#so why did it have to be that way with you?

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ but he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ clark kent x reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ more

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

[rawme-price]

Idk if you already done this but wolf!reader watching price give belly rubs to wolf!soap and getting jealous… :D

To be fair, you cant really complain about your current situation.

Even as ur seething in jealousy that soap is getting head pats and ear scritches on the ride back to base. No one even knows youre a wolf hybrid. Like many hybrids, your presentation isnt strong at all. You very much look human, no wolf ears or tail, no claws or extra sharp teeth.

You never corrected the team when they assumed you were human, the assumption never bothered you until now. Because you still have instincts of a wolf, and the 141 has slowly become ur pack, but they never act like it because they dont know thats what u need.

Ofc you've never been good at hiding ur expression, so gaz knocks his ankle against urs with a raised brow, a bit judgmental. the fuck is wrong with you?

You just shrug, glance at soap who tail is wagging like hell, then back to gaz. On one hand you want to tell them, but on the other you've always had negative reactions. Humans either accuse u of playing too far into ur "mild" wolf side, or hybrids say ur too human to really understand hybrid instincts.

So you just purse your lips and glance away, ignore it. This has...some sort of side affect. Bc once you land gaz doesnt say anything to you, in fact, he shoulder checks you on your way out for no discernible reason.

Late that same week, whatever got under gazs skin seems to have affected everyone else. They dont talk to you outside of missions. Ghost actively scoffs when u ask if you've done something wrong, and soap is going out of his way to avoid you.

It makes you feel like shit. Instincts screaming abt ur pack rejecting u, abt not being good enough for them. It takes a toll. Ur den is a mess after being torn up in frustration each night, u dont eat well when ur forced to sit alone, you feel jumpy and vulnerable without ur pack.

And the entire time, ur desperately trying to figure out what you did. Why they suddenly turned a cold shoulder. But there's nothing. No reason for the sudden animosity you can find.

Unbeknownst to you, all those days ago in the heli gaz had mistaken ur jealousy towards soap as discomfort. Hed assumed that you, a human, were taking issue with soap acting like a hybrid. Ofc he told his team. They all started avoiding you, it was only natural to cut out humans who hated hybrids, can u blame him?

(Part two here, part three here)

[danysdaughter]

Drown Me Gently

pairing | new!avenger!bucky x siren!reader

word count | 6.6k words

summary | a half-siren joins the new avengers, hiding centuries of shame beneath skin that was never yours to begin with. but when bucky barnes sees past the danger to the devastating loneliness underneath, the monster you fear you are finally begins to unravel.

tags | THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, (kind of ig) unprotected sex, comfort sex, emotional intimacy, hurt/comfort, emotional angst, identity crisis, soft!bucky, dark past, trust issues, body horror (light), self-hatred, non-accurate siren mythology, mutual pining, reader backstory, deep emotional healing, sensual tension, dark past, post-trauma connection

a/n | chat, I've literally had this fic in my drafts for almost a month. I lowkey don't know if I like this or not, anyway tell me what you think about it, because I'm second guessing. also based on this request

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀs���ᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You barely had a chance to take a seat before the interrogation began.

“Do you have gills?” Yelena asked, leaning forward like she was inspecting a specimen. “Or do they only show up when you're wet?”

You blinked. “Um—”

“Wait, hold on.” Ava cut in, arms crossed. “Do you eat people? Like, in a sexy way? Or like… teeth and blood?”

“Neither?”

Bob’s eyes lit up. “But hypothetically, if you were shipwrecked, would you rather lure sailors to their deaths or just vibe on a rock singing Adele?”

“I don’t—”

“Also,” Alexei boomed, squinting at you. “How do you have babies with tail? Is it like seahorses? Or salmon?”

“Why would it be like salmon?” Ava muttered.

“Maybe she lays eggs,” Bob said thoughtfully. “Do you lay eggs?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. This had to be a test. Some kind of extremely unorthodox hazing ritual.

“I’m sorry,” you finally managed. “Are these actual questions or did you all just watch The Little Mermaid before I got here?”

Walker, inexplicably sipping a protein shake at 8am, nodded solemnly. “So... do you explode if you drink salt water?”

You stared. “I'm from the ocean.”

“And what about chlorinated water,” he asked, completely serious.

Yelena snorted.

Before the next round of nonsense could begin, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

You turned. Bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes settled on you for a beat too long.

“Give her a second to breathe before you start asking about mating rituals.”

“Thank you,” you breathed.

He moved past the others, walking toward you with measured steps. You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until he got close enough that the rest of the room seemed to dim around him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, but couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Do you ask all the new recruits about their reproductive methods, or just me?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Only the ones who are rumored to eat people.”

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

You sat on the edge of the couch like a guest who wasn’t sure if they were invited or accidentally wandered in. Your posture was perfect, hands folded neatly in your lap, gaze fixed somewhere safe—like the TV that no one had turned on.

Yelena flopped down beside you with the grace of a feral cat. “You don’t talk much,” she observed bluntly. “Which is fine. Some of us overshare to make up for our emotional repression.”

“That’s just you,” Ava said from the kitchen, balancing a tray of chips and something that might’ve been experimental dip.

“Correct.”

Alexei hovered behind you, inexplicably trying to angle a photo of his dog toward your face. “This is Misha. He was trained to kill before he was housebroken. You would get along.”

“I’m… sure he’s lovely,” you replied politely, offering a tight smile.

Bob sat cross-legged on the floor like a camp counselor. “Okay, but seriously. Do you want anything to eat? We’ve got empanadas. And tofu stuff. And I think someone tried to make brownies.”

You shook your head. “Thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“No fish?” Walker smirked. “Or is it just... men on the menu?”

The room went dead quiet for half a second. Ava groaned.

“Really?” Yelena muttered.

“I’m a vegetarian,” you said quietly.

Walker blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s even more terrifying,” Bob said thoughtfully. “You choose not to eat meat. Yet you still eat men. For sport, right?”

“I do not eat men.”

“Sure,” Ava said with a shrug. “But if you did, it’d be poetic justice. Like, ‘Oops, your ship tried to colonize my homeland, now you're lunch.’”

You gave a tight-lipped smile again, but the joke didn’t quite sit right. They didn’t notice the way your gaze dropped or how your fingers fidgeted slightly at the hem of your sleeve.

Except Bucky.

He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes on you in that quiet, unreadable way of his. Watching. Not judging. Just… observing. Carefully.

“You always like this?” Ava asked, circling to sit nearby. “Polite. Mysterious. Quiet. Like a goth librarian who also knows how to drown people with her mind?”

You hesitated. “I try not to make people uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” Yelena said, popping a chip into her mouth. “We’re uncomfortable by default. It’s a trauma response.”

“You’re basically the least weird person in this room,” Bob added. “Which is suspicious in itself.”

That earned a small laugh from you—surprising even yourself. Heads turned, and you flushed faintly under the sudden attention.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. A sliver of trust cracked open just enough for light to slip through.

And across the room, Bucky eyes softened.

It had started with snacks and sarcasm. Someone had turned on a movie. Bob was quoting every line with annoying precision. Ava kept tossing popcorn into Walker’s protein shake. For a while, you had almost forgotten to be cautious.

Almost.

“Okay but seriously,” Yelena said, elbowing you gently, “you’ve got to let us see it sometime. The thing. With your voice.”

You hesitated. “It’s not something I do for fun.”

“But it’s, like... mind control, right?” Walker asked, overly casual. “Like Jedi mind tricks, but with falsetto?”

You glanced around. Ava watching with narrowed eyes, trying to read you. Bob leaned forward, too curious. Yelena still too close. Even Alexei had stopped mid-story. And Bucky—still across the room, still silent.

“It’s not mind control,” you said slowly. “It’s... influence.”

The air shifted.

“My voice can influence people. Not just emotion. Thought. Action.”

The joking stopped.

“And I can sense... intention. Urgency. Fear. Hunger. The things people hide.”

Then softly you added. “It’s not always... voluntary.”

There was something fragile in your voice then. Not a confession, but a warning.

Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers curling in your lap. You could already feel it. The subtle recoil in their posture. Not loud, but enough. Enough for your pulse to tick faster, warning you.

“Damn,” John muttered. “So you just walk into a room and feel everyone’s business?”

“I try not to,” you replied, softly.

That landed harder than you meant it to.

The silence that followed was heavier than any you'd felt all day. Thick with the kind of unease you’d learned to recognize long before you joined this team. Not fear. Not rejection. Just... awareness. The realization that your power wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was here. With them. Listening.

You felt the wall go up in them before they even realized they were building it.

So you did what you always did. What you were best at.

You retreated.

Your shoulders folded in. Your body went still. Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. Just... quieter. Smaller. Like someone sinking slowly beneath the surface of the sea.

No one said anything.

But from across the room, Bucky watched you carefully—jaw set, brow furrowed—not at you, but at the room. At the shift. At how fast they’d gone from teasing to tiptoeing.

And you?

You didn’t need to read anyone’s mind to feel how far away you suddenly were.

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The wind was soft out here. Almost warm, brushing past your bare arms with the gentleness of something that wasn’t trying to take anything from you. You sat curled on a narrow bench, knees pulled to your chest, chin resting lightly on them.

You hadn’t meant to be found. That was kind of the point.

So when the door behind you slid open, your heart sank just a little. Until you heard his footsteps. Quiet. Measured. Familiar now.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. Just moved beside you slowly and sat down, leaving a respectful distance between you.

“I figured you might be out here,” he said, voice low. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You didn’t look at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

The corners of your mouth turned up, barely. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“You’re not. Just... noticed.”

For a while, you both sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward. Just... open. A space you didn’t have to fill.

“I didn’t mean to make them uncomfortable,” you said finally. Voice soft. Still watching the stars.

“You didn’t,” he said automatically.

You turned your head, just a little. “You felt it.”

He paused. “I felt them realizing they don’t understand you yet. That’s different.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

His eyes flicked to you. You didn’t see the way they narrowed.

“I know what I am,” you continued. “People don’t have to say it. I can feel it. The moment it shifts. That little breath of fear when they realize I can reach inside their heads without asking. It’s not wrong. I am what they think I am.”

You looked at him then, just briefly. Enough for him to see the resignation. The calm acceptance that only comes from long practice.

“A monster,” you said quietly.

His jaw clenched, barely. You saw it, even if he tried to hide it.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.” He turned toward you fully now. “You think you’re the only person on this team who’s scared of what they’ve done? What they’re capable of?”

You didn’t answer.

“You think any of us have clean hands?” His voice stayed even, but there was a tightness to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration. Or pained. “Ava’s killed for hire. Yelena was trained to be a weapon since she could walk. Walker…” He paused. “You saw the headlines.”

He let the silence hang for a beat.

“I spent seventy years hurting people with no choice. With no soul. If anyone here knows what it means to be used, to be feared—it’s me.”

You blinked. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because you're human.”

He stared at you. Then, quietly, “And you're not?”

You didn’t respond.

The wind picked up. You turned your head back toward the night.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, softly, “You scare them a little. Yeah. But not because you’re a monster.”

You glanced at him.

“They just don’t know you yet. And people fear what they don’t understand. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

You looked down at your hands, where your fingers were laced tight together. Like you were holding something in.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” he said.

And you believed him.

Not because his words were kind, but because they were quiet. Steady. Because they didn’t ask anything of you.

Because he didn’t look away.

And for the first time since you joined this mess of a team, you didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be triggered.

You just felt... seen.

────────────────────────

Abandoned Shipping Yard

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. In and out. Minimal resistance. Ava had scoped the perimeter, Yelena laid out the breach pattern, Walker was already ten paces ahead being Walker, and Bucky had given you a nod just before the comms went live.

You were ready. Or you thought you were.

The cold air clung to your skin as you moved through the corridor of rusted containers. You kept to the shadows, as always, listening more than speaking, watching more than acting. A quiet presence, there when needed—never more.

The first wave of hostiles came fast—mercs, jittery and underpaid. Nothing the team couldn’t handle. You barely had to use your voice.

But something changed.

Second floor. A new group. More organized. You didn’t see them until they’d already flanked Alexei. You reacted before you thought—instinct firing faster than strategy.

They raised weapons.

And you hummed.

Not loud. Not full. Just enough to stop them.

A sound low in your throat, rich with warning and pressure and pull. It rolled over the air like a tide, a siren note pitched directly into their nerves.

They froze.

Then they turned.

Not toward Alexei.

Toward each other.

Guns half-raised. Hands twitching.

Confusion swelled, slow and dangerous. One man dropped his rifle. Another started crying. A third turned to face you like he couldn’t remember why he was holding a weapon at all.

Then Walker’s voice shouted through comms: “What the hell was that?!”

A sharp click—a trigger cocked.

Bucky got there first.

He shoved the last merc down before he could swing his weapon back around, snapping a zip tie around his wrists with clinical precision.

“Clear!” Yelena called from above.

“Room’s secure,” Ava confirmed, quieter, voice tinged with something more cautious.

You stood in the center of the room, throat tight, breath short. The air still trembled faintly with the residue of your voice.

Everyone was looking at you.

No one said anything.

Until Walker.

“Was that you?” he asked, not angry—just stunned. Like he’d seen lightning strike too close. “What even—what was that?”

“I didn’t mean to—” you started, but your voice wavered.

“That wasn’t just noise. That was... influence, right? You turned them on each other?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened. They were going to shoot Alexei, I—”

“But it wasn’t controlled,” Walker said sharply. Not cruel, just assessing. Calculating risk. “What if they’d turned on us?”

That stung. More than it should have.

“I wouldn’t,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She said it was involuntary,” Bucky cut in, stepping forward. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “She stopped them. That’s what matters.”

“She also almost made a guy kill himself,” Walker muttered.

“She saved Alexei,” Bucky said firmly, turning toward the others. “We’ve all lost control before. Don’t pretend we haven’t.”

You stood silent, heart pounding, the aftermath of your own power still vibrating under your skin. The others started moving again—resetting, clearing the area, checking gear. But they gave you space now.

Too much space.

You barely heard the rest of the debrief. Your voice was gone, locked behind clenched teeth. Guilt wrapped around your chest like a vice.

You walked ahead in silence.

No one stopped you.

────────────────────────

You hadn’t even taken off your boots. You sat on the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees like they might keep you from slipping any further into yourself.

The door creaked open softly.

You didn’t look up.

But you knew the sound of his steps.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Bucky said gently.

You didn’t respond.

He came closer but didn’t sit. Just leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed loosely. Watching. Waiting.

“I lost control,” you said after a long moment. “They’re right to be wary.”

“They’re wrong,” he said simply.

“You didn’t see their faces.”

“I saw yours.”

You glanced up, surprised.

“You looked like you were trying to tear yourself in half,” he said. “Because you cared more about hurting them than saving yourself.”

You looked away again.

“They don’t understand what it feels like,” you said quietly. “To have something inside you that people fear. That you can’t always lock down. That might one day hurt someone—even if you don’t want it to.”

His expression shifted. Pain, recognition, something deeper.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

The softness in his face, the tension in his shoulders—he knew. He knew.

And still, he was here.

Not afraid. Not flinching. Just... here.

You exhaled shakily.

“I think I made a mistake joining this team.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been watching you,” he admitted. “And not because I’m waiting for you to snap. I watch because I see you trying. Every damn day. Even when they don’t notice.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t scare me,” he added. “None of this does. You do more to hold yourself back than most of us ever have to.”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You belong here. Even if it takes them time to see it.”

────────────────────────

The Next Night

Bucky wasn’t looking for you.

That’s what he told himself.

He told himself he was going for a walk. That his muscles ached. That the silence in his room was too sharp around the edges tonight.

But when he passed the door to the training pool and saw it slightly ajar, lights off, humid air curling into the hallway like a whisper—he knew.

Of course it was you.

He stepped inside quietly, the heavy door hissing shut behind him. The sound echoed across the still water.

“Hey,” he called out softly, scanning the dark. “You left the lights off.”

He moved toward the control panel instinctively, fingers brushing the switch.

“Don’t,” came your voice.

Not a shout. Not even stern. Just quiet. Low.

Carried like a ripple across the water, echoing from somewhere deep in the pool.

He froze.

“…You okay?” he asked, softer now.

A pause.

Then, “Yes.”

But there was something in the way you said it—like you were holding your breath inside the word.

The pool was a long, Olympic cut of black glass. He could barely make out your shape beneath the surface—a flicker of motion in the far end, a slow shift of shadow.

“You’re in the water.”

“Yes.”

The silence stretched again, heavy but not uncomfortable. He stepped forward, letting the heat of the pool air wrap around him.

“I thought maybe you’d gone,” he admitted. “After yesterday.”

There was a sound, something like a soft splash. A flick of fin, maybe. Movement, not retreat.

“No,” you said. “I just needed to be… this. For a while.”

He squinted toward you, his eyes adjusting to the dark. It took a moment, but then he saw it—just barely. The curve of your back breaking the surface. The subtle gleam of something slick and scaled beneath the low ambient light.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t stare. Just stayed still.

You exhaled slowly, the sound barely above the waterline. “I’m not hiding.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I just don't want to be seen like this. Not… yet.”

He nodded, even though you probably couldn’t see it. “Alright. Then I won’t look.”

And to his credit, he didn’t.

He turned away slightly, gave you space, let you move without watching. But he still stayed. Because you hadn’t told him to go.

Because, maybe, you wanted someone to stay.

“I’m not human the way you are,” you said after a while. “Not just physically. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing skin that doesn’t belong to me.”

He breathed in slow. “I know that feeling.”

“Do you?” you asked, not unkindly. Just tired.

Bucky shifted his weight. “I’ve worn a lot of masks. But yeah. There are days where I look in the mirror and don’t see someone who belongs anywhere.”

The water rippled quietly.

“Then you understand why I needed to be in the dark tonight.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“You ever wish you could just… stay like that?” he asked gently. “Who you are in here. Not the version you have to show everyone else?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, “Sometimes I think the version they see is the monster. And this—the water, the dark, the scales—that this is the real me.”

“And is she the monster?”

“No.”

Then you added, softer, “She’s worse.“

The words sank like stones.

You waited for him to back away. To excuse himself. To do what most people did when they saw behind the illusion.

But he didn’t.

“You’re not a monster,” he said, steady as stone. “Not in any form.”

You let out a breath—half bitter, half broken. “You should be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be.” A sharp breath. “Especially you. After what you’ve been through. After what it’s like to have your mind twisted, your will taken—I could do that to you. Without even trying.”

Silence.

You expected him to leave. You preferred him to leave.

Then a soft rustle.

You heard it before you saw it—fabric sliding off. The quiet thud of boots meeting concrete. A belt unhooking. Then another sound: the shift of weight, the hiss of disturbed water.

Your head turned sharply in the dark. “What are you doing?”

Bucky’s voice came low and calm. “Showing you I’m not afraid.”

His bare feet met the water first, then his legs. He stepped slowly into the pool, each movement careful, deliberate—like he was approaching a wounded animal. Like he knew you might vanish if he moved too fast.

You froze.

The lights stayed off.

The water rippled gently around him, catching faint echoes of motion from where you were submerged.

“You can’t even see me,” you said.

“I don’t need to.”

Your voice trembled. “You don’t know what I look like like this.”

“I know what I feel,” he said. “I know it’s you.”

He moved further in, the water reaching his ribs, his breath slow, steady.

You stared across the dark, at the shape of him—a silhouette against nothing. Vulnerable. Unarmed. Open.

You whispered, “Why?”

He paused, standing still in the middle of the water.

“Because you’ve spent your whole life trying not to scare people,” he said. “Trying to keep yourself small, quiet, contained. And no one’s ever just... let you be.”

You blinked.

Something deep inside you shifted.

“I’ve been used too,” he said softly. “Controlled. Hurt. Turned into something I didn’t recognize. And I’m still here. Still fighting to believe I’m not what they made me.”

The ripples between you both softened. Fewer waves. Less space.

You whispered, “You’re not.”

“Neither are you.”

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

Not in the way you did above water—but in the way that didn’t hurt.

“You shouldn’t trust me this much,” you said, a final warning. One last barrier.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But I do”

The water between you held its breath.

You didn’t move at first—didn’t trust the trembling in your limbs or the sharp edge of your pulse. But Bucky stood still, waist-deep, facing the other side of the pool, like he wasn’t waiting for danger—just for you.

So you moved.

Slowly. Silently. The water embraced your form the way it always had—your real shape, the one you kept hidden beneath flesh and clothes and fear. You glided like breath, like tide, like instinct. Your tail made no sound. Your scales caught no light. You were the shadow beneath the surface, and he didn’t flinch.

Not even when you came close.

Close enough to touch.

You hovered at his back, watching the curve of his spine rise and fall with every breath. Water clung to his skin, catching faint glints of motion—your motion—as you lifted a hand above the surface.

And touched him.

His shoulders tensed at first, just barely, but he didn’t pull away.

Your fingers were cool against his skin—webbed, slick, foreign. The pads of them brushed along the ridge of his shoulder blade, then down the line of his arm.

Still, he didn’t turn.

So you did it again.

This time, both hands—light and deliberate—placed just above his hips, fingertips resting at the base of his spine, gently urging.

He let out a slow breath.

And turned.

The water shifted as he faced you.

He still couldn’t see all of you—darkness and depth obscured your form—but he could feel you there. Close. Solid. Real.

His hands came to your waist, cautious, reverent. His thumbs brushed faint ridges along your sides��faint scales you hadn’t hidden, soft flesh beneath them. He could feel the texture of you, alien and familiar all at once.

You let him look.

Not completely. Not yet.

But enough.

You tilted your head up, and he bent just slightly toward you. His face a breath away, eyes searching yours in the dark.

“I see you,” he whispered.

And he did.

Not a siren. Not a monster. Not an aberration.

Just you.

The water lapped quietly around you, the two of you suspended in the dark.

Bucky was so close now. Close enough for the heat of his body to ghost across your skin despite the coolness of the water. Close enough that the contrast between you—his warmth, your chill—felt like static between touching wires.

He looked at you then, fully. His eyes locked on yours, no hesitation. Just slow awe.

You saw the flicker of realization behind his gaze.

Your eyes—icy and deep, nearly luminescent in the dark—weren’t human anymore. The pupils too sharp, the color too unnatural. You didn’t try to hide it.

And still, he whispered, breath brushing your mouth,

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Your lips parted, not to speak, but just to feel that warmth.

Then he leaned in—deliberate, drawn, inevitable—and kissed you.

The first touch was slow, hesitant only in reverence, like he was afraid of breaking something sacred. His lips were warm—so warm—pressing softly against yours, testing.

You didn’t hesitate.

You kissed him back, and the pull was instant. A current dragging you both under.

His hands rose, one settling against the back of your neck, the other at your waist, anchoring you to him. You opened your mouth against his—slowly—and his tongue slipped inside with a soft groan that vibrated low in his throat. You tasted him: salt, metal, heat, something earthy and real.

He tasted you: cool and mineral, like sea-salt and secrets, ancient and raw.

His tongue tangled with yours in deliberate strokes, slow and deep. It wasn’t frantic. It was exploration, mouth against mouth, breath mingling, like he was learning you piece by piece.

Then he felt them.

The faint edge of your fangs—barely exposed as your body stirred with instinct and desire.

He didn’t pull away.

He kissed you harder.

And you let him.

Your webbed fingers curled into his hair, claws grazing his scalp just enough to make him shiver. His hand slipped lower, across the slick curve of your back, dragging you flush against him in the water. Your tail brushed his legs—he felt the ripple of it, powerful and sinuous—and instead of flinching, he leaned into it.

He deepened the kiss with a quiet groan, tilting your head just enough to taste more of you, to chase the sharp edge of your teeth and the soft gasp you gave him when he sucked on your bottom lip.

He wanted more. You wanted.

But the kiss said it all: this wasn’t hunger.

It was surrender.

And when he pulled back—only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, breath fogging between mouths—his voice dropped again, rough and reverent.

“You’re not a monster.”

You trembled in his arms, not from cold.

And for the first time, you let someone hold you without fear of what they’d find in the dark.

The kisses evolved—mouths moving in rhythm, breathless and hungry, like they’d been holding back for far too long. The water around you rippled with every shift of your bodies, your bare skin slick against his, every nerve alive.

Bucky’s hands slid lower, smoothing over the firm plane of your back where slick, textured scales had shimmered moments ago. But now—he felt it.

They were fading.

His lips broke from yours just enough to murmur, breath hitched, “You’re changing…”

Your forehead pressed to his as your hands threaded through his wet hair. “I can’t stop it,” you whispered. “When I feel—”

He kissed you again, cutting the words off with a gentleness that said you don’t have to explain.

The transformation was slow, intimate.

You felt it first in your hands—your fingers unwebbing, reshaping. Human again. Your claws softened, becoming skin. You ran them down his chest, gasping softly at the warmth, the roughness of him against the new smoothness of you.

Bucky’s hands wrapped around your waist as you shifted again, the powerful muscles of your tail twitching, tensing—then separating.

Legs.

Human.

Bare.

You wrapped them around his hips instinctively, pulling him closer, water lapping between your bodies, heat blooming between where his skin met yours.

His breath caught, hard, sharp.

You were soft and solid and real in his arms, human now but still you—something wild and full of want beneath the surface. He kissed down your jaw, tasting salt and skin and a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

His voice, low and rough, ghosted along your throat: “You don’t have to be afraid.”

You shivered in his hold, lips brushing his ear as you whispered back, “I’m not.”

And for once, you weren’t.

Not of what he’d think. Not of what you were. Not even of what you wanted.

Just the sound of your shared breath, the gentle churn of the water, the beat of two hearts finally in rhythm.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist as he held you against him, his hands roaming—slow, reverent, learning every curve and shape as if memorizing what it meant to have you.

Not to claim.

But to be allowed.

The warmth of him bled into you, his mouth trailing over the column of your throat, lips parting around your skin as he kissed lower—slowly, like he wanted to taste every shiver.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his mouth returned to yours—hungrier this time. Tongues sliding together with unspoken urgency. He groaned into you, low and rough, when you rolled your hips into him beneath the water.

The sound you made—half gasp, half moan—hit him like a shot to the spine.

His hands cupped the back of your thighs, holding you up, keeping you close, guiding your body so you fit around him perfectly. The heat between you sharpened, pressed tight through soaked fabric and wet skin, every movement stoking something deeper.

There was nothing frantic.

Only build.

Only the slow, sacred pull of yes.

The kiss deepened until there was no air between you. His chest pressed to yours, heat meeting the coolness of your skin, fingers curling along your ribs, tracing the path where scales had once been.

You tilted your head back as he kissed his way down—jaw, neck, collarbone—tongue flicking against the hollow of your throat. Each touch lit up something low in your belly, and when you whispered his name, he froze just long enough to look at you.

Eyes dark, lips parted, hands still reverent.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, wet strands of hair clinging to his brow.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Bucky’s mouth returned to yours with hunger barely tempered now, his kiss pulling sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make—not songs, not power. Just want.

He guided you back through the water, hands steady at your waist, until your spine met the edge of the pool wall. The tile was cool against your back; he was warm and solid against your front.

His fingers brushed along the curve of your ribs, then up—slowly—tracing the faint shimmer where scales had retreated. He explored each new inch of you with careful reverence, like he was learning you with his hands, like every discovery mattered.

Your breath hitched as he slid one palm beneath the water, low across your hip, then between your thighs—fingers ghosting over the softest part of you with a touch so achingly gentle you shivered.

He swallowed the moan that left your mouth as his other hand found your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss you again—deeper now, tongue claiming, teeth grazing your lip.

You gasped, fingers curling around the back of his neck as your legs tightened around his hips, urging him closer.

He groaned, low and wrecked, as he pressed his body into yours fully—his arousal hard against you, his mouth dragging kisses down your throat as you arched into him.

“God, you feel like…” he murmured, unfinished, overwhelmed, pressing his forehead against yours.

Your hand found his chest, feeling the steady, pounding rhythm beneath the scars. “I feel like what?”

He looked at you like you were unreal. “Like something I’ve never deserved. But I’m not letting go.”

He reached down again, guiding himself into you with aching care.

When he pressed into you—slow, stretching, deep—your mouth parted in a soundless gasp, nails sinking into his back as your body opened for him.

The sensation was molten. Your body slick and ready, still half-wrapped in water, and every movement felt amplified—rippled and weightless, like being made and unmade in slow motion.

He held still inside you for a beat—his breath stalling, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Don’t stop.”

So he moved.

Rhythmic. Deep. Rolling his hips into you with intense precision, like he wanted every thrust to be a memory etched into your bones.

You clung to him as you rocked together, lips never far, gasps exchanged like prayer. The water splashed gently around you with every movement, hiding and revealing, sheltering and exposing.

And when you came apart in his arms—body shaking, breath hitching, fingers tangled in his hair—he followed seconds after, groaning into your skin as he buried himself in you one last time.

Afterward, he didn’t let go.

He just held you, still wrapped in warmth and water, as if grounding himself in the shape of you—your real form, your chosen form.

And you stayed there, arms around him, mind quiet for the first time in days.

────────────────────────

You lay together outside the pool, still dripping, the tiled floor beneath you warmed by residual heat from the water and each other.

Bucky’s body was solid and relaxed beneath yours, your head resting on his chest, your arm draped across his ribs. His breathing was slow now, steady, one hand lazily tracing your back—his fingers brushing the faint outlines of where your scales had shimmered.

He didn’t speak for a while. Just let his fingers explore you softly, as if mapping something sacred.

Then, voice low, “So… the other you. The form in the water. Is that the real you?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your breath pushed gently against his skin, your eyes half-lidded with calm.

Then softly, “Both are the real me.”

He didn’t move, but you felt the weight of his silence.

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to brush your lips against his—light, unhurried, a kiss not driven by need but by quiet affection.

A moment passed before you added, “I’m half-human. Half-siren.”

His eyes opened, and he tilted his head to meet your gaze, brows furrowed—curious, but not skeptical.

You sighed, a faint smile ghosting your lips. “Tale as old as time. Sailor meets siren. Siren gets curious. Doesn’t immediately murder him.”

That made him huff a quiet breath against your temple.

“Sometimes… they mate. Rarely. Just to understand. Or because something stirs in them they don’t expect. The sailors rarely survive the interaction. Then they return to the sea.”

His fingers paused at your spine.

You shifted your weight slightly, eyes locked on his, and said quieter still:

“This time, the siren left with a baby.”

His breath caught, just barely.

You looked down.

“And that baby got left behind on land. Half-breed. Too human for the ocean, too strange for the shore.”

He said nothing.

But his hand moved again—this time higher, threading through your hair, cupping the back of your head gently as if trying to hold that pain, that truth, without crowding it.

You exhaled slowly, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“A monster on land. An abomination in the sea.”

The words hung between you like steam, curling and vanishing before they hit the air.

Bucky didn’t try to correct you. Didn’t rush to wrap those words in comfort. He just moved—his hand smoothing up your back, across your hair, anchoring you to his chest. Holding you like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

His hand never left you.

Now, it moved with a new purpose—his touch slower, more intentional, tracing the skin between your shoulder blades.

You stiffened slightly.

He’d found them.

The scars.

Faint, old, but still jagged—slashing diagonally across your back in places that seemed more symbolic than accidental. He ran a thumb along the longest one, slow and careful.

“They match,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Your claws,” he said. “From before. In the pool. The shape of them.” He traced another line. “These look like what they’d leave.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you whispered, “They did.”

“You mean—?”

“The sirens,” you said softly.

He froze. “Jesus.”

You pushed your face gently against his shoulder, hiding from the look you couldn’t bear to see on his face—pity, horror, heartbreak, you didn’t know which would be worse.

“I didn’t belong here,” you murmured. “On land. Never really fit. So I thought—maybe the ocean would feel like home. Maybe they would understand.”

His hand stilled on your back.

You swallowed. “They didn’t.”

You pulled in a shaking breath, voice tight but steady. “They said I was soft. Weak. That I smelled too human. Felt too much. That I’d taint their species if I stayed.”

A beat.

“They tried to tear the human out of me.”

Bucky closed his eyes. His jaw tensed beneath your hand where it rested on his chest.

You whispered, almost bitterly now, “All the myths are true. They are monsters. They don’t love. They don’t feel. They don’t keep anything they can’t control.”

Silence.

Bucky’s fingers paused again, still tracing the old scars like they were something sacred. “You survived them,” he said quietly. “That says more about you than them.”

Your breath hitched, then came slow and shallow.

“I didn’t just survive them,” you murmured. “I tried to be like them.”

He stilled.

“I thought if I let go of everything human in me, they’d let me stay. If I stopped feeling… stopped flinching when they hunted. When they—”

You stopped, your throat tightening.

Bucky’s eyes were open now, watching you with more than concern. With something like dread.

“I tried,” you said, barely above a whisper. “To become what they were. To be unfeeling. A real monster.”

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “I even did it. Their way. Took ships off course with my voice. Lured them close. And I fed.”

His hand faltered.

“I ate humans,” you said, the words fractured, sharp. “So they’d accept me.”

Silence.

The worst kind.

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t breathe, but you felt his body tense underneath you—hurt, not at you, but for you.

You turned your face further into his shoulder, shame crawling up your spine like ice.

“But it never worked,” you whispered. “I was still too soft. I felt everything. Even when I tried to bury it.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you—gently, but with purpose.

“I couldn’t keep it down,” you continued. “The guilt. The screaming. The way they laughed at me for choking on blood.”

Your voice cracked. “Meat makes me sick now. Just the smell of it.”

He breathed then, long and broken.

You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek. Steady. Solid. And somehow still here.

The silence between you became thick. Not with judgment, but with something worse—your own shame.

You whispered, barely audible, “I became something I hate. I wanted so badly to stop being an outcast, I turned myself into a real monster. And they still didn’t want me.”

You closed your eyes. “They didn’t need to kill me. I did that myself.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up from your back to cup the back of your head again. He didn’t say it’s okay. He didn’t say you’re forgiven. He didn’t try to rewrite your past.

He just held you.

Because there are wounds too deep for words.

Because you had already condemned yourself, and he knew the last thing you needed was someone else trying to absolve what you hadn’t even survived emotionally.

Still, his voice reached you, low and rough and real,

“I hope someday you'll understand that you were never the monster in that story.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t believe it. But you didn’t pull away, either.

And for now—that meant something.

our girlie:

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@Ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @yvespecially @snake-in-a-flower-crown @mencantaleer @shellsbae00 @theewiselionessss @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @avivarougestan @xoxoloverb @superlegend216 @lori19 @sired4urmama @writing-for-marvel @thriving-n-jiving @ogoc-19 @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @its-in-the-woods @barnesonly

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[thatdisasterauthor]

Thoughts on the Grand Canyon Lodge?

Firstly, all thoughts are my own and not tied to my employer etc. etc. etc.

With that out of the way, I understand the sadness and the frustration and the disappointment that such a lovely place (and so many other buildings) burned down. But I have long said that when it comes to disaster losses, we need to be more accepting of the impermanence of things. Nothing lasts forever, and it's okay to mourn things when they're gone, but that's life. You can't let it consume you. The lodge burning down doesn't mean you can't remember all your favorite times there, or that there won't be a way in the future for people to make new memories in the same place. It's not the first time the lodge has burned down, after all!

Now, as for the anger and blame that's being hurled around about the response to this fire: everyone needs to cut it the fuck out. A building is not worth the lives of the people out on those firelines. They did what they could against a fast moving, massive wildfire that was started by natural causes, but in the end nature won out. There is only so much you can do in those circumstances, especially with historic wooden structures.

This is not the end of tourism on the North Rim, it's just a change. Something new will come, and what that is will be an important conversation between the NPS, the local communities, and other interested parties. For everyone who loved the Lodge and other things that were lost to this fire, I urge you to (in a few weeks, when things have calmed down a little) reach out to your local NPS office and volunteer groups and elsewhere to see what you can do to help. There's going to be a lot to do, and as we all know departments like NPS are really hurting right now due to all the governmental chaos.

Now, on a more personal note, here's what I would like to see happen going forward:

Rebuild the Lodge with the latest fire safety standards in mind while maintaining the original look and feel as much as possible, and explain it. Put up permanent placards around the new lodge explaining why different materials were chosen, why design changes were made, etc..

Where possible and safe, leave some evidence of the fire's effect on the original building. Maybe don't put a new roof on one of the semi-outdoor areas, and leave the burned beams, IDK. Put placards there too.

Involve the local community in the recovery process. You know those stands where you slot your phone in and then take a picture and email it in to a scientific study to monitor the growth of plants or something? Put those up everywhere and use the submitted photos to post about the rebuilding and regrowth process and show timelapses and all that. And do other things, like working with local companies and really highlighting their contributions.

Have a memorial wall somewhere in the new lodge where people can leave pictures and write down their memories of the old lodge. Embrace the grief.

Give a way for tourists to learn about and participate in the recovery process as well. Maybe community replanting areas they can visit, or have ranger led hikes where everyone gets a seed shaker of local seeds.

Signage signage signage. Put signs explaining the fire ecology of the area, what happened with this fire, how things regrow after fire, all of that.

Make sure to have tons of fire safety information everywhere. Not just how to avoid human caused fires, but how to stay safe if you are out exploring the area and a fire starts.

Sell fire safety related items in the shops.

Sooooo, yeah! Those are my thoughts.

[bbgsaja]

ℓσรƭ ɦα૨ɱσɳเεร (ɓαɓყ รαʝα א ƒ!ɦµɳƭε૨!૨εα∂ε૨)

summary - it's been months since you sealed the Honmoon, and it's been nice, peaceful, and...nope, the Saja Boys are chaotic little gremlins who really struggle with human concepts, games and technology warnings - none

part one • part two • part three • a/n - if you were on the previous tag list, please let me know if you still want to be tagged!

"Is it supposed to do that?!"

Up until that moment, you had been sleeping peacefully. Now your body jerked upwards, eyes still drooping, head snapping side to side. Baby wasn't in bed next to you, so you looked at the door.

"Put it out! Put it out!"

You looked at your alarm clock.

5:37 AM.

Sighing, you slowly dragged yourself out of bed, sliding your slippers on before making your way to the door. You emerged from the room to hear hushed whispers and panicked whisper-yells from the kitchen.

Nearby, the other sleep-riddled Huntrix girls were also coming out to see what the fuss was about. Together, the four of you walked into the kitchen.

Abby screamed, and hid behind Baby.

"Demons!" He pointed at the four of you.

Romance turned to look and jumped, letting out a sound between a yelp and a scream. He thrust Jinu forward before scrambling behind the island.

"Okay, what is going on?" You asked, rubbing your eyes tiredly. Then you looked at the other girls, and your eyes widened.

Simultaneously, all your hands shot up to fix your hair.

"We, uh, we tried making breakfast," Jinu admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. His cheeks flushed a light pink, and the other boys looked around like they suddenly found the lights interesting.

"At five in the morning?" Rumi groaned.

"Isn't that when you wake up?" Romance looked confused.

"No!" Mira groaned, face-palming. "No sane person wakes up at five to have breakfast!"

The toaster went off at that moment, Baby quickly sliding in front of it to hide the very burnt toast that emerged. Your eyes widened, because as much as he could hide the physical evidence, the smell was still there.

"Dare I ask what the eggs look like?" You sighed.

The eggs were burnt too. Yolk hard as rock, the white around it now an unsavoury shade of brown.

"Well that's...uh...sweet!" Zoey smiled, eyeing the eggs nervously.

Mystery approached her with a plate of eggs and a slice of black toast, holding it out to her. Nodding at the food, then looking up at her expectantly.

"Okay..." You looked at Baby, "Why didn't you just ask us?"

"Because Google is our best friend!" Abby replied confidently, his smile eerily wide for such an ungodly time in the morning.

Your jaw dropped, "You googled how to make eggs?"

"Well, Baby did," Jinu glared at your boyfriend, "And he is terrible at giving instructions."

"He gets distracted a lot?" You nodded, "Yep. Playing games in one half of his screen? I regret teaching him how to split it actually."

Baby walked up to you and pinched your waist, "You say that too much."

You swatted his hand away, "It's true most of the time."

"We wanted to surprise you," his voice dropped to a murmur as his arms snaked around your waist, his head dipping to bury itself in your neck.

"That's sweet," you smiled, wrapping your arms around him. "Come on, let's go back to bed. We'll clean that up in the morning."

"But it-"

"At a reasonable time in the morning."

You dragged him back to your room, curling up against him once more and going right back to sleep. He stayed awake for a moment, looking down at you.

You didn't eat the eggs, but you appreciated the gesture.

A few hours later, when everyone was awake and actually ready for the day, you guided Baby into the kitchen and turned on the stove.

"This is how you crack the egg-"

He growled playfully and bit your ear.

You laughed and threw the shell away, "You're not supposed to eat the shell, by the way."

"Don't tell Abby that," Baby grinned, "I told him it's extra protein."

"Why would you do that?" You laughed, shaking your head.

"It was funny."

Next you showed him how to fry the egg, and when to take it out. But when he reached for it with his bare hands, you almost had a heart attack.

"NO!" You slapped his hands away, "Not with your hands!"

He bit your ear in response.

"You'll get burned!" You grumbled, rubbing your ear.

"I like the burn," he said, looking dead serious.

"No, bad Baby!" You sprayed him with Mira's spray bottle for Romance and Abby, and he recoiled. "None of that here!"

Then you showed him how to use the toaster. How to put the bread slices in, what settings to use, and how to operate it.

He eventually got the hang of it.

Eventually.

Then it was the pool catastrophe.

You and the other Huntrix girls were relaxing in your pool on a day off, because it was hot and you needed to cool down. The Saja Boys stood around the pool on the edge, hissing at the water like it personally offended them.

Without opening your eyes, you sighed, "You guys can come in, you know. You won't melt."

"I don't like the way it moves," Abby shivered.

"What if it's not water?" Romance asked. "And you're just slowly cooking in there?"

You groaned, face-palming and sliding below the water's surface.

You heard Baby's cry from underwater, followed by a splash and rippling waves that made you stick your head out of the pool.

"What was that?"

"Baby pushed Abby in," Mira replied, her head still tilted back in relaxation. "Yelled at him to go and get you because you were drowning. Or something to that effect."

In the middle of the pool, Abby was letting out loud screeches that definitely did not fit his macho man appearance.

"It's burning me! It's- oh. It's actually nice."

Mystery was still hissing at the pool, "There's something down there." He stared ominously at the deepest end.

"What?!" You and Zoey shrieked.

"Mhm," Mystery nodded. "It's waiting."

Abby was now lying on his back, half-sinking and half-floating as he stared up at the sky. Jinu put one foot in and screamed, arms flailing as he fell backwards onto one of the reclining chairs.

"Why is it so cold?!"

So much was happening that you didn't notice Romance clinging to Baby as the latter slipped into the pool, calmly and slowly. They were the only two to not scream or splash or say something weird was lurking in the darkness.

Or so you thought...

"What was that?!" Romance cried, grabbing the pool edge and lifting his legs up. "Something touched my foot!"

Baby let out the most undignified screech you had ever heard from him and half-swam, half-drowned in your direction, "Probably Mystery's monster. It's gonna be a no from me. I'm not getting eaten today!"

He looked like an irritated, wet cat - glowing yellow eyes with slits, blue hair sticking to his skin as he paddled with his arms and let his legs just...hang.

"Baby, you're supposed to kick your legs too," you laughed.

When he tried it, he was surprised to see how much faster he moved. Then he got to you, wrapped himself around you and refused to let go as Romance used the edge of the pool to make his way to Mira - feet not touching the bottom once.

Rumi had to get out and actually pull Jinu into the pool, sighing when he almost drowned her by trying to climb on top of her, pushing her head underwater in the process.

Abby still floated around the pool like a life-sized demon floatie, and you weren't sure if he was still breathing. You were afraid to check.

Then Jinu sneezed, and the water vanished.

Baby quickly hovered and caught you before you could fall. Romance did the same for Mira. Mystery, still crouching on the edge, grabbed Zoey's wrist and prevented her fall.

"It's gone," he murmured.

Rumi's hair cushioned her fall, her eyes wide as she watched Jinu fall flat on his face. Abby slammed into the ground on his back so hard that he cracked the pool floor, his own eyes wide. He didn't even flinch.

Everyone looked at Jinu.

"What?" He got defensive, "The water was cold!"

"You're a literal demon," Mira deadpanned.

"Who isn't immune to extreme cold!"

"But it isn't even-" she stopped and took a deep breath.

"Okay, I think that's enough of the pool," Zoey suggested, "Maybe we should go inside and play some board games?"

That didn't go well either.

You tried to teach them how to play Monopoly, and it turned out to the biggest mistake of your lives. For one, the boys didn't even know that those countries and cities existed.

"Ha, ha," Abby laughed boisterously, "Rome, as if that was a place. It's just short for Romance!"

You face-palmed.

Then they tried to lay claim on certain places.

"This is the first round!" Rumi protested. "You can't claim anything during the first round!"

They relented.

Once the second round came, you and Mira, Rumi and Zoey didn't get a chance to buy anything. As soon as one of the boys landed on a place, they took it without a second thought.

Jinu's money pile remained suspiciously big.

Baby was growling at Abby, who was attempting to buy the place he landed on, though he didn't have enough. Baby wanted it too, so he laughed and picked up the dice.

"No, wait!" Abby stopped him, picking up a fifty from the bank. "Now I have enough!"

Mira was breathing in and out deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Baby promptly turned Abby's new fifty into ash.

"Hey! No demon magic!" Zoey scolded.

Mystery whimpered.

Baby and Abby gave each other dirty looks, before they both agreed not to buy that place. But the second Baby landed on it, he purchased it.

Abby jumped him like that had been a declaration of war.

"Jinu, that's cheating!" Rumi yelled, confiscating the money he was magically duplicating.

Mystery ate a piece, whether by accident or on purpose you weren't sure - and you didn't want to ask. You turned and buried your face in Baby's neck, laughing as the other girls tried to reign in their own boys.

Then your phone rang, and without breaking away from Baby, you picked it up and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hello," a deep, distinctly male voice drifted into your ear, "Is this (Name)?"

"Yes, who's asking?" Beside you, Baby tensed.

"An old friend," he responded, voice low and languid. "I'll see you soon." And then he hung up.

You dropped your phone.

Seven heads turned to you.

Baby instantly pulled you close to him, knowing his scent helped you calm down. You held onto his sweater, trying to stop the incoming dread that was going to consume you.

"(Name)?" Zoey called tentatively. "What's wrong?"

You just broke down crying.

"I'm sorry."

[rottingpink]

simon's girls

cw. angst, fluff? uhh you're very much so a housewife... don't want to spoil too much!

synopsis. simon riley's heart is shared by three girls.

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simon riley has a dog he's had since his twenties. now, as he enters his late thirties, his little pup is no longer a tiny, wriggling thing with too much energy and a lack of bladder control, but a gentle old girl who needs more naps and has a smaller appetite.

her name is maisie. soft and old-fashioned, just like simon loves. simon chose the name when he found her waddling around a dirty alleyway with trash stuck in her fur, searching for scraps. feeling pity for the little thing, he knelt down, held out a hand, and she barrelled to him without hesitation, like she'd been waiting her whole life for him to save her.

or maybe she'd been waiting to save him.

maisie's old now. muzzle's greyed along the edges, she runs a little slower when she's helping simon around the farm, a contrast from when she and simon were an unstoppable pair on duty in the force, taking down enemies swiftly and saving civilians in need. maisie'd trained with him. sniffing bombs, doing rescues, the works. maisie'd saved people from drowning, tugged civilians out from under rubble, found a hidden trapdoor rigged with explosives during a mission.

she'd jumped in the way between simon and a man with a sleek machete once and took a slice to her cheek, but she didn't mind at all. as long as simon was okay.

"stupid girl," he'd said, dabbing the whining pup's cheek with a warm washcloth those years ago. "shouldn't fight all m'battles for me. 's not fair you get hurt in place of me when i can handle it a lot better than you," she'd given him a playful head nudge and licked his cheek.

simon's not a sentimental man, not with most things, but when maisie's brought up in conversation, like when johnny goes, "oi LT, how's that pup of yours doin'? been a while since she's been on base," simon's voice always softens to talk about her. he scratches behind her ears much gentler than he did when she was younger, and if she's having a bad day, he'll carry her upstairs to sleep at the foot of his bed. no one, not even johnny, mocks him for it. why would they mock simon for adoring something so purely?

maisie still always perks up when simon comes home, tail slow and thumping against the floor and ears perking at the sound of the lock clicking, and she walks over to where he's entering and yips happily at her best friend. he always kneels to her, drops what he's holding to pet her cheeks. "there ya are, lil' miss. always know when i'm home. still got y'wits about you, hm?"

maisie was simon's first girl.

you were simon's second. first, a cute girl at a pub, then the girl he was dating, then his girlfriend, fiance, and finally, best of all, his wife.

his beautiful, soft, clever, precious little wife. you're the only person alive who can make him nervous and flustered. he's been trying and failing for those horrible flips in his stomach to relax whenever he's around you. worse is the raging hard-on he'll get whenever you do the most menial, everyday tasks.

and your voice. the way he'd be in the house finishing up some work before he joins you for the night, when you'd stand by the doorway of the bedroom in a sheer, tiny robe and purr, "come to bed, baby, haven't seen you all day…" oh he's going to ruin you.

you're his everything. his home, safe place. he'd give up everything if it meant you'd never get hurt a day in your life. it kills him every time he has to leave you behind, when you stand on the porch of the pretty farmhouse you share, wrapped in one of his shirts with the sleeves swallowing up your hands and you look up at him with a forlorn expression that breaks his heart.

when he tells you through a letter that he'll be coming home soon, you wait in the kitchen with the windows open in one of the little dresses he bought for you with a feast prepared for him. the hem sways around your thighs as you pace the kitchen barefoot, glancing toward the gravel drive every few seconds.

maisie's paws patter gently across the hardwood as she follows you from counter to window to front door, tail wagging slowly like she knows he's coming. when the sound of tires crunching over gravel finally comes, you freeze. maisie perks up with a quiet huff and makes her way to the door, giving a single excited bark to tell you her best friend has arrived. you wipe your shaky hands on your skirt and rush onto the porch with excitement, just in time to see him climb out of the car.

simon, despite looking tired, is ecstatic to see you. there's a shiny glint in his eyes and a soft smile he reserves for you. he's broader from months in the field, tan and scruffed with deep shadows under his eyes. regardless, they light up when he sees you.

his shoulders drop in relaxation as he rushes toward you without pause, boots thudding on the earth, gaze locked on you. he scoops you into his arms so swiftly that you're lifted off your feet. you wrap your legs around him as he kisses your lips intently, then your cheeks and neck; he can't get enough of you. it's always like this, overwhelming at first because he needs to make sure you're real. he leans back just enough to take a look at you.

"look at you, lovie. been takin' care of yourself while i was gone, haven't you? look s'beautiful."

then, as if it physically hurts him to pull away, he finally releases you and crouches by maisie, who's been waiting for her turn with simon, wagging her tail with a slow, happy rhythm. he kisses her muzzle like always, then leans his forehead against hers, whispering, "missed y' too, old girl."

sometimes simon can't believe he's made you his wife. you, the kindest, most beautiful creature on the planet, is mrs riley. he's yours, every bit of him all belongs to you.

he adores you so much it's almost sickening. he wakes up before you and just stares, fingers brushing your cheek, neck, and soft hair, pupils dilated and heart thudding in his chest just from being near you. he has the physical reactions to you that he had when he first started dating you. in fact, they might've grown stronger.

maisie's his best friend, yes, but you're his whole world. but, there's one more girl.

one left, one small, soft girl nestled in his wife's tummy, tucked safe and sound inside you. you're pregnant with his daughter.

when he found out, he didn't speak right away, you'd been sick for a few days prior to taking the pregnancy test, and he'd thought you'd just had a cold, but the morning sickness and hormonal imbalance and missed period had been enough symptoms to get you to check. besides, he'd... been filling you up a lot more recently. you'd ran out of condoms and birth control kept making you sluggish and queasy, so you'd told him it was fine. told him you'd track your cycle, and that it wouldn't happen, not if he pulled out in time. but simon had been greedy.

simon's always fucking greedy. he can't get enough of you, your taste, scent, his cock nestled in you to the hilt, your soft gasps and breathy moans. simon would nod, swear he'd be careful and that he'd pull out, but when you're wrapped around him, skin to skin and he's so close and so deep, and murmur, "mmh! inside, simon please," with your big, shiny eyes, all his restraint flies out of the window and he'd fill you to the brim with his cum.

so it wasn't really a surprise, but when the test turned positive, and you'd shown him the faint pink line, he'd stared in silence, then took it from your shaking hands with a strange expression, thumb brushing the edge of the little piece of plastic like it was something holy. then he knelt by your tummy, hands cupping you, and asked, "you're sure?"

" 'm... 'm sure si,"

your daughter started showing as a little curve at first. simon noticed quickly. he noticed everything about you, especially now. how you got sleepier during the day, how you started getting cravings, how your hands kept wandering to your belly.

he can't keep his hands off you because he's so obsessed with the way your skin's glowed more from your pregnancy, how your hips and thighs and breasts plumped up, how your belly grew swollen with his child. "morning, little miss," he'd whisper to the bump, "you treat your mum nice, yeah?" you'd hum sleepily in response, threading your fingers through his hair.

maisie's noticed your state too. she's been extremely protective over you, curling up to your side in bed.

the first time the baby kicked, simon was sitting behind you on the couch, one hand on your stomach and he felt it, a tiny push under your skin, simon just blinked and then looked down at your belly with surprise. "she's sayin' hello," he murmured hoarsely, "little bugger knows her old man's home."

when you go into labor months later, it's late into the night. your water breaks after you've been in deep discomfort the last few weeks and aching to get this baby out of you. you knew it was tonight too. you and simon had been sitting awake tensely until now.

he sits up immediately, extremely alert, and scoops you up into his arms. he's terrified, truly, but is being strong for you as he rushes you to the front door while you whine and beg for him to hold you and not let go of your hand no matter what. "i know, wifey, i know, got you. you're safe."

maisie sensed it too. before he can put you in the truck, she scrambles to the door with the two of you. her tail lashes back and forth slowly, gaze locked onto you with her head tilted. she thinks you're in pain and wants to help simon protect you. simon nods to her, wanting to make sure she understands. "easy, girlie. you watch the house. i'll bring your mama back with the new little one, i promise."

at the hospital, simon praises you all throughout your labor, hand petting your hair softly. "y'doin' so good, baby. you've got her. you're almost there. just a bit more, yeah? that's it, that's my girl." even though he believes in you, hearing you in pain is making him genuinely distressed.

when you finally get your daughter out of you later, he stiffens and squeezes into your hand, staring at the wailing little girl being transferred into your arms. simon's eyes flood with tears and he just stares in disbelief at his daughter.

she's got the tiniest fingers, already curled into fists, and this soft little tuft of hair and lungs stronger than anything he's ever heard. simon leans over the two of you, cheek pressed to your head, hand shaking as he touches his baby's back. "look at her, lovie. look at her."

he sniffles softly, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hand and leaning closer to his child, who's slowly quieting down. "hi, sweet girl," he whispers, voice hitching as he strokes her hair. "I'm your dad. I'm your bloody dad."

when they go home, maisie is waiting at the door, tail wagging slow and anxious. she sniffs the bundle in your arms once simon lowers it close to her face. "gentle, mase," you remind her softly, letting the pup nose at your daughter's tiny sock covered feet.

"that's your sister," simon tells her softly. "you're gonna help us look after her, yeah?" you smile at simon and lean into his side, while simon's eyes flit between the three of you - at his old girl, still loyal and sweet, and his wife, the loveliest thing he's ever laid eyes on, and this soft little baby in his arms who already owns his whole heart. he feels so full. warm. safe, and at peace.

maisie gets to see two whole years of that baby grow.

two years of your daughter's tiny hands petting her head and grabbing her ears, of hearing giggles when she wagged her tail, or lazy sunday mornings of you and simon cuddled up with the baby between you, and her at your feet, watching quietly.

maisie's patient. she always has been, but something changed when the baby came. maisie understood her role in your and simon's life was changing. she was meant to stay a little longer in your lives to make sure everything was as it should be. long enough to be the baby's first friend.

"do-gee!" the little one would chirp, toddling after maisie on chubby legs, arms outstretched. maisie would just thump her tail and let the baby crawl all over her. simon has so many photos of them cuddling, in the backseat of the truck with your daughter beside her mid nap, of them playing, sharing toys, and more.

maisie showed the baby the farm grounds too, told the other animals to be gentle with the new tiny human and to keep watch over her like she once did. she didn't forget about spending time with simon, even if she was preoccupied with the baby a lot of the time too. she wanted to make sure her final days were with him.

even though the old girl's hips had stiffened, and the greys on her muzzle had spread to her chest, she still went with him every morning during rounds. across the fields, past the barn, through the fence line where the cows gathered. her gait is slower, more careful, but always determined.

until one morning. the sun was just coming up, you were still asleep, your (now) two year old asleep in your arms. he was up early like usual, wanting to go check the farm like usual on the drizzling morning after having his morning tea. he whistled by the door. "c'mon, mase. let's check the fences."

she didn't come. at first, simon thought maybe she was just slow to rise. but after several minutes with no response to her name and no sight of her anywhere near the porch or in the house, he grew worried. simon jogged out to the side field outside of the cow pasture where wildflowers grew, dewy from the rain.

and there she was, curled in a patch of daisies. her head rested softly on her front paws, eyes closed, like she was just asleep. but not breathing. maisie always let out little puffs of air and quiet snores when she slept.

simon couldn't move for a moment, frozen in place. deep down, he'd known that maisie's time was coming soon, but deep down, he hadn't accepted it. he thought she'd be with him forever.

he dropped to his knees in front of her. "...mase."

...

"mase?" simon touched her side, his hand shaking so hard it barely made contact, and there was nothing.

maisie, his girl, his first girl, was gone. in the flowers, the morning light, like she'd chosen that spot on purpose. she didn't want to make it hard for him, or you, or the little one. she went outside to die in peace.

simon pressed his forehead to her and sobbed.

he buried her right under the flowers. you were there, hugging simon quietly after he laid maisie to rest. your daughter didn't really understand, but held your hand and toddled up to the mound of soil curiously. after you told her maisie wasn't going to be around anymore, she said, "do-gee sleeping?"

simon nodded, throat too tight from the need to sob. he can't muster any words right now, because if he opens his mouth, he'll break down. so you take over. you pet your daughter's hair, pointing to the grave quietly. "mhm, right under there, baby. can't wake her, okay? she's gonna nap for a long time." your daughter nods, placing a daisy at the head of the mound and holding your hand as the three of you walk back to the house.

its hard for simon to break habits. he keeps reaching for maisie's ball and her stick with the intention of calling her to play outside, and reaching his hand out to the foot of the bed when he's half asleep so maisie can headbutt his palm. though he has his baby girl and his wife, a piece of him got laid to rest when maisie passed. a piece curled up forever in that field of flowers, resting after a job more than done.maisie held on just long enough, and when she knew they were safe, really safe, she let go. the quietest of goodbyes. simon will love her for the rest of his life.

[reignpage]

ʚɞ In which you partake in wing play with raven hybrid!Choso

“Please be gentle,” he says. 

Truthfully, Choso isn’t in any place to make requests; he had come home after a long day of sparring and had done so with an injury. There, on his back, sits a gash on his lower back. It’s shallow and will heal in no time, you’re sure, but he made a promise he did not keep. You have half a mind to prod just a little too hard and make him regret it. 

Leaning against the wall on his palms, he stands, torso bare, presenting his back to you – the only way for you to comfortably reach his wound. For a long time now, it’s been your duty to patch up the half-man, half-bird. There’s a routine: you use cotton swabs, dripping with alcohol, to swipe along the wound, he winces or hisses, you tell him to grow up, and he pouts as you cover the wound with a gauze. 

“Oh, Choso,” you begin, sighing as you finish cleaning up, “why do you keep making me worry?”

A little sheepishly, he replies, “I don’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

His back is littered with scars, faint and pale, blemishing his strong torso. Years of training has left the muscles all over his body hard and prominent. Strength runs through every limb of his, including the large wings that sprout from his spine. They’re thick, pitch black in colour, and oddly soft. Carrying him, and occasionally yourself when he’s feeling playful, high up in the sky, the marvellous things defy nature. But they aren’t what makes him special. 

Often, you ask yourself how someone so strong, so powerful, and deadly could hold you gently, tenderly, and like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. Perhaps he ought to be punished for not granting his body the same care he worships yours with every waking moment. 

Satisfied you’ve done what you can with his gash, you let your nails faintly trail down his spine, avoiding the gauze and the painful consequence of his carelessness. He shudders.

“Does it hurt, Cho?”

Voice husky, he stutters out, “Yes– I-I mean, n-no. No, it doesn’t.”

“Good. You’ll tell me if I hurt you, yes?”

The shaggy onyx hair of his rustles with the nod of his head. You press a kiss to his spine, inhaling his musky scent. Choso gulps. It’s no secret the skin between and around his wings are one of the most sensitive parts of his body, save for the obvious. And this is a fact you rarely ever hesitate to exploit. 

In seconds, and in tandem with the tight fisting of your hand around his cock, you can get him to cum just by sucking a mark right where skin shifts to feathers, where man meets an animalistic instinct he never fully shook off. 

Choso’s breathing heavily now, wholly aware of the wet trail of kisses you’re leaving on his back. You wonder if he’s aching in his trousers, if the fabric is stretched tight along the bulge, and if he’s resisting the urge to touch himself because he knows he needs permission. 

"I thought you were mad."

You nip him. He moans. "I was. I am. But I also can't help myself. Problem?"

He shakes his head.

Breath fanning against the baby feathers, you let the vibrations of your voice pierce him, knowing he can cum just from hearing you. “Did you at least think of me when you got hurt? Did you think about how disappointed I’d be? How upset?”

“Y-yes. Always thinking of -hah- you. Always,” he chokes out, back arching to simultaneously lean into your touch and to cower from the pleasure he never believes he deserves. Sweet thing, you think. Smiling into his skin, you comb your fingers through his wings, very lightly grazing the thin, sinewy membrane under all those attentive feathers, reading every shift in the air. The wings flex, rustling. Choso gasps. “More! Mmm, f-fuck.”

He’s flattened out against the cold wall now, chips of paint hiding under his nails. The weight of your body pins him and he has no escape, nowhere to run to, none to help him.

Desperate moans reach your ears; he's begging for what, he doesn't know. Choso probably yearns to hold you, to taste you, to feel your warmth wrapped around him.

But he knows he's underserving. He had failed you.

The drool on his chin and the wall reminds him of that.

Your hips press to his and you feel every grind of his lower body, searching for release all while you’re licking, sucking, and near damn shlurrrping! the part of his back where his feathers begin to grow.

Tutting, you chastise him. “Are you humping the wall, Cho? And here, I thought you were a sweet raven hybrid, not a filthy mutt.”

“Sorry. I’m sorr–ah FUCK! Hah hah t-teeth. Not your -NGH!- teeth, please!” Familiar whimpers escape his lips, swollen from biting down the embarrassing sounds he’s leaking. They almost double when a mischievous hand of yours ventures to his front, palming his throbbing length. A wet patch, warm and sticky, meets your palm and your thumb rubs at the concealed head of his cock, pulsing and pleading.

SWOOSH!

Fully flexed, the span of his wings fill up the room, towering over you. If you were anyone else, if you were a lesser woman, you would have felt intimidated, scared to death, by the sheer might they project. But, perverted as you are, you’re only egged on, motivated to scrape your teeth harder down his spine. 

“Stop, I -hngh!- can’t. No m-more. Please. I can’t -fuck fuck fuck- I can't -hah- take a-anymore.”

Sure, you reply, “Yes, you can. You will. For me….for me, Choso. Please...my sweet, little hatchling?”

“Yes,” he gasps, defences crumbling with the weakest of pushes. “For you. Any -hah fuck!- a-anything.”

The poor man has forgotten all about his wound, conflating the pain emanating from the traumatised area with the maddening pleasure he’s feeling all over his body. And when he shudders and shivers, whorishly moaning your name, searing cum explodes in his trousers, soaking the material and leaking onto your hand. 

He's clawing the walls, running from the almost painful squeezes of his cock you're punishing him with.

"Fuck...fuck..." He whispers, still shuddering.

It feels like hours pass before he finally returns to his body.

Each individual feather flutters, thanking you, before they quiet into place, wings folding back into polite things. 

“Hey, Choso?” 

Lids heavy, eyes teary, he turns to meet your vixen-like gaze. Locks of his hair have fallen onto his face, sticking to his forehead with the sweat. His lips are swollen and glossy, looking far too tempting. Still, despite the exhaustion wracking his beaten down body, he finds it in him to smile, albeit shakily, down at you. 

“Wanna fuck in the sky again?”

Choso falls to his knees.

[madamechrissy]

Worst Behavior

Art in the center by Houhai673 on lofter

pairings- stepbrother! Sukuna x f! Reader (lil bit of Toji/reader)

summary - Sukuna’s dad married your mom while you were in high school, and you hated each other on sight. He endlessly picked on and tortured you. So much so that he became a fucking YouTube sensation from prank videos starring you! You come back home for summer break after a bad breakup, and of course annoying ass Sukuna is there, with his stupid smirk, ready to pick on you again, only to be derailed when he sees you're going out with his old friend Toji for a date. Turns out, Sukuna has had it bad for you for a long time, and making you hate him was the only way to guarantee you stay far away, but can he keep up the act?

content/warnings - MDNI, tw- stepcest, yandere sukuna, lots of pining, kinda one-sided lol, he's an asshole to you, reader hates him. Enemies to lovers - ton of sexual tension, jealous ass Sukuna. This chap - Fingering, MORE tension, protective Sukuna, fucked up dynamics, degradation, choking, overstim, Sukuna is down bad, yandere tendencies, oral sex (f receiving)

<<<part two - part four>>> (ao3 only:)

part three

You bump into Sukuna when you’re going to brush your teeth that next morning, he eyes his own shirt you’re wearing, the slight hint of the curves of your breasts and your pretty nipples pressed against it. Your breaths rise and fall, lips parted when his hand brushes against your upper arm, pausing before he drops his hand, brows lowering as he stares at you.

“Steal all my clothes?” He asks, earning your little mean ass smile that just makes him ache to make you cum so good you drool instead.

He truly does not feel bad he stole your panties last night, not when he got to taste you again, it takes far too much effort not to slip his own shirt up you, the one way too baggy, hiding your pretty little body - aside from those thighs. When you turn to look up at him, they press together just a bit, he can vividly imagine them squeezing either side of his head.

“Sure do, they’re comfy to sleep in.” Your words earn his irritation, but it’s half hearted truly.

He can imagine you wearing not just his old tee shirts, but a fucking button down, or maybe his jacket with nothing under it. “How many of my shirts have you stolen, hmm brat?”

“A drawer full.”

“Tch,” you smile, all mean and pretty, tempting him so badly it’s difficult to just stand there, especially in sweats that damn near show his thickening cock from just seeing you. “You really gonna steal my shit all the time?”

“You should steal mine, it would be funny to see my skirt not even making it over your thighs.” His jaw locks, it’s as if every time you speak you drive him more insane. 

“Ya calling me thick now?” He crosses his arms, your eyes drift down his bare chest now, heating up just a bit at the sight of him.

“You are thick,” you poke at him, he snatches your wrist now. “You eat all my damn food, yours, and get another plate - what do you expect?”

“I’m so done with you.” He shoves at you, you slip past and grab a tooth brush, bending over, and you’re clearly not wearing anything under them. He leans in the doorway, eyes flitting over your skin now.

“The roids make you hungry?”

“I don’t need those to bulk,” he splashes water that’s running, making you gasp out as the droplets hit your face, the shirt just slipping up more. “Don’t even wear panties when you’re wearing my clothes?”

“You keep cumming in them, so I guess I don’t have any,” you say, mouth full of toothpaste, he scowls right down at you, while you rinse, putting more toothpaste on the bristles. “What?”

“It was one pair,” two… three… this week at least. He doesn’t remember. “You probably like that I did it, sick little freak.”

“Me!?” You spit into the sink, and look away, washing your face now. “Why are you still just standing there?”

“What, I can’t stand here?”

“You’re so immature.”

“Me?” You dry your face now with a little soft washcloth, nodding.

“Mmhmm, why aren’t you busy pranking people? Such a fulfilling career,” his arm braces against the counter now, big ass body blocking the doorway, raising his stupid slutty eyebrow. You hate how your tummy flutters for him, how it clenches like that with just a look. “Why didn’t you just be a football star, I saw you yesterday.”

“Why do you give a fuck?” You sigh now, looking at your reflection in the mirror, bun half falling out, exhausted expression on your face.

“Just curious I guess,” he stands up from leaning in the doorway, when you hear doors open and shut downstairs. “Youtube that much money?”

“It really is, and much less damage on my body,” he’s serious and quiet, making you more curious about him. “Again why do you care?”

“Can’t even ask a question, huh?”

“You never have before.”

“Because you…” he is too close, bending at the waist now, fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that burns, his lips quirk up as he sees your lips part with a gasp. “You…”

“I made you cum, now you want to know me? Cute.” You smack the fuck out of the hand touching you, scowling up at him.

“Oh fuck you.”

“For a virgin, you’re kind of a-”

“Good morning you two!” You hear your mom say, brightly bouncing up the stairs as she sees you two. “Breakfast.”

You two separate, barely able to breathe, a mix of wanting to kill him, and wanting to drag him down, bite at his stupidly glossy lips. How he had his fingers inside you, how he sucked on your tits, but didn’t even kiss you was confusing. What’s more confusing is why you keep picturing it, dreaming of more and more filthy images, right along with scarier ones.

Him kissing you, for example.

What would it be like, brutal and insane? All the hate poured into a passionate, messy kiss? Would he leave your lips swollen - bite them with those damn fangs he calls teeth, the ones that left a bruise right above your nipple. Or would it somehow be a little softer, a little slower - leading to the dangerous, awful thought tracks, of how it would be to fuck him.

You may be a virgin, but you’ve read more than enough smut to know sex, and watched more than enough porn. Would he give you those backshots, ask you to arch for him, then smack your ass when you don’t obey? Would he make you ride him, but talk shit the entire time? Or was there some possibility he’d be on top of you, maybe entwining a hand?

You have to stop that, stop thinking of it.

Of course the breakfast was horrible, when wasn't it around him? When you’re near Sukuna, instead of just hate, just annoyance, there’s even more bullshit, whereas before you could pretend none of it existed, now you know it does. Your body remembers him and reacts to every single shove like it’s a caress, every smack of each other’s hands like it’s some stupid foreplay.

You need to just fucking forget it.

It certainly cannot happen again, it will not happen again.

*****

Your friends invite you out to a party at the club later that day, and you’re eager to get the fuck away from the suffocating presence of your ‘step brother’ or whatever the fuck he is. The last thing you need is to spend even more time with him than you already have lately, the way even the scent of his cologne is messing with your senses more and more with each moment.

Usually busy doing something, he’s oddly just lurking around today, lounging by the pool with his stupidly good looking body just slick with sweat and droplets of water dripping. You almost went for a swim until you saw him out there, and rushed back inside before he could catch you practically staring.

Sukuna is thick, and it just makes him unbearably more attractive, if you were honest with yourself - which you are so not - you’d admit just how badly you’d love to feel him against you, feel his thick fingers touching you again. You hate him more for having such a stupid effect on your body, every look like he’s touching you, eyes like they’re undressing you.

Even now you’re flustered, touching up your makeup in the mirror of your room, while you text your friends, setting up a ride to go. You weren’t even that much into parties, but you sure the hell couldn’t just hang out here, not with the neverending tension between you and Sukuna.

You’re sure he knows what he’s doing.

And that makes it even more infuriating, as if it’s all some long standing prank set up. And you did mean what you asked earlier - why would Sukuna get into that, when he was getting drafted for the pros at some team far away? You would assume he’d jump at those opportunities, and find yourself wondering more and more about him. Just who even was he, besides some arrogant jerk?

“Hey sweetie, where are you going?” Your mom asks later, she’s highly overprotective but not in a way that has ever made you feel suffocated. Moreso, she clearly just cares.

You feel his sights set on you the moment he walks into the living room, see the way his gaze sits on your chest, he grabs a jacket again, making you roll your eyes. “Seriously, this again?”

He unceremoniously throws the damn jacket over your shoulders, this time it smells too much like him, it feels too good, the weight of it so heavy, when your mom just giggles like this is somehow okay behavior. “You really don’t even own any clothes, do I need to take you shopping?”

“These are clothes, Sukuna.” He snorts, his dad walks up, and the two of them are just oblivious to how much of a little shit Sukuna is. “I’m going to a club tonight, with a whole bunch of friends from school.”

“What club?” He asks, you raise your brows at him.

“You’re not my dad.” He grins, the thoughts on the tip of his fucking tongue - that he’d have you calling him daddy if he finally got a chance to fuck up your insides, but instead your mom cuts off those thoughts.

“Honey, why not have Sukuna go too?”

“Yes, you’d be safer,” his dad says, you look at them both, wide eyed.

“What now?”

“What sort of club are you going to? Where?” Sukuna’s standing next to his father, a spitting image of him, your head leans back as you scowl up at the ceiling, and you tell him where. “That one? That’s not a good area. I’m coming.”

“You don’t need to!”

“If he says it’s a bad area honey…”

“I don’t want him to go,” you cross your arms, the jacket thrown over you so unavoidable you don’t bother to argue. Sukuna’s dad sighs, looking as the two of you glare at each other. “That’ll be so lame.”

“Me, lame? You’re the nerd, pretty sure I was fucking popular - oh and I still am, every one of your little girl friends love me.”

“And they have bad taste.”

“You brat-”

“Sukuna,” his dad starts, while your mom says your name, simultaneously, full disappointment heard in their voice. You two get just a bit resigned, frowning now. “We’d prefer him to go with you.”

“Just to be safe.” Your mom says softly, you sigh now.

“I’m not a little girl.”

“You’re a tiny little-”

“Sukuna!” You shove at him again. “He doesn’t even want to go!?”

“Tch, I didn’t say that, you think I don’t have plenty of friends that will be there, run in the same circles.” You roll your eyes.

“You actually having friends is insane to me. Who’d deal with you?”

Sukuna can’t wait to bend you over something and beat your damn ass, it’s all he can think of at the fucking moment, while you’re tugging his jacket reluctantly over your body, swallowing you. The sight is too much, addling his already fucked up brain, while you finally look just a little resigned, when your mom starts getting on you.

“You two need to learn to get along, you’re right - you’re not a kid, so I expect you to behave maturely. We see that middle finger, young lady.”

“Ugh!” You pull it back, Sukuna can’t help but smirk. “Fine, you can come, who am I to stop you?”

“I’ll drive you.” You sigh again. “What, you wanna uber?”

“I already set up a ride, I’m good.”

“I’d feel better if Sukuna drove you,” your mom really doesn’t know what she’s saying, the thoughts and images of the past couple days swirling in your mind until you feel dizzy. “Especially if you drink.”

“My ride is literally here,” you look out front to see the car pull up now. “How about I come home with him then?”

“That’s fine.” They agree, you walk out quickly, avoiding Sukuna’s glaring red eyes that burn fucking holes in your back. You turn though, sighing a bit.

“I’ll see you there?” He doesn’t answer you, stomping over to his obnoxious ass jeep, a pretentious big fucking car for a pretentious big fucking man, slamming his door shut.

This will just be so fun.

*****

Sukuna does indeed have a shit ton of friends, and he seems otherwise occupied, holding onto the jacket he wanted you to keep thrown over your shoulders, sipping on a little glass of whiskey slowly. Meanwhile, you’re on your fourth free shot, as some guy who thinks you’re hot just keeps buying them. He’s currently trying to make small talk with you, but you can’t say you’re paying attention.

Your gaze keeps flitting to him, he seemingly ignores you, but instead he’s catching sight of you carefully, drinking you in every time you look away long enough, so he’s not caught in just how infatuated he is. Your friends do literally fawn over him, it’s actually sort of ridiculous how excited they get when he just looks in their general direction.

You suppose you see the appeal, if he wasn’t horrible, if he didn’t torture you constantly, and now take it to an entire other level. The teasing and pranks were one thing, the way he casually gave you the best orgasm of your life and mocked you during it, was quite another.

“Wanna dance, baby?” The guy - you don’t remember his name honestly - asks you now, you see the set of Sukuna’s lips as he looks across the crowded club, full of drunk giggling girls and guys all trying to get with them.

It’s a reason you’ve really never liked it, but the way he’s looking at you makes it even more of a reason to accept his offer, to dance with him, while you feel his gaze never leaving you. You keep catching his gaze when you spin, when the guy's hands slip to your hips, and you can’t help but relish in the way you feel Sukuna almost touching your body with his eyes.

The guy starts kissing on your neck however, so you push a bit at him, he stops and keeps dancing, the alcohol has hit just enough you’re a little lost in the dancefloor now, in all the bodies moving around you and the song. So gone your eyes flutter shut, and you feel his touch getting just a bit bolder.

You want Sukuna with you, on you, but what would that do, what would all of that cause, really? If everyone that knows you both, saw you dancing on him?

You try not to focus on it, to just roll your hips and dance, when you feel him touching you lower, again your ass, you pull back, shoving at him as he gives you a sleazy fucking grin, you notice you’re just further out than you expected to be now, more towards the exit. Your heart races, not seeing Sukuna any longer, for whatever reason that makes it all worse.

“Don’t touch me there dude,” your words make him laugh a bit, cupping your face, making you smack it off too. “Fuck this, I’m leaving.”

“After I bought you all those drinks?” He grabs your wrist when you pull off, the touch just disgusting you.

“Let go of me, stop being a creep.” You tug more when he pulls you harder, the grip so tight you feel it bruising. “Seriously-”

“Get the fuck off her.”

Sukuna’s suddenly shoved the man so hard there is a loud crack sound, literal lines dancing up the plaster as he frees you from his grip, he puts his hand on his throat, lifting him then, the boy just fucking dangles there. You try to catch your breath, hand on your chest now, watching him lose it, the boy just sputtering now.

“Bro, chill-”

“Hah, gonna call me bro,” he slams him again, as people turn now, hearing the rustle even over the blaring music. “I’m not your fucking bro, dumb little bitch boy. You’re never gonna touch anyone again once I break every finger you got.”

“Sukuna,” your hand comes to his shoulder, scared of what sort of trouble he’d get into if he does that, even though you wouldn’t mind the boy having none. He looks back at you, expression unreadable. “We shouldn’t go too far, right?”

“Can’t breathe!” He’s turning some shade of red now, while Sukuna keeps him suspended in the air, before throwing him unceremoniously to the floor, knocking the wind out of the guy. “Shit!”

“Say one more goddamn word.” Sukuna kicks him now, until he’s on his side, holding his stomach. “Not fit to fucking touch her, who do you even think you are?” He crouches down, a sadistic grin on his face.

“Sukuna we should go,” your soft tone hits him, when he’s about to punch him right in his dick. “Like, now.”

The security has been notified, and are headed in your direction. “You got lucky today, lemme find you again.”

“S-sorry, I am!” Sukuna sneakily punches him in one quick motion, undetectable by everyone but you and the boy who can’t breathe now, so quiet you didn’t even hear the blow.

“You are sorry, a sorry little piece of shit.”

“Come on.” You’re tugging him then, Sukuna finally leaves the kid laying there, taking your hand, inspecting your wrist. “I’m fine, promise.”

“Let’s go then,” he murmurs, holding it for two long, touching the glittery sweat that decorates your skin, before his eyes lock with yours. “Now.”

You nod, for once not arguing, for once just going with what he has asked, he snatches up that jacket, throwing it over you after he settles the tab, like it’s a second nature. It’s not cold outside, no it’s humid, the air is sticky and so hot, but the coolness of the leather feels oddly good.

His hand rests on the small of your back while he walks you to the lifted, obnoxious car, he has to help you up, it’s so high off the ground. When you’re in there, and he climbs up beside you, your mind starts running. Sukuna, who you never thought gave a shit about you - in fact you think he hates you - had just saved you from someone really mesing with you.

“Thank you, Sukuna-”

“Shut up.” You gasp now, his mood furious, he slams the door, chest rising and falling with how furious he is. “Wanted to fucking kill him, but you had to give me dumb puppy eyes.”

“What now!? I’m trying to thank you, ass!”

“Yeah, whatever. Didn’t want me to come out, right?” His hurt is laced in with his nasty tone, while he drives far too fast, the roar of his v8 ridiculously loud.

“Why do you act like you don’t care when…” You trail off, shifting in the seat now, his ruby eyes glint in the dark as he glares right at you.

“When what, brat?” His voice is harsh, jaw tense then, you take a shaky breath, blinking back the disorientation.

“When you seem like… when you…”

“Can’t even finish a fucking sentence.”

“Stop being a dick! God,” you cross your arms when he comes to a red light, he tilts his head to study you. “I’m trying to say something nice for once?”

“Yeah, why?” You sigh, looking back out the window, the passing lights making you just a little dizzy, slipping off his jacket now, shivering a bit as the air hits your bare skin. “Why start now…”

“You’re ridiculous, y’know that? You act as if you’re not the one that started this, started being a whole jerk to me day one.”

“Me?”

“You,” he scoffs, laughing without any humor, when he turns, headed toward your parents’ house. “I actually…”

“Actually what?” His voice is gruff, you sigh now, shaking your head, arms falling. You lean over, he tenses when he feels you come closer, so close he can inhale your scent in the big obnoxious jeep of his, a mix of something so sweet and the liquor you’d slammed back tonight.

“I liked you.” He grips the steering wheel, hearing the slight slur of your voice, his heart hammers.

“You are drunk,” you laugh then, soft and sweet, a hand touching on his arm, making him swallow nervously. “The fuck are you doing?”

“You get to grab me, my tits, my pussy, and I can’t touch your arm?” He almost loses it, as the girl he’s fucking desired since forever is too close, your lips just a couple inches, breath fanning his cheek gently.

“You liked me, that’s a joke.” He tenses under your fingers, arms bunching and rolling with his tense muscles. “You couldn’t stand me.”

“No, I did like you, I thought you were cool and shit, okay? But you started pranking me and being so fucking mean.”

“Yeah,” he pauses now, another red light, casting a glow over both of you, making him look intense then as it colors his skin. “You told me you hated me.”

“I do hate you,” he exhales, too close to you, when your hair brushes across his neck, the strap of your top slipping down your shoulder. “But tonight… well, you really looked out for me, you cared for me.”

“Tch, it’s nothing,” he begins to drive again now. “Think I’d let some mother fucker hurt you?”

“I didn’t think you cared,” he looks down at his hands for a moment, the tattooed ones, veins bulging from them with how tightly he’s gripping the wheel. “I am just trying to say thank you.”

“It’s nothing to thank me for,” you ease back, and he curses internally. “I’d never let anyone fucking hurt you.”

“Sukuna…” The way you say his name almost ends him, when his phone starts ringing. “Go ahead.”

He goes to hang up the call on his bluetooth, but instead it answers, and it’s the girl he’s been going out with here and there. He stiffens as her voice echoes through the car, you poke around at your phone, checking your texts. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Sukuna, you should come over tonight,” her insinuation is clear, you eye him for a moment when he looks at you, giving him a disinterested glance, texting your friend back instead. “We can get in the hot tub.”

“I’m tired, maybe another time.”

“Oh-” He hangs up, making you blink in surprise then.

“What?” He scowls your direction, before eyeing the road again.

“Famous slutty Sukuna turns down a booty call? Call the presses!” He snorts, rolling his eyes. “You can drop me off and go over, you know.”

“I don’t want to,” his voice is just a little hoarse, clinging to the steering wheel while you text. “Messaging Toji?”

“No, just a girlfriend. I haven’t talked to him today, I think he’s out of town for a couple days.”

“Hmm,” it’s tense and quiet in the jeep now, as he zips through the empty streets, lights flashing softly through the tinted windows. “You like him.”

“I guess I do.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah, he’s really fun, and he’s hot. He’s enjoyable and I feel pretty comfortable with him. Is that how it feels, a girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t know.” You turn to him in surprise now.

“How wouldn’t you know? Mr. Dates everyone.”

“Never had a long relationship,” how can he, when he compares everyone to you? When all he can picture is your ass arched, grabbing your hair, sinking inside your cunt. It seemed hardly fucking fair. “Stop looking at me like that, gremlin.”

“Just surprised.”

“You’re being nice, stop it, fucking creepy.”

“Jesus, can I not be thankful!? Can I not be happy that you actually give a fuck about me?” He curses then, seeing tears glimmer in your eyes.

“I don’t know how you think I haven’t, every man I’ve chased has been just to fucking protect you.”

“No, it’s been some bullshit. Some long standing prank, like everything you do, including last night I’m sure- ah!”

“That’s it,” he pulls over once you’re off the highway, dark and secluded, swerving so quickly you jerk in your seat. He parks the car with a quick tug of the gearshift, before cupping your face. “I do care about you, stupid fucking brat.”

“I’m not stupid, and that’s not a great way to fucking show it!” You shove at him, but his grip tightens, leaning so low over you, until you can taste his breath, making your entire body flood with warmth. “Just admit you care.”

“I do, I just said it, when you gonna admit you don’t care?” You grip his wrist, glaring right up at him, tears threatening to spill. “How much you gonna say you hate me today, huh? How much all summer?”

“Don’t you want me to, isn’t that why you’re like this to me?”

He can’t say shit now, not when you’re calling him out on it, he leans lower, forehead resting against yours, breaths coming faster and faster, while your fingers brush against his wrists. He can’t answer you truly, not when part of you is right - he felt so terrible wanting you, he pushes you away, he is mean to you, to make sure he avoids the inevitable truth.

That he’s fucked up for you.

“Sukuna, just say something mean,” you whisper now, almost pleading, just like that moment in the bathroom. “Make it all normal.”

“Ya want that, me to be a dick to you?” You nod now, tears falling, his breath catches, the car humming softly underneath the two of you. “I protected you because there’s not a world where I wouldn’t, I’d never let someone touch you.”

“You do care.” He cups your face even tighter, huge calloused hands pressing on your delicate skin.

“Yes, I fucking said that, do you not listen for shit!?”

“Because we’re ‘family’ is that it?”

“No,” Your heart pounds in your chest now, his brow is resting on yours. “I don’t see you like that. That's how you want me to?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know you at all. I thought I did, but I don’t know a damn thing.”

“And you want to? Hah, why?” He eases his hands down, tilting your chin up with two fingers, his other hand brushing back your hair almost gently. “You’ve never tried to get to know me.”

“You made sure I wouldn’t want to.” He sighs now, avoiding the obvious, the complete truth of your words.

“I’m taking you home,” he pulls back, and you take shaky breaths now. “You need to sleep it off.”

“I don’t want to go home yet.” Your words make him pause, he puts on a cruel little fucking smirk then.

“Want me to finger you again, slutty brat? What would your mom say?”

“Fuck you,” you lean over, putting a hand on his to stop him from putting the car in drive. “You only touch me when you feel like it, huh?”

“You made sure to tell me you didn’t want it, now you do?” He raises a brow, flipping his hand to grip your wrist tightly. “Don’t you want Toji?”

“Are you going to fuck that girl in her hot tub?”

“Hah - are you jealous?”

“No, I don’t have shit to be jealous of. But since we’re asking,” you lean over, tugging his hand now, he swallows nervously as you put it on your thigh. “I liked you fingering me, okay? That’s what your conceited ass needs to hear?”

“Fuck,” he can hardly think, when you slip his fingers higher. “You’re shitfaced drunk then.”

“I’m not, Sukuna, but I’m just tipsy enough to admit it. That I like it,” you whisper those words, he moans when he feels your heat, burning him, you whine out softly. “That I want more of it.”

“Fuck me…” He touches you over your panties now, eyes locking with yours. “Think I’ll stop at fingering you?”

“Sukuna…”

“Slutty fucking virgin, want your step brother to take it?”

You slap him then, making him grin, panties soaking his fingers as your breasts rise and fall with your panting breaths. “You like it, don’t you? Freak.”

“I’m the freak, hmm,” his lips brush your ear now. “What is it you want, just tell me, ya need me to have you squirt again?”

“Yes,” he pulls back, lips parted now, your hips roll as he almost tugs back. “I wanna cum again.”

“Using me to get off? What, that’s your new plan, brat?” He’s smirking, but internally he wants to say so much more.

“If this is some game where you’re bored, fuck it, it f-feels good, and I’m too tired to act like I don’t want it. We can just… fucking forget it after the summer, can’t we?” He nods, lying like a mother fucker, but he’d take any of you. “Does it have to mean so much?”

It would mean everything.

“Nah, I like making you cum, shuts you up, dumb fucked out look,” he chuckles when you yank off his hand. “Didn’t even mind you pissing on me.”

“It’s not piss! Never mind, I am drunk, mnh!” He tugs you to him now, right in the car on the side of the fucking road, practically shoving you in the backseat. “Sukuna, what’re you doing?”

“Shh, you’re so annoying, it’s why I like you cumming,” he murmurs, laying you back in the seat, your thighs trembling when he slips up your skirt, hesitating while he imagines actually seeing you up close. “Soaked these already?”

“Shh,” he eases them down now, fully planning on keeping them for his collection, when he throws your thigh up over the back seat, eyeing your perfect, pretty cunt, fingers brushing across it, making you jerk. “Thought you wanna cum?”

“I do, but why back here? And why… Sukuna?” He’s shoved you up until you’re damn near folded in half, settling down the seat somehow with his big, lanky body, the backseat is huge but it still hardly fits his giant ass. “What’re you looking at it like that for!?”

“Shut the fuck up please,” you’re narrowing your eyes when he finally gets to part your puffy lips, opening them to reveal your tiny little hole, drooling out wetness. “You say you’ll forget after the summer, huh?”

“We’ll have to, we can’t.” Your insinuation is soft, it’s clear, he smirks up at you, pink locks falling over a brow, while one of his big ass hands presses on your stomach. “You have to finger me like that? You’re seeing like… all of me.”

“Yeah, nervous?” You shake your head, lying, he wants to tell you how perfect and pretty it is, but he instead leans down, finally tasting your cunt from the source with a swipe of his tongue.

“Ah! Sukuna!” You’re trembling, cunt pulsing around nothing, tugging at his locks to yank him up. “What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna eat you out till you’re crying, begging me to stop, saying it’s too fucking much,” he licks you again, you jerk for him, earning his grin, his teeth nip at your exposed clit, earning a scream. “So loud the cars are gonna drive by and hear your slutty moans, so loud huh?”

“You’re such a - oh my fuck.” He’s lapping at you then, burying his face against your cunt, drinking eagerly while your juices pour. “Mnh - y-you’re eating me… out and…”

“Will you shut up,” he raises a brow, you’d retort but he’s lapped at you again, tongue slipping up between your folds, as you tug his hair again. “Keep trying to pull me off, I like it.”

“You’re so freaky, you - ah!” You’re done for when he starts fucking you with that long tongue, in and out of your hole hungrily. He grabs you by the ass, dragging you against his face as one of your hands presses on the car door, the other trying to yank him off.

But then it feels too good.

Your cunt is gushing while he desperately drinks you, you never pictured this, someone just lapping at you like they’re starved. You pictured getting eaten out several times, but nothing prepared you for Sukuna, his strokes are mean, his chuckle fucking devious when you try to back off. He tugs you closer, firmer, fingers bruising, drinking you up.

“That’s it, your cunt can’t help it huh, so fucking messy,” he’s talking shit, you jerk again, and he slaps your hip. “Ah-ah, stop fucking running.”

“Sukuna… oh my… fuck it, there!” He grins, sharp teeth against you, every line brushing your plump lips while he fucks your hole with two thick fucking fingers, stretching you out so good you can’t take it.

“Just can’t help it, desperate just f’me,” he’s losing it as he tastes you, sweetness so perfect, he’d tell you if he didn’t have to hold back. If he didn’t know that whenever you move on, he’d be done for, instead taunting and chuckling, like he’s not almost cumming in his jeans. “Want me to make you cum with my mouth?”

“Y-yes,” you’re soft then, almost sweet, the mean little brat he’s obsessed with, pliant under him while your walls constrict. “Please.”

“You’re saying please, huh?” His voice is hoarse though, he can’t stand it, how good it feels, how good those words sound, whiny and soft as your eyes roll back, sinking against his leather seats. “Should I make you beg?”

“Fuck you,” he chuckles again, pulling his fingers out now, watching your hole twitch and convulse as he spreads you.

“She really wants them in her so bad, doesn’t she?”

“Just make me cum, just shut up and - ah!” He’s sucking your clit into his mouth, while you drip down his lips like a fine red wine, so perfect and rich. He could never leave this position, never get tired of you tugging his hair, arching your ass up for more of it, more of him.

Sukuna did not mind pleasing, but he’s never almost cum from it - it makes sense though, it’s you. Everything he’s dreamed about since he laid eyes on you, the filthy sounds of your messy cunt just gushing for him. He’s looking at you under those sooty pink lashes, mouth humming on your clit, sinking two fingers inside and angling them just so.

“Oh my - Kuna - y-you - ah!” You’re shattering now, he barely registers the stupid nickname, not when you’re clinging to his hair like that, soaking him, whimpering and shaking underneath him. “Oh my god - f-fuck…”

Your words are faded, hoarse, eyes rolled back in your skull with the combination of his fingers and his mouth, with how they work you, stretch you and fill you. You can barely function after it, blinking rapidly, thighs pressing against either side of Sukuna’s face, shaking with the aftershocks. You whine when he curls them again, releasing your clit, his lips coated in your slick.

“Never got eaten out, huh?” He murmurs, pressing a kiss, grinning as he watches your hips jerk, cunt convulsing around his fingers, squeezing him so good.

“N- no,” you manage, a little whisper, making him more possessive, more feral, being any of your firsts. He licks you again, swirling his tongue around your clit, you’re gasping now, while he moves his fingers again, and the soppy sounds of your wetness just echo. “Kuna!”

“What’s with the dumb nickname? Did I lick you stupid already, brat?” His words are dark, that mean tone to them, dripping with venom like his cock is dripping with precum - as if he doesn’t want more, all of you.

“Sh-shut up, just came out that way, but since you hate it,” you smile, fucked out and lidded. “Kuna- oh!”

He bites your clit then, with his sharp canines, you scream out hoarsely, it feels good, something that makes no sense. The pain pricks the receptors of your brain, pushing you to get close again. He's moaning, rutting his leaky cock under those jeans as he moves, noises almost like a whimper against your clit now.

“Too much, mmm, too sensitive,” you're jerking away then, hiccuping while the pleasure hits, sharp and hard just like the man between your thighs. His pink silky hair is like silk, glossy strands between your fingers. You're arching, he's dragging you back to his mouth, slipping out those fingers with a filthy pop.

“Ya asked me to make you cum, hmm?” You barely nod, his breath ghosting your cunt now, fingers sliding up and down between your slick, he moans as he watches it trickling from your hole. “Then I'll do it as much as I want.”

You're sniffling when he leans over you, rubbing your twitchy clit with the rough pad of his thumb, grinning down at you. He's taunting you, thigh pressing up now, right against where your cunt drools. You're struggling to maintain focus, legs threatening to close, if not for the thigh barring them to stay spread.

“Aww, can't take it baby?” You hardly register anything, mouth dry when he speaks it, cupping your chin. “Pathetic, look at you, crying and drooling.”

He swipes the drool, you want to retort, but he's moving his leg up again, smirking. “Ngh!”

“Can’t you cum again f’me? Since you’re only gonna do this for what, the next week?” He taunts, lips dangerously close, eyes so fucking dilated they’re black, fingers pressing harder on your clit, while you walls clench air. “Can’t talk, brat? What would you do if I fucked you then?”

Your eyes widen, you want to speak, tell him fuck off, tell him anything at all - something bratty, some witty little comeback, but you’re about to cum for a damn third time, when he pulls those fingers back. You’re desperately trying to get them back, tugging at his wrist now, he slips his soaked thumb over your fingers, smirking at you now.

“Taste it, how sweet you are, despite being such an evil little thing,” he’s almost affectionate, you almost like it too much, oversensitive cunt eager for more of him. Your lips are covered in your own juices like a gloss. “Is this all I had to do, to get you to shut up, be nice to me?”

You should tell him fuck you, but you’re licking your juices off instead, he lets out a soft moan, when your hand slips down his chest, feeling the hard muscles bunch and move underneath your palm. His heart is racing, just like yours is, the only sound in the car is that, your heart pounding, his heavy breaths stuttering, while he just looks down at you in ways he never has.

“Can’t talk at all, so stupid just from a few flicks of my tongue?” He taunts, whispering right against your lips, straight nose touching yours, yet he still doesn’t kiss you, he just wraps long fingers around your throat. “Asked ya a question, brat.”

“Fuck off.”

Your whisper earns his chuckle, it’s expected of course, but it’s a weak little attempt, a breathy cry, his fingers run down your cunt again, right between puffy lips, you’re arching off the seat, breasts nearly spilling from your top. His fingers tighten around your throat, making everything fuzzy, making you dizzier than the drinks or the dancing.

“Want me to fuck you, take your virginity? Ruin your perfect little cunt for anyone, is that really what you want?” You shake your head, but you’re lying, and his psychotic smirk shows he knows, his breath against your lips, squeezing harder. “I’d hurt you, I wouldn’t fucking take it easy on you - wreck it, so it only knows my shape.”

“Psycho - ah!” He’s got his fingers in again, squeezing your throat harder now, right under your chin, pressure so tantalizing and sweet - yet fucking terrifying. He’s strong, and he’s not gently squeezing, he’s choking you, watching you while your vision blurs.

“Like it, huh slutty step-sis, ya like me touching you, choking you, bet she’s dying for my cock,” you shake your head, spreading your thighs and raising your hips. “Body can’t lie, perfect little fucking body, fuck you for it.”

You want to ask what he means, but he’s got his fingers curled again, thumb pressing on your clit, while he chokes you. And if you thought his mouth and fingers were a terrifying combination, the floating sensation of him squeezing the oxygen out of you just added to it. You’re choking on air, on your own spit, while he works you, pressing right on your spot like he’s always had it.

“That’s it, pathetic little brat,” he whispers, cock almost busting then and there from your scent, your taste sinking into his tongue, he’d tell you you’re sweet like honey, so beautiful you make him ache, if this wasn’t just gonna be a memory. “Cum all over me, pretty little whore.”

You should hate that he called you it, that he’s taunting and degrading you, but the way he looks at you, while he’s rocking his fingers in your hole is too much, you do cum, and this time you’re so overstimulated and dizzy, you almost black out. Your vision is shrunk to a little pinpoint, shaking and sucking in greedy breaths when he lets your throat go, slipping his fingers out finally with a wet squelch.

“Can’t help yourself, messy cunt, spilling all over me,” he’s husky, sucking you greedily off him, pressing a kiss to your neck that’s too gentle, so he thinks better of it, sucking instead, moaning. “You love it, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” you’re gripping him though, head falling to the side, lost in him now. You’ve never really touched anyone aside from Toji for a moment, but you reach down, finding him. He groans, pressing his cock against your hand, and you feel just how huge he is. “Sukuna…”

“That’s enough for now,” he murmurs suddenly, with a ragged gasp, pulling back and eyeing the glistening, gossamer slick coating your cunt and inner thighs. He sighs, leaning down again. “I need to clean you up, you’re so fucking messy.”

“N- not anymore I can’t take it- oh fuck!” He’s licking you everywhere, but not even for your pleasure now, he’s not hitting those spots, not licking your clit, no… just everywhere he can greedily taste you.

“God why do you taste this good,” he whispers, nonsensical, you’re yanking him off, his eyes fucked up, almost scary in how black they are now, his stupidly long tongue lapping your juices that spill down his mouth. “You’re not getting my cock tonight.”

“Oh I swear you’re such a- ow!” He smacks your cunt then, firm and hard - the loud thwack just resonating in the small space. You’re shaking, struggling to catch a breath anymore, as just his smack makes you whine. “Jerk!”

“Aw, poor brat, can’t move, can’t think - desperate for my cock, hah well I am not sure your tiny little hole could handle it. Pathetic, aren’t you?” He whispers those words too low, again teasing you with the idea of a kiss, but never more. “It’s time to go home, yeah?”

“Sure,” is all you manage, you notice he’s oddly delicate when he helps you up, when he fixes your skirt, wraps you in that jacket. When he seatbelts you, and it’s so quiet, the ac turns on blasting cool air on your skin, you shiver a bit, when he cups your cheek for a moment. “Sukuna…”

“What, brat?” He murmurs, then you scowl, shocking him.

“You better give me my panties back! How many pairs are you gonna take?” He grins now, sadistic fuck, shaking his head and slipping the gear shift into drive. “Are you serious?”

“I’ll steal as many panties as you stole my shirts, annoying ass.”

“Creep!”

“Slut.”

“Dick, ugh! I can’t believe I…” You trail off, and he just smirks, lips still glistening under the lights. “It’s just for the summer.”

“Sure it is, brat.” He murmurs, you look away, and he swallows down the hurt - aching to say something, anything, to show you what he really feels, but nothing comes out.

“Sukuna-”

“Shut up, you’re annoying.”

“I just…” you trail off again, and he softens a bit. “Thank you for earlier, really. He freaked me out.”

“Yeah, I told you, nothing.” You just nod, leaving you two in the silence, where Sukuna’s sticking to his boxers, and your panties are in his pocket, as he contemplates just how he’ll make you beg for him, and how once he has you? You’ll never fucking leave him.

- @sukubusss @quinny23 @flowerymenendez @valleydolli @gradmacoco @lolliibunny @chosolover32 @tiredasiandaughter @nanam1nz @sukunabish @valentinegab3 @heichouaack @throwmethroughawindow @mizuwki @omkookie @lemonadesforsale @dannaya @maybe-a-bi-witch @fl4weriesworld @karvokr @pillkits @yummycastiel @fl4weriesworld @kitty-yaps @kitassecretgf @deathrye @musiclover2119 @goldenfawnwriting @sttaejoon-blog @lil-cinn @keiiate @sageosimps @paradisestarfishh @ohohostinkyyyyy @blitziwitch @b0nez9 @sukunaforlife @mihauh @gojodickbig @ashlantismorning @erenspersonalwh0re @uncertainlyours @t4ters @msniks @lnette04 @salemsays66 @chxngminji @poopooindamouf @hellovanie

[mooningningg]

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (3)

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

parts. chapter 02, chapter 04

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.90k (???)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megumi. Fucking Megumi Fushiguro.

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

You hated that.

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

It terrified you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miwa.

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

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

You’re just being ridiculous, you told yourself.

But your thoughts didn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

Why does it matter?

But you couldn’t help but wonder:

Why don’t I matter like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, as if on cue,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, but—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megumi.

How would he react to this?

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

So why did it matter so much?

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

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

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

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

And maybe, just maybe, Megumi would notice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. "Who?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, there he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded once. “Try harder next time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But how could you do that now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it was time you admitted that.

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

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

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

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

What the hell is this place?

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

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

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

But then why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

The gym was empty.

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

What was Megumi doing here?

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

You didn’t expect to see him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t Megumi.

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

It was scrutiny.

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

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

Your brows pulled in. “What?”

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

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

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

You blinked. “How do you—?”

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

And so you did, no answers. No explanations.

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

The sound came before the sight.

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

And you—holy shit.

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

Not him. Shirtless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gave him a side-eye.

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

Your gaze snapped back to the ring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was relentless.

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

He was smarter.

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

Then he snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stayed silent.

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

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, and?”

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

Your jaw dropped.

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

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

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

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

Yoshinobu tilted his head. “No?”

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

But your eyes said otherwise.

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

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

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

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

You said nothing.

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

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

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

Focused. Controlled.

It hit you all at once.

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

You hated this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinched slightly. “I’m not—”

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, you hated him for that.

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

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

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

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

You opened your mouth to speak— He turned around.

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

Not a question. A warning.

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

You swallowed.

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

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

“Leave.”

He didn’t even glance at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he turned, and walked.

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

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

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

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

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

That made him freeze.

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

You nodded. “I need to talk to you.”

“And I need you to get the fuck out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The locker room was too quiet now.

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

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

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

You didn’t know what else to say.

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

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

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

That caught his attention.

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

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

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

You looked up finally. “Please.”

Silence.

Then—

He moved.

Fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hips moved on instinct. The friction was dizzying.

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

No more rules. No more distance.

Just heat. And tongue. And teeth.

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

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

Your hand dropped to his shorts.

His breath hitched.

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

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

Slow. Tight. Jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fuck. Yeah.”

You sank to your knees.

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

So right.

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

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

“Fuck me…” he breathed.

You glanced up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moaned around him instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was shaking now, barely holding back.

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

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

“Fuck—fuck!”

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

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

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

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

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

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

A few minutes later, the door creaked open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You seriously brought all this to a gym?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toji. Your blood went ice cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thought I heard voices,” he muttered.

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

You looked up. He was already looking at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He groaned. “Don’t start—”

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I meant it,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

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

The words hung between you. Still. Gentle.

Your chest tightened.

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

You stayed quiet.

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

Your breath hitched.

To you.

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

You blinked fast.

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

He frowned. “That’s not the point—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the words were still in your throat.

“…I’m sorry too,” you said quietly.

Megumi looked up.

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

He was quiet.

Then, “It’s okay.”

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

A pause. You looked at him again.

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

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

You blinked. “Really?”

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

That made you smile—just a little.

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

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

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

Megumi groaned. “Here we go—”

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

“Please stop talking,” he muttered.

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

He frowned. “I don’t—what?”

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

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

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

You blinked.

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

Your teasing faded.

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

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

“…That’s really sweet,” you murmured.

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

“It is,” you said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Deal.”

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

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

Just Megumi.

Back in his clean-cut, honor roll disguise.

You walked up slow.

Like prey turning into predator.

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

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

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

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

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

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

Megumi looked you up and down—slow, unimpressed.

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

You snorted.

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

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

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

You hesitated.

Just a beat.

Then: “My house.”

His head tilted. Just slightly. “What?”

“You heard me.”

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

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

There was a long pause, then Megumi nodded once.

“Alright.”

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

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

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

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

Megumi Fushiguro? The nerd in the glasses? Him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turned slowly.

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

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

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

You just stared.

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

Silence. Dead, heavy silence.

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

Aiko’s smile faltered. “Say what?”

“Call him that again.”

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

That was it.

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

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

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

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

She practically bolted.

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

“She called him a loser,” you said flatly.

Nobara blinked. “You yanked her hair like she owed you money.”

You shrugged. “I was being nice.”

And as you walked off, flipping your hair and smirking like you didn’t just threaten someone into silence?

You felt proud. Let them all whisper. Because yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro is tutoring you. He’s also making you lose your goddamn mind.

What the fuck about it, bitches?

The car ride over had been quiet.

Not awkward—just charged. You didn’t speak much, and Megumi didn’t ask questions. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook the whole way, like he was trying to remind himself this was still tutoring.

Not… whatever it had started to feel like lately.

When you pulled up to your house—gates sweeping open with the click of a remote—he blinked. Slowly.

“This is where you live?”

“Disappointed?”

He shook his head. “Just… surprised.”

You could see it—how he clocked the driveway lined with luxury cars, the fountain in the center, the perfectly-trimmed hedges that cost more than some people’s rent. You led him up the steps, pulling open the door with a toss of your hair. “Come on.”

The marble floor echoed under your shoes as you stepped inside, Megumi trailing close behind. His eyes flicked to the chandelier, the high ceilings, the art lining the walls.

“You can say it,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s…” He cleared his throat. “Nice.”

You scoffed. “You don’t have to lie. It’s ridiculous.”

He let out the ghost of a laugh. “Little bit.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Gets lonely sometimes,” you said, quieter.

Megumi looked at you—but before he could say anything, a familiar voice called out from deeper in the house. “Sweetheart? That you?”

Your heart dropped. You turned toward the hall. “Shit.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you called, plastering on a smile as footsteps echoed.

Megumi stiffened beside you, And then your father appeared—tie loosened, whiskey in hand, and a brow raised when he saw your companion.

“Well, well,” he said, amused. “Didn’t realize tutoring came with the full door-to-door package now.”

Megumi immediately straightened. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Your dad eyed him. “Polite. Proper. Is this the boy who’s keeping you from flunking out?”

You groaned. “Daddy, don’t start.”

“What?” he said, smirking. “Can’t I be impressed that he’s not an airheaded jock or one of those weird artsy types who cry during movies?”

“He’s standing right here,” you hissed.

Megumi didn’t say anything, but you could feel the tension in his shoulders.

Your dad just sipped his drink, eyes still on Megumi. “Relax, son. I’m not grilling you. I’m just happy she’s letting someone else use her brain for once.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing Megumi’s sleeve. “We’re going upstairs.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” your dad called after you.

“That leaves nothing,” you shot back, dragging Megumi up the grand staircase.

“You wound me, princess!”

“Go work or something!”

You didn’t stop until you were on the second floor, yanking Megumi down the hall toward your bedroom.

He was quiet—still a little stunned, maybe. You didn’t blame him.

“Sorry about him,” you mumbled. “He thinks he’s funny.”

Megumi adjusted his glasses. “He kind of is.”

You shot him a glare.

He shrugged. “In a terrifying way.”

You rolled your eyes and opened your bedroom door. “Come on, nerd boy. Let’s get this tutoring shit over with before he comes back up here and starts quizzing you on wine pairings.”

He walked in after you, looking around your room, quiet again. But there was something different in his silence now.

Not nerves. Not intimidation. Just… awareness. Of where he was. Of you.

Of the way you leaned against the edge of your desk, arms folded, watching him like you weren’t even trying to pretend this was normal.

Megumi sat cross-legged on the floor of your bedroom, textbook open, notepad ready. You were lying on your stomach across your bed, skirt flipped up just a little too high, feet kicking in the air while you squinted at the words like they personally offended you.

“…So mitochondria is not the nucleus.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Correct. They’re two different organelles.”

You frowned harder. “Then why the fuck do they both sound important?”

“They are.”

“That’s dumb. Why not just combine them into a super organelle and call it the brain of the cell?”

Megumi blinked, sighed, and scribbled something. “Because that’s not how eukaryotic cells work.”

You groaned into your pillow. “I hate this. Biology can suck my dick.”

“You barely passed chemistry. Don't give bio a reason to hate you too.”

You flipped over onto your back, glaring at the ceiling. “I’m trying, okay? I actually remembered that thing you said about ribosomes last time.”

“Which was?”

You hesitated. “They… do shit.”

He stared.

“…Protein,” you muttered, pouting. “They build protein. Calm down.”

Megumi finally cracked a smile, just a small one. “I’m genuinely shocked.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean it. That’s the first time you’ve remembered anything correctly without pulling it out of your ass.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Watch your mouth, nerd boy. I’m fragile.”

“…Okay, um… ribosomes build protein. And lysosomes are… the trash guys? Or whatever.”

You were laying flat on your back now, textbook propped on your stomach, one sock half-off your foot, a pencil in your mouth like a cigarette. You were trying. Sort of. Even mumbling the definitions to yourself like they might actually stick.

Megumi was still sitting on the floor, but he wasn’t reading anymore. Wasn’t even looking at your notes.

Just at you.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too busy frowning at the page like it had insulted you.

“...Endoplasmic reticulum. That’s the… protein highway thing. Right?”

Silence.

“Megumi?” You looked up.

He was staring.

“What?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted like he was chewing on the words.

Then, finally—

“I want to do something to you.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

His voice didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, softer now, but still steady. “Right now.”

Your lips parted. “What—like—?”

“I want to go down on you,” he said, low. “I want you to teach me.”

The air left your lungs in a slow, involuntary exhale. The room felt suddenly warmer. He wasn’t even touching you, and still—your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You… you serious?”

He nodded once. “You said you’d teach me. Right?”

You just hadn’t expected this. “Gumi…”

He exhaled through his nose when you said that. Quiet, but full of tension. “I want to know what you like,” he said. “I want to get good at it.”

You blinked, mouth dry, trying to find your usual smug tone—but it didn’t come. He leaned forward, kneeling beside the bed now, hands flat on the mattress.

“I think about it a lot,” he admitted. “What you taste like. How you'd sound.”

Your breath hitched. Heat rushed between your legs. “Shit…” You bit your lip. “You’re really fucking serious.”

He just looked at you. Still calm. Still intense. And fuck—you were wet already.

You swallowed and smirked, finally finding your voice again. “You want me to walk you through it? Like a lesson plan?” He nodded again, eyes hooded.

You dragged your finger slowly up your thigh. “Then get up here, Gumi.” His fingers curled over the edge of the bed. And he did.

Megumi climbed onto the bed, moving slow, like he didn’t want to startle you—like he was worried you’d change your mind.

You didn’t.

Not when he settled between your legs, arms on either side of you. Not when he looked at you like he’d waited for this—quietly, patiently. Not when he leaned down and kissed you.

God.

You weren’t expecting the kiss.

Not one like that.

It was soft. Intentional. His lips brushed yours once, then again, warmer the second time. He kissed you like it was something he needed to learn too, and he was determined to get it right. No sloppy tongue. No teenage teeth. Just slow, sensual pressure—like he was studying your mouth the way he studied your notes.

You made a soft sound against his lips. One that caught him off guard.

He pulled back. “Okay?”

You swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah. Just—kiss me again.”

He did.

Deeper this time. His hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek. Then your neck. And then—when he felt you shift under him, breath hitching—he let his hand trail down your chest.

“You’re warm,” he murmured.

You scoffed. “You’re laying on me, Gumi.”

But your voice broke halfway through.

His hand stopped at the hem of your shirt, hovering.

“Can I?”

You lifted your arms without speaking.

He peeled it off slow, letting his eyes take you in. And you didn’t hide. Not this time. Not when he kissed down your chest, not when his hands slid over your waist like he was memorizing every dip and curve.

When he got to your skirt, you reached down—silent—and helped him pull it off.

Your panties stayed on.

He stared at the damp patch darkening the center.

You turned your head away, suddenly flushed. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

Megumi leaned down, lips against the inside of your thigh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I was.”

You shivered.

His hands slid up your legs, gentle but confident. He moved slow, kissing from one thigh to the other, tongue grazing your skin like he already knew how sensitive you were there. Like he wanted to worship, not just fuck. You’d had boys go down on you before—but it was always a means to an end. Messy, fast, mechanical. You never came. You always faked it.

But this?

This felt different.

“Are you nervous?” you whispered.

He shook his head, pressing a kiss just above the hem of your panties. “No.”

You looked down at him. “You’ve never done this before.”

“I want to get good at it,” he said. “I want to make you come.”

Your throat went dry.

Megumi hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and looked up at you one last time. When you nodded, he pulled them down slow.

He stared.

You wanted to squirm under the weight of it—how intense his gaze was, how quiet he got. He wasn’t gawking. He wasn’t blushing.

He looked hungry.

“…Can you tell me what you like?” he asked, voice low. “What feels good?”

You exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. I don’t—I haven’t really…”

You didn’t finish. But you didn’t have to. Megumi understood.

You felt his breath first. Warm, right where you needed it. Then his lips, brushing so softly over your folds that your hips bucked before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just gripped your thighs gently and leaned in.

The first swipe of his tongue was cautious. Testing. He moved slow, tasting you. Then again. Deeper. He moved his tongue in long, languid strokes, growing bolder as you gasped, as your thighs trembled against his shoulders.

“Gumi—” you whimpered. “Fuck—oh my god—”

He hummed, low in his throat, and the vibration made your back arch. It wasn’t perfect—he didn’t know how to flick just right yet, didn’t know your tells—but god, the way he tried. The way he moaned quietly into your pussy like he liked the taste. Like he liked how messy it made you.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. “Right there—fuck—yes—”

He latched onto your clit with a soft suck, tongue swirling, and your whole body locked up. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready to feel that pressure building, hot and dizzy in your belly, like something was going to snap.

You grabbed at the sheets, mouth falling open. “Wait—wait—Gumi—fuck—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t. Not once.

His tongue was relentless now, sloppy and eager, spit and slick coating your thighs, chin soaked, hands digging into your hips like he needed to hold you together while you came apart.

And then you did. Hard.

You came with a cry, louder than you meant to, your legs trembling and your chest rising in jagged gasps. It felt real. Raw. Like it had been buried inside you for months, untouched. No fingers. No toys. No faked orgasms in the dark.

Just him. You collapsed back onto the mattress, heart racing, breath shattered.

He stayed between your thighs, kissing them gently, like he wasn’t ready to stop. You looked down at him, dazed. Megumi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looking up at you like he hadn’t just rocked your whole fucking world.

“…Did I do it right?”

You let out a hoarse, shocked laugh. “What the fuck—”

He blinked. “You came.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Megumi crawled up the bed slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Teach me more,” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Please.”

You dragged him down into a kiss. Tasting yourself on his tongue. And for once in your life—you didn’t feel like the one in control. You didn’t mind.

The old gym echoed with the steady rhythm of fists against canvas.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Megumi didn’t say much when he was focused like this—wrapped hands hitting the punching bag with precise, brutal timing, sweat gathering at his hairline. His school shirt was ditched somewhere on the bench, tie loosened and hanging off one corner of the bag like a casualty of war.

You were parked cross-legged on a mat near the ring, textbook open in your lap, highlighter in hand—but let’s be real. You’d read the same sentence five times now.

“Hey, Gumi,” you called, flipping to the next page like you weren’t totally checking him out. “How do I remember which cranial nerves are motor and which are sensory?”

“Mnemonics,” he said between punches. “Or just don’t fail.”

You threw a marker at him.

He dodged without even looking. “Try ‘Some Say Marry Money But My Brother Says Big Brains Matter More.’ First letter tells you if the nerve is sensory, motor, or both.”

You blinked. “…Wait. That’s actually smart as fuck.”

He smirked, still striking the bag. “Glad you’re finally using that oversized head for something.”

You gasped. “Oh, so you do think I’m smart.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I think you’re loud.”

You grinned. “Loud and sexy. It’s the full package.”

He didn’t reply—just shook his head, a breathy laugh slipping out as he went back to punching.

You closed the textbook with a dramatic sigh. “You know, watching you box is kinda hot.”

He didn’t stop. “You say that about everything.”

“Not true. I didn’t say it about that weird Gojo lecture where he compared thermodynamics to heartbreak.”

“That’s because Gojo’s an idiot.”

You snorted. “Takes one to know one.”

“I think I could take you in a fight.”

Megumi wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, chest rising slow and steady as he looked over at you. “You getting in or what?” he asked, nodding toward the open ropes.

You raised a brow, still sitting on the edge of the ring mat, textbook half-closed on your lap. “You think I won’t?”

He didn’t even blink. “I think you’ll talk more than you’ll swing.”

You stood up immediately. “Bitch.”

He just stepped back, giving you space. You climbed in, fixing your skirt, cracking your knuckles like you actually knew what the fuck you were doing. Megumi tilted his head. “That serious?”

You flexed both arms in the most unserious way possible. “I think I could take you in a fight.” He stared.

You grinned. “Better watch out, nerd boy.”

He stepped forward, slow, that usual blank expression curling just slightly into something smug.

“Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

You didn’t react. At least not outwardly. Your heart? That shit didn’t know how to act.

You narrowed your eyes, tossing your hair back like it didn’t affect you. “Hope you’re ready to get embarrassed.”

He just smirked. “You first.”

And fuck, you were in trouble. Real trouble.

You raised your fists like you knew what you were doing—which you absolutely did not.

Megumi stared at you, unamused. “That’s not even a stance.”

“Eat shit, Fushiguro.”

He sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, completely relaxed. “Keep your hands up. You’ll get decked first swing.”

You tightened your fists, legs bouncing. “I am up.”

“Barely.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, stepping closer. “You talk like I won’t lay your ass out right now.”

“You’re five-two,” he said flatly.

You lunged anyway, throwing a punch directly at his side. He dodged, clean and fast.

You jabbed again, wild and reckless, and Megumi dodged like he was bored. That just made you madder.

“Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Dodging! That’s fucking cheating!”

He snorted, stepping just out of range like it was easy. “I’m literally just not letting you hit me.”

You lunged at him, swinging fast—and missed again, nearly tripping when he twisted around you.

And then— smack. His palm landed hard on your ass.

You gasped. “Megumi!”

He blinked, deadpan. “What?”

You turned, jaw dropped. “Did you just spank me?!”

He looked completely unfazed. “It’s a good ass.”

“You absolute slut—” You tried to swing again, but he caught your wrist and spun you with zero effort, stepping behind you and bending a little—

“Don’t you dare—” And then he hoisted you clean off your feet.

“MEGUMI!” Your body flipped over his shoulder, hair falling in your face as he held you with one arm like you weighed nothing.

“You’re insane!” you shouted, punching his back. “Put me down, you fucking bastard!”

“Nope,” he said, too smug for someone carrying a feral gremlin over his shoulder.

“You perverted little freak—!”

He smacked your ass again, harder this time. You shrieked.

“I WILL BITE YOU.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. That warm, deep, rare laugh that you only heard when you caught him off guard.

“Fucking nerd boy with muscles, I swear to god—!”

“I told you I boxed,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world while you kicked your feet like a goddamn cartoon character.

“YOU NEVER SAID YOU’D THROW ME AROUND LIKE A DUMBELLLLLL—”

And then— A voice. Lazy. Loud. Horrified.

“Oh what the fuck—” You froze. Megumi did too.

“Oh my god.”

You twisted—still slung over Megumi’s shoulder like a dramatic, designer handbag—and craned your neck as the voice echoed through the gym’s open doorway.

Yoshinobu stood there, a water bottle in one hand, towel slung around his shoulder, his brows lifted like he just walked in on a goddamn soap opera.

“I’ve seen a lot of sparring in this place,” he said, casual but amused. “But I’ve never seen that boxing move before.”

Megumi didn’t flinch. Just slapped your ass. Hard.

“Fushiguro!” you shrieked, legs kicking. “You absolute bastard!”

He had the gall—the straight-faced, gorgeous nerve—to act like nothing happened. Just hauled you up and dumped you like a sack of attitude flat on your back in the middle of the ring.

“You’re insane!” you coughed, sitting up and shoving your hair out of your face. “Feral! I hope you get athlete’s foot!”

Megumi just wiped the sweat off his chest with a towel like you weren’t actively losing your mind right there.

“Hit the showers, kid,” Yoshinobu called, half-laughing as he crossed his arms.

Megumi flipped him off without looking and strolled off toward the back, slinging the towel over his shoulder, his back flexing with every step.

And then— Silence.

You sat on the mat, breathing hard, heart still thudding, every part of you aware of just how deeply he’d rattled you. Then—

“You gonna tell me what that was?”

You turned your head.

Yoshinobu was leaning against the ropes now, one brow raised, his smile gone.

You rolled your eyes. “It was him being a dick. What else is new?”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t smirk.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit in this gym,” he said slowly, “but that wasn’t just a dumb joke.”

You scoffed, grabbing your water bottle and avoiding his stare. “Don’t start.”

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Yoshinobu said. “And I saw the way he looked at you.”

Your breath hitched. You stood abruptly, brushing invisible dust off your skirt. “He doesn’t look at me like anything. Okay?”

“You like him.”

You scoffed. “He’s just my tutor.”

“Right.” Yoshinobu nodded like he believed you. He didn’t.

“I’m serious,” you bit out, annoyed at how hot your face felt. “He likes—” You stopped. You didn’t even know who he liked. It didn’t matter. “He doesn’t like me like that.”

“I don’t care what’s happening between you two,” Yoshinobu said finally. “That’s none of my business.”

He took a step back from the ropes, grabbing a clean towel from the rack.

“Go easy on him..”

You blinked. “What?”

Yoshinobu turned, half-glancing back at you.

“He doesn’t talk much, y’know?” he said, voice a little quieter. “Doesn’t let people in easy. And when he does—he doesn’t have backup plans.”

You folded your arms, trying to look annoyed. “What makes you think I’d hurt him?”

“Because you’re scared,” he said simply. “And scared people bite.”

Your jaw locked. He gave you a last look—measured, unblinking. “He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.”

Then he walked toward the back, leaving you in the middle of the ring, staring at the mat beneath your feet, heart in your throat.

You didn’t know how long you stood there.

But the echo of his words didn’t leave.

He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because somewhere deep in your chest—you already knew.

parts, chapter 04

taglist, @crispycatt @littlevoidfairy @bookfreakk @1-rxse-1 @starzfaerie @zephyairies @moonmaiden1996 @simonexxx1 @pinkmeatball218 @evii1e @xavisbabie @maeviees @justanotherasiangirl @tiasd1ary @shioribuns @allysainz @mwrgwt @cookies-assemble @tiasd1ary @blu3-l0v3r @camy-yh @pinkmeatball218 @chokismom @01elle-sherlock @oidloid @holymolyyikes @haithamsbb @mysteriaqueen @fxngsfxgxrty @meiyinnaise

[juicykvnture]

THEY WANNA F☆CK

Jason Todd x fem!reader x Roy Harper

tags: established relationship (Jason), oral (m!receiving), hair pulling, slapping, threesome, Eiffel Tower, praise + degradation, corruption (if u squint)

a/n: ..trip to Paris anyone? (Based on this bc it’s giggles)

wc: 2.9k | masterlist

“Jason, care to enlighten me as to why the dog is on the couch again?” you’re staring daggers at your boyfriend, fingers curling tightly around your mug of tea.

Man’s best friend? Sure. In this case, the mutt taking up your precious, precious couch is none other than Roy Harper.

Your words make Jason bristle, cutting through the silence in the kitchen, save for the raindrops tapping against the window.

“Baby, stop calling him that.” Jason rubs a hand over his face, keeping his voice down as he hesitantly glances over his shoulder, staring at the couch, “he’s my best friend.”

“C’mon, be nice.” Jason swallows, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have been nice.”

It’s not that you dislike Roy. He’s been basically stuck to Jason’s side for years now. Friendships are important, you get that, your own friends mean the whole world to you too.

You’re just not sure what it is, maybe it’s the third wheeling, maybe it’s how he’s a bit of a walking disaster - tonight being proof of that. It could be how you’re rarely able to get a moment's peace, or how he doesn’t even hide how he stares at you.

You’d have to be blind as a bat to miss the way Roy eyes you, and you know your boyfriend. You know he picks up on these things.

See, Jason wouldn’t hesitate to put a man in the hospital if they glanced at you the wrong way.

But not Roy. He’s never mad at Roy, not for something like that.

Usually, you’d be able to feel the tension rolling off of Jason in waves. But not when Roy stares. Jason just looks the other way.

You’re not the only one Roy has an eye on.

You can’t place it, you can’t make accusations - that would be really unfair, besides Jason is the love of your life.

Maybe you oughta claw Roy’s eyes out.

“Doll, c’mon.” his eyebrows are knit together, taking a few sheepish steps toward you. His chin comes to rest atop your head, arms sliding under yours to wrap around your torso.

“He’s my best friend, alright? His girlfriend just broke up with him.”

You stare down at the sugar granules left in the bottom of your cup, and then over at the doorway - catching a glimpse of the couch.

You hate how Jason’s always able to wear you down like this.

“You’re so lucky I love you, you know that?”

That has Jason letting out a sigh of relief, his one of his hands sliding down to drum his fingers against your hip.

“I know, I love you too.” He murmurs into your hair, his palm coming down against your ass in a light smack, as if to ease the mood.

Shaking your head, you lean back against the counter, watching as Jason makes his way over to your not-so-welcome visitor, currently lounging around on your couch like he owns the place, their conversation out of earshot.

“So?” Roy lifts his head up, awkwardly drumming his fingers against his knee.

“She said you can stay the night, just don’t piss her off.”

“Ooh, will she hit me if I do?”

“She’ll castrate you, probably.” Jason blinks, unamused.

“Promise?”

Noticing how curt Jason is being, Roy tilts his head. He’s grateful for your leeway - but that isn’t exactly what he’s getting at here.

“..you didn’t ask, did you Jaybird?” he huffs, almost exasperated as he slumps his head back against the cushion.

“Harper, don’t be a dick.” Jason hisses, reaching a hand out to give Roy’s face a shove, his brows knit together.

“What if she rips my balls off?”

Roy smirks, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, what a loss to the world that will be.”

“She’s got you on a leash man, I’m jealous.” He snickers, only to be hit with another shove to the shoulder that makes him wince.

“I’ll have you know I’m very happy on my leash.” Jason’s brows furrow, mumbling under his breath.

“I know. You’re like totallyyy glowing and haven’t been beating the shit out of me recently!” Roy offers a mocking sweet grin, soon wiped off his face when Jason gives his hair a yank, making him crane his head up.

“Oh! You pull these moves on your girlfriend?”

“Fuck you, Harper,” Jason grumbles, giving his hair another yank before reluctantly letting him how.

“Yeah? I’m waiting.”

“You doin’ alright, doll?” Jason murmurs, keeping his voice low as he cracks your bedroom door open a little, features softening when he’s met with the sight of you sat up by your vanity table, gently cleansing your makeup away.

“Yeah, gettin’ ready for bed.”

“This early?” He raises a brow, picking up a random perfume on your table, slightly puzzled by the fact it’s encased in a pink and gold high heel as the bottle.

He knows nothing about perfume, or beauty for that matter. But he knows that you wear that one a lot. And he knows that this one specifically smells like almond cookies and flowers.

“Yeah, meetings tomorrow.” You frown, gently swatting his hand away before he manages to manhandle the rest of your precious perfume collection.

“Stressed?” He raises a brow, resting his large hands upon your shoulders, watching as you wipe the cotton pad across your soft skin.

“Not really, just fed up.”

He nods, leaning down to press a small kiss to your shoulder.

“You wanna come down for a drink?”

“I have to be up early.” you remind him, reaching to toss the cotton pad into the trash.

Okay, maybe it’s not that early, but you have better shit to do than to sit around and drink beer with him and his degenerate of a friend. It’s a Tuesday night, has the world lost its collective mind altogether?

“One drink?” he presses on, gently running his fingers up your arm.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

One drink turned into two, and two turned into three - remarkably fast.

You’re not sure what they’re talking about, you don’t really care. You’re preoccupied with reaching for another beer.

You’re content with being sat up on your boyfriend’s lap as he lazily bounces his knee, one of his warm hands on your hip as the other holds a cold bottle, mindlessly dragging it up and down the inside of your thigh as he and Roy talk.

Okay, maybe Roy isn’t so bad when Jason’s around.

You feel bad for a split second, perhaps a little bit guilty. You’re sitting up all giggly in Jason’s lap when you remember Roy’s only here because his girlfriend broke up with him.

He hasn’t mentioned anything, so it shouldn’t surprise you. He probably doesn’t wanna start dumping out all of his problems on you guys.

“You okay?” Jason arches a brow when he feels you shifting awkwardly in his lap, his grip on your hip tightening by a fraction.

“Yeah, it’s just-“ you clear your throat, trying to ignore the not-so-subtle feeling of his hard-on under you as you glance at Roy.

“He doesn’t mind, baby.”

“Right, Harper?” he glances over at Roy, currently preoccupied with trying to get another beer open.

“Me? Nah, I’m peachy.” Roy clears his throat, staring down into the bottom of his bottle “I’m rooting for you guys.”

That makes you smile, Jason smirks.

“Ah, thank you my dear best friend.” He scoffs, lightly running the bottle up your thigh as he stares at Roy on the other side of the sofa-bed.

“The one guy I know who manages to swing both ways and still miss.”

“Low blow, jaybird.”

Jason shrugs, leaning over Roy to reach for another beer.

“I’ll show you a low blow.”

You glance back at your boyfriend and then at Roy, tilting your head to the side.

“You two okay?”

Roy clears his throat, leaning back against the cushions with a small shrug, glancing down into his beer and then over at you.

“Never better.”

You nod quietly, leaning back against Jason once more, you’re not sure what’s changed in the room in the last couple of seconds - you didn’t hear what Jason said, but it’s obvious.

There’s definitely something going on here.

And Roy Harper is definitely eye-fucking your boyfriend.

“Okay,” you break the tense silence, shifting to move off of Jason’s lap “I’m gonna go get more beer-“

“Nah, we have a couple more bottles here.” he shakes his head, catching the drawstring of your shorts in his fingers so you don’t get up.

Roy stares at Jason, grip on his bottle tightening.

Jason doesn’t say anything for a hot minute, lightly bouncing you in his lap as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

There it is again, that feeling. It’s like they’re hiding something from you.

You’re a little loose-lipped at this point, the alcohol getting to you quicker than usual - maybe it’s cause you’re tired.

“Roy,” you break the silence, lips pulling into a sleepy little grin.

“Uhuh?”

“You tryna fuck my boyfriend or what?” you joke, slumping back against Jason - his grip on your waist tightening immediately.

See, the answer isn’t exactly a no.

Roy doesn’t say a word, avoiding your eyes until Jason leans down slightly, his breath hot against your neck.

“It’s not me he wants.”

Jason Todd you knows you love him more than anything in the world - he’s the luckiest man alive.

Long story short, that’s how you ended up with your boyfriend’s rough hand at the back of your neck while he fucked you from behind - forcing you to keep your head up and your mouth open as his best friend fucked your throat.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jason’s breath is ragged as he catches Roy’s wrist, stopping him from grabbing the ends of your hair - only Jason is allowed to do that.

“You got a pretty hot girlfriend, you know that?” Roy pants nonetheless, pulling back ever so slightly to glance down at your fucked out expression.

Your tits are all but falling out of your shirt, tears at the corners of your eyes. You’re a mess, to put it plainly.

You’re pretty much convinced the only thing even keeping you upright is Jason, one hand digging into the soft flesh of your hip - sure to leave a smack right across your ass if you lean forward over to Roy a little too much.

“Don’t get used to it Harper.”

“Why not?” He pants, a little breathless as he pulls his hips back for a moment to glance down at you before slapping his cock back onto your tongue.

“Your girlie seems to like it.” Roy murmurs, hand slowly finding its way back into your hair - not pulling, just to mess with Jason.

“I’ll fuck you up after this.” Jason’s brows furrow, blunt nails biting into your lower back as he pushes his hips forward, biting back a small grunt.

The action has you letting out a muffled whine, Roy’s cock pushing down your throat as you helplessly claw at the pillows below you.

“Heh, f-fuck,” Roy’s head falls back slightly, trying to keep himself together despite your mouth around him, drooling around his dick.

“She doesn’t even gag.”

It’s true, you don’t.

That’s all thanks to Jason though, a rough hand finding your ass in a sharp smack, your legs barely able to keep your body upright as your knees press into the mattress.

“I know.” He breathes out with another mean thrust, almost proud - causing you to nearly lose your balance altogether.

He really is proud of you though, in every sense of the word, Jason loves you more than anything.

But the fact you’re willing, eager to drop to your knees and take his best friend's dick down your throat? Just to make Jason happy?

That just makes him cocky.

Jason’s hand is quick to grab at your hair, craning your head back to pull you off of Roy’s cock for a moment, a messy string of spit breaking.

“Real pretty too, ain’t she?” His words are strained, punctuated with messy thrusts into your cunt as he tilts your head around in his grip, letting Roy stare down into your teary eyes like he’s showing you off.

“Your throat hurtin’ yet, slut?”

Normally you’d scoff at something like that but you can’t bring yourself to even think, let alone argue - considering you’ve been drooling on Roy’s cock for what feels like hours.

Your chest heaves, barely managing to croak out a soft “no” - you can keep going, you know you can.

“No? Good girl,” Jason feels that little pang of pride again, gently stroking the back of your neck with his thumb before pushing your face back to where it was, his friend's leaking cock lightly smacking against your cheek as Roy fumbles to get it back into your mouth.

Roy bites the insides of his cheeks, legitimately trying not to go cross-eyed when he feels your mouth on him again, tip of his dick slamming against the back of your throat.

“S-she always been like this?”

“Nah,” Jason groans, head tilting back slightly as he pulls out just enough to make you whine before slamming back into your cunt.

“I just fucked her up a little,”

“Really?” Roy swallows, cheeks almost as red as his hair.

“Really.” Jason nods “you think just any girl can pull shit like this?” his head tilts to the side, hand automatically swatting at your thigh when he feels your legs are starting to tremble again.

“It’s all me, right sweetheart?” He hums, glancing down at you lazily to see you trying to nod, even though you’ve got a mouth full of cock, spit dripping down your chin.

“Fuck,” Roy lets out a shallow breath, shaky hands gripping your shoulders so hard his knuckles are almost going white.

“You know,” Jason trails off, gently dragging his hands up your hips before smacking your ass again “You could’ve tried talking me into this earlier.”

“I tried,” Roy manages a small laugh at that, eyes squeezing shut as he feels your tongue dragging along him again - losing his train of thought “f-fuck, her mouth is so fucking hot,”

“I bet,” Jason hums, one hand slipping down between your legs to catch your clit between his fingers, gritting his teeth when you whimper around Roy’s cock, your pussy throbbing around Jason.

He’s been there, he’s done that. Of course he has.

Roy feels a little jealous. Not like he has any right to, whatsoever.

You’re not his, Jason is making that abundantly clear with each mark across your skin, each mumbled praise, each glance down at you to make sure you’re still okay.

It has his hand finding your neck, whole body flushed as he fucks your throat that little bit harder, your eyes rolling back dumbly - not a thought in that brain.

Jason has the nerve to smirk, watching Roy with a raised brow as he runs his fingers over your clit in time with his thrusts.

“You tryna outfuck my slut, speedy?”

That makes him bristle, Roy knows damn well he’s not even fucking you, not really.

“S-shuddup,” He doesn’t have enough focus left to answer properly, hips stuttering as his hand slides up and down your throat - almost like he’s trying to feel himself in there.

“You so are,” Jason mumbles, slowing his pace a tiny bit to focus on how you flutter around him, how good you take his cock.

“Wishin’ it was you?”

“No.” Roy manages to croak, trying to keep his grip on your neck tight and not focus on how your back arches against Jason, or the fucked out little slurs of your precious boyfriend's name around his dick.

It’s a little fucked up in all honesty, the two of them yapping all about you like you aren’t even there.

“You wanna fuck my girlfriend, Harper? Slam your cock into this tight fuckin’ cunt?” Jason pants, hand leaving your pussy to your dismay, reaching over you to yank Roy’s face closer.

“Yeah,” Roy sniffles under his breath, trying not to blow his load in your mouth right then and there with Jason’s hand on his jaw.

“Didn’t hear you,” Jason shrugs, lazily staring at him with a slow roll of his hips against your ass.

“Yes,” Roy all but whines, his own legs starting to shake as Jason’s mouth just barely brushes against his, as yours takes his cock deeper than he thought was even fucking possible.

Jason sighs, blunt nails pressing into his nape - tongue dragging against Roy’s bottom lip

“Not fucking happening.”

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You’re sitting sideways in Jason’s lap now, his shirt draped over the frame as he cleans you up with a warm cloth, not so subtly inspecting the marks he left on you minutes prior.

“Yeah,” you nod, throat a little sore for obvious reasons as you rest your head on his shoulder - a kiss to your temple soon following.

“Roy?” You manage to lift your head a little bit to glance over at your dear houseguest, still breathlessly staring at the ceiling - half slumped against Jason’s other side.

He’s almost convinced you broke his dick or something. He’s never cum so embarrassingly hard.

He’s staring down into his lap, presumably contemplating his whole existence until your voice snaps him out of it.

“..mhm?”

You hesitate, shifting slightly against Jason.

“I’m sorry if I was hard on you when I came home, sorry to hear about the whole breakup with your girlfriend.”

The whole reason Jason begged you to let him stay tonight.

Roy blinks, slowly - tilting his head to stare at you and then at Jason, puzzled like you’re speaking in some undiscovered language.

“..what girlfriend?”

a/n: I’m back I promise 🫡🫡

thank u sm for reading ily!!

Jason Todd m.list

[sukunahs]

birds of a feather | ryomen sukuna

pairing: god of war!sukuna x goddess of love!reader

summary: when you're married to the most boring god on olympus, who can blame you when you seek out passion with someone a little more exciting?

mythology au. retelling of the affair between ares and aphrodite.

word count: 2.7k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, mythology, infidelity, drama, arranged marriage, piv sex, pregnancy, multiple positions, exhibitionism, public humiliation, reader and sukuna both could NOT care less about morality

a/n: I was originally planning to make this fic about toji but my brainrot took over and now I can't see ares as anyone but sukuna sooooo

You were bored. Painfully bored. 

Because, despite being the world’s most beautiful being, the goddess of love, the object of literally everyone’s desire; your father had decided to thoroughly clip your wings and force you into a marriage with the world’s ugliest and most tiresome god: Jogo, god of the forge. 

You couldn’t even look at him without feeling disgusted, a face that only a mother could love as mortals liked to say, but even that wasn’t true in this case considering that his mother had tossed him from the top of Mount Olympus when she’d first seen him, horrified by his disfigured face.

As you can imagine, being tossed from a mountain definitely didn’t improve upon his looks. 

Not to mention, such disregard led to Jogo’s physical ugliness seeping into his personality. He was a jealous and bitter man, even going as far as to trap his mother to a golden throne for her treatment of him in his childhood. 

That would’ve been amusing to you, if not for the negative impact that the situation had on your life. For in the terms of his mother’s release, Jogo implored the King of the Gods to grant him your hand in marriage, claiming that the only thing that would make amends for his treatment was to have the beautiful goddess of love become his wife. 

Marriage was an easy trade to make for the King, so you were given up easily - all of your sophistication and beauty wasted on this ugly man. It was your idea of hell. 

You loved your freedom, loved flirting with gods, with mortals, warming the beds of men and women alike, experiencing all the pleasures of the flesh that you possibly could. That was the whole point of your life, only for it to be ripped away from you at the hands of your jealous husband, whose one good eye was always watching you, making sure that you’d never be unfaithful to him. 

And it was boring. 

Sex with him was completely uninspiring. He didn’t know the first thing about women, treating you as though you were one of his little machines, taking a logical approach to each action, completing his duty in bed to the letter with the intention of procreation, no pleasure or passion involved in the equation. You hated it. 

You’d close your eyes and pretend that you were fucking someone else, but even that barely worked since your stupid husband couldn’t ever touch you well enough to get you anywhere near getting off. 

It sucked. Of all the gods, why did you have to be married to him? It wasn’t fair.

Lately you’d been wishing that you were married to Sukuna, God of War and Bloodshed. He was everything that your husband wasn’t: exciting and passionate, with a focus on his own pleasure above all else. He was handsome and confident, with sharp features, pink hair, sharp black tattoos curling over his muscular body, and an atmosphere of danger following him wherever he went.

From the way that he so brazenly checked you out at any given opportunity, flicking compliments your way and giving you that cocky smirk, it was clear that the two of you were birds of a feather. Matched in your desires far better than you were aligned with your own husband. 

He was egging you on, waiting to see if you’d make a move, if you were brave enough to ignore the whims of your husband and take the leap. And with his red eyes following you around Olympus the way they did, what were you meant to do? Say no? 

You were only human after all. Well, you technically weren’t but the same sentiment applied. 

So one night when your husband was working late at his forge, you snuck out of your marital bed to seek out the god of war. You’d been so needy since your wedding, unable to be with anyone but your pathetic husband, you had no doubt that Sukuna would help solve that problem - at least, if he fucked with the same passion that he fought with. 

Sukuna had been waiting for you that night, lounging about on his fancy sheets wearing nothing but a short red toga. His grin was all teeth, gaze fixed on you like you were prey that he was about to devour. Little did he know that was exactly what you wanted, coming in here batting your lashes, looking so innocent, as though you hadn’t fucked hundreds of men in your lifetime, wonderfully putting on an act of being a scared little neglected wife giving herself over to the big protective man. 

Because you desperately needed him to think he was in control of this situation, for him to dominate you like he was in charge and you were just a bystander. If he knew that was exactly what you wanted the dynamic would change, you needed it to feel real. 

It's what you’d been yearning for ever since you were thrown into a sham of a marriage.  

“Finally giving in, sweetheart?” He asked, his deep voice rumbling through the room as he rose to his feet, crossing the room to tower over you, gripping your slender chin with his calloused fingers. 

“He’s so fucking boring.” You complained, fluttering your lashes once more as you gazed up at him, pouting your lips softly. “I need someone to show me a good time or I’ll go insane.” 

Sukuna smirked down at you, tapping your chin thoughtfully for a moment. “Well, we can’t have that can we? I suppose I’ve got no choice but to give you what you want…” 

“Mmmm.” You responded, sliding your hands seductively up his chest. Sukuna stared down at you with amusement for a moment before pouncing, lips crashing against yours as he hoisted you up into his arms, wrapping your legs around his big body and letting him manhandle you as he liked. 

It was exactly what you’d been missing from your foolish little marriage. 

And with that, your affair began. That first night had been as filled with passion as you’d expected, Sukuna dominating you completely, fucking you up against the wall, his muscular arms holding you up as he made you come undone with long, deep strokes on his thick cock. 

He spat in your mouth and pulled your hair, called you a dirty slut along with dozens of other filthy names as he forced your head down on his cock, teased your ass with his fingers as he fucked you on all fours, slapping your ass each time you whined and squirmed, shooting several loads of cum over your pretty body and ordering you to lick up any that dripped onto the floor. 

It was passionate, exciting. It stirred your heart like never before. 

And the whole time he was so confident that he was in control, that he was the one inflicting his desire upon you, the object of his affection. Never catching on that you had actively looked to him for this treatment, that you’d been just as desperate for him to touch and degrade you like this as he had been to inflict it upon you. 

You’d left him there in the room when you were done, neither of you were under the illusion you that you were going to cuddle after fucking - no, this was all about raw, unfiltered pleasure, it had nothing to do with safety or comfort. His nature was violence, there was nothing more that you’d get from him. 

Perhaps others would look upon your affair years from now and feel bad for you, assume that you’d yearned for him in a way that he hadn’t yearned for you. But they had the wrong idea. You were the goddess of love, how foolish to think that you’d restrain that love to just one single person - it would be an insult to your very nature. 

You could love Sukuna just like you could love anyone else, the love that you had to give was as infinite as his was nonexistent. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. 

What a pair the two of you made. 

Years were spent with the two of you sneaking around. You'd go to him at night, your legs thrown over his shoulders as he fucked you into the silk sheets. You’d visit him on the battlefield, letting him bend you over his war table, scattering the carefully positioned map pieces as he drove into you so hard that the table shook. 

Sometimes, when you were confident that your husband was away, you’d even invite him into your own bed, getting off on the thrill of him taking you in the same place that your husband would usually have you, letting Sukuna’s cum drip out of you and onto the sheets when you were done - enough for your husband to doubt but not enough to prove your infidelity. 

A calculated risk to stimulate your hedonistic brain.

There were a few times throughout the years that you fell pregnant. Your husband always assumed that the children were his, always stupid enough to be blind to what was happening right in front of him. You knew better. The three children that you had in the years since your affair with Sukuna started all clearly bore a resemblance to the god of war. 

But it's not like that was all that scandalous, they’d be far from the first children in olympus born out of wedlock believing that they were the children of another. Once they grew older you supposed it would be harder to deny their heritage, but that would be a bridge to cross when you came to it. 

What was the point in worrying? 

Neither you or Sukuna were particularly convinced that you were being slick or subtle about your affair - the looks that he would shoot you in public made sure of that, but when you were both finally caught you couldn’t help but feel surprised, frustrated by the way that it had all gone down. 

You’d been out on one of your secret meetings with Sukuna, visiting him on the battlefield - you were in Troy this time, a battle that you had been paying close attention to because of your favor for the Trojan prince who had stolen his beloved away from her oaf of a husband. You were a great supporter of true love, always rooting for and aiding mortals who went for what they truly wanted, sneering at the very existence of arranged marriage. 

Love couldn’t simply be arranged. You were sure of that from your own experiences. 

Sukuna had been in a jovial mood when you found him. He too had taken the side of the Trojans, at your behest. He seldom cared whose side he fought on, as long as there was horror and bloodshed he was content, and this ongoing siege was providing plenty of that - dried blood and guts coating his muscular body when you approached him in his war tent. 

He’d smirked at you, requesting your praise for fighting so valiantly on the side you’d ordered him to support. And you’d given him just that, dropping to your knees and worshipping his cock until he was cumming down your throat. It had become routine for you, to give him whatever he wanted like this. It was what you wanted too. 

It had become so routine in fact, that the two of you barely bothered to make sure that you were alone before pouncing upon one another. That would be your mistake in this instance, for you had an observer from just outside your tent: Yorozu, the goddess of chaos, an obsessively jealous woman who had been madly in love with Sukuna for years, ever scorned by the way he would brush her aside. 

Now she understood why, and she knew just who to tell to bring this troublesome little affair to an end. 

So, weeks after your little rendezvous with Sukuna on the Trojan battlefield, the two of you were finally forced to face the music. Jogo had told you that he was going away for a while, and predictably as ever you had invited Sukuna into your bed, letting him climb on top of you and sink his cock into your warm pussy, just as always. 

And in that moment, the trap sprung. 

There was a mechanical whirring and a golden net was thrown over the two of you, forcibly keeping you both in place, tangled up with each other and pinned down uncomfortably against the bed. 

Your husband strolled into your room, snickering at the predicament that you’d found yourself in, cursing you for your infidelity, face growing red with rage as he started to spit vitriol at the both of you. 

But you weren’t really listening, and you imagined that Sukuna wasn’t either. You didn’t feel any remorse for your actions, and it was hard to focus on your surroundings with Sukuna’s cock still twitching inside you. If anything, it was taking all of your willpower not to start laughing.

“Let us go, Jogo.” Sukuna grumbled, pushing against the golden net only to find that it wouldn’t budge even under the weight of all his godly strength. 

“Not even an apology for fucking my wife?” Jogo hissed, and Sukuna shrugged, his body vibrating with chuckles. 

“Not like you were doing a good job.” 

“Whatever.” Jogo responded, and you couldn’t help but laugh, giggling softly into Sukuna’s muscular shoulder despite the uncomfortable situation you were in. 

At least you were in it with Sukuna. 

“Stop laughing, whore.” Jogo spat. “Since you’re so keen to open your legs for other men, how about we let all of Olympus see you like this?” 

Now that was humiliating. The golden net was inescapable, and all you and Sukuna could do as Jogo invited the other gods in to look and laugh was lie still, bodies still thoroughly entwined. You weren’t keen on every god getting to look upon your body, but considering that every statue of you depicted you as nude anyway, you decided that this was something of a lenient punishment. 

So as Jogo asked you if you were truly sorry, and made you promise that you’d never ever stray from him again, that you’d remain faithful for eternity, you nodded along compliantly. Pretending that you’d be his perfect little wife so that he’d release you from these bindings and move on, trying desperately not to whine or squirm at the way Sukuna’s hand was squeezing at your breast needily where your bodies were joined together, right under your husband's nose. 

Jogo seemed satisfied with your agreement, even if Sukuna’s simple ‘whatever’ just served to further temper his rage. In Jogo’s mind this was about you, not Sukuna. He had no jurisdiction over the god of war, but it was his job to control his woman. 

It was just embarrassing if he couldn’t. 

Unfortunately, Jogo was in for a life of embarrassment, because you and Sukuna weren’t so easily separable.

As time passed and your husband’s rage started to fade, you found yourself in Sukuna’s bed once more. Right back where you started, he had you bent over, fucking into you like he blamed you for the embarrassment of the two of you getting caught, his cock slamming into you until you were crying and clawing at the silk sheets, screaming his name loud enough that the whole of Olympus was likely aware of your continuing affair. 

You didn’t care, it wouldn’t be the last time - it never would. Just as easily as before you’d been caught, you fell back into the pattern of seeking him out, coming undone on his cock night after night and regretting absolutely nothing. 

What? Were you really meant to stay loyal to your husband just because of some silly golden net and a little bit of humiliation? What a waste. 

Such incidents were the spice of life, and Sukuna was like a drug that you were addicted to. You wouldn’t give it up so easily, and neither would he. He was yours and you were his. Love and violence had always gone hand in hand, what better pairing was there? 

Birds of a feather flock together.

a/n: thanks for reading! I had so much fun writing this one, absolutely adore writing the reader as completely unapologetic lol

if you like mythology fics, I have another sukuna one here (inspired by apollo and cassandra), and a gojo one here (inspired by paris and helen of troy). I'm planning on bringing out a choso one soon too :)

© sukunahs

[godmadeaterribleerror]

It's Between the Words

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, fluff, friends to lovers, light angst, love confessions, lotta smut (fingering, body worship, oral f!receiving, p in v sex)

Summary/Warnings: One sided love hurts. Burns. Eats you alive. But it might not be one sided. It might just be hard for Dean to say he loves you back.

Author's Note: Emotionally Constipated men it's okay. I got you a laxative. 

Word Count: 10.7k

“You got sauce on your nose.”

You frown at Dean, watching you oddly across the dinner table. “Huh?”

He taps the tip of his own nose, and you’ve never seen that expression on his face before. It’s oddly focused, for someone just telling you about stray bits of dinner. And his whole body is tensed, the same ways as when he’s hunting.

Like this is critical. Vital. People will die, if you don’t get the sauce off your nose. 

You wipe with your napkin, mimicking where he’s pointing to. “Did I get it?”

“No.” He grunts, brows furrowing. “Here."

He taps the exact same spot, and you sigh. “Dean-“

Your words die in your throat as he leans over the table, holds your gaze, and swipes his thumb over the tip of your nose. It sends little bolts of lighting up your spine and burns in your lower stomach. He touched you. He’s touched you before, but now he’s touching your face, and the tiny point of contact between his thumb and your nose is going to be branded for the rest of your life. He sucks the bit of sauce clean as he leans back, and it’s not reasonable to tackle him over the table and scream that you love him. Also not reasonable to dump the rest of your dinner on your head and see if he’ll clean that too.

So you settle for clearing your throat and whispering, “Better?”

“Yeah.” Dean mutters, still watching you. 

It truly is a strange expression. Brows pinched, tight-lipped, jaw clenched. You’d think he was angry, if you couldn’t see the softness in his eyes. They’re almost glossy, as if he’s going to start crying. 

But before you can ask if he’s okay, the look vanishes, and his voice returns to normal.

“Better.”

———

It’s quiet tonight. 

It’s quiet most nights, in the bunker. The days can be filled with chaos and shouting and loud bangs—followed by another shout, this one from the garage as Dean decides he’s okay and doesn’t let anyone check in to verify that—but then the day moves on, and the night is quiet. 

Sometimes you’re home alone. Sam will pack up for a few days to visit Eileen for a few days, and the last loud noises are Dean teasing Sam about having a girlfriend, then the rumble of an engine as Sam pulls out of the garage. Dean then groans, gives you a strange look, then grumbles that he’s going out.

He never asks you to go with him. It’s a small mercy, but one that only turns bitter in the morning, when he returns with a mark on his neck and the smell of cheap perfume. 

Those are the nights you hate the most. Sam has Eileen. Dean has anyone he wants, but he doesn’t want you, and you’re alone. You lie in the silence of the bunker alone, and try not grab your gun at every single creak down the hall, or start crying when the pain hits your just right. When the darkness of the night gets under your skin, and you don’t have anyone to help you chase it away. 

You always wipe your tears before Dean comes home. 

He doesn’t need to worry about more things. If you can love him in one, silent way, it’ll be never making him worry. 

That’s why you love these types of quiet nights. There’s no pain or worry. At worst, all of you are tired, and energy is something you’ll need to save for the morning. Sam goes to do yoga—because he’s insane—and you and Dean watch a movie. 

“Don’t eat the ice,” Dean mutters your name as you both move around the kitchen for snacks, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re not my dad, Winchester-“

“It always makes you cold-“

“And that’s my right as an American.”

Dean snorts. “Pretty sure we’re both enemies of the state, sweetheart.”

“So?” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak as he tries to grab the glass from your hands. “Hey-“

“Calm down, I’m just giving you the maple syrup.” He holds up the bottle, and you eye him suspiciously. “C���mon, I’m not gonna try and take it from you-“

“Yeah, you are- Dean-“

He grabs you by the hook of your elbow, tugs you forward, and hold your gaze as he pours the syrup into your ice. Your lips are parted, and your knees are weak, and he’s not even really touching you. You need to get it the fuck together. 

“Thanks.” You mumble, and he shrugs. 

“Don’t.”

He shuffles off to the Dean Cave, and you sway uselessly for a second before scrambling after him. And when the movie starts, you try to pay attention to the screen instead of Dean’s thighs. But he always spreads his legs, tips his head back slightly, and throws his arm around the back of the couch.

It's not fair. He’s just there, and now you have to swallow and pull your knees to your chest. 

“You cold?”

You blink at him in the dark, and Dean’s looking at you. He should be looking the TV. He’s always looking at the TV. You’d know. 

You’re always looking at him. 

“No.” 

Dean frowns. “You look kinda cold, I can grab a blanket-“

“I’m not cold, Dean.” You force yourself to stop rubbing your calves. “Do you want a blanket?”

“Nah,” he gives you another odd stare. “I actually feel kinda hot. You sure you’re good? If you don’t feel well, we can go to bed-“

“I’m okay.” You cut him off with a voice that’s too soft, and you know he hears it. 

But we.

He can’t say we can go to bed, when you know it’s just going to be you.

“I’m just tired.”

He shrugs, frown still tight on his handsome face. “Then we’ll finish in the morning-“

“No- Dean-“ You grab Dean’s wrist before he can take the remote, and he raises his brows. 

“You’re tired, sweetheart. And it’s just Batman. You know what happens.”

“Not that kind of tired. I wanna finish.” You swallow, and give him a tiny, nervous smile. “Please.”

Dean lets go of the remote, leaning slowly back on the couch, and you must have gotten away with it. You love him, but he’s not the most emotionally perceptive, and there’s no way he’d be able to hear the desperation to be close to him—just for a few more minutes—painted all over your voice. He’s never heard it before. You’re probably safe-

“You sure you’re okay?” He mutters, his attention now fixed firmly back on the TV. “You’re kinda acting like I’m poison or something.”

Fuck.

Your eyes fall on the large gap between your bodies, an invisible barrier you set for your own sanity. It’s too much, to be close to him while doing something like this. It’s one thing to be pressed into a closet with him on a hunt, feeling his bulge near your ass and his body all around yours. That’s necessity. 

This would just be sitting in the dark, glued to his side, with a million other places to go but no desire to be anywhere but here. 

But he said it like a joke. With a dry, hollow chuckle that you know too well. You know Dean too well. 

Love him too much. 

So you put on your best, exasperated mask, and scoot closer. Until you’re not molded into his, but you’re leaning at little into his side. Your feet are brushing his thigh, as you keep them to your chest. You can feel the heat from his body. See every color in his eyes and all the shifting shadows from the TV, cast over his handsome face. 

“Better?”

He rolls his eyes, but gives you a bright grin. “Yep. You want that blanket?”

You shake your head and he shrugs, looking back to the TV. 

His throat is bobbing. Jawline firm. If you reached up, you’d be able to trace the shape of his lips. 

And he’s not a dog. He won’t be able to smell the wetness forming between your legs, when he groans about something or his big, rough fingers accidentally brush your arm. He’s not going to taste arousal on the air when he scoots closer, and you can feel the heat from his body. 

You always try to make yourself small anyway. There’s a fairly large part of you that knows, if you gave in and climbed into his lap, he’d let you. Kiss you like you’ve always dreamed, let you ride his muscled thigh until you were whining for more, then give it to you. Flip you over and fuck you into the couch.

Be the best of your life, then walk away. 

You’d lose all your dignity and break your own heart—Dean can’t be breaking it, he doesn’t even know it’s in his hands, so you’d be the one taking a hammer and smashing it to tiny, fractured pieces—and then need to learn how to walk and breathe again. Because you will have to learn. Your legs don’t know how to move away from Dean, and your lungs don’t know how to breathe if it’s not air you’re sharing with him. 

It will be a lot of work. Not impossible, but too much. You know yourself. You’ll love Dean until you’re in a grave unless you teach yourself not to. And you really don’t want to learn how to hate Dean. Don’t want to learn how to be indifferent to him, either.

You like loving him. It makes apples taste sweeter and water feel cooler. It’s a new kind of heaven, to be able to look at Dean and love him at the same time. He’s a force of nature. 

So you stay at his side. And when you do start to get cold—eating ice will do that, but you always seem to think this time will be different for some fucking reason—you keep your gaze fixed firmly on the TV as you tuck your arms between your legs and try to keep yourself warm. 

Then something warm wraps around your body. Soft and warm and-

A blanket. 

Dean barely moved. He’s still looking at the TV. But the glass somehow moved from your hand to his, and now you’re tucked into a blanket. 

He doesn’t say told you so. 

When he feels your gaze, he turns and gives you a challenge look. Daring you to call him out on it. 

You really don’t want to. It’s too good a selfish opportunity, to lean a little closer and let out a soft sigh when Dean fully moves his arm over your shoulder. 

He’ll rip you apart, if you ask him nicely. 

That’s not a burden you want to place on him. Certainly not one worth disrupting Sam’s yoga over.

The quiet falls again. Dean doesn’t say a word about the blanket, or ice, or how his hand is relaxed against the bare skin of your arm. But you don’t tell him that you feel like you’re on fire. 

This is a silence you could live in. Drown in, if Dean let you. 

Fuck, it doesn’t matter if he lets you.

You’re going to drown in him—even if he never gives you anything at all—no matter what. 

———

It gets worse, after the blanket. It’s like he’s living in your head. Like he knows you well enough to never need to ask what you need, always seeming to pick up on it before you even can.

First there’s the diner. You go to the bathroom while they’re ordering, and when you come back Dean is gone.

“Where-“

“Got a call.” Sam shrugs, and you nod, frowning around the table. 

“Did they take our menus?”

“Yeah, we ordered while you were gone. Don’t worry, Dean got yours.”

You swallow, give a weak nod, and focus your attention on the crayons and children’s placement they set at the table, despite none of you being kids. Sam starts to ramble about hunting ideas as you try to color in the black and white farm picture, looking up only when the diner doorbell rings, to check it it’s Dean.

Eventually, after a few disappointments you’re never going to admit make your stomach feel like a hollow pit—you’re a grown woman coloring like a child in a diner and talking about killing vampires, you don’t need Dean to come back—he reappears. 

It’s like watching the sun climb over the horizon. Everything is brighter and warmer, when he walks back into your view. There’s a bubbly little high that rushes your body, when his eyes meet yours and he grins.

“Dean, I think there’s a nest in Nebraska-“

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean slides back into the booth, right at your side. “You like the crayons, sweetheart?”

You flush, your gaze dropping back to the placemat. “I- Um- Yeah. I know it’s for kids, I just-“

“Helps you focus.” He shrugs. “I know. ’S why I asked for them.”

You blink at him, at the soft, crooked grin and light in his eyes, and chew on your lower lip to stop it from crashing into his. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He bumps his shoulder with yours, then looks back to Sam. “Dude, I think we gotta drop the vampire thing-“

“It’s a nest, Dean, we can’t just ignore it-“

“There’s a demon problem in Mississippi.”

“Shit.” Sam sighs, frowning back to his laptop. “We can do that, then Nebraska?”

“Sure. That sound good?” Dean says your name, and you blink at him a little dumbly. 

He can’t see it now. The love written all over your face. He’s never seen it before. 

But something still flashes over his features, when you nod. He swallows, hand curling on the table. 

“Awesome.” He grunts, almost tearing his gaze away, and whatever he and Sam keep talking about is lost to your ears. 

Because the food is delivered only seconds later, and Dean ordered for you. 

He got it all right. 

His hand is lingering on your shoulder again, as he stretches his arm over the booth. 

And it only gets worse from there.

Your leg starts to bounce in the car, and he pulls over so you can go to the bathroom. Your head starts to hurt after the demon hunt, and he passes you water and an Advil before you can even rub your temple. On the vamp hunt he’s always right around the corner, swinging his machete before teeth can even be bared in your direction. 

You get the shower first, when you get back to the motel. Dean’s covered in more guts and grime, but he opens the bathroom door, and makes a dramatic, sweeping gesture with an almost sweet and boyish grin. 

“Ladies first.”

Sam groans from across the room. “Wait, Dean, I smell like shit-“

“We all smell like shit.”

“Dude, I’m literally covered in literal shit-“

“So is she.” Dean snaps, and you sigh. 

You are. Somehow, every fucking hunt on a farm always end in someone covered in shit. But Sam got the worst of it. He took a full topple into the pile. Dean caught you before you could join him, and it’s mostly on your shoes—which now have to be burned—and hands after you helped Sam to his feet. 

“Dean, it’s alright.” You sigh, giving him a small smile. “Sam can go first.”

Dean stares at you for a second—not quite a glare, closer to that strange look from the kitchen—then grunts.

“Whatever. I’m gonna go find a drink.”

He leaves, looking back once with that same, odd expression, then vanishes out into the dark. 

If he’s mad at you, you didn’t mean it. It’s just a shower. But the door slams, and you want him to come back, and if he’s drinking that means he’s looking for company. Company that’s not you. 

It aches, all over your ribs. 

But he doesn’t know. 

So you’re not allowed to chase after him and beg him to come back. 

“You think they’ll serve him covered in blood?” You ask Sam, gaze still trapped on the door like Dean might return. 

“Dunno.” Sam sighs. “Thanks for letting me shower first. I’ll- Uh- I’ll be quick.”

You hum, and Dean doesn’t come back. When it’s your turn to shower, the water is warm, but your bones feel cold. You miss him. It’s been twenty minutes, and you miss him. 

It’s been like that the entire time you’ve known him. You love him, and miss him, and he drifts in and out, never understanding that you’re trying to drag him up to shore. He doesn’t have to keep drifting. You’re right there. If he asked you to fall into the ocean with him, you’d go in a heartbeat. If he crawled out of the waves and told you he didn’t want to drift anymore, but didn’t know how to stop, you’d sit in the water with him until he was ready. You’re always waiting. 

Even when he’s out, and it’s all quiet, you’re waiting for Dean to break the silence and tell you something. Anything. 

You’re just waiting to hear his voice all the time. It doesn’t have to be I love you too. 

Just something, telling you that this doesn’t end the way you know it’s doomed to. You in a silence that’s never going to be broken. Dean walking out a door and not coming back. 

When you pass out , you somehow manage to sleep through the whole night without being woken up by Sam and Dean coming and going from the bar. And you expect him to not be there in the morning. This is the exact type of bloody hunt that usually ends with Dean chasing comfort at the bar, Sam going for a ten-mile run, and you sleeping for about twenty hours straight before you can make yourself move. He’ll be back later, and your heart will stutter in your chest with the pain that he didn’t want you to help him forget, then you’ll keep going, and say nothing. 

You’ve gotten really good at choking on the sore feeling of not being the one Dean wants to help him, and saying nothing. 

But when you wake up, Dean’s on the couch. Feet kicked up on the table, watching TV on low volume and glancing over his shoulder when you try to sit up. 

“Shit-“ You groan. “What time is it?”

“Noon, sleeping beauty.” Dean almost appears in front of you, passing a coffee into your hands. “Sammy’s on a walk, he wanted to check out the park. They got a butterfly garden, if we wanna catch up.”

“I like butterflies.” You mumble, and Dean’s lips twitch. 

“Yeah, I know. Eggs?”

“Wha-“

“You gotta eat,” he says your name with a shrug, and maybe it’s the lingering sleep, but you sort of feel like you’re floating. He’s not looking at you—attention focused on the coffee in your hands, like it’s the most important object in the world—but he is standing right over your body. Blocking the sun leaking through the blinds, mixing with the dust of the motel room to give him the appearance of a halo.

You could just still be dreaming. Dean offers you his hand to help you up, and when you take it, his grip is firm. Gentle, but firm.

It’s too easy to imagine that grip on your hips, or throat, or thighs. Spreading your legs apart for him to take whatever he needed from you, until you have nothing left to give. 

“C’mon.” He keeps his hand in yours for a second too long, eyes darting back up to meet yours. “Breakfast.”

You nod, he moves his hand away, and you can’t chase it. You know how to walk alone. 

But you don’t want to.

And when you walk to breakfast, Dean slows his pace to match yours. Like maybe he doesn’t want to either. 

There’s a soft bird song in the air. The rush of morning wind past your ears. And when you trip on a crack in the pavement, Dean’s arm wraps around your waist, and he pulls your right up. 

He stares at you for a moment. So close. Your heartbeat in your ears and his large hand settled easily on your hip. 

You don’t tell him to move away. He doesn’t ask if he should let go. 

The birds keep singing. The sun is soft, melting through morning fog, and he looks like he has a halo again. 

Neither of you say a word. 

Dean’s hand stays on your hips. 

———

This is the kind of silence that kills. That sinks into things and erodes them, unless you scream and force it away. 

But you don’t know how. You can’t be the one to break it. Dean’s the one that brought it into the car. The one who’s driving with a white-knuckled grip, who hauled you into the car once he was sure your stitches would hold, slammed the door without a word, and took off with only a glare through the rearview mirror. Your throat is too dry to speak, and he’d passed you a water, but he’d done that in silence as well. He’s not even turning on the radio to drown out your ragged breaths and the engine. 

That’s how you know this is the horrible, poisonous kind of silence. 

Dean’s fury is only still and quiet when it’s getting ready to burst. Like the air right before a storm. Electric and empty. Promising wreckage soon, but not now. Now is about the dread. Now is about watching Dean glare at the road, and trying to guess exactly what he’s going to say so you can keep your own footing when he explodes. 

There are too many options. You don’t even know why he’s that mad. It wasn’t a good hunt, but it was far from the worst. You’d gotten hit, but you’d made it out. There was a deep gash in your stomach, but Dean treated it quickly. Picked you up with barely a grunt, carried out to the car, and laid you down on the hood without a word. You’d whined a little as he a pushed your shirt up and disinfected the wound, but he grumbles more when you’re just treating his knuckles. And you hadn’t even said anything. The silence had already started to settle, everything had been painting in pain, and all your focus had gone into focusing on Dean.

His hands, skimming over your sides and resting on your abdomen for better stitch work. His attention, focused entirely on you, splayed out below him. It had been far too easy to pretend you were there just to be touched. That his hands were promises of more, and he was scanning over you not to see if you needed the hospital, but because he was trying to work out where he wanted to start. If he was going to kiss you fully and deeply, latch his mouth onto your breasts, or kiss down your stomach and between your thighs. 

So easy to pretend, when you couldn’t feel the silence choking you, too lost in warm hands on your hips and your heartbeat in your ears. 

But now silence is all there is. 

And it’s going to bury you alive. 

He won’t even look at you, when he parks the Impala at the bunker. You get a stiff hand to guide you out of the car, but he’s staring right over your head. 

It could not be about you. Maybe he’s just tired. He was out late last night, and he came back smelling like booze and flowers, and that was fine. Not your business what he does at night, even if he’d spent the whole day before grinning at you over diner tables and indulging in a long rant about your favorite book. Even if he’d held your hand, when you’d had a random breakdown only a night before.

Maybe that was it. Maybe you’d pushed the boundary of your friendship right up to the line, by crying in his arms. 

But you’d been choking on the air, and hadn’t asked him to hold you. He just had. He’d fallen to his knees and tugged you into his arms, stroking his hand through your hair and keeping you folded gently into his chest. 

“I- I’m sorry,” you’d whispered, still sniffing and clinging to his shirt like a child. “I’m just- ‘m tired, and I’m so- It feels so big.”

Dean had hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Big?”

“Yeah. All of it.” Your voice had dropped to barely a breath. “I- I don’t- It’s lonely. I’m alone.”

He’d pulled back, that odd expression back on his face. “You think you’re alone?”

You’d swallowed and nodded, and he’d sighed. Pressed a soft kiss to your brow, and pulled you a little closer to his chest. Another weak sob had torn through your body. 

But he hadn’t let you sit in it. 

Dean had muttered your name, his own voice filled with an odd strain you couldn’t quite place. “You’re not alone, you know. You got me.” He’d paused, then added, “and Sammy. We’re here.”

“Thanks.” You’d mumbled, and he’d let out a long, slow sigh. 

“Course. I- I’m here. Whenever you need.”

You’d fallen asleep there. In his arms. And then neither of you had spoken about it, and he’d gone out the next night like you didn’t need him next to you all the time. 

You did something wrong. You had to have done something wrong. Maybe it had been the breakdown. Maybe you’d stared at him a little too harshly, when he’d gotten back last night. You’d been able to taste your own bitterness, that someone else got to have him the way you dreamed about. It might have been tangible in the air, and now he was pissed at you for thinking you had any right over him or his heart. 

You didn’t.

You just love him, too much to ask anything of him, but also too much to not hate him for doing this to you. Making you love him, then fucking off. 

It could be something else. He passed you rubbing alcohol back at the house, to ease the pain of the stitches. Maybe you had said something. Maybe your head had been fuzzy, and Dean fingers had brushed the soft skin of your stomach, and you’d moaned. Maybe you’d been thinking about him touching you aloud. Maybe you’d done something without remembering, and now he was never going to look at you again-

“Woah.” Sam shoots to his feet as Dean half-carries you inside—why is he still helping you when he’s never going to look at you again—and gapes between you. “What the hell happened? I thought it was just a salt and burn-“

“It was.” You mutter, wincing as you start down the stairs, and a new, white-hot pain shoots through your body. “Strong ghost.”

“Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You give Sam a tight smile. “Nothing bad.”

Dean tenses around you, but still doesn’t speak. 

Sam notices. Of course he does. He knows, just as well as you, that Dean’s never this quiet. “You alright, Dean?”

He grunts, settling you down into one of the chairs, and Sam raises his brows at you. All you can do is shrug in return. But the motion makes spots cloud in your vision, and a high moan of pain escapes your throat. 

Dean shoots you a tight look, and when you try to stand up, he crowds over your body and glares down at you.

Sam clears his throat. “Dean-“

“I told you to wait for me.” 

You blink up at him, blocking almost all the light. He looks more like a shadow than a man right now, and you shouldn’t want him to come closer. To maybe drop over you and smother your body. His body is broad enough to take up your whole vision, and it’s all tensed muscle and a handsome glower, searing right over your skin and making the air almost hum.

This is the hunter monsters and demons fear, not the man who watches cartoon and movies with you, bringing you ice and wrapping you in soft blankets when you get cold.

Really, truly angry. 

With you.

“What?” You blink at him, trying not to feel dizzy—for the pain or his attention, you’re not sure—and his nostrils flare. 

“I said wait.” His words are pushed through his teeth, fist clenched at his side. “You told me you’d fuckin’ wait until I got off the phone to go inside.”

“I- I did-“

“No, you didn’t.”

“Dean, I-“

“You have to fucking listen to me.” His voice is rising, gaze narrowing, and you might start crying again. “When I tell you do something on a hunt, you goddamn do it-“

“I did do it!” You scream, but your voice is too high. Too weak. “You hung up! It’s not my fault you started fucking texting someone and didn’t follow me into the house-“

“I followed you! I always follow you-“

“Then why weren’t you there, Dean?” You hiss, and you can’t control it. He can’t just hold you one night, fuck off the next, then act like he cares when you know he was texting someone else. You did the job. And you did it alone, with nothing but creaking stairs and the wind. He doesn’t get to be pissed at you for that. He fucking doesn’t. 

And he’s gone still again, his gaze almost predatory. He can’t bite back. It’ll hurt you a lot more than anything you could do to him. 

“I went in after you hung up.” You snap, all the fight already starting to drain from your body. “You don’t get to be pissed about that when you’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

His jaw ticks, his voice dropping to something low. Dangerous. “You think I wasn’t paying attention?”

Sam clears his throat from the background. “Guys, maybe now isn’t the best time to-“

“You weren’t there.” You mutter, ignoring Sam, and Dean’s lips curl. 

“You weren’t there.” He sneers. “I looked up, you were gone, and when I find you again, you’re bleeding out on the fucking floor because you couldn’t listen-“

“So? I got the ghost-“

“You got hurt!” 

He’s shouting again. You don’t have it in you to shout back—your head is starting to swim, and if you try, the sting in your eyes will overflow and you’ll fall apart—so you just sigh, and give him a tired look. 

“It happens, Dean. You get hurt all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because you’re a big man? Because chicks dig scars?”

He scowls, grunting your name, but you push on. 

“At least they didn’t get my face, right? Nobody would want me if I got a big scar on my face. God, I’d be useless, wouldn’t I? I mean, it’s not like anyone wants me now-“

Dean’s face flashes with that odd expression again, and you’re going to cry again. You can feel it coming. Hear it in your voice, tight from the lump in your throat.

“Who could want a girl hunter, Dean? I should just follow your every order, shouldn’t I? It’s not like I can hunt alone. Go off alone. Go anywhere without you telling me what to do then dropping me the moment something better comes along? Right? You just want your fucking lapdog?”

Dean takes a step back, like he’s been hit. Just staring at you. And Sam’s frozen somewhere in the background, looking between you with wide eyes, and you can’t do this. Can’t cry in front on both of them. Not when you’re already so tired. 

You push up on shaking feet, and Dean lurches slightly. Takes a stuttering step forward, then freezes as you level him with a glare. 

“I’m going to bed.” You tell the air, not really caring if they hear.

Neither of them say anything. Dean doesn’t try to grab you, or chase after you to argue more. 

You wish he would. 

But the silence follows you down the hall, broken only by your door slamming behind you, and the sound of your own fractured sobs as you fall into the bed, alone. 

———

“Don’t.” 

Sammy sighed from somewhere behind Dean, and when he turned, the kid had his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything, Dean-“

“You were gonna.” He grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t wanna hear it. I know.”

Sam raised his brows. “Do you?”

“Sam-“

“No, Dean. Tell me what you think I was gonna say.”

Dean scowled. “That it’s my own damn fault she’s pissed at me.”

“And?”

“Shut your face-“

“Why?” Sam didn’t waver, and he was asking to get punched. “What else is there? I mean, if it’s your fault, that should be it, right?”

Dean’s scowl deepened. “I don’t know what they hell you’re trying to say-“

“Don’t you?”

A heavy lump was forming in Dean’s throat. He couldn’t do this not now. 

Not when he could still hear Her words, ringing his ears with every moment of silence. 

Not like anyone wants me now.

Dean wanted Her. 

More than anything. 

He could feel it in his chest, with how it glowed and swelled with light whenever She smiled at him. He could feel it over his skin, with how every other touch felt sickening when it wasn’t Her hands. It turned in his stomach when he kissed another woman, and told himself it was for the best. 

She deserved better. Everyone deserved better than Dean, but She more than anyone else. 

Sometimes, Dean would lean over a bar counter, and dream about Her getting out. Having that apple pie life with some normal, boring asshole who’d never let Her put herself into harms way, who’d know exactly what to do when She cried in his arms, who’d know how to say it.

The thing. 

He’s tried to tell Her, all the time. That when he walked, it was always because he was trying to march in some time to Her heartbeat. He cleared Her plates because he was there for Her. He paid attention to Her, knew Her, and tried to make her feel it like that. 

But he couldn’t even think it. That within itself felt like a curse. If he thought it, some angel or monster would hear and try to take Her away. And it wasn’t denial. He knew. Dean damn well knew why it lived behind his eyes, when he fucked some random chick and moaned the wrong name. Why there had been a broiling, cold, consuming wrath in his muscles, when he’d seen Her bleeding on the floor. Why part of him was shattered on the floor when She called Herself his lapdog. 

He was Her lapdog. He was the one who followed and waited for Her. Who, if She ever left him, would stare at door and wait at the foot of Her bed until she came back. 

And he’d fucked this. All on his own. He shouldn’t have been pissed, but She was right. He hadn’t been there. He’d gotten distracted trying to dismiss the girl from last night, because she didn’t get the one-night thing, and wasn’t deterred by Dean’s eyes been closed the whole time—even as he’d fucked her from behind—and the way he knew he’d groaned Her name when he came. 

Then She’d gotten hurt. Dean couldn’t afford to have Her hurt. He wasn’t worth much, but he knew how to be a shield. How to stand in the line of fire. 

And She’d still gotten hurt.

“You should talk to her-“

“No.” Dean grunted, ignoring Sam entirely. “She’ll get over it.”

She would. She was strong, and resilient, and-

Alone.

Her voice echoed in his again, right between the echoes of his steps in the hall. And he could see it. Her face flushed, cheeks shining with tears. He could feel Her in his arms, warm and soft and curved so damn well against his chest. She’d smelled like flowers. 

Sounds so fucking sad, when She’d said she was alone. 

Dean flopped down on his own bed, and stared at the ceiling. If he closed his eyes, he’d see the pale expression on Her face, and he just wanted to goddamn sleep. To wake up and be back at yesterday. He’d ignore the texts this time. She’d be safe, and—bonus—they wouldn’t be fighting. 

But he kept hearing it. 

Soft sobs that sounded an awful lot like Her’s. And he might be imagining them, but Her eyes and been glossy and Her voice had been strained. 

Alone.

Dean was more alone than She was. She could have him however She wanted, but he had to settle for placeholders that never fit Her shape. 

He couldn’t sleep. 

He kept seeing Her face. Hearing Her voice. 

A drink. 

A drink would help.

Dean shuffled down the hall, trying to keep as silent as possible—She needed the sleep, and he didn’t need another lecture from Sammy—and found the liquor cabinet already hanging open.

There was a whole bottle of vodka missing. 

Son of a bitch. 

He didn’t run. He wasn’t so pathetic as to sprint to Her room. But he did walk fast. She shouldn’t be drinking with fresh stitches, it would thin Her damn blood and make her recovery worse. He’d only given Her a little bit to ease the pain before, and it had barely taken a sip to make Her head loll back, eyes flutter, and body turn to putty below him. 

And Dean wasn’t a good man. He’d taken in the sight of Her—shirt riding up, relaxed and spread out on the hood of the Impala—and memorized it for later. For when She’d tuck Herself against his side on the couch, and he’d have to excuse himself to go chase relief in the bathroom. 

But now She was drinking. Because of Dean. And She was going to hurt herself even more, and he wasn’t a good man, and she deserved better, but- 

He raised his hand to knock on Her door, and it swung open.

She squinted up at him, lips in a pretty pout, and he swallowed. It was too quiet. He’d been planning to storm in and demand She just go to bed. Braced to take any of Her insults or fists pounding on his back as he tucked her in. The noise would keep the thought from his head. The one that meant he’d let Her goddamn shoot him, if it made Her happy. 

He hadn’t been ready for the silence. For how She was swaying slightly, Her hand drifting up to press on Dean’s chest with a small frown, shoving him lightly. 

“You’re here.” She mumbled, words already slightly slurring together. “Big.”

Dean blinked at Her. “Huh?”

“You’re big.” She took an unsteady step forward, and She’d touched him first. 

Dean let his arms shoot up to catch Her, and She giggled slightly, leaning Her head against his chest. 

“And strong.” Her fingers raised up, poking his chin. “Pretty.”

Jesus Christ. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

She snorted, rolling Her eyes. “So?”

“So, you’re injured-“

“You get drunk and injured all the time, Dean-“

“That’s-“

“Different?” She dropped Her voice to mock his, and pushed suddenly off his chest. “Shut up, if you’re just gonna yell at me again I’m not telling you my secret.”

“What secret- Shit-“ Dean lunged forward, grabbing Her before she could slam into the sharp corner of her dresser. “Slow down, baby-“

“Baby.” She hummed, hands suddenly grabbing Dean’s face and he swallowed. That was Her focus, analyzing face that She used in interrogations. A little dazed and soft from the drinking, but still sort of terrifying. Dizzying and scary and beautiful, keeping him frozen in place like She’d cast some sort of spell. “I’m not your baby, Dean.”

That drove right between his ribs. Damn near made him double over. But this wasn’t about him right now, so he choked on the broken sound of pain, and pushed on. 

“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry, just slipped-“

“Do you call them baby?”

He frowned. “I- Uh- Who?”

“Them.” She whispered, leaning against his chest. “The others.”

“Ba- Kid, I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Kid.” She scowled, and shit, even that was enchanting. “‘m not a kid.”

“I know-“

“Is that why it’s not me?” She asked softly. “Cause you think I’m a kid?”

Dean said Her name slowly, and he wasn’t sure when he’d grabbed Her hips. She wasn’t moving him away.

He’d take it. 

“I don’t think you’re a kid-“

“But you’re comin’ to tell not to drink.” She mumbled, Her face dropping fully against Dean’s chest. “And you don’t think I can hunt alone.”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself-“

“You don’t care.” 

Dean frowned. “Of course I care-“

“But you were mad.”

“I-“

“You don’t need to be here.” She muttered. “I’m not a kid. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Dean sighed Her name, and let his hand tangle in Her hair. “But I told you. You’re not alone.”

It felt right. Like where he was supposed to be, even if he knew he shouldn’t be allowed there. And She melted into him. 

Dean had been the one that hurt Her. She wasn’t his. 

But Her arms were wrapping around his neck, and she hummed softly, taking a deep breath, turning to bury Her face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

“You smell good.” Her words were half mumbled against Dean’s skin, lips brushing on his throat, and damn him, he wanted to stay here forever. 

“Thanks-“

“And I love you.” She whispered, voice drifting off as lighting hit Dean’s whole body.

She was drunk. She couldn’t meant it, she was drunk and tired and pissed at him-

“Sorry.” She breathed. “Love you.”

Dean held Her firm as She became a slack, dead weight in his arms. 

It was quiet again, save for the sound of Her breathing. 

The only sound in the world that mattered. 

It sounded sort of like hope. 

———

Your head doesn’t hurt as much as it should, when you wake up. There should be a migraine. A pounding pain, reminding you that you’d tried to drink away all your pain, only for it come knocking on your door right as you’d been ready to stumble and plead for it to keep hurting you. 

Because not only is there no pain, but you can remember everything so damn clearly. Talking yourself into chasing Dean, and seeing if he’d do you a favor and beat your heart a little further into the ground. Maybe you’d manage to salt the earth, and that would be the end of it. 

Deep down, you know it would only have bloomed again. It always does. 

But Dean fighting you more would’ve meant he cared enough to shout. He had cared enough to shout. 

And the details of him being in your room are a blur. There’s a feeling of warmth, and a phantom sensation of arms around your body, but all you can really remember is the ache. The hunger to have him, and the pain as you remembered you couldn’t. 

But you had. 

There’s a haze of being wrapped in him, and a low voice right in your ear, and the room spinning but around the same center of gravity. And he’d held you back. You’d grumbled and hit his chest, but he’d held you and put you to bed. 

Maybe put you to bed. You don’t remember getting in bed yourself. 

But you also don’t remember there being a heavy weight, on the other side of the mattress. 

“I know you’re awake,” Dean mutters, and your fingers curl into the sheets. 

He’s here. 

He’s still here. 

And you can remember a little more of what he said. What you said. 

You told him you love him. 

Aloud.

Fuck.

“You don’t have to get up.” Dean lets out a long breath, and you feel sort of sick. 

You’ve lost him. You’ve never even had him, but you lost him. This is the part you’ve dreaded from the moment you looked at him, and realized it really was never going to be better than this. Then Dean. Humming to himself and drumming on the wheel. Loud in a way that makes the rest of the world seem to quiet. That makes you want to make things louder to match him, rather than let him force himself to drag down. 

And he’s not going to ask you to leave. He would never. 

But he will turn you down. Tell you that he doesn’t do relationships, and it will be the end. Worse, he’ll say he doesn’t love you, but if you want something without stings, he can offer that. And you’ll take it. You’re weak, so you’ll take it. 

You hope he doesn’t offer it. You’ll overflow with love. It will start to weed, with nowhere else to go. 

Dean takes in a sharp breath, and you brace yourself for the blow. It’ll be better if you take it lying down. You don’t really want to look him in the eyes.

“You, uh-“ He clears his throat, the sound oddly tight. “You don’t have to get up. Or say anything. Just listen. Okay.”

You don’t answer, trying to breathe evenly through your nose, and Dean lets out a dry chuckle.

“Alright. I did say you didn’t have to talk, guess that’s on me. I- Uh- I’m sorry.”

Here it comes.

“Sorry for yelling at you, sweetheart. You’re never anything but good to me, and I know you weren’t trying to get yourself hurt. I just- Son of a bitch, I can’t lose you. Won’t survive it. I need you. More than damn near anything, I need you here, with me. And I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t leave. I’ll- Shit, I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t stay pissed at me, baby. Please.”

Oh.

You don’t know how to move or speak or react, because oh. That wasn’t an I don’t want you. Wasn’t an I don’t feel the same. 

It was an oh.

Dean coughs. “I, uh- I know I said you didn’t have to say anything, but it sorta- Can you say something? Even if it’s telling me to go to hell-“

“I don’t want you to go to hell.” You mumble, words muffled in your pillow. “And I’m not that pissed. I just- I can do things myself-“

“I know you can, sweetheart-“

“Do you?” You roll over, trying to give him a firm look, but it doesn’t work that well. 

The asshole can sit on your bed all night, and still be the most attractive man alive. It makes all the—albeit pretend—anger die within a few seconds. He looks desperate. Short hair messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. He’s in a thin, tight shirt, frowning at you like you’re the most important thing in the world. 

“I do.” He mutters, his voice rough in a way that rushes right into your core. “I promise I do, baby. I just- You looked so freakin’ small. You were in pain. And I-“

“Can’t lose me?” You finish for him, sitting fully up on the mattress, and he gives you a tight nod. “You could never lose me, Dean.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “In my experience, that’s not exactly something you get to decide.”

“Maybe.” You shrug, drawing your knees to your chest. “But they’d have to drag me away.”

He raises his brows. “They would.”

“Yeah. They would.”

Dean nods slowly, giving you that odd look, then clears his throat. “You sort of- You said a thing.”

Fuck. 

“I know.” 

You fidget with your fingers, trying to hold his gaze, but it’s hard. He looks sort of like a cornered animal. Making himself bigger while preparing to be kicked all the same. 

“Did you mean it?” Dean whispers, and you give him a tiny nod. “How long?”

“Two years.” 

“Son of a bitch.” He runs a hand over his face, giving you an almost exasperated look. “And you didn’t think to freakin’ say something-“

“You didn’t say anything! And you slept with- I- I know I don’t have a say in what you do, but-“ You swallow, trying to prevent your voice from getting too high and needy. “I’m not going to tell you when I think you don’t care, Dean.”

He sighs, grimacing slightly. “Yeah. Fair. Does it matter if I tell you I don’t- That they’re not the same? As you are?”

“Not the same?” 

“It’s not- I don’t care about it. With them.” He sighs. “With anyone but you.” 

“Oh. Okay.” You give him a small smile, and there’s a spark in your chest. It’s dangerous. It’s going to let you fall into this, even if it’s a lie, but you don’t think it is. 

With Dean looking at you like that, it couldn’t be.

“Okay?” He mutters, and you shrug. “Alright. Do you still- Y’know-“

“Love you?”

He nods, and you frown.

“Of course I still love you, Dean. It’s- I’ve put up with a lot more of your bullshit than this and still loved you. One fight isn’t changing that.”

He swallows, eyes wide on yours and voice to soft. “Can you say it again?”

You don’t have to ask what he means. “I love you, Dean.”

His throat bobs, and he leans slightly forward. You can see the dilation of his pupils. Watch the tip of his tongue, flick out over his lips.  

“Can I kiss you?” 

His voice is hoarse, you can almost feel the hunger in it. Written all over handsome features, mirror in your own hands curling on your knees and thighs pressing together. 

“Yeah.” 

There’s nothing else to say. 

Dean leans forward, wrapping a hand carefully around your neck and resting the other on your knee, then kisses you softly. Slowly. It’s already more than you know how to handle. His lips against yours, moving carefully as he angles your face back, finding a gentle, dizzying pace that already sends you into a high that’s better than anything before. His hand slowly dragging your knees down, letting him lay you flat onto the mattress as his tongue traces over your lips. 

He presses down lightly. Asking for permission, right as rough, calloused fingers brush your sides, and he settles between your legs. 

You open for him, letting out a soft sigh down his throat as he sucks on your lower lip, and it’s still soft, but something shifts. 

First it’s the kiss. Deeper. All the way into the mattress until you’re breathless, and his weight over your body somehow becomes not enough. You need to feel him. Feel more. Then his hand trails under your shirt, a knuckle brushing against your breast, and your back arches off the bed. Dean groans, his mouth starting to trail down to you neck—sucking tiny bruises as he kneads the skin of your waist—and when you moan his name, you can feel him. Hard, pressed right against your inner thigh. It just builds another, louder moan, and god, he knows what he’s doing. 

Just kisses, possessive marks and touches, are unraveling you in a second. And the shift is heat. There’s so much building heat, in every moan and wet sound of Dean’s lips on your neck, and he’s moved above you. Kissing the base of your throat, his bulge pressed right over your core, and you need more.

“Jesus,” Dean grunts, pushing on his forearms to scan over your face. “Baby, please don’t start a game you can’t finish.”

You blink up at him slowly. “What if I want to start?”

He swallows. “Don’t-“

“Do you want to start?”

Dean sighs, dropping his brow down to yours. “More than anything, baby.” He rolls his hips against you, grabbing your back and kissing the side of your head when you shiver from the feeling. “You got no idea, how bad- how much-“

“Can you show me?”

Dean stares at you, and you hold his gaze. You want it. More. All of it. Whatever he’ll give you, and if the blown out, starved expression on his face is any sort of promise, he’s going to give you a lot. 

“Yeah?” His voice is low, deeper than you’ve ever heard it, and you were already ruined. It’s a little unfair how just loving Dean ruined you. 

Touching him might remake you. Or wreck you all together. 

You’d really like to find out. 

So you grab his jaw, tugging him back to your level, and kiss him. Slow and long and fir, biting his lower lip and trying not melt when he groans. 

“Yeah.” You whisper against his lips. “You care about it? With me?”

He nods, trying to chase you when you lean back, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. 

“Prove it.”

It’s not a shift anymore. 

It’s a snap. 

Dean’s eyes darken. Narrow. His lips from a tight line, and he nods to himself. Like a challenge accepted. 

And he’s still so slow. Taunting. Pressing you back down into the mattress with a heated kiss, going and going until you’re breathless, hands roaming anywhere he can reach as you cling to his neck. One grabs your breast, palming if for a seconds before rolling a nipple between his thumbs, right as the other wraps around your hips and gives a tight squeeze to your ass. 

“Dean-“ You gasp, and he grunts, nipping your lower lip. “More- please-“

You start to tug on the hem of his shirt, and he rises up, ripping it off and tossing it away. But you barely get a second to reach up, let your hands wander the muscles panes of his chest or take in the virtual god towering over you—muttering your name, somehow muttering your name—before he’s tracing over your shirt, and raising his brows. 

“Take it off,” he grunts, and you’ve never listened to an order faster. 

The clothing flies off both your bodies, Dean’s hands both playing with your tits for barely a second before he’s yanking off his own underwear. 

And Jesus. 

Someone must have owed you a favor. 

He’s everything. Strong and firm, but soft too. Broad. And you’ve see him flexing as a joke, or when he fought hand to hand, but that’s nothing compared to the view of him shedding his pants, towering over you, and slowly starting to stroke his own cock as he holds your gaze. 

Even his dick looks sort of like art. Big and thick and heavy in his hand, standing proud, close enough for you to touch if you reach up.

“Hey.” He swats away your hand, shooting you a firm look. “I’m touching. You’re taking.”

You’re taking. 

Dean wants you to take. 

And you’d have to be insane to tell him no. 

“Okay.” You whisper, and he smirks down at you. 

“Good girl.”

Oh, god. Your thighs try to press together, but he shoves them apart. You’re still in your pants, but when he presses his palm over your pussy, there might as well have been nothing between you. Your hips jerk, and you try to grab his wrist, but he bats you away and starts to rub. Slow and firm, still beating his own cock as you fall apart for him from nothing.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” He moves his knuckle to press over your clit, and a high whine leaves your throat. “Gonna take what I give you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, trying to wiggle to get just a little more friction. “Dean, just- Why-“

He laughs at your high whine, his hand gone from your pussy and slowly starting to trail down your thigh. 

“Relax, baby girl,” he mutters, pulling your legs up into the air. “I’ve got you.”

You melt into the mattress, and nod weakly. He’s got you. 

Dean helps you out of your pants and underwear before kissing the inside of one ankle, then the other. He slowly starts to make his way up your legs, kissing every bit of skin he can find. Leaving a small bite on your knee before kissing it better, right as he grabs your hips, massaging his thumb in firm circles. 

Every breath starts to hitch, as he makes his way to your inner thighs. Another tiny bite, another wet kiss, then a heavy breath over your clit. A soft kiss. 

“Dean,” you moan, your whole body burning with need. “Dean, I-“

You squeak as he lands a sharp slap on your cunt. 

“Take it.” He grunts, teasing two fingers on your dripping pussy. “So fuckin’ wet- I’m taking care of you, right? Told you, baby, all you gotta do is settle down and take it.”

You nod, trying to lay back into the sheets, but it doesn’t last long. 

A loud, desperate moan leaves you as Dean dives between your legs, and you’re going to fly out of your skin. He’s good. So good. And you might be screaming that, as his tongue fucks in and out of your cunt, it’s impossible to hear yourself over the sound of Dean devouring you. His nose rubs your clit, the stubble of his beard burning your thighs, and when you scream something that’s probably his name, he groans right into your pussy. It vibrates through your whole body, sending you so high so fast, and he senses it. 

Dean starts to lick your clit, quick and small until you’re a bucking, moaning mess below him. Gasping for air as his forearm over your stomach pins you to the mattress, tugging his hair in a silent plea to come, then making a high noise as he groans again. 

Finally, his lips latch around you, and he sucks, tongue never ceasing its movement. 

Your orgasm hits you with fireworks and light, eyes rolling back in your head and body going limp, and Dean doesn’t stop until you’re floating down from the high. Then he kisses your hip, up your stomach, and pauses at your breasts. Takes one nipple into his mouth while playing the other between his fingers, switching the moment you start to grind below him, then kissing back up your chest. You get a wide, boyish grin for half a second, then his lips press back over yours. 

Demanding. 

Still so soft.

“Taste like heaven.” He mutters, and you hum, scratching at his shoulder. He chuckles. “Need more, baby girl?”

You nod, and he grunts. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. Haven’t fucked you yet. You’ve got some words for me in that big brain-”

“More.” You gasp. “More, Dean. You- Your cock. Need your cock. Please.”

He groans, kissing your deeper. “There she is. Good girl.”

You whine, and he pulls back slightly, giving you a small frown. 

“Protection-“

“Are you clean?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah, but-“

“Pill.” You mumble, spreading your legs. “If you’re okay, I- Please. Wanna feel you.”

Dean stares at you for a second, then crashes back down into you. This kiss is feral. Hungry and messy and teeth, only broken after Dean rolls you over his body.

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, slowly guides your down his chest, and raises your hips. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he helps you sink down onto his cock. Splits you open so gently, looking up with such awe as he rubs your thighs and lets you adjust. 

You’re full. So fucking full.

And you need more. 

You squeeze around him, rolling slightly and whining when he presses that spot deep inside you, and Dean groans your name.

“Shit- Take what you need, baby.” He grunts. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, nails digging into his chest, and start to ride Dean’s cock. It feels so good. Your clit rubs over your abdomen, all the noises in the world just the wet sound of his dick buried in your pussy, and every whine from your throat as you start to climb up again. 

Dean groans when you squeeze around him, head thrown back and fingers teasing over your nipples, but it’s still not enough.

“Dean,” you gasp, squirming over him as your legs start to burn. “I- I need you-“

He moans, hips jerking up, and takes over without another question. Firm hands grab your hips and start to bounce you on his cock, and all you can do is feel it. The dizzying high of Dean inside you, the warmth of him under your hands, the sounds from his chest rolling through your whole body until you’re hovering back on the edge. 

And he knows, before you can plead with him. That you still need more. Dean pushes up on one hand, crashing his mouth back against yours, and pins your down on his cock. You’re trapped against him as he starts to fuck up into you, hitting so deep in your body you might be seeing stars, every groan from his mouth into you like lightning through your blood. 

He’s close. You can sense it, in the way his movement are growing harsher. Hear in his every moan.

“Dean- Dean, I’m-“

“I know.” He growls, slamming against your g-spot with every thrust. “C’mon, baby. Cum for me.”

The coil in your gut snaps, and your mouth falls open as your vision goes white. It’s maybe the most powerful orgasm of your life, only doubled as Dean just keeps fucking you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and groaning your name as he paints your cunt white with his own release. 

He collapses with a groan, still slowly grinding up into your pussy, and you’re only still upright because of his hold on your hips. 

Dean’s thumb wanders slightly. Flicks over your clit, making you both moan as you spasm around him.

“Dean.” You grumble, and he grins up at you. 

“Sorry, baby.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah.” He laughs. “I’m not.”

He’s laughing. Grinning. Relaxed below you, and still sheathed inside you. Then Dean rises up, and you meet him halfway. Wrapping your arms around his neck as he kisses you, slow and deep, and slowly roles you under his body. You whimper when he pulls out, and he just softly kisses your neck. 

“Be right back.” He mutters, taking your hand and squeezing it gently. 

You hum, letting your eyes flutter closed as his weight vanishes over your body. This is a warm, comfortable silence. There’s no need to speak. You can feel Dean anyway. There’s a dip in the mattress and a kiss on your ankles, then a warm sensation between your thighs, as he cleans you up. 

“C’mon.” He mutters after a second, pulling you into his arms. “You gotta pee.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck, and when he sets you down on the toilet, you somehow manage to keep your brow pressed to his. Then it’s just even, easy breaths, gentle hands guiding you back to your bed, and Dean tucking you back against his chest. 

He’s holding you like you’re fragile. His voice in your ear is still soft. 

Nervous.

“Can I stay?” 

You nod, twisting in his arms to press your face back against his neck, and he sighs. 

“Are you-“

“‘m sure.” You mumble, wrapping your arms around his torso. “Love you. Want you here.”

His heart stumbles slightly. “Thanks.”

You hum, tangling your legs together, and he sighs, rubbing circles on your back as he shifts you comfortably in his arms. 

He mutters your name, soft in your ear. “I feel it too.”

You smile against his skin. “Okay.” 

“I- I just can’t-“

“Dean-“

“I’ve never- It’s not you, I just-“

“Dean.” You make your voice firm, leaning back to meet his gaze. “It’s okay. I know.”

And you do. You can see it now, in how he looks at you. See it before, as well, when you really look. In every blanket at ordered food and slower step. It might be there longer than you’ve loved him.

But it’s all the same, anyway. You’re still here. Whispering in the dark. Together. 

“You do?” He mutters, and you smile. 

“Yeah. I do.”

End Note: I don't like how my fyp knows how down bad i am for this man. If I get one more jackles Countdown shower scene, i'm gonna... write more horny stuff.

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[calebsmoocher]

Makeup Ruiner! Caleb

She's out and about while he's sitting at home, pulling tufts of his own hair out. It's almost like she's forgotten about him. Nothing he can't fuck back into her memory tho 🤷‍♀️

cw: smut (so mdni!), stand and carry fuck / wall sex (the goat), mirror sex, jealous Caleb awh, sweet at the end i swear

She slides the key into the keyhole as quietly as she can, turning the door knob with her lip between her teeth. It’s 1AM and her phone has been blowing up for the past three hours.

Where are you?

Let me know when you’re on your way home.

Are you okay?

Hello?

Do you need me to pick you up?

Let me know that you’re okay.

Hello??

She clenches her eyes until she hears the faint click of the door opening. She had accidentally put her phone in ‘do not disturb’ mode earlier, only getting to check it when she was on her way home. 

“Caleb is going to kill me.” The thought hums its way like a mantra through her mind and she can only purse her lips in defeat. She steps into her apartment and shuts the door behind her. Her feet are killing her. Though the pink heels she has on aren’t necessarily as high as her other heels, the material still clips at her heels and toes. She braces a hand on the wall, using the other to start untying the winding ribbon on her calf. But her bag slides and knocks into her hand at the tip of her weight. She thinks she might fall over before she throws her weight completely onto the wall.

When she looks up, Caleb is leaning against the doorway, a hand placed languidly on his hip. She gasps, almost falling down again. 

“Caleb..!” He pushes himself up, walking towards her. His brows are furrowed. And he’s wearing outerwear. “You scared me.” When he stops in front of her, he takes her elbows into his hands, balancing her off the wall. 

“I was so worried.” 

She grimaces before giving him her best, pleading look.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise my phone was on ‘do not disturb’. I didn’t get any of your messages until I was nearly home.” He takes the bag off her shoulder and hangs it at the door. 

“You didn’t get my messages? Or you just didn’t happen to see them until now?” Despite her eyes crinkling in guilt, his gaze is lowered at her feet. He kneels down and begins untying the ribbon bow. 

“Caleb…”

“You must’ve been really engrossed in whatever you were doing to not check your phone.” Although his words cut into her, his tone is soft. Almost disinterested. Once the ribbon falls to her ankles, he undoes the other shoe. “You’re home safe now. That’s all that matters.” He looks up and gives her a reassuring smile. She can’t help but run her hand through his hair. It’s soft and smells faintly of their shared shampoo.

She winces as he guides one foot out of her heel, leaning one hand down onto his shoulder. 

“Your skin’s rubbed raw.” He frowns, wrapping an arm beneath her knees. He picks her up bridal style and she curls her arms around his neck despite feeling supported. Red floods her cheeks and her wide eyes can hardly stay on his. He wiggles her other shoe off before dropping it to the floor. He turns his head to her, mouth parting then closing again, as he walks further into the house.

“Caleb, you don’t have to…” He ignores her.

“Why not wear more comfortable shoes next time?” She looks down, suddenly finding his plain shirt interesting.

“I didn’t think I’d be walking as much as I did. Anyway, it only started hurting now.”

“Right,” he hums, turning the corner into the bathroom and flicking the lightswitch with his elbow. He sets her down on the counter and smooths down the fabric of her dress over her knees. There, his fingers linger, letting the soft cotton fall through his hands. 

The bathroom is cramped. Really, it’s a battle when they’re both using it to get ready at the same time. Despite the state of their bathroom in their youth, the room now is spotless. The counter only has their differing face cleansers and creams lined up neatly against the splashback. When he stays over he uses her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. And he comes out smelling just as pampered as her. He claims that her shampoo makes his hair softer. It’s a local brand, one that he can’t find in Skyhaven. So he’s always taking a travel size back with him when he returns. 

He bends down and opens the cabinet, grabbing ointment and a box of bandaids. As he unscrews the cap of the ointment, she takes the box in her hands, inspecting the designs on the back. It’s the same brand they had used as kids, but now the patterns were different. She shuffles through the packets, looking for one with a design to her liking. A wince leaves her mouth as the cool ointment presses into her heel. Caleb murmurs an apology, offering her a teasing pout. He uses a cotton pad to gently rub it in before holding his hand out to her.

“See any you like?” She hands him one with a cartoon apple on it.

“I don’t remember buying these.”

“That’s ‘cause I bought them.” He smooths the bandaid over her skin before standing up and washing his hands beside her. She watches him in silence, chewing at her lip. When he’s done, he returns in front of her, not one word having been exchanged since.

He rests his hands on either side of her, taking a step back and letting his eyes wander over her. Her cheeks are still flushed as his scent encases her. She can feel the warmth radiating off of him; it’s a nice contrast to the goosebumps forming on her shoulders. Her dress is a pillowy pink, with lace butterflies sewn over the straps and bust. The sleeves are a sheer tulle that open out into a fanned cuff at her wrists. She wants to throw a towel at him, but there’s nothing in reach. She has never worn something like this, never seen herself in something so dainty and elegant. So, of course, neither has Caleb. Sure, he had witnessed her princess phases when she was young; the phases when she’d wrap bedsheets around her like a ballgown and appoint him as her butler. Have him hold her hand so she wouldn’t trip over the bundle of fabric while she paraded around their living room. 

And the phase in middle school when she began to experiment with makeup, braving school with cheeks so pink it looked like a sunburn. He had even seen her at her high school dance. Makeup done professionally, and a pretty dress that was fit for royalty. But she had still been a teenager. And throughout college and her moving into the workforce, she never returned to those princess phases.

Not until right now.

“You’re beautiful.” He twirls the ribbon around his finger loosely before letting it fall back against her dress. Then he brushes his thumb over her knee, tracing the dangerous line where skin disappears into fabric. His eyes wander over her face. The soft, pink blend of blush on her cheekbones. The intricate detailing of brown and black shadow around her eyes drawn out into subtle winged eyeliner. The gentle, coral plush of her lips. He swallows, a pink hue prickling at his cheeks. “So pretty. Did you have a good time at least?”

She drags her fingers up his arm, pressing into the hard muscle, before humming in reply. She can’t trust her voice not to quiver. Can’t trust her face to not flush in embarrassment if she meets his endearing eyes. No matter what he says, some part of her will still feel like the silly little girl dressing up. He mirrors her hand, knuckles brushing up her wrist, all the way up past her shoulder to her chin. He lifts her jaw so that she meets his gaze, face craned down and eyes searching hers. His brows are slightly furrowed, and she knows if she lets him look any longer, he’ll figure out exactly what’s wrong. So she pushes his hand away. But he only reels back closer than before, palm pressing against her cheek as his fingers wrap along the shell of her ear. He guides her lips towards his, then he waits. Hovers. And she watches as he takes another look down at her dress before clenching his eyes. She watches as his mouth fights between their open and closed states, like he’s juggling with whether or not to speak. 

He decides to kiss her first, taking her lip between his and pushing feverishly into her. She wraps a hand around the arm that is still braced on the counter beside her. But the kiss is as fleeting as her shock. He pulls away, just far enough to speak into her cheek.

“I’ve never seen this dress before…” Is that what he’s thinking about? Her mind blanks.

“...It was a gift.”

“Right,” comes his reply after a beat. He doesn’t dwell on it any longer before he leans down again to capture her lips once more. He doesn’t mean to be rough. But the way he’s angling his face, pushing her body back further onto the counter, she can only grip his arm tighter. His tongue swipes at her lip and she lets him in without a thought. His smell, entwined with the scent of his shampoo, fills her. Her eyes fall shut and she feels her mind slip. His tongue is cruel as it sucks on hers, coaxing her mouth wider. 

“Right, but, from who?”

She has to fight the roll of her eyes as she takes in a breath, pulling him back towards her. She doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t force her. Her hand runs up along his scalp, messing up his neat hair. She doesn’t know why, but she has a fixation with his hair. The way it just falls through her fingers. The way no matter what angle she’s touching his head, he always lets a groan slip. Delightful, full groans as he rocks his body against her, in between her inviting legs. He hikes her dress up to get closer. He thinks he should be afraid of ruining it, but he isn’t. Not even in the slightest. 

“Mmph,” she moans into his mouth. When he lets up, giving them a chance to breathe, both their lips are red and swollen. She can almost see the puffs of hot air leaving his mouth. Almost hear the thumping of his chest if her own wasn’t so overpowering. Her lipstick is smudged at the corners of his mouth, so she takes her thumb and swipes at it, watching with half-lidded eyes at the plush of his lips under her finger.

“Can I take this off?” He fingers thread over the tied ribbons on her sleeves. Despite its airy and pretty appearance, the tulle rubs against her skin the wrong way.

“Yeah.” She guides him back down to her, leaving small kisses along his jaw. At the corners of his mouth. Along the thin flesh of his neck as he pulses against her. His breaths are heavy as he undoes the ribbon and slides the sleeve off her. He does the same on the other side. Then his hand travels to the strap of the dress, tugging gently at the bow.

His brows furrow as he looks at the thin straps. Her skin is flushed beneath it, and her chest is rising unevenly. Slowly, he pulls the end of the bow until it falls messily and the fabric falls just shy of her breast. He gapes, pulling back a little to get a glimpse of her face.

“No bra?” It’s almost a whisper; almost just to himself, even, as his fingers dip over the soft curve of her flesh. She reaches for his hand, and guides it to the other strap without a word. No, her lips are focused on unwinding him from the base of his throat. He follows her encouragement and pulls the string, letting the bust of the fabric fall down onto her lap. He takes a moment, eyes grazing over the swell of her breasts. Over her hardened nipples as the rush of cold air engulfs them. 

“Don’t stare,” she whines, pulling his face into her neck. He uses the opportunity to reach around her and begin loosening the lace in the corset.

“Why not, though?” His tone is teasing. 

“It’s unfair,” she mumbles, hands lifting the hem of his shirt. He lets her tug it up to his chest before helping her and pulling it over his head. When he looks back at her, her cheeks are red as embers. His scent is overwhelming, and the heat radiating off his chest makes her dizzy. But she reaches up anyway, and runs her palm over his chest. Her fingers dip and bend to every crevice, every rise and fall of his muscles. 

Forgetting the corset, his hands pull her chin back towards him. His lips are scorching against hers, wet and messy in their trail down to her jaw. She gasps into the air, pulling him closer by his waist. The sheer broadness of his torso forces her legs wider, and he leans flush against her. His fingers work blindly to hike the rest of her dress up, pulling it out from under her and bunching it together at her waist. 

“Look at you.” His thumbs strokes at the soft flesh of her inner thigh before taking a devious swipe at her clothed cunt. “I’m going to ruin you, baby.”

“Caleb,” she sighs airily, wriggling her hips to get closer. He holds her in place, though, one hand gripping her waist as he kneels down in between her legs. He rubs at her clothed clit and she throws her head back, biting down a moan. 

“Don’t go quiet on me now, baby. You’ve done more than enough of that tonight, don’t you think?” She feels the sting of guilt creep back into her chest, contorting with her stirring arousal. But she can’t say anything; her mind blanks as he presses a chaste kiss on the damp fabric. “Answer me, baby.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry, Caleb.” He doesn’t respond; instead he pulls her panties to the side and thumbs over her sensitive flesh.

“You’re already so wet, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press another kiss at her sex. She swallows and leans back onto her elbows. Despite her squirms, she can’t get any closer. He won’t let her. “Gonna use my fingers to stretch you out, okay?”

She nods frantically even though he can’t see her, her whimpers breaking through her clenched teeth. He uses his thumb to part her sex, sliding it gently up and down her sticky opening. Just when he thinks he has to use his evol to stop the writhing of her hips, he slides a finger into her, and she shudders. Compared to her own, Caleb’s fingers are thicker, longer. Warmer, even. He starts a slow, even pace. But even he knows she can take more with the state of her dripping cunt. 

“Gonna add another, okay?” 

She nods again.

“Please, yes.” Her words are just as shaky as her breath. She’s backed so far up onto the counter that her shoulders and head rest on the mirror. It’s freezing compared to the blaze between her legs. 

As he slides a second finger in, he wraps his mouth around her clit, sucking harshly. She almost cums right there, lurching forward.

“Caleb!” When the shock dissolves, she leans back down against the mirror, writhing against his tongue. His fingers are still gentle and slow. But his tongue is fierce, nudging at her most sensitive part with the tip of his tongue. She can see him growing restless beneath her, faintly mimicking her squirm. The hand on her waist presses into her harshly for a second before he soothes the area with his thumb.

“Gonna let you go now. Don’t move.” His voice is gentle, but firm. He looks up at her, mouth still on her cunt, and she feels something sinister stir in her stomach. She gives him a weak nod and mouths an ‘okay’.  

His hand leaves her shakily, then travels down to his own pants as he begins palming himself. She almost rolls her hips in pleasure but his piercing gaze holds her in place. His pace on his cock is rough yet slow, matching the thrusts of his fingers. Milky fluid is dripping down to his wrist, threatening to drop and stain his pants. He can’t care less, though. Not when he’s the one making her feel this good. 

“Caleb!” She can’t stop her squirms anymore, hand grabbing tufts of his hair and pulling him away to no avail. “Stop! I’m gonna come!” The moans falling from her mouth do nothing to deter him.

“Do it,” he says, sucking more harshly. He slips a third finger in and she lurches forward, using her other hand to brace herself on his shoulder. She shakes her head, the sting of tears brimming at her eyelids. 

“Don’t wanna.” She groans and her thighs try to clamp shut around him. “Wanna come on your cock. Please, please, Caleb.” His eyes snap up to hers again, brows knitted sternly. 

“Come,” he demands, “do it. On my fingers.” 

Despite her begs and whines, he doesn’t give her a choice. His fingers never slow, pushing and pulling against her pulsing walls until she can no longer hold it in. She orgasms with an open mouthed whine, thighs cramping in an exhaustive shake around his head. His fingers continue their slow drag through her high, letting her ride out the intensity. A single tear has spilled from her eye, traversing the curve of her flushed cheek. She slumps back down against the mirror, elbows just strong enough to support her body. 

“Good girl,” he says quickly, standing up and leaning down over her. He lifts her chin and looks over her, eyes searching hers. He kisses the stray tear gently; and it disappears into the mix of come and fluids on his tongue. 

Despite the pulsing of her swollen cunt, when she sees his hands unbuckle his belt, she can feel the slick in her start to build up again. She sucks in a few quick breaths, sitting up and reaching forward. She beckons him down and he obeys, letting her kiss frantic, breathless kisses along his neck, leaving coral lipstick marks in their wake. His fingers almost fumble with the belt, yanking it off and throwing it to the floor. They work messily on his zipper before pulling down his trousers to his ankles and kicking them off. Before he can steady himself, her hands are already tugging at the waistband of his briefs.

“So fucking needy,” he breathes into her, mouth ghosting her hair. Once his briefs are off, he gives himself a few slow, wide strokes. His inhale is shaky. Precum is leaking out of his tip and dripping down its veiny length. “Want me to fuck you, baby?”

“Yes,” she says immediately, shimmying closer. Her breath hitches as he presses the tip at her sex, stroking slowly up and down the puffy opening. “Yes, I want you to fuck me. Please, Caleb.” She can see how strongly her pleas affect him in the way his cock twitches. In the way the muscles in his arms tighten. And in the way his jaw tenses at her every whine.  

The sticky fluids from her orgasm gather at the tip of his cock and he rubs it over her flesh like a lubricant. When neither of them can take anymore, he presses forward, pushing into her cunt inch by inch. The girth makes her shudder and moan out into the hot air between them. She can feel him filling her out completely, taking every last barrier between them down until he occupies every nook and cranny of her conscience. 

“Oh fuck,” she whines, clenching her eyes shut. He starts moving, fucking her shallowly with half his cock. Working his way further and further into her as she loosens around him. He watches her expressions, each little contortion as he fucks her. Slowing and pulling back when he thinks she might cry out. The first stretch is always overwhelming, but he navigates her physical boundaries until she fully relaxes in his hold. He gives her a gentle kiss on her forehead and she smiles up at him despite her glassy eyes. Her winged eyeliner is smudged across her cheekbones. And her natural flush outdoes the pink blush. She gasps up at him, gesturing for him to keep going.

He begins thrusting into her fully, deeply with his entire cock, and her ears redden at the squelch. His pace is slow but rough, and it pushes her up further and further on the counter until her back is pressed against the mirror. She can only brace her hands against his arms locked on either side of her, nails digging into his biceps. She can feel every drag of his cock along her walls. Every ridge and curve as he fills her up slowly. Almost at a teasing pace.

“Waited all night for you.” He’s bringing this up again now. “While you were out, all pretty for someone else.” He gives her a sharp thrust and she whimpers, eyes falling shut. As she loses herself in the darkness, focusing on nothing but the feeling of his cock pushing in and out of her, she feels his knuckles brush along her cheek.

“Eyes on me, baby.” 

It’s a struggle to keep her eyes open and fixed on his piercing gaze, but he doesn’t take no for an answer. 

“Caleb,” she moans, blinking frantically to keep herself from slipping. She feels so, so full. And with each delicious push of his cock into her, he rubs against her sensitive, spongy tissue. She can feel her slick slipping out, can hear it even with each embarrassing squelch as his dick pushes through it. 

“Couldn’t even message me back-” he lands another forceful thrust, “because you were too occupied with whatever you were doing.” His pace has quickened now; and his knuckles are white against the counter as he braces himself. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“I said I’m sorry,” she cries out, holding onto him for dear life.

“For what?” He bites at her neck, harshly, then soothes over the area with his tongue. “What are you sorry for?” She gasps as he pulls her to the edge of the counter, forcing her legs wider to accommodate his hips. 

“I’m…I-” Her mind is going delirious with every thrust, lips biting into her swollen lips as he pushes her closer and closer towards release. “Wait,” she gasps, plating her palm against his chest. “It’s getting all over the dress.” Their combined slick has dribbled down the swell of her ass, spilling onto the counter and staining the ruffles of her dress.

Caleb barks a laugh, slowing his rut. He pulls out but he can’t stop the gush of arousal that seeps out of her sex and onto the fabric. He lifts her to her feet, steadying her for a second in her wooziness, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Want me to take it off, yeah?” His fingers pull at the ribbon and loosen the corset until it all but slips off her chest. He tugs the fabric down her hips harshly through her ‘uh huh’s and helps her step out of the pile of fabric. He kicks it out of the way much to her dismay. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it dry cleaned before you return it,” he snarls in her ear, biting at the skin.

Pushing her away from the counter and against the wall, he wraps her thigh around his waist. His lips work their way across her collarbone, sucking harshly at the flushed skin. She mewls into his ear, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly as he lifts her around him. 

“Want it just like this, yeah?” His nose nudges into her cheek at their proximity and he lines his cock back up with her messy sex. She’s pulsing. Being carried like this, having his flexed biceps all over her, she can almost feel her come at the brink of release. As she breathes in him, she catches a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror and almost moans. He’s so fucking huge, covering her entire torso. She can see her legs, wrapped neatly around him, and her heels digging into the flesh just above his ass. She swallows, a guilty flush encasing her face, and hides her face in the crook of his neck. 

Caleb slides his cock back into her, the red, angry tip swallowed in murky white release. 

“Now, tell me what you’re sorry for.” The sheer power of his thrusts causes him to push her back against the wall for support. She gasps and warbles into him, nipping intermittently at his lipstick stained neck. 

“I’m sorry for ignoring you. For not--mmph--checking my phone and making you--oh my god--making you worry.” The tears she has been so strong in restraining finally break. Inky globes roll down her cheek as her mascara runs. He watches her, bewitched by the way she looks so messy. So used and broken as she cries out his name. He thrusts into her harder. And she looks so pretty, he thinks, as fresh, hot tears run down her cheeks. Smearing her eyeshadow and liner until its nothing but a splatter of marks under her waterline. Her tears carve away at her foundation, leaving streaky beige stains down to her chin. And it feels so good. She feels so fucking full of him.

“Talk to me, baby,” he presses, kissing her brow.

“Mmhm,” she moans, head thrown back. “Feels so good. I just feel you.”

Her eyes can’t help but be pulled to the mirror, watching as he flexes his ass with each slam into her. She experiments with dragging her nails down his back, eyes widening as he convulses. Gasping as he pushes more roughly into her, fucking her ruthlessly against the wall. She can no longer hide her fixation, the dirty, sinister churning in her gut as she moans brokenly at the erotic image before her.

“What are you looking at?” His eyes widen for only a split second, like he can’t believe this is what’s got her clamping down on his cock every few seconds. He turns his head slightly and meets her pornographic expression in the mirror. Her eyes are half lidded and her mouth is parted. Her tongue drags lazily over her teeth with each rise and fall of her chest.

“You like watching, baby?” He watches as she breaks even further around his harsh thrusts. The smell of sex clouds her vision, fogs her conscience so much that she can only nod. “Like seeing yourself get fucked?”

He drags his thick cock out to the tip then slides back in, torturously slow. He does this a few times, angling and propping her up in such a way so that she sees the curve of his hard cock disappearing into her messy cunt. 

“Go faster,” she pleads, unable to take her eyes away from it. 

“You’re such a dirty girl, getting off on this. I had no idea you were such a lewd, filthy girl.” She cries out as she feels the spurt of her release rush to her core. This isn’t how she wants to come. Not when he’s being so slow and teasing. But she can’t help it. Can’t hold it in as she turns to mush in his arms. Her release squirts up onto his torso, soaking his skin in murky white fluids. She watches as rings of white, sticky cum gather at the base of his cock. And when he pushes too close, reaches all the way to her bruised cervix, her cum smears over her swollen sex.

“It feels so good,” she moans, wrapping her hands around his wrists tightly as he settles her down. Her legs are so shaky, and she can hardly support her weight.

“Not done with you yet,” he says, planting kisses on the top of her head. He guides her towards the counter, letting her brace herself against the cool marble, and coaxes her jaw up. “Look how messy you are, baby. So fucking beautiful for me like this.” He holds her chin between his fingers and watches her though the mirror as he plants kisses along her shoulder. Truly, her makeup is ruined. Her cheeks are wet and sticky. And her breasts are swollen, jiggling slightly as he grinds against her.

“Caleb,” she sighs, hanging her head low. Her arms are shaky, and each grind pushes her hips uncomfortably into the edge of the counter. Yet despite her exhaustive state her pussy is still pulsing for more. Seeing him behind her, almost engulfing her, makes her walls twitch and convulse. She bites her lip in embarrassment. “Wanna keep going…want you to cum in me.” She says this to spur him on. Knows that she’s biting off more than she can chew, but she doesn’t care. She reaches behind her and strokes his cock shallowly, guiding him towards her heat again.

He presses his hands against the counter’s edge where her hips meet, cushioning the blows as he bucks into her. His cock is so pent up and strained; and it swells up as she clamps down harshly on him. He’s not going to last long. Especially not now when he has a full view of her swollen breasts in the mirror, jerking with his every thrust. He desperately wants to tug at the plush flesh, bite at her nipples, even just wrap his tongue around it. But his hands are rendered immobile on the counter, and her comfort is prioritised above all else. Instead, he settles for biting into her shoulder and sucking the skin harshly. She can’t help the moans that spill out of her lips, hoarse and ragged. The particular angle of him rutting into her from behind is breaking her mind into pieces. She can feel him in her gut, fuck, she can hardly keep up as he knocks the breath out of her.

“Do you hear yourself?” Comes his taunting voice. Each moan sends a pulse straight to his cock. “Fuck, can you even think?” She manages to shake her head through her tears. She looks absolutely ruined. 

“Feel so fucking mmph--feel so good.” She feels her release gush out of her without warning, splattering over his thighs and the floor. She’s never felt so sensitive in her life than she does now as he takes on a bruising pace towards the finish line. He’s breathing out so heavily into her air, groaning and whining her name. And she can only egg him on, crying out for his release. Demanding to be filled up. 

His cock hardly leaves her cunt as he tries to push further in and in, balls flush against her ass. She feels him twitch before his warm come floods into her. It’s sticky and hot, and suddenly there’s a ringing in her ears. The feeling of being full, really full, has her gasping out against the mirror, body thrown over the counter. Her cunt is so sensitive, every trivial little shift of his body sets off another moan. Caleb slumps over her, careful not to lean his entire weight on her. He wraps his arms around her and lets her head rest back against his shoulder.

“Don’t pull out yet,” she mumbles, eyes closed.

“Don’t worry,” he coos, rubbing over her hips soothingly. “I’m not going anywhere.” She knows as soon as he pulls out, their mixed come is going everywhere. They stay there for a few minutes, the frantic rise and fall of their chests plateauing out into slow, even breaths. 

“Are you okay, baby? I know I was rough with you.” She hums, the fog in her mind slowly clearing.

“I’m okay.” Regaining control over her body, she reaches up and strokes his arm. “That felt really, really good.”

“Yeah?” He kisses at her jaw. “Gonna clean you up now, okay?” She nods. “But,” he gives her a once over, pursing his lips, “I’m gonna have to pull out. Is that okay, baby?” She braces herself before giving another nod.

“Yeah, you can pull out. But, gently, please.” Upon her approval, he eases his cock out slowly, and sure enough, white fluid trickles out of her cunt and down her legs. She lets out a gasp at the heightened sensitivity of feeling so empty. 

Caleb scoops her up and sits her back atop the counter. She leans against the mirror with a shy smile, watching him fiddle with the bottles beside her. He flips the cap of her makeup remover and lets some seep out onto a cotton pad.

“My beautiful girl.” He grins down at her, wiping gently across her cheeks. Blushing, she reaches up and brushes aside the hair falling into his eyes. His hair is damp now, seeped with sweat.

“My sweet, doting Caleb,” she echoes teasingly. He only laughs, getting a fresh wipe. He tips her jaw up slightly, dabbing cautiously around her waterline.

“Close your eyes for me, baby.” She does as she’s told, and feels the cold wipe on her skin. He takes extra care around her lashes and the corners of her eyes. When he’s done he leans back and tosses the used wipes in the bin.

When she opens her eyes, he’s holding out a jar in front of her.

“Want to use your cleanser now? Or after a shower, baby?” She giggles, chest filling with warmth.

“You can use it now.” He nods, twisting open the cleansing balm and taking a decent scoop out. Before he can set it down, she takes it, dipping her own fingers in.

“What,” he says through a laugh, “you’re gonna clean me up too?”

“Of course, dummy,” she quips, smoothing the balm between her hands. Once the balm is more pliable, she applies it evenly over his face. She rubs it into his skin with gentle, circular motions. “Like this,” she hums, the corners of her lips curling up into a smile. He watches, eyes rounded and gleaming in awe, and then he follows her direction, spreading the balm over her soft skin. Their arms brush against each other in their proximity. 

As they settle into silence, she bites her lip.

“I really didn’t mean to make you worry, Caleb.” He looks up at her, fingers slowing down. She stays focused, though, smoothing the balm over his forehead. “I should’ve let you know I was going out.”

“Don’t stress about it now, baby. You’re here now, right?” He kisses the top of her head. “That’s all that matters.”

“I made you stay up late,” she says. She reaches over to the sink, letting the water run over her hands. Guiding him closer, she begins wiping the balm off then rinsing it down the sink. 

“It’s nothing,” he reassures her. “Baby, don’t keep dwelling on it. It won’t happen again, right?” She shakes her head. “Then that’s all I need to know. I trust you.”

She stays still as he begins washing the balm off her face as well.

“Do you have to get up early tomorrow? It’s almost three…” He only shakes his head.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, baby. I’m all yours.” He pauses. “Well, technically, it is tomorrow.” She mirrors his grin, leaning down and capturing his lips. It’s gentle and slow. 

He pulls away first, taking her arms and guiding her down off the counter. 

“Come on, gotta shower first before you fall asleep on me.”

Okay, i wrote this ages ago and this was supposed to be part 2 of a Sylus fic where he does your makeup . lord give me the strength to finish it.

bruh when the deceptive solitude artwork came out, best believe i was fucking FROTHING at the mouth

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Dating in a Dream - Ruggie Bucchi

SUMMARY: What would his dream be like, exactly the same as in the original story, but with the small detail that he is dreaming that you two are dating?

CHARACTERS: Ruggie Bucchi x Reader 🍩🦐

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; In a Relationship (kinda); Kiss; Flirting

WARNING: Spoilers from Book 7 and Ruggie’s dream (Eng Server)

WORD COUNT: 3.360 words

COMMENTS: This was written as a companion piece to the original dream story, so the parts that are the same as the game are just summarized.

I try my best to write dialogue for characters like Ruggie well, but since English isn't my first language there are some forms of speech and abbreviations I'm not familiar with. But I hope I've done him enough justice.

By the way, it was while I was writing this that my keyboard started failing, and I had to buy a new one. I hope I've fixed all the typos.

I hope you enjoy 🍩

Dating in a Dream: Idia / Epel / Rook / Vil / Kalim / Jamil / Floyd / Jade / Azul / Jack / (Ruggie) ...

“Aether signal tracking successful.” Ortho announces. “We have arrived at the designated coordinates.”

You, Grim, Silver, Sebek, Ortho, Azul, Jack and Idia’s tablet reach the next dream, but you don't land anywhere you recognize. It looks like a new country.

Checking on the others, Jack said he was fine and Azul said the medication he had taken had helped him, but the heat of that place was worse for him than the crossing between dreams. According to Ortho's analysis, everything indicated that you were in Sunset Savanna, more specifically in the capital, Sunrise City.

After you all changed into your school uniforms, and how long it took because Jack was embarrassed to use Idia's spell, you start chatting to try to understand whose dream it could be. Everything indicates that the dream is either Leona's or Ruggie's, since they are both from Sunset Savanna. They exchange information they know about that country to have a better idea of where you are until you hear someone approaching running.

“Oh crud, oh crud! I overslept!” You see Ruggie pass you by. “If I'm late, I can kiss my perfect attendance record goodbye! Outta my way!”

He was wearing what looked like a school uniform, but not the black one of Night Raven Collage, this one was light brown and yellow. And he was wearing glasses too. Azul comments that he had never seen Ruggie wear glasses and Jack adds that it doesn't make sense because he's supposed to have some of the best eyesight out of anyone in Savanaclaw. But that was definitely Ruggie's dream because he had the dreamer's silver bird around his head.

You follow him.

You follow Ruggie to the market.

“What's the hurry, Ruggie?” One of the vendors calls him. “I've got chilled hibiscus juice here! Have a drink.”

“Thanks, ma'am, but I'm running late!”

“My, that's rare for a model student like you.”

“I was up late studying for a test and overslept.”

“You can't study on an empty stomach, Ruggie.” Another vendor says. “Have some steamed bananas for the road!”

“Whoa, that's a lot! How much for the bunch?”

“Don't worry about it. Your grandma did a lot to keep me fed back when I was a kid. Once you graduate and get a good job, you can treat me to a dinner at the Sunset Villa.”

“Ah, yeah, I'll pay you back when I'm rich! Thanks!”

Other vendors continued to offer him food and talk about his grandmother and comment on how his father had returned home rich after working away from home. Now his grandmother was comfortable retire.

You had to try hard not to lose Ruggie in that crowd. That, and it was difficult to move around among so many people. Meanwhile, Ruggie was dodging and weaving through the crowds at top speed.

“(Y/N)!” You hear someone call you with happy surprise, when you look it's one of the vendors. “Oh, I almost didn't recognize you in those clothes. Why aren't you wearing your uniform?”

“My uniform? Well, I...” You try to make up some excuse, but it's not necessary.

“And you're also late on top of that!” The vendor continues, friendly. “Ruggie is late as well, he just passed by. You must have missed each other. You look hungry. Here, take some steamed bananas with you.”

You accept the bananas, thank them and say goodbye when the vendor says that you had better go as you are already late and wishes you a good day at school. Grim ends up convincing you to give him most of the bananas, while Azul and Ortho comment on the fact that the people there know you. But how?

You continue following Ruggie until you reach a new place, which appears to be a school. You see Ruggie meeting other students wearing the same uniform as him.

“Judging by the ears and tails, it seems to be mostly beastfolk here.” Silver notices.

“There's a lot of hyenas...” Jack adds. “Actually, I think most of the people I'm seein' are hyenas.”

“There's no school at these coordinates in the real world.” Ortho informs. “It must be something that Ruggie's imagination came up with.”

Then your attention goes to the statue in the center, which depict three hyenas. Jack says they’re the legendary hyenas, the ones that served the King of Beasts. He had heard they were considered heroes around Ruggie's home region.

Meanwhile, Grim draws your attention to the trees laden with fruit, even after he has eaten almost all of your bananas. You see Ruggie and the other students picking the fruits and eating them, showing that it is allowed to eat the fruits from those trees. This is enough for Grim to help himself too and start picking up a bunch of fruit.

“Whoa! What's the-?” One of the students who was with Ruggie sees him. “Oh, it's just Grim.”

“Heeey, take it easy.” Ruggie says, amused. “You don't want to get indigestion like last time.”

“Last time?” Grim wonders to himself.

“Well, if you're here, then that means...” He looks around with a smile until he finds you and his smile grows even bigger. “There's my dandelion! Don't tell me grammy forgot to-”

You get closer, along with the others and he notices your clothes.

“Um... What are those clothes?” He asks still with an awkward smile. “Where is your uniform?” When he realizes that you're wearing the same clothes as the other boys you were with, his smile turns into a pout, cute and scary at the same time. “Um, (Y/N), who are your... friends? And why are you wearing the same clothes as them?”

So Ruggie knows you and Grim, but not the others and doesn't seem to know about NRC either. It's intriguing and confusing, but Azul still manages to join the conversation smoothly.

“Allow me to introduce everyone. My name is Azul Ashengrotto. This is my fellow sophomore Silver, and this is Ortho, Sebek, and Jack, all freshmen. We attend an arcane academy in the Land of Dawning called Night Raven College. We're here on a student exchange.”

“And (Y/N)'s uniform?” Ruggie asked, focusing on Azul.

“A spell that hit the wrong person.” He answers as if it were the genuine truth. “(Y/N) was the one who greeted us when we arrived here. When we tried to help Jack with a spell to change his clothes to better adapt to the climate, we ended up accidentally hitting (Y/N). And since we're not familiar with your uniform, we couldn't change their clothes back. My apologies for the misunderstanding.”

Ruggie was silent for a moment which made you question whether he really believed that or not. But Azul was good.

“Okay. Strange, but sounds plausible. Sorry for the suspicion.” Ruggie smiles friendly again. “Let me do it then.” He uses his magic to transform your black NRC uniform into the same light brown and yellowish uniform as his. “Much better.” He comments before turning back to Azul and the others. “I'm Ruggie Bucchi. Please, call me Ruggie.”

At that moment, Sebek's stomach growled while he was arguing with Grim about him picking too many fruits.

“Ahahaha! If you're that hungry, take all you want.” Ruggie said, laughing. “Here at Ivorycliff Academy all the food on campus is fair game for anyone to eat.”

Silver says they aren't students there and Ruggie says that's not a problem, that the local kids go there for food too. At that academy they share food with anyone who's hungry in honor of the hyenas' spirit of solidarity, whether or not they're enrolled there. Jack is shocked (and maybe you are too) seeing Ruggie offering food for free.

You all chat a little and Ruggie offers you even more food besides fruit. There was a stall by the school entrance that had freshly made donuts. He recommends that they get a plain donut, drizzle on some chocolate sauce, then add some sliced nuts, then add custard cream and whipped cream, and top it all off with some tart berry jam like so.

But for you, he offered your favorite, or a mix that would be your favorite. He didn't even need to ask you anything, it was as if he already knew your tastes by heart.

Meanwhile, you hear the Donut Vendor talking to the other students and commenting that they should all be grateful to Prince Leona for establishing that school. Ruggie explains that he heard Prince Leona studied at an arcane academy abroad, then graduated last year and came back home. And he was been establishing schools and spelldrive teams and stuff all over the country. He even comments that the younger generation there likes Second Prince Leona way more than First Prince Falena. But he himself never met Leona.

Then, the school bell rings.

“Oh crud, class is about to start!” Ruggie says. “Gotta go, bye!” He takes your hand and takes you running with him.

The others stayed behind, probably because they knew nothing bad would happen to you since Ruggie liked you so much. And Grim would rather keep eating than go to any classes.

Ruggie and you arrive at a botanical garden hand in hand. Everything indicated that it was a theoretical potionology class, probably focused on the ingredients that were planted there.

The students sat on the ground and despite the idea of a model student that Ruggie was trying to convey, he didn't sit in the front. Instead, he told you to sit with him further back. You sat down first and then Ruggie sat so close to you that your hips were touching and he put an arm around your waist.

“Hey, sorry about that with the visiting students.” Ruggie tells you in a low tone, while the professor spoke up front. “You... aren't mad at me, right?”

You say no and that in fact his pout was actually cute.

“Well, in that case they were lucky.” He smirks.

“What do you mean?” You ask. “And what exactly are you apologizing for?”

“Well, you know...” His ears go down. “You showed up with a bunch of handsome guys and you were even wearing the same uniform as them. What did you expect me to do? They're lucky I still give them the benefit of the doubt before...”

“Before?”

“Do you really want me to finish that?” He smiles mischievously. “What do you think I would do if someone was really trying to take you away from me? Hum?” He brings his face close to yours, brushing his nose against your ear. “You've already seen me break a bone with a bite, haven't you?” He whispers in your ear, a threat not directed at you.

After a while, he covers his mouth to yawn. Next to him one of his friends snored so loudly that it made Ruggie straighten up and let go of his waist, startled. Upon hearing this, the professor called the student's attention and made him move from Ruggie's side to the front row as punishment.

“I can't blame him.” Ruggie tells you in a whisper and leans back against you. “After eating so much and with this sun so nice and warm... it really is relaxing...”

His arm goes back around your waist and he rests his head on your shoulder. He was clearly dreaming that he was in a romantic relationship with you. And it wasn't like you weren't enjoying it..

“If you're not careful you'll be called next.” You say.

“Aww. Are you worried about me, dandelion?” He says in a sleepy voice. “You’re always so cute.” He straightens up to kiss your cheek and lays his head back down again. “I'm really lucky to have you...”

After classes ended, you and Ruggie walked hand in hand with his two friends towards the gate. You see the others in the distance, now in their dorm uniforms. Had they gotten into a fight with the darkness while you were with Ruggie?

“Whatcha wanna do now that school's out?” One of Ruggie's friends asked. “We could see if any cafés in town have new drinks to try, or catch a movie.”

“Yeah... sorry guys, but (Y/N) and I already had plans.”

“Oh, don't worry, it's ok. What are you guys going to do?”

“We're going on a safari!” Ruggie says excitedly. “I heard that some hyena clans had cubs and (Y/N) really wants to see the little ones.” But then, he seems to have heard something that put him on alert and made a strange sound.

“Whoa! Why'd you whirl around like that, Ruggie?” One of his friends asked.

“I dunno, it just... felt like I was being called.”

“Someone called you? Who? I didn't hear anything.”

“Maybe I'm hearing things... HUH?! Where'd that sound come from?! Was it under the bench? I know I'm not hearing things!”

“Huh? What are you talking about? What's gotten into you, Ruggie?”

“Sorry, guys. You can go. I just can't leave until I figure out what that sound is!” Ruggie separates from the NPCs and you and gets on his hands and knees, rummaging around under benches and in the plants. “What is it? What's making that sound? It's like a bell... Except more beautiful and exciting!”

You look at the others, more specifically at Azul and see him drop a coin on the ground with a smug smile.

“AH! That sound... It's a little - no, not a little. It's 20 times more thrilling than before! What IS that beautiful sound? Reveal yourself to me! I just HAVE to find you!”

You see Ruggie searching for the coin, focused and with his tail wagging a little. You can't help but laugh.

“Are you laughin’ at me?" He says with a sly smile. “Why don't you help me instead? That Safari has a set time to start, you know?” He keeps looking, whether you help him or not. “Where are you? Where's the one that entices me so...? AHA!”

Entices him? Even dreaming that he’s dating you, it still seems like he likes money more.

“There's something in front of that trash bin...” He hurries to get there. “Huzzah! That's a free one-thaumark coin for me! Score!” He finally gets up. “Wait... Huh? Why am I getting so giddy over finding a little loose change?” The dream begins to distort. “Urgh, my head...! Why? I've got no reason to care about random coins on the ground...”

“Heh heh heh... I had every faith you would pounce on that.” Azul says, approaching you along with the others. “Do you see this, Ruggie?”

“Is that... a five-thaumark coin?!”

“What's the matter? You're looking a bit pale... And you seem to have a cold sweat.”

“What... are you gonna do with that?”

“I was thinking of tossing it into the water over there and making a wish to come back here again.”

“Five thaumarks?! You're not seriously about to throw that much mone away!” Ruggie said shocked. “Wait, no! Five thaumarks is barely anything at all. It's just spare change... Hrgh!”

“It's the only coin I have on hand. But... it's just 'a little loose change', right? Here goes!”

Azul tosses the coin and Ruggie jumps into the water to grab it with zero hesitation.

“Self-restraint isn't healthy, you know.” Azul tells Ruggie, in a way that is too villainous for someone who is supposedly helping him. “Just admit it... You want it more than anything!”

“Urgh, I... I... Argh, my head...! Ah, aaah... AAAAAAAAAARGH!”

The dream breaks and Ruggie wakes up.

“Ah... Ahaha... I remember everything now... Why was I... ?”

His NPCs friends approach him and ask what happened for him to jump into the water and Ruggie says it was because of 5 thaumarks. When they start saying that it was nothing, Ruggie lists the things that can be bought with only that. He also notices the discrepancies of that academy and remembers why he doesn't like light-colored clothes like the uniform he was wearing, because they stain too easily, exactly what just happened to him while he was looking for the coins.

The NPCs try to convince him to go back to sleep, saying that he will never go hungry again in there. They also say they are on good terms with the king, but Ruggie says he prefers to decide who is his king himself.

After fighting those darkness figures, he asks what in the world was happening because he was beyond confused. Ortho shows him the video.

“So... This is all a dream?”

“Yes.” Ortho confirms. “More technically, it's all part of an arcane realm that Malleus Draconia established.”

“But that... Aaah...” Ruggie drops his glasses from his face, drops down on all fours and burst into tears.

You instinctively crouch down beside him to comfort him and are surprised when he clings to you and continues to cry on your shoulder.

“A dream? You're telling me all the food I've been eating wasn't real?! I got ZERO calories from eating all those donuts I loaded with toppings?! And the six thaumarks I just picked up? And my dad coming home, and him buying my grammy a new car? And (Y/N) and I...”

His sobbing stops suddenly. He straightens up to look at your face and jumps away from you, his face red with blush.

“I-I-I-I'M SORRY! I DIDN'T WANT... I DIDN'T KNOW... I-”

You try to calm him down, telling him that everything is fine, that he didn't do anything wrong.

“Oh, come on! Don't be so understanding and kind!” He tells you, a little annoyed. “You can be honest. You can say that I creeped you out.”

“Why would I say that?”

“Well, you know, when I...” He starts to say, blushing, but then looks at the others around you. He stands up, determined. “Come with me.” He asks you. “You stay here.” He told them as a warning.

You get up and follow him to a relatively more secluded place.

“Listen, I'm sorry, okay?” Ruggie tells you, his ears down, embarrassed and sulking at the same time. “I know I was kinda... clingy... and jealous. Like when we were in that potionology class. You don't have to pretend everything is fine. I'm not an emotional wimp.”

You stay silent for a second, but decide to confess to him that everything really is fine, because you liked him too. You even enjoyed the time you spent with him and how he treated you.

“Y-you... LIKE ME TOO?!” He repeats, incredulously. “Wait... you're the real (Y/N), aren't you? You...” He takes a step back and places himself in a defensive and threatening position. “You're not one of those darkness things from my dream... are you?” He looks at you menacingly and growls at you.

You insist and try your best to convince him that it really is you as you slowly walk backwards. Not even when you hit a wall does he stop walking slowly towards you like a predator preparing to attack. When he’s finally just inches away from you, you flinch, turn your face away, and he attacks you... with a loving kiss on the cheek. And then he tickles you.

“Relaaax~” Ruggie tells you, holding you by the waist, and with that sly smile “I believe in you. Shyeheehee.”

He sees you sulking, but flustered. This makes him smile sweetly, like you've never seen before.

“Aww, don't be mad at me...” He says in a poor-me voice. “I've been through so much here. You saw what Malleus did to me. *sniff* I want to cry so much...” He smirks again. “Doesn't that make a kind soul like yours want to comfort me?”

He rests his forehead against yours and starts rubbing his nose and cheeks against yours. Maybe it'll even tickle you a little. But then, he starts kissing your cheek, continues kissing you until he gets closer to your lips and, perceiving that you want that too, he kisses them. He starts by kissing you softly, but then he intensifies the kiss to an almost starving one. Hungry for the love he so desperately needed but was afraid he would never have.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[backinmyphase]

You thought Satoru would have seen the divorce coming.

Your marriage was arranged, the two of you didn't share much and by all means you didn't see him at all because of his work. You slept in different rooms and didn't give in to the pressure of your clans for an heir.

Satoru wasn't a bad husband. He was just a stranger.

But you didn't blame him for freezing up at the sight of the divorce papers.

Because honestly? For you, divorce was social suicide. Your clan would never forgive you. If it was that easy, you wouldn't have had to marry him in the first place.

"What does this mean?" he just came back from work, earlier than usual, still in his sorcerer uniform. He took of his blindfold, his blue eyes inspecting the paper. His white hair fell in his face making you want to brush it behind his ear.

God, you hated yourself for this.

Satoru looked at you with these eyes and for the first time you saw actual hurt in them. There was none when you stopped him on your wedding night, telling him you weren't ready for sex, none when you slept in a different room.

Because he knew what this divorce meant for you. Dishonor to your family. Most likely getting disowned.

"I want a divorce, Satoru."

He went quiet again. His eyes going back to the paper.

To be honest, you never thought of divorcing him when you were newly wed. Not just because of the consequences but also because Satoru was never bad to you. He was even really kind for someone forced into this.

But then you saw her.

It was a usual Clan meeting with several little and big sorcerer clans. She stood close to him, he seemed more comfortable than he was ever with you. You didn't even know her name. Didn't know anything about how he felt towards her. But you saw the way they looked at each other. How she giggled at his words.

You didn't think Satoru was cheating on you. And that was the thing. With you in the picture he would never be able to get with who he really wants.

You couldn't stand a life with a man who would slowly start to despise you because you ruined his life.

"Why?" his voice was small, hoarse. He didn't look at you, his eyes onnly focused on the papers, on the word 'divorce'.

"It's for the best." you stood up to make yourself a cup of tea.

"For the best?!" a strained laugh left his lips. "What do you mean?"

"Please, Satoru." you tried to calm him but you saw him shaking his head.

"Stop it, I can demand an explanation when you are practically saying you would rather be disowned than be married to me. Just tell me what I did!" his voice got louder, making your frame flinch.

"Why does it matter?" the picture of her was in your head. You didn't know why.

"Why does it matter? Are you serious?"

"Yes, why?" you paused, scoffing. "It's not like we married because of love."

He went quiet after that.

No, you did know why you thought of her. Because you were jealous. Jealous, that another girl got to talk to Satoru Gojo more than his wife. Jealous and insecure because you did want to know him.

"Why are you saying that?" his voice hoarse and suddenly much closer to you.

"It's true. You don't love me so why stay married?" you muttered as you stirred the hot water.

"Stop saying that." his head dropped on your shoulder. "Please."

You froze. The feeling of his head overwhelming you.

"I know it's hard for you, I've met your family b-but-" a sniffle. "But I really am trying to make it work. I thought it was okay for you. I thought you were okay."

Satoru was crying.

Satoru was crying.

You kept silent, overwhelmed by his reaction, by everything right know.

"Please just tell me."

Silence.

"Is it because of my work?"

"No, it's not." your voice was muffled.

"Is it..." he paused. "Because you found someone else?"

Your eyes widened at his words, suddenly speechless.

"Is it? Is that why you are saying all that stuff? I understand, but please just be honest-"

You couldn't help it you started laughing. And you knew it was cruel, Satoru was crying on your shoulder, but the situation of him thinking you loved someone else was just so absurd to you.

"Me?" You shook your head softly your laughter suddenly dying. "No."

"Then what-?" he stepped back collapsing into a chair. "Please just tell me." he repeated his voice breaking at the end.

"It's just-" you sighed, trying to relax your suddenly stiff body. "I don't want to keep you away from your happiness."

"What?!" his voice was loud again, making you focus on your cup of tea again. After he saw you flinching again, he lowered his voice trying to stay calm. "What do you mean by that?"

"You know."

"I don't."

"That meeting a couple months ago, I saw."

"What did you see?"

"Saw how you looked at her."

God, you wanted to die. It was so hard to speak right now. Every word felt like torture.

"And I don't want to stand between the two of you, just because you were forced into this."

Satoru kept silent after that. You felt his gaze burning into your head as you looked down at your tea.

"So please, just get it over with." you sniffed. Shit, when did the tears come?

Satoru stood up again, making his way over to you. And as he stood there, looking too into your tea, his arms slowly wrapped around you.

"I don't even like her."

"What?" you looked up, his face was suddenly only a couple of breaths away.

"I don't. And if that's the reason why you want to divorce me, could you please talk to me before falling into a overthinking spiral? You're torturing me here."

You blinked at him, stunned by the realization.

"If you really are unhappy with me I would understand, I would prefer to fix things, but I would understand. But I won't divorce you because of your self sacrificing tendencies."

You blinked at him again, starting to blush out of embarrassment. Shit, was this a big misunderstanding?

"You sure you really don't like her?"

"Yeah. I've got another crush you know." he sighed, his voice still strained from the crying. "She is really pretty but really hard to figure out even though I'm married to her."

Now you really blushed, your eyes widening more than you thought was possible. "What?"

"Yeah, it's kind of embarrassing really." he took your cup of tea and placed it on the counter next to you, to pull you really into him. "I have this big crush on my wife, how do I tell her?"

You were malfunctioning as he layed his head on your shoulder again, this time not out of frustration but because of the desire to be as close as possible. His whole frame hugging you.

"She has this soothing voice and pretty smile, but I hardly get to see her and I don't want to make her uncomfortable."

"Satoru, what-"

"And she keeps this distance, I don't know what to do because I want to get to know her for real, you know? Want her to like me and you know."

You felt a soft smile.

"Want her to ask for cuddles when I get back from a long mission. Or even better a ki-"

"Satoru are you drunk?" you were red and hot, you felt it.

He was grinning as he looked up, but there was something so vulnerable in it. "No, I'm not. I just-"

He sighed. "I don't want a divorce. And maybe it's selfish of me, but I want to know you. And I want you to know me."

You held you breath after that. And after a bit of hesitation you did wrap your arms around him too.

"Me too."

His arms held you tighter after that. "You don't want a divorce?"

"You aren't divorcing me?"

"No."

Guess that divorce wasn't happening.

[kissandtellus]

Mountin’ Mutts

Synopsis: Canine Hybrid!Caleb gets too rambunctious when in Rut. So Feline!Reader buys him a contraption to keep him under control!

Warning: Omegaverse, Hybrids, Knotting, Drooling, Muzzles, Smut, Sort of Mean!Caleb but MC is into it.

You’d grounded your mate from touching you. You still bore scarred marks from the last time Caleb was in rut.

He has been pining all night but he kept himself from dry humping your lower back. When he noticed you moving away, he whined into your neck.

His hand was resting on your waist and you can sense the tremble on it as he tried to control himself. He was doing his best to control the beast inside him because he really doesn’t want to hurt his mate. But the way he is panted into your neck, you could feel his body heat seep into your bones.

“Please,” he begged.

“No, Cal. You know why. C’mon, I said you can hold me but no more.” You huffed and tried squirming away. The summer night was already hot enough and the AC wasn’t doing much for his own overheated flesh.

He lets out a low, frustrated whimper at your refusal. His hands tightened around you, refusing to let you go even just for a moment.

His chest rumbled against your back as he spoke, his voice a hoarse disappointment. “Just let me…” he started, but his words trailed off, leaving them hanging, unspoken, charged with unexpressed desire.

You can truly sense how much he yearns for physical intimacy with you, how it's almost a physical ache within him.

The next morning is even worse, you have to peel yourself from him to fix breakfast, your ears on constant rotation to catch the noise of when he woke up.

You stand in the midst of the kitchen, fixing a shit ton of protein for him. Your ears twitch at the sound of him pulling himself from the bed. He’s standing in the doorway nearly too big. All muscle, over 200 pounds of pure strength wrapped in untamed desires.

“G’mornin’…” you murmured over your shoulder.

Caleb says nothing, but you can feel the floor quake under each step.

He wraps his arms around you from behind; his body pressed against you, the heat of him against your back a heady reminder of his state.

He knows he shouldn't push, but the desire is too strong to resist. He whispers in your ear, his voice low, “Just let me...please, pretty kitty. I need you…”

You sigh, fully prepared to push him off. But his hips twitch against your lower back, straining length stretching the fabric and…wet? Why was it-?

Oh. My. God.

“Caleb Xia, did you just cum on my back?!”

Caleb is groaning, whining, and still humping your back as the cum seeps through his boxers. “I’ll be good-s’ good! Please please please-

“Off.” The command is sharp, your tail between you rigid. He whines like you just kicked him but peels himself away,

You banish him to his at-home gym, tell him to work out his frustrations while you finish breakfast and head to the store.

He sulks at first, not wanting to leave your side, but after a few more stern words and narrowed feline eyes, he begrudgingly makes his way to the gym.

He works out intensely, trying to burn off the frustrations he feels. As he trains, his body glistens with sweat, his muscles flexing, his rut making him stronger than usual, his testosterone overbearing at this point.

You on the other hand, visit the tiny corner shop you and Caleb have visited a few times. It caters to Hybrids like yourself, owned by a Hybrid couple FOR people just like you.

The Bear Hybrid, husband of the owner, with his imposing tall build and lopsided grin, greets you with a hearty laugh. "Ah, if it isn't my favorite cat! What brings you here today?" His eyes sparkle with warmth, and there's a subtle hint of admiration behind his words.

The corner shop is a familiar haven for Hybrids like you, and the bear's genuine welcome always puts you at ease.

You grumble and pull your shirt off your shoulder just a bit so you can show off the vicious bite marks Caleb left during his last Rut. “Caleb is…a lot more bitey during his Ruts. I’m just looking for something that can help him. Got anything that’ll stop him from treating me like a chew toy?”

The Bear Hybrid lets out a hearty laugh at the sight of Caleb's bite marks on you. "That boy of yours sure does have a strong bite! Well, I might just have something that can help. Hold on, let me check in the back."

He disappears into the back of the shop, rummaging through various potions and remedies. A moment later, he returns with a metal contraption, he lays it on the counter with a soft clink.

A muzzle.

“It’s designed to prevent unnecessary biting during…uh, certain activities,” the Bear Hybrid explains casually, as though he was discussing the weather or last night's game.

He pushes it towards you. “It’ll prevent him from hurting you during his rut, but still allow you both to be close. Just don’t tell him it was my idea.” he adds with a wink.

You nervously walk back to the apartment with the paper bag in hand. Caleb is absolutely going to hate this, but he might hate remaining untouched during his Rut even more.

You slowly push open the door to hear whines, groans and the smell of raw Alpha in the air.

As you step into the apartment, you’re immediately hit with the raw, untamed scent of his rut. It hangs heavy in the air, an undeniable presence. His groans echo in the stillness, a symphony of suppressed desire. The smell alone is enough to stir something within you, a primal urge you've been trying to push down.

You hear him before you see him. He's lying on the ground, his body glistening with sweat from his workout.

But in his hands, is your crumpled used underwear, his salvia and…other fluids clinging to it.

When he notices you, he looks up, his eyes dark. There's no denying the wild hunger in them, a direct result of his rut. He tosses the underwear aside, his voice hoarse. "You're back. Please, pretty girl..."

When you pull out the muzzle, Caleb looks betrayed in a way. His tail tucks between his legs but there is a firm look in your eyes. “It’s the only way Caleb. Please?”

Caleb’s lip pulls back in a snarl and for a second, you think he might deny it. But then he steps closer and dips his head. You quickly slide it over his mouth, the leather straps rattling as you secure it fully.

“Good boy, how does that feel?” You take a step back and he gives his head a few firm shakes.

“It’s fine…I guess.” He huffs, jerking his head around. His massive body is tense like a coiled trap. Your lips curl up and you hold his cheek between your hands, hushing his angered huffs.

“Shhh, you’re doing well. Now-“ You step forward so your fingers press against his raging boner tenting his shorts. You nearly have to catch him in your arms when his knees buckle. He tries to press his face into his favorite place, the crook of your neck, but the metal bars keep him from your flesh.

“Can’t fuckin’ taste you.” He whines through clenched teeth. You giggle, just a light noise to thread your fingers with him.

You guide him to the safety of the bedroom. His scent bounces off the walls now fully surrounding you. “Stay.” You order, pointing in-front of you to the corner of the room. Caleb feels like his entire body nearly vibrate as you began to strip off your clothing. Your furry tail sprung up as you slide down your panties and shorts.

“Kitty-“

“Hush, enjoy the show.”

You soon stand bare before him, allowing his eyes to trail over each scar from the bites his fangs have left. He whines, heart aching. Another time he would kiss every bite as apology. But right now-

He wanted to give you more.

You crawl into the plush bed, enveloped in both of your scents. Your knees hit the bed and you press your chest to the soft comforter. You reach back, fingers grasping your cheeks before pulling them apart, exposing your holes like you were offering yourself on a silver platter.

When you look over your shoulder, Caleb’s shorts and tank top were tossed aside like trash. He’s panting, tongue out and all, drool seeping through the metal bars.

“C’mere.”

The command is so sudden it startles Caleb. But luckily he’s quick on his feet.

He’s bounding towards you like his life depended on it. He drops to his knees first, as if he’s ready to worship the most precious deity.

Caleb presses the end of his muzzle up against your dripping folds. He growls when the metal prevents him from tasting your sweet nectar that dribbled mere inches away.

He lets out a frustrated growl, the muzzle digging into your sensitive flesh as he tries to push past it to reach your center. His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your skin as he attempts to force his way in despite the barrier. "Nngh... Fuck this thing..."

You mewl and arch as the cool bars rub your most sensitive flesh. He knows theirs no use, but he’s too far gone now.

Drooling tongue gets so, so close to your aching folds but falls too short. That’s when you notice them.

The thick tears welled up in those pretty violet eyes. He’s so desperate. You’ve been edging him for the past two days, refusing to let him have you because of a few (in his opinion) stupid marks.

How else was he supposed to let the other males know you had a big, scary looking dog at home who stretched your pussy so good you saw stars?

He lets out a frustrated groan, his claws digging into the sheets as he fights the urge to rip the muzzle off. Instead, he starts rubbing his snout vigorously against your clit through the metal grille, trying to stimulate you indirectly. His tail thrashes angrily behind him. "Please…”

Your body acts accordingly, slick beginning to drip down your thighs in response. “G-good boy.”

The praise sends a shiver down his spine. He redoubles his efforts, the snout of the muzzle rubbing faster and harder against your clit. His own arousal is obvious, his cock throbbing and leaking against your thigh where it's trapped between your bodies. “M’ Good, s’ good for ya.”

He’s a mess, leaking down your leg, the end of the muzzle now covered in your slick and his saliva. You take a shuddering breath and reach back to grab his arm. “U-up! Mount!”

At your command, he immediately scrambles up to mount you. His large, muscular frame overshadows you as his wet cock slides across your sticky mound.

The muzzle makes his breathing heavy and loud, but he can't help the muffled whine that escapes him as he slowly pushes forward, his angry cockhead stretching you open inch by inch.

It never gets easier taking such a beefy part of the canine Hybrid. His chin rests on your shoulder as he bullies inch by inch inside, stretching out the gummy walls that try to suck him in forever.

His slick thighs try to find purchase against your body but it fails the first couple of times. He begins pleading with you to loosen up, begging you not to choke him out.

His pleas grow more desperate as he tries to thrust deeper but keeps slipping out because of your stubborn hold. His nails carefully scratch at your sides, trying to coax your muscles to relax. "Nngh! Please... Open more...I’ll be so good to ya…”

Slowly but surely your natural slick drips around his girth and he can finally bottom out. He swears he might cum, might blackout right then and there.

The cold of the metal makes tiny indentions on your shoulder as he begins a desperate pace. There isn’t really a rhyme or reason to his thrust, the initial few pumps have your head reeling.

“Feel so good kitty-mmn fuck, fuck you feel so gooood~!” He’s a man deprived now. He grabs your hips to lift you ever so gently off the bed before pounding your guts like they owe you money. Your claws tear at the sheets when you try to find something to keep you grounded.

Caleb’s head is thrown back, the muzzle doing its job. But it can’t stop the flinging drool that drips from his dirty mouth. Pieces of saliva collect on the space between your shoulder blades when he curls himself around your arch.

“Pussy feels so good! C-can’t believe you tried keepin’ her from me.” He’s snarls.

He can feel the base of his cock starting to swell. His jaw snaps inside of the muzzle that pressed right against your swollen heat gland. His instincts are bitter, wanting nothing more than to make you bleed for making him wait so long.

Your ears pivot at the sound of his snarl and he catches the sight in his peripheral. One clawed hand encircles your tail, giving a light pull that sends a hiss from your throat.

“Think you’re so much better than this big dumb dog? All high and mighty, not lettin’ me mark ya? Afraid I’ll scare away those prissy fuckin’ cat suitors I see watchin’ ya?”

“F-fuckin’ mutt! So big, n cock is so big! D-don’t even think about how much it hurts!” You hiss out, ears flattened despite your tail folded against your spine as your body takes him over and over, tears of pleasure and frustration spilling down your cheeks.

Caleb’s eyes roll back at the way your walls spasm around his throbbing cock. “Yeahhhh, yeah you love this mutt’s big cock. Want me to give you all the fucking pups huh? Say it.”

His hand grasps your jaw, angling your head back and- “Fuck! Fuck yeah, want your pups. Pleasepleaseple-“

Caleb’s jaws flex, his snarl overpowering your moans. You barely comprehend the sound of tearing leather before his teeth fasten around your shoulder. His knot pops in and he balances on his haunches as he pumps load after load.

“FUCK! Fuck Caleb, ow-“

He gives his head a warning whip, daring you to try to push him away. Your cries die down to whimpers as you come down from your own high, a frothy mix dribbling down your inner thighs.

Blood trickles down your shoulder and onto the once clean bedsheets. You know you should hiss, should scratch and claw at him. But when the remains of the broken muzzle falls beside you on the bed-

“Oh f-“

~

Caleb has you sprawled out on the bed like a used white. He hasn’t stopped apologizing while he’s cleaned the wounds he’s left and the cum leaking out of your well used entrance.

You don’t have the strength to fight him off when he decides his tongue is the best cleaning tool for your pussy.

“Mm sorry Kitty. I’ll take care of you.”

Caleb crawls next to you but not before grabbing the broken muzzle and tossing it across the room like an unloved toy. “But if you ever put a muzzle on me again, I’ll fuck you through the wall.”

Was that a threat? Or was he flirting?

Knowing Caleb? Probably both.