading the mission. You’d gotten a text directly after from Rooster informing you that you dad would be leading the mission, followed by one from your father himself to announce it. A bunch of texts streamed in, but you couldn’t bother to answer them as the nauseous feeling inside of you only grew. That pit in your stomach grew bigger as you realized that your father and Bradley’s lives weren’t the only ones you were overly concerned about, but Bob’s too.

You’d sequestered yourself for the rest of the day, ignoring texts from everyone as you realized that what you felt for Bob went entirely past platonic feelings. It was the next day when you’d opened your front door after the doorbell rang to Bob standing there in his Navy dress whites. You didn’t say a word to him, and he didn’t say a word to you either, the pair of you simply colliding in the middle in a kiss that had the rules you’d followed all your life long forgotten.

“Maverick is going to kill me for this,” he’d practically moaned out through kisses as you gripped onto the back of his neck, pulling him back in every time he pulled away for even a second.

“Good, means he’ll keep you alive during the mission to kill you after,” Bob had finally gotten you to stop chasing after his lips, pulling back to see the tears slowly streaming down your face as he gently wiped them away. “Just come back to me…all of you.”

“I promise, Sunflower,”

This wasn’t the first time your father had been on deployment. You’d had plenty of friends over the years in the military, too. This was far from the first time you’d ever dealt with people you care about throwing themselves into the line of fire and risking their lives. But this time, it held a new weight to it.

You were at the forefront of Bob’s mind the entire mission. The moment Maverick called his name alongside Phoenix’s own, his first thought was of you. Of the prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on, the girl who had carved out a space in his heart in such a short amount of time, who’d he’d never thought he’d have a chance with, waiting at home for him. For him, her father, and her best friends. He thought of his own family, his parents and his siblings too, but you’d crept right up in there with them at the forefront of his mind.

It was you he thought about as he frantically called out signals for Phoenix when they’d rounded coffin corner. It was the dread he felt of having to tell you that your father and the man you considered your brother were both most likely dead the second the remaining Daggar squad had landed back on the ship. Then, it was like a weight lifted off his shoulders the second they landed back in safety with the rest of the team in that beat of F-14, knowing he could keep his promise to you.

The second the team was back in the states and touching ground on land, you’d been waiting with tears in your eyes for all of them. Maverick’s arms were the first you flew into, your father holding you as tightly as humanly possible, before he let Bradley join in on the group hug too.

“Is the cry fest over here done?” Hangman had called out, the rest of the team joining you all as they smiled at the sight of you wrapped in a bear hug of two of your favorite men. Hangman held out his arms, wiggling his fingertips. “Can’t the rest of the team get hugs here, Sunflower?”

You had pushed your way out of the hug and in Hangman’s direction, but his smirk fell when you’d simply brushed past him and threw yourself into Bob’s arms, tugging his lips back to yours, craving the feeling you’d already become addicted to. Bob could feel his cheeks instantly flush with the heat of the public display of affection, of knowing who was watching, but it was worth it for that moment with you.

Jake, Reuben, Mickey, and Bradley’s jaws all collectively dropped as they watched the interaction before them, while Natasha only held a small smirk on her lips, knowing her suspicions were confirmed. The group had all turned back to Maverick, collectively fearing for Bob’s own safety. They may have been more shocked to see a genuine smile of pure affection and love on the fighter pilot's lips.

That night, surrounded by everyone you’d come to love so dearly in the Hard Deck over well-earned beers, Maverick had quickly bestowed his blessing on the pair of you.

“If she’s going to ignore my lifelong rule and date a Military man…I’m glad it’s you, Floyd,” Maverick had clapped a hand down on his student’s shoulder, giving him a pointed look. “Break her heart, though, and the push-ups are going from 200 to 300. Daily.”

Those moments all seemed like ages ago to you, when in reality they’d only been 10 months ago. They’d led to this moment now, as you stepped into the Hard Deck on a busy Wednesday night later than usual because of work, trying to spot your group of pilots in the distance. Thankfully for you, they’d all been assigned to stay at Top Gun for an extended period of time, still learning more and more from Maverick as Cyclone had determined there was much more his top students could learn. For you, that meant having your best friends around every single day.

“Sunflower! How nice of you to join us!” Natasha had called out with a laugh, handing you one of the beers she’d grabbed for you already. You happily took it, clinking the top of your bottle with her own.

“Phoenix, you’re a lifesaver for this,” you’d thanked her, tipping your head back to gulp the alcoholic beverage. “Work was insane today, for no good reason, too!”

“Your father had us doing 200 push-ups every time we failed the flight simulations today,” Fanboy cut in, walking past quickly as he rounded the pool table in front of you both. “Trust me, most of us would kill for your office job right about now. Bet it’s got air-conditioning.”

“Hey, you guys want to handle company-wide presentations, be my guest. I don’t mind passing that off,” you watched Payback and Fanboy’s pool match for a moment, turning back to Phoenix at your side. “Is my boy hiding around here somewhere? He didn’t answer my text earlier when I said I was on my way.”

“Oh, you mean dark and stormy?” you lifted an eyebrow at her words as Natasha let out a soft laugh. “Hangman was being extra…Hangman today, if you will. Really was digging in on him all day, could hear him grumbling from the backseat of the jet after every comment.”

“Let me guess, Jake is still on his ass even now, after hours?”

“Last I saw, he had him crowded in a booth with Bradley across the room,”

You clinked your bottle with hers one more time before turning on your heel.

“Guess that my queue to go save him!”

Bob Floyd was having the worst day of his life, and it was thanks to Hangman. Don’t get it twisted, he really did love Jake, he was one of his brothers after everything that had gone down on the Uranium mission. This job can bind you wth people for life, and it has for them. Today, though, Hangman was just being so…classic Hangman.

“No, seriously, I think if you’d just given me a little more time I could have had Sunflower wrapped around my finger instead,” Jake commented with a laugh, taking another sip of his beer as he shot a smirk across the table at Bob, seeing his friend’s grip on his own beer bottle tighten. “Oh come on, Baby-On-Board, lighten up! It’s just jokes! Though we’ve got to admit, her and I would be one gorgeous couple.”

“Yeah, so funny,” Bob mumbled to himself as Bradley gripped onto Hangman’s shoulder, shoving him out of the booth and promising Bob he’d go distract him for a bit up at the bar. The second they were gone, Bob was rubbing at his eyes under his glasses, frustration rolling off of him in waves.

He could deal with the Baby-On-Board comments all day long, the snide comments throw his way as he worked his way through Maverick’s 200 push-ups. Hell, he could deal with the four-eyes jokes too. Did they get on his nerves? Absolutely. Was he at his breaking point today? Also yes. What sent him over the edge every time, without fail, was jokes about you.

It didn’t matter that you’d been together almost a year, that you’d been the first one to utter ‘I love you’ to him at three in the morning as you’d laid together in his bed, his insecurities never really went away, they were just satiated for periods. It was when Jake chose to remind him that you were, in fact, way out of his league that they came crawling back to the surface.

“Now, what’s my handsome pilot doing over here all alone?”

It was your voice in his ear suddenly, hands winding around his shoulders and fingers digging into his muscles as you leaned over the back of the booth, hugging him to you. Normally, Bob would be like putty in your hands, falling back into your touch and your words as every ounce of stress left him simply because he was in your presence. Today, though, his shoulders stayed tense as Hangman’s constant jeers and jabs from the last few hours floated around his head.

“Regretting leaving my house,”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling the way Bob’s shoulders tensed up instead of relaxing into you, and slid your way around the bench so that you were sitting beside him. You craned your neck to try and get a look at his face, but Bob refused to look at you, the stress of the entire day on the verge of breaking over the surface.

“Come on, baby, what’s wrong-”

“Why don’t you ask Hangman?”

The question caught you absolutely off guard as you pulled away from your boyfriend slightly in confusion.

“Jake? The hell does he have to do with this?” when Bob didn’t answer you, you only continued. “Phoenix said he was giving you shit today, is that what this is about?”

“He thinks if you didn’t end up with me, you’d be with him. You’d be some perfect, gorgeous couple,”

“And what, you believe him?”

“I don’t hear you denying it,”

That was the moment that Bob decided to finally look at you, and he felt every ounce of frustration leave his body as he was racked with guilt and regret immediately.

“Wow. Okay, Bob,”

“No wait, baby-” he tried to place his hand on yours, but you’d already ducked out of the booth and stood beside it.

“No, you’ve made your point,” you refused to look at him now, and Bob close his eyes for a moment, knowing he’d fucked up. “I get it, Hangman can be a dick, but I chose you, Bob. If I wanted him, I’d have picked him, but I’ve only ever wanted you, and I chose you. I don’t care how much of a dick he was today, insinuating that isn’t cool.”

Bob knew you well enough to know that with the way you went storming out of the Hard Deck, chasing after you right now wouldn’t be the greatest idea in the world. It was at that moment that Jake and Bradley came back to the table, Jake whittling at the sight of you storming away.

“Ooooo, trouble in paradise?”

“For once, Hangman, please shut the fuck up,”

If you thought yesterday was a long day at work, nothing compared to the day after your disastrous Hard Deck night. You hadn’t texted Bob a single time, nor him you, even though you wanted to.

You let out another sigh to yourself as you stood at the copy machine in the office, rubbing at your under eyes. In hindsight, you felt that you had overreacted to the conversation last night, and you weren’t sure how to apologize to Bob for it. He’d had a long day, and so had you, and it simply had all culminated in that moment that anything could’ve set someone off.

“Hey,” you turned your head to see one of your coworkers, Jessica, standing at the doorway of the printer room you were in. She nodded her head in the direction of your office. “Someone is waiting in your office for you, by the way. Navy boy by the looks of it.”

You’d left the project on the printer in front of you, immediately walking back down the hallways in the direction of your office. You knew immediately who it was waiting for you, and it brought a small smile to your face as you turned through the door of the office.

Bob was standing directly by your desk with a small, almost timid smile, a bouquet of flowers in his hands as he took a step toward you, you taking one toward him as well.

“Hi,”

“Hi,” you answered, stepping up to him, just a foot away. You took a glance down, seeing him still decked out in his flight suit, straight from the base. “Aren’t you supposed to be on an F-18 right now?”

“Maverick was nice enough to give me the rest of the day off,” he commented, albeit sheepishly as he looked to the side for a moment. “After…the 300 or so push-ups he made me do.”

“Might be my fault there, he called me this morning once he got to base wanting to know about the ‘Hard Deck’ gossip that Rooster was talking about. Sorry,”

“You don’t have to apologize, I should be the one apologizing,”

You took the moment to glance down at the flowers in his hands, a smile growing. White tulips, a common symbol for apologies. Red roses, of course, representing love.

A single sunflower. The symbol of adoration and loyalty. You took the bouquet from him, inhaling the scent with a grin on your lips that he mirrored.

“They’re beautiful,”

“So are you,” Bob took the bouquet from you, placing it on top of the desk behind you both before taking your face in his hands. “I love you. You are, quite literally, the best thing that had ever happened to me, Sunflower. I shouldn’t have let him get in my head, and I shouldn’t have said what I did last night-”

“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did,” you cut in, hands placed over the top of his own as you gazed up at him. “We were both frustrated, that’s all. You just have to remember that I chose you, because I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he’d simply responded. “I’ll always love you.”

Just like that day he’d shown up on your doorstep in those dress whites, words weren’t needed between you both to simply collide together in a passionate kiss, pouring every ounce of love’d felt for this man since the moment you’d met him into it.

[josiahhuddington]

"You're asking the wrong person, because I could never." Josiah stated, eyes showing the same expression his head did. He personally didn't want to think about a world without Calliope in it, and even though the two had been broken up for longer than they'd dated at this point, it still wasn't something he wanted to think about. "I'll be sure to tell you, but, don't expect me to be the one to take you out." he winked. As he spoke, he could've sworn the room stood still, the sounds of the city easily quieted by his words. He wasn't necessarily trying anything, yet, the magnetic pull between the two of them was undeniable. Always had been. There were times that Josiah wasn't sure if he crossed that threshold of innuendos and what was real, today being one of them but with his lips pressed against her forehead, he wasn't sure he minded. He backed up a moment later, his smile only widening when she told him he was a good man. Though with her lips pressed against his, Josiah barely had a moment to process before she was backing away. Fingers brushed against lips, similarly to what was happening in the movies. He couldn't ignore the tingling sensation he felt in them, but instead of going in for more he respected her space, clearing his throat. "I'd give her a lighthouse if she wanted it." he admitted. "Or you, you know. Whoever wants it more." he winked. The last comment made him chuckle and he shook his head. "Maybe just in general." he laughed. "I told you it had been awhile." @calxwallace

"If I ever change that much, give me a quick end." Calliope dramatically said, knowing he could appreciate the flair. She could remember the fashion hurdles they had overcome during their relationship and how luckily he walked around more sensibly these days. She could say that she taught him well. "Mhmm." She hummed, watching him silently as he spoke once more, giving her an answer through innuendos and not so hidden fronts. Yet it was when he moved closer, the faintest touch of his fingers grazing her skin and tucking her hair behind her ears that she felt like her heart was about to explode. She was certain her cheeks had flushed a darker tint of pink, her blue hues piercing his. She could barely process the fork she still had in her trembling hand, the other having placed against his chest where the thought had flickered through her mind as to whether the drumming she felt beneath it was from his own heart on its opposite side, or if it was hers, pounding so hard it was shaking even the vein ends in her fingertips. She snapped out of the flurry of her mind long enough for her to think of a witty answer when he had already interrupted her, his lips pressed against her forehead sending an intense wave through her body, silencing even her thoughts. Which was a hard accomplishment. "You're a great guy, Josiah Huddington, you know that?" She spoke, her voice a tone softer, gentler. "Always steadfast. Like a lighthouse amidst a heavy storm, crumbling down over time but always making sure others get home safely." She continued, moving onto the tip of her toes to place a peck on his lips. Not hasty, but long enough one might had to register if it had actually happened for a second, long enough to bring across the message. "I'm sure she likes you as much as you like her." Her hand dropped from his chest, her smile more visible as she slightly moved away. "I'm thinking she's the kind of girl that would dig living in a lighthouse." And with that she slightly turned away, returning to her flirty and joking behaviour. "And if not, I'd gladly take her place, because look at you. If you're looking at me like that, when you're horny for this other girl, woof." @josiahhuddington

[bi-writes]

hi! i was thinking if you could write an older!boyfriend simon x reader BUT reader is john price's daughter so is kinda of a forbidden and secret relationship !!!! they've been dating for a long time now until john finds out !!!!!

18+

"how is she?"

"doing well, john. but you don't have to worry about her anymore, you know that right? she's not yours to worry about."

"she is mine. i know she's not..." john huffs. "she may not be blood, but she's mine, yeah? so when i ask 'ow she is, you tell me, kate. can we agree on that?"

"sure, john. she's in georgia. her russian got very good. if you want to know my honest opinion, i think she'll be one of my best."

"well...i wouldn't stand for anythin' less."

"john?"

that voice is music to him. he turns, taking his hat off, and he laughs, genuinely, when he sees you. his whole face lights up, and you make your way to him. it's been months since you've seen him in person--even though he makes you send him constant updates about what you're doing and where you are, you find yourself missing this man and the warmth he gives off whenever you are in his proximity.

he's always looked at you so kindly. he's always taken care of you. whenever you pick up the phone, he's always answered.

"'ello, bug."

he crushes you in a warm hug. he puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds you to his chest, and the tension in his shoulders deflates now that he has you with him.

"hi, john. miss me?"

"well...you were the only one with sense in my house."

"you live alone, john."

"aye."

he pours you a hot cup of tea before he makes you tell him all about your new posting. most of it is classified, and you tell him that, but his face lights up when you talk about the new skills you're learning and all the opportunities that kate is giving you. his face scrunches a little when you talk about the more dangerous ops, but john never has the same regard for his own life.

the mess hall gets busy once dinner time rolls around. his men were not expecting you, and that much is clear when they see their captain even enjoying a meal in public and not secluded in his office. you smile at his sergeants, but when your gaze lingers a little longer on the doors, johnny just nudges you with his elbow.

"miss the big guy?"

"what? no."

"he had a long night last night," he wiggles his eyebrows at gaz, who just laughs a little. "i might need to try the whole brooding, scary look LT has got on. attracts the most bonnie things, fuckin' christ."

your plate flies when you stab at your food too hard. the cutlery clatters as it hits the floor, and you jump a little, swallowing.

"are you alright, bug?"

"huh? yeah, oh...yeah, just...fucking clumsy. i...i'm gonna...find the toilet."

the blood is rushing in your ears as you make your way out. you're vibrating, hot inside, and you feel him before you see him, even in your anger.

when he pulls you into the shadow of a nearby supply closet, you swipe the blade out of your boot and hold it up against his throat. even through the mask, the blade bites, and he hisses as you hold him up against the wall there.

"don't fucking touch me," you snarl, and ghost's eyes are bright and alive as he holds his hands up defensively.

"wot--"

"and don't what me," you snap. "actually, don't fucking talk at all, you cheating, manipulative, british piece of shit--"

"look so pretty," he murmurs, tilting his head to the side. "did you do y'r hair, baby?"

"i will kill you."

"'s olright. last thing i see'll be you."

"i'm not fucking kidding, simon!"

he bends a little, tilting his head, and you breathe out through your nose as he leans his forehead against yours.

"reckon ya spoke t'johnny."

you scoff. "told me all about your winnings last night, lieutenant."

"was no winnings, love, don't be so fuckin' naïve." simon swipes at the handle of the blade, curling his gloved fingers around your wrist and forcing it away from him. "y'r just mad cause y'r cunt missed me."

"don't flatter yourself, asshole."

"so if i pull your knickers down right now, y'won't be drippin', swee'eart?"

"that's irrelevant."

"'s not. turn around and bend over."

simon's sorry, so he eats your pussy from behind. he gets down on his knees, and the crack of them satisfies you immensely, up until you feel his mouth between your cheeks, tongue slicking up your folds. you brace yourself against the wall, palms flat against the concrete as he puts two gloved hands against your ass and spreads you wide to fit himself nicely there. he hums, groans, makes you whine as he slurps obscenely into your cunt, laving at the drip of you until the taste of you floods his mouth.

"simon..." you whimper. "tell me i-it's not true."

he presses a wet kiss to your ass, biting it firm.

"'s not true, love. promise."

"fuck your promises," you sniffle. "you're a professional liar."

"tha' 'ow it's gonna be, innit? not gonna trust me? believe me?"

you rest your forehead against the cool wall, and the shadow of him envelopes you when he stands. he grunts a little as he gets to his feet. his big hands squeeze at the curve of your waist, and you close your eyes when you feel his breath against your neck.

"i'm sorry, simon."

"for wot?"

"i just...i like you so much. so much."

"come 'ere," he murmurs in your ear. he pulls your hips back, pressing your ass against his pelvis, and you dig your nails into the wall when you hear his belt buckle and zipper. "my pretty girl. my pretty, pretty girl."

"i missed you s-so much, simon."

"i know, love. quiet now. someone'll hear."

it's not the worst place you've fucked. you've snuck quickies in the rec room. behind the mess hall. met up in filthy gas station toilets, fallen into the backseat of a car in the parking lot of numerous military bases. even once, you deigned to suck his dick in his office, and you had to hide behind his couch when john came in to ask about an op.

john had a rule. his men were off-limits. he should've thought about that before he hired a man straight out of your wet dreams for his stupid fucking task force.

you're weak. and simon is a man.

inevitable.

you're a mile into pound-town when someone interrupts. simon is cock-deep inside of you, pelvis up against your ass, one hand braced around your throat and the other squeezing your ass. your eyes are rolled back into your head, and there's drooling coming out of your mouth. it's hot, disgusting, filthy to let him have you like this, but it's been weeks since you've seen him, and the phone calls aren't enough.

you love talking to him. you love when he talks to you. he'll never be annoying to you, you'll never get tired of him, but the distances hurts. you want simon to be all around you--inside of you, against you, his voice in your ear and his mouth against yours and his warmth your only sheet, but you can't bring yourself to do more than this.

you're too afraid of disappointing people. you're too scared of simon's rejection. if your relationship is nothing but fun, nothing but sex, you can pretend it isn't real, but you're just lying to yourself now.

you babble, and it sounds like love, but then the hallway light blinds you, and familiar blue eyes nearly kill you.

"jesus christ!"

simon puts his body in front of yours to cover you, using a harsh boot to kick the door closed. you squeak, covering your face with your hands, and you groan audibly as simon pants against your back.

"fuck--" you gasp. "oh...fuck, fuck, fuck!"

simon buries his face into the crook of your neck, laughing a little.

"bloody hell," he breathes. "reckon we're fucked, huh, love?"

"it's not funny, simon! we're in so much trouble!"

"well..." he squeezes your throat gently, tilting your head back. "could still finish. no sense in pretendin' now."

"you are not going to come when he's probably waiting for us outside."

"i'm balls deep in my favorite girl," simon mutters. "could come just fine. just say the word."

"you're disgusting."

"mmm..." simon squeezes your hips. "keep talkin'. i like when y'talk t'me like tha'."

"fucking asshole."

"yeah...yeah."

"you stupid, immature, unhinged pain in my ass--"

"fuck."

well.

you're definitely never leaving this room.

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Stormy night”

Pairing: Pre Outbreak!Joel Miller x babysitter!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist here Part 2 here

Summary: You’ve been babysitting for the Millers for months now, admiring Joel from afar. Until one stormy night things gets spicy.

WC: 3,3k

Warnings: smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, age gap, unprotected piv, fingering, oral (m!receiving).

A/N: I know the babysitter is such an overused trope but i’m just a sucker for fatherly and domestic pre outbreak Joel. This has a little fluff and lots of smut at the end, so there’s that.

You’d been babysitting Sarah Miller for the last six months. Some might think she was a bit old for a babysitter—she was twelve, after all—and far smarter than girls her age. But her father, Joel, mostly hired you for the company. He worked long shifts that often ran well into the night, and he never felt comfortable leaving his daughter alone for so many hours.

And you? You were a typical college student—desperate for a few extra dollars. So, when you saw the flyer on the bulletin board, you didn’t think twice.

You loved working for the Millers. It never really felt like work. Sarah was sweet, and you genuinely enjoyed helping her with her school projects, watching movies together, gossiping, and giving her advice on boys like an older sister would.

Joel was a good boss, too. He always paid you on time, left you and Sarah money for takeout most nights, and always offered to drive you home when it was too late or raining.

And, of course, the looks didn’t hurt. You couldn’t help but admire him when he was around. Joel was a handsome man—rugged and worn, but in a way that made him even more appealing. He was nothing like the college guys you were used to seeing—the ones who couldn’t grow a proper beard, who talked too much and said too little, trying too hard to impress. Joel was the complete opposite. He didn’t need to impress anyone. He barely spoke to you most of the time, but when he did, it caused an impression.

You arrived to the Millers’, the relentless Texas sun high in the sky, making your skin glisten and your clothes cling to your body.

“You brought the nail polish, right?” Sarah asked eagerly as soon as you stepped inside.

“Of course I did,” you said, holding up the small pouch filled with bright colors. “Hot pink and glitter, just like you asked.”

You’d only just settled in when Joel came downstairs. His hair was damp, a towel draped over the back of his neck, and his shirt was tugged down just enough to reveal the faint outline of his chest.

“I’ve got a lot of work today. I’ll be back around nine, maybe a little later. You good with that?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly.

You nodded. “Yep, that’s alright.”

“Don’t let her stay up past nine,” he said, grabbing his wallet and keys from the table before heading out the door.

You spent the evening with Sarah, painting each other’s nails, watching silly rom-coms, and making dinner together. It was a routine you’d come to enjoy more than you cared to admit.

“My dad has the hots for you, you know that?” Sarah said, her voice muffled through a mouthful of mac and cheese.

“Jesus Christ, Sarah.” You chuckled, your face flushing a little as you nervously laughed off the comment. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“No, I mean it. He’s like… less cranky when you’re around,” she said, swallowing another spoonful. “And he looks at you like those guys do in the movies we watch.” She leaned back, making exaggerated and comical love-eyes at you.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “You’re being silly.”

“I’m not. I know him better than anyone,” she said, chewing lazily as she watched you. “But he hasn’t dated in, like, forever. I’ve actually never seen him date. He’s weird.”

You chuckled, trying to brush it off and change the subject. It’s not like you hadn’t wondered about Joel’s love life yourself. You had. He only ever asked you to babysit when he was working, which implied he never had any dates, and you’d never seen a woman around the house.

No. Stop thinking about this. Doesn’t matter if he dates or not. He’s your boss. He’s significantly older than you. Nothing is ever going to happen. You’re being stupid, you told yourself.

By 9:30, Sarah was curled up on the couch, leaning against your shoulder, completely out of it. She didn’t even stir when Joel stepped inside.

“Howdy,” he greeted you, his voice warm but tired. He looked exhausted—dark bags under his eyes, his broad shoulders looking tense and stiff.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing a few strands of Sarah’s hair away from her face. “She’s out like a light,” you whispered.

Joel gave a small, fond smile as he looked at Sarah, then came closer to the couch to scoop her up in his arms.

“I’m gonna put her to bed,” he said softly as he started toward the stairs.

There was something so endearing about Joel’s dedication to his daughter. Even if he worked too much and wasn’t around as much as he would’ve liked, everything he did was for Sarah, it showed how much she meant to him.

A few minutes later, he came back downstairs, looking even more worn out than before.

“You hungry?” he asked, his voice raspy, and with that thick southern drawl of his, it made your stomach twist in a way you’ve never felt before you met him.

“I’m good,” you replied, swallowing nervously. “We had mac and cheese for dinner—there’s a bit left if you want it.”

He hummed softly, glancing over at you.

“So I guess that’s it for today,” you said, grabbing your bag and heading for the door.

“You sure you don’t want a ride back? It’s pretty dark out there,” he offered, his hand already on the doorknob.

“It’s cool. I don’t mind the walk,” you said quickly. You’d never wanted to feel like an inconvenience, even though he’d driven you home several times before.

“C’mon. I’ll drive you home.” He was already pulling his keys from his pocket, moving toward the door to walk you out.

The drive to your place was about fifteen minutes, but with every second spent in the truck beside him, the air seemed to grow thicker. The tension was palpable.

“How was work?” you asked softly, trying to break the silence and ease the tension.

“Well, everyone seems to be assholes who mess up the simplest orders, so you tell me,” he said, his voice carrying frustration, though his eyes stayed locked on the road ahead.

“Sounds terrible.”

“Yeah, well, it is what it is. I chose this hell.” He glanced at you for a brief second before returning his focus to the road. “How’s school?”

“It’s fine. Hard, but I guess I chose this hell too,” you replied, shifting in your seat.

He let out a low laugh, almost inaudible. “You study psychology, right? Makes sense. You’re good with people.”

You smiled. “You think so?”

“I know so. You’re good with Sarah. I don’t say it enough, but I really appreciate it.” His voice softened in a way that made you feel a little dizzy.

“Thanks… I really care about her. She’s a great kid,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “And you’re a great dad. She’s lucky to have you.”

He scoffed lightly. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing half the time. It’s all just improvisation.”

“Well, whatever it is, keep doing it. It’s working. You’ve raised an amazing daughter.”

Joel smiled at you—probably the biggest, most genuine smile you’d ever seen him give anyone.

A few more minutes passed in silence before you arrived at your place.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, reaching out to touch his arm for a second longer than you should have. You suddenly felt too embarrassed, your face flushed as you quickly got out of the truck without saying another word.

Joel watched you walk to your door, his eyes lingering a little too long. He couldn’t help but notice how your shorts shifted with each step, revealing more of your thighs, and how the strap of your top slipped slightly off your shoulder, showing the edge of your bra.

And he felt like a creep.

Every single time. He felt disgusted with himself. He’d tried to avoid it, but every time you were around, his mind wandered. Like when you’d come over after getting caught in a storm, your white shirt soaked and completely see-through. Or when you were on the floor on your knees, helping Sarah with a school project, and all he could think about was how good you looked on your knees like that. Or the worst—whenever he found himself flipping through an old secondhand Playboy magazine Tommy had left around the house many years ago, just trying to get his imagination going… only for his brain to drift to you. Always you. Until he cummed to the memory of your nipples under that wet white shirt.

Joel felt like the worst kind of man. He was older, a father, an adult who should know better. And yet, here he was, fantasizing about a girl half his age. Even if he never acted on it, it still felt wrong. On so many levels.

The next day, when you arrived, Joel had already left for work. A note on the counter, written in his messy, all-caps handwriting, told you he’d gone out to run some errands before work and wouldn’t be back until around ten.

By seven, the sky had split open like something ancient had broken loose. Thunder rattled the windows, lightning tore lines across the darkening sky, and the rain came down in torrents. One of the worst summer storms in years.

You and Sarah had decided that the weather made the perfect excuse for popcorn and horror movies that probably weren’t appropriately rated for kids her age. But she loved them anyway.

By nine, she was fast asleep on the couch, legs tangled in a blanket, soft breaths rising and falling, completely unaware of the front door opening.

“Holy hell,” Joel muttered as he stepped inside, soaked from head to toe, shaking water from his hair like a dog. He pulled off his boots, leaving puddles on the mat. “It’s been years since I’ve seen a storm like this. Streets are flooded, some trees came down, and they’re closing off the roads. Barely made it back.”

“Gee,” you breathed, glancing at the chaos outside through the window, the trees swaying like they might break.

“Yeah, I don’t think they’re gonna clear it ‘til morning,” he said, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “You’re staying here tonight. I’ll drive you home tomorrow.”

“I—thank you,” you murmured.

He glanced toward Sarah, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he stepped over and scooped her into his arms. He carried her upstairs like he always did, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When he came back down a few minutes later, he’d changed into dry clothes. A gray t-shirt clung to the shape of his chest, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends.

“You can take my bed if you want,” he offered as he walked into the kitchen, already opening the fridge. “Clean sheets and all. I’ll take the couch.”

“No, no—I can’t,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “The couch is fine. I already feel like I’m intruding.”

“Don’t,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “I sleep on the couch most nights anyway.”

He pulled out some leftovers and popped them in the microwave.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“I had popcorn,” you said with a small smile.

“Popcorn ain’t dinner,” he muttered. He grabbed another plate and started dividing the food between the two of you.

You sat beside him on the barstools at the counter, eating quietly, listening to the distant growl of thunder and the drumming rain against the roof.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you said softly.

“I wouldn’t let my biggest enemy out in that mess,” he replied, chewing slowly. “Least I could do.”

Later, you were at the sink doing the dishes, sleeves rolled up, warm water running over your fingers. Joel stood next to you, drying with a dish towel.

“Thanks for dinner,” you said again.

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Are you ever gonna stop thankin’ me for every damn thing?”

“Hey, just bein’ grateful here,” you said, grinning as you flicked a few drops of water at his face.

The smile faded from his lips in an instant. His eyes locked on yours. Intense. Heated. Without a word, he reached for your wrist—his touch soft, but firm—and pulled you gently toward him.

You inhaled sharply. His body was warm and solid against yours. His face just inches from yours. His breath hit your skin.

“Joel…” you whispered uncertainty.

“Ask me to stop,” he said, his voice low, ragged. “Please ask me to stop.”

But you couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you breathed.

And then his mouth was on yours.

It started slow, hesitant, like he couldn’t quite believe he was finally kissing you. But seconds later he lost all inhibition, his lips crushed against yours, hungry, desperate, as if he’d been holding himself back for far too long. His hands slid down to your waist, gripping you tight as he lifted you onto the counter like you weighted nothing.

He pulled back, just enough to look at you, his chest heaving.

“You don’t know how much I’ve been dying to do that,” he murmured, voice thick. “I feel like I’ve been losin’ my mind.”

A shiver ran down your spine as his hand moved fast, sliding down between your legs with almost no pretense, just need. You gasped as his fingers found the heat between your thighs—confident, greedy.

“Joel…” you moaned, trying to speak, but the words caught in your throat.

“If you want me to stop just tell me and I will,” he said again, lips brushing your skin as he kissed along your jaw, down your neck.

But you said nothing. Didn’t need to. The way you tilted your head to give him more access said everything.

He slid your shirt over your head, his mouth following the trail of bare skin as he moved down to your breasts. His hand cupped one, thumb brushing your nipple, twisting it softly, before his mouth went to the other one, closing it over it, sucking gently.

“They’re so perfect,” he whispered, almost to himself, before giving them both equal attention.

You could feel how hard he was through his pants—thick and aching, grinding against you like he couldn’t help it. You rocked against him, searching for friction, for more.

“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.

“I got you, baby,” he rasped. “Gonna make you feel real good.”

His hand slid under your skirt, fingers finding your soaked panties. He groaned at the feel of you—hot, wet, and wanting like he’d never seen before in a woman, and knowing it was all because of him drove him near feral.

He was scared of being way too rusty and out of practice, after all he hadn’t done this in longer that he cared to admit. As a reflex he pushed your panties aside and pressed his thumb to your clit, making you gasp again.

“You this wet for me?” he growled, rubbing slow circles. “Christ.”

Two of his fingers teased your entrance, gathering your slick. “This feel good?”

“So good… don’t stop,” you said, your voice barely a whisper, muffled by the bite you gave his shoulder to stay quiet. Sarah was upstairs, but keeping silent felt impossible with what he was doing to you.

Encouraged, Joel pushed his fingers inside you. Slow at first, careful. Then faster. Curling them, finding the spot that made you see stars—and when you moaned, he knew he had it.

“Fuck, Joel… I’m so close.”

“Cum for me, baby,” he whispered, his thumb relentless on your clit. “Please let me feel you.”

Your hips rocked against his hand. You were barely holding on. Then your orgasm hit, fast and hard, ripping through you. You bit your lip so hard you nearly bled.

He felt it. The way you clenched around his fingers, your whole body trembling, your chest heaving. He looked up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“That was… I’ve never felt like that before,” you said, breathless, blinking through the haze. “Not ever.”

He stared at you, flushed and wrecked, eyes locked on your blissed-out face. “You look so fuckin’ beautiful right now.”

“I want to make you feel good too,” you said, eager to return the favor.

“You are,” he affirmed, not wanting to force you into anything, but dying to relieve the pain he was feeling in his pants.

“Like this,” You slid off the counter and dropped to your knees, hands on the waistband of his pants with a confidence that surprised even you. “Let me make you feel good too.”

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, watching you. The image of you, down on your knees, eyes wide and eager, was nearly too much.

You pulled his pants and boxers down, releasing his cock. Thick, heavy, already leaking.

Your fingers wrapped around him, stroking slow, building pressure. Then your tongue replaced your hand, hot and wet and perfect.

He groaned loud, his hands gripping your hair—not to push you down, but to keep himself grounded. You took more of him, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling.

“God, baby…” he gasped. “Oh that feels—fuck.”

Your mouth took him slowly, savoring every sound he made, taking your time to enjoy everything, from the curse he breathed out when you licked along the vein on the underside of him to the way his hips jerked slightly when you hollowed your cheeks.

“Stop—fuck, baby, you gotta stop,” he said, voice hoarse. “Don’t wanna finish yet.”

He hauled you to your feet, kissing you hard as he picked you up and set you back on the counter.

“Need you,” he growled. “Need to be inside you.”

You nodded quickly, breathless. “Yes, Joel. Please.”

He pushed your legs open, standing between them, with one hand he positioned himself, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance.

“You su—?” he tried to ask before you cut him.

“I’m sure.”

He pushed in slowly, stretching you inch by inch, letting you adjust to him. Both of you groaning at the overwhelming sensation. You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled. “You feel perfect… perfect little cunt.”

He started moving, each thrust deep and rough, every inch felt like a delicious torture. The wet slap of skin against skin echoing in the kitchen. You bit his shoulder again, muffling your cries so you wouldn’t wake up the entire neighborhood.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, concern breaking through his haze of lust.

“I’m alright,” you whimpered. “Don’t stop… harder.”

He obeyed, slamming into you harder, faster, one hand gripping your waist, the other braced against the counter. His name fell from your lips like a silent prayer.

“I’m close,” he gasped. “You feel so good—I can’t—”

He began to lose control, his thrusts turning frantic as his climax approached. He didn’t care about pulling out—not right now—even if it was the most reasonable thing to do. Right now, he wanted to finish inside of you, to feel his cum filling you up until it dripped out of your cunt. He wanted to mark you in the most primitive way.

“Shit—I’m gonna—”

A sharp stillness took over him as he spilled himself deep inside you, cumming hard like he hadn’t in years, painting your insides with his seed.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “I— You— That was—Joel…”

“Incredible,” he said, forehead pressed to yours. “Jesus. I don’t remember ever feeling that good.”

He stayed there for a moment, head buried against your chest, catching his breath.

You stroked his damp hair. Neither of you said anything.

After his intense climax, he felt so vulnerable. All he wanted was to lay down in his bed, arms wrapped around you, holding you all night long, keeping you close and safe, like you belonged there with him. And pretending that this wasn’t something fleeting. That this was something real.

“You’re taking the bed,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And I’m sleeping with you.”

You smiled at him, heart fluttering. “Deal.”

READ PART TWO HERE

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