#Stop Smoking Guide

[tiredtriedfailures]

would. would you believe me if i told you i couldnt Stop his arm from being in the way. in a drawing that i made. that ive been working on for an hour

[mishtershpock]

.

[nanamisweetgirl]

🜼 ⋆ soft dom toji helping you fuck yourself on his cock — virgin!reader.

he lays you down first.

not to fuck you, not yet—but to calm you. warm palms rubbing the backs of your thighs, his breath in your ear, his voice low like a lullaby made of smoke.

“you don’t have to do anything,” he says, like it’s a secret between you two. “just let me help you. i’ll tell you what to do.”

and you nod because of course. because it’s toji. he’s slow, steady, all muscle and patience, never rushing, never pushing too far. his hands are bigger than your waist. his voice alone makes your stomach pull tight. he’s been touching you like you’re something sacred for weeks—just kisses, just his mouth, just fingers—and now you’re ready.

he’s the one who says you should sit on it. take it yourself, that way you can stop whenever you need to. and he helps you get there—legs shaking as you climb into his lap, facing away from him, your back to his chest, your hands gripping his thighs for balance while his cock stands heavy and thick between you.

you’ve never seen anything that big.

he reaches between your legs and strokes himself once, slow, gathering the wetness slicking your folds, and then guides the thick tip to your entrance.

“breathe, baby,” he whispers behind you, voice low in your neck. “just the tip. go slow. don’t gotta take it all yet.”

but you do. because your body wants it. because the stretch burns, but he’s right there holding you, whispering in your ear.

“that’s it. just like that. open up for me, let me in.”

you sink lower—inch by inch—knees trembling where they brace on either side of his hips. his hands stay on your thighs, warm and grounding, thumbs stroking lazy circles into your skin.

and god, he’s thick. it feels impossible at first, your walls gripping tight around him, fluttering with every inch. but he keeps talking, soft and steady, the filth tucked inside the comfort.

“feelin’ full, huh?” he murmurs. “this your first stretch, baby? first cock in that sweet little pussy?”

you nod, biting your lip hard, and he groans, breath catching like he’s the one struggling to hold it in.

“fuck. you’re squeezin’ me so tight—like you’re scared to let go.”

you are, a little. it hurts, but it hurts so good. like pressure building slow in your belly, heat curling up your spine. his cock is so deep now you can feel it in your gut, your legs shaking from how much you’ve taken.

“you’re doin’ perfect,” he breathes. “fuckin’ perfect. look at you—takin’ all of it, baby. even though you never done this before.”

you can’t speak. can barely breathe. your head tips forward, hair falling around your face as your hips roll instinctively, your body moving just to adjust—and even that tiny grind makes your thighs twitch.

he groans deep behind you.

“you’re fuckin’ yourself on me already, huh?” he laughs, low and filthy. “didn’t even mean to.”

you press your palms against his thighs for balance and do it again—just a slow lift, then drop, and the drag of his cock against your virgin walls makes you moan, high and broken.

“atta girl,” he whispers. “just like that. slow. grind it out. you don’t gotta bounce, just roll those hips and let me stretch you.”

your ass presses back against his stomach as you move, the sound of your wet cunt starting to echo in the room. it’s obscene, slick and sweet, and he watches it all from behind—your pussy stretched wide, his cock disappearing inch by inch, your waist rolling as you ride him.

he leans back, one hand drifting to your belly, palm pressed flat just beneath your navel.

“feel that?” he says, pressing down just a little. “that’s me. right there. so deep you’re bulgin’ for me.”

you gasp, hips stuttering, and he lets out a ragged breath.

“shit, that’s pretty. you’re makin’ me feel so good, baby. like your pussy was made for me.”

you moan at the praise, at the way he says it like a fact, like it’s holy. your body starts to move easier now, pain fading into thick pleasure, your walls relaxing just enough for your hips to pick up rhythm. slow, deliberate, wet.

his hands never leave you. one on your belly, the other gripping your hip, dragging you down every time you lift off him.

“there you go. ride me just like that,” he growls. “don’t stop ‘til you’re cryin’.”

and you might. you’re so full it’s dizzying, your clit pulsing with every drag of his cock inside you. your legs shake as you fuck yourself onto him again, harder this time, your back arching, tits bouncing with every roll.

“you’re gonna ruin me,” he grits out, voice straining. “gonna make me cum in this tight little virgin pussy—first time, and you’re already milkin’ me.”

your nails dig into his thighs now. your breath’s coming fast. the ache is thick and perfect, the burn melting into something addictive.

“you feel good?” he whispers, lips brushing your shoulder.

you nod. “yes. fuck, yes—so good.”

he groans again, hips bucking up beneath you for the first time, and you choke on a moan, legs spread wide and trembling.

“i got you,” he whispers, fucking up into you slow, deep strokes now. “you don’t gotta do anything but take it.”

you collapse back against him, body going limp, letting him move you. you’re nothing but nerve endings and heat now, your body twitching with every thrust, your pussy stretched and dripping, thighs soaked from the mess between you.

his arms wrap around you, one across your chest, the other splayed over your belly, holding you tight as he starts to fuck up into you rougher now—his breath hot in your ear.

“you mine now, yeah?” he pants. “first cock you take, and it’s me?”

you whimper yes, eyes rolling back.

“then cum for me. lemme feel this sweet little cunt pulse around me. make it real.”

you do. of course you do. your body locks, walls spasming around his cock as he fucks you through it, thick and steady, coaxing it out of you like he’s drawing it with his hands.

he groans when he feels it, when he feels you clench. “that’s it. yeah, just like that—fuckin’ perfect.”

you collapse forward, sobbing soft from the pleasure, body spent, and he holds you close as he finally cums inside you—deep, rough groans in your ear, cock pulsing thick as he fills you up.

you don’t even flinch from the stretch anymore. you just sink into him, full and wrecked, held in his lap like something he’d never let go of.

his voice, when he speaks next, is soft again. warm. still a little breathless.

“you did so fuckin’ good for me,” he whispers. “so proud of you.”

you smile. still trembling. still twitching from aftershocks.

“i like this angle,” he adds, playful now, kissing your shoulder. “get used to it. i’m never letting you ride me any other way.”

[buckysleftbicep]

lined up 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, sexual tension, dry humping, dominant!bucky, teasing, rough flirting, dirty talk

summary: bucky teaches you how to play pool. based on this request

word count: 995

author's note: pool is such a hot game, i love it, though i honestly suck at it.

The recreational room was quiet for once. No Alexei bellowing about rematches, no Yelena complaining about the vending machine, no sarcastic commentary from John. Just dim, flickering lights above, the low hum of some old speaker system, and the pool table that sat dead center like an unspoken challenge.

You shouldn’t have lingered. Should’ve kept walking when you saw him there, Bucky in a tactical tee with the sleeves pushed up, his forearms flexing as he chalked the cue with quiet focus.

But you didn’t walk away. Not when his rare good mood hung in the air like smoke. Not when his smirk was already loaded with trouble.

“Ever played before?” he asked, twirling the cue between his fingers so effortlessly it made your pulse skip.

“Once,” you replied, breath catching. “I sucked.”

His smile was slow, knowing. “I’ll teach you.”

Now you were bent over the edge of the table, cue in hand, trying not to squirm under the heat of his stare. You focused on the balls as hard as it was, instead of the way his shirt clung to his chest or how that muscle ticked in his jaw every time you shifted.

“Widen your stance,” Bucky murmured behind you, the sudden closeness making your breath hitch. “You’re too stiff.”

You obeyed before your brain even caught up, spreading your legs just slightly, only for him to step in behind you, boots heavy on the floor, presence unmistakable. His hands landed on your hips, strong and certain, the kind of grip that made your stomach twist with want.

“Here,” he said roughly, “let me help.”

He guided you forward until your body touched the table, the cool felt brushing your forearms as his front pressed against your back. You could feel him, heat and muscle, that dense, coiled strength that made him lethal on the field and devastating off it. The brush of his cock against your ass was unmistakable, and he didn’t even try to hide it.

“Bucky,” you breathed, voice catching.

“Shh,” he said, mouth near your ear, voice barely restrained. “Just showing you how it’s done.”

His metal hand slid down your side, cold against the heat of your skin, until it reached your hand on the cue. He adjusted your grip with slow, practiced movements, but his hips never moved away, if anything, he pressed in harder, grinding just enough to make your pulse stutter.

“Now bend over a little more.”

You obeyed, and that earned you a low, guttural sound. It wasn’t a word, it was need.

“You gotta stop doing that,” he murmured, grinding against you in a slow, filthy motion that made your thighs clench. “You’re making it real hard to focus.”

“I thought you were supposed to be teaching me,” you said with a faint, teasing lilt.

“Oh, I am,” he whispered, hips dragging against you again. “Lesson one: let me fuckin’ focus.”

Your smirk faltered when he pushed forward again, cock thick and hard through his jeans, grinding against your ass with agonising control. You gasped, hands tightening on the table.

“That part of the game?” you managed, voice shaking.

He chuckled darkly. “Only when you bend over the table like that, sweetheart.”

The cue was taken from your hand and dropped behind you without care. His flesh hand ran up your spine, then pushed gently between your shoulder blades until your cheek nearly touched the felt.

“Bucky-" you started, but he cut you off with a quiet growl.

“I’m not gonna fuck you here,” he said, grinding into you harder, his cock sliding exactly where you needed him. “Not yet. Just wanna feel you like this.”

You whimpered as he rocked against you again, the friction obscene. He was fully hard now, thick and heavy, and you could feel every inch of him through both layers of fabric. Your body arched instinctively into him, and he let out a dark, broken groan.

“You like teasing me?” he growled. “Wearing those tight little pants? Bending over like this? Think I haven’t noticed how you look at me during training?”

Your thighs pressed together without thinking, your whole body burning. Then his hand slid between your legs and pressed against your core. Even through your jeans, you knew he could feel how wet you were.

“Fucking soaked,” he muttered, his fingers pressing harder. “And I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“You’re insane,” you choked out, barely holding on.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m patient. If I wasn’t, your pants would already be around your ankles and this table would be shaking.”

The words made you clench, dizzy from the arousal pulsing through your body. His lips found your neck then, hot, rough, biting, the kind of messy affection that left no question about what he wanted. His metal hand squeezed your ass, fingers digging into the flesh with a possessiveness that made you moan.

“You think I’m not dying to fuck you right here?” he rasped. “Right now? But I’m not gonna. Not until you beg.”

You arched against him with a sound that was half whimper, half plea.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say please.”

You shook your head, panting, defiant even as your body screamed for him.

He froze behind you. Then, again, voice edged with steel.

“Say. It.”

Your voice trembled. “Please… Bucky. Please.”

The growl that rumbled from his chest was primal. His hips gave one more brutal grind into you, enough to make your knees buckle. And then, he stepped back.

The loss of contact was immediate and devastating. You spun to face him, trembling, wide-eyed, flushed with need.

“Why-?”

“You’re not ready,” he said smoothly, retrieving the cue like nothing had happened. “Not yet.”

“You bastard,” you muttered, voice wrecked.

He leaned in again, lips brushing your ear like a promise you’d never forget.

“Lesson two’s gonna be about patience, sweetheart.”

And then he lined up his shot, cue tapping the ball like he hadn’t just left you soaked and shaking.

a/n: also after writing this, i asked my boyfriend to teach me how to play pool properly ;)

[rosegolden13]

Princess Treatment w/ John Price

His workaholic habits do not stop after he leaves base to come home to you...

We already know he's opening up every damn door for you. He has the magical skill of knowing when doors need a push or a pull so he never fails to laugh when you pull a push door. "Tha's why you shoulda left it to me, love. Stubborn thing, you are." He'll reach over your head to push the door open for you, plopping a kiss to your hair while he does.

His masculinity does not get in the way of holding your purse for you whenever you're out together, his big bear hands wrapped around the handle of your little black purse.

He refuses to let you carry your own luggage, doesn't care if it takes him multiple trips to get both of your bags into the hotel or rental house. He'll get all exasperated if you insist on helping. "You had a long drive. Lemme handle it, pet." (even though he's the one that drove...)

There's nothing he loves more than ordering for you at a restaurant. His voice is filled with an unreasonable amount of pride when he says "And for the missus..." before telling the waiter your order.

Speaking of food, if you ever eat anything that needs cutting or even doctoring up, expect him to jump in. "Now, now, doll, you know tha's my job." He'll tsk and gently take the knife from you to cut your steak into bitesize pieces or to butter your roll. Yes, he will go as far as to bring the fork up to your lips and feed you if you don't put up a fuss.

He will absolutely pay for your manicure and then coo when you offer him your hand to show off your new nails. "Real pretty, love... Don't go chippin' 'em now. Come sit."

Price always sets up a nice place for you on the couch or bed, blanket at the ready and pillows right where you like them. "Come on now, Mrs. Price." He'll pat the spot next to him like one would for a dog. Of course, he likes it best when he can be your pillow and personal heater (that man is always warm, always) but sometimes he's got to find a way to coax his little love into his arms and away from chores.

Naturally, he will swat your hands away when you bend down to tug on your heels or tie your sneakers. He'll crouch down to place your foot on his bent knee, patting your calf firmly and leaning in to press a kiss to your ankle once he's done.

If you nick yourself while shaving, he'll level you with a disapproving stare and then insist that he do it for you next time. After all, he has plenty of experience with keeping his facial hair so tidy. "Can't have my woman hurtin' herself, now can I?" You bet your bottom dollar he's using his fancy razors and shaving creams on you, extra delicate to make sure he doesn't mar your skin.

He's terrified to smoke around you after you coughed one (1) time and now he only will take his cigars out on the back porch or in his office with the window open. If you come in, he'll snuff it out asap and usher you out of the room, shushing your protests.

I'll probably eventually add a part two cuz soft Price is everything to me hehe... Can you tell my standards are ridiculously high?? Also, does anyone have an accent writing guide for TF-141?? I am painfully American.

[rosiereveries]

professor!John who teaches history at university. You finally have classes with him and since the beginning of the year, all the girls in your year talk about how hot he is. He is something over 40 and he won the secret dilf competition that you made with your friends.

You take extra good time preparing for his classes, not just you learn the materials for the lesson, you also make sure that your outfit looks nice, that your hair is perfectly styled, and your makeup looks flawless. You always wear short skirts and cute tops to his classes, and you are 100% sure that when you wear knee high socks, he looks at you more that on the other girls.

John noticed you the very first time you came to his class. You sat in the first row like the good girl you are, and you raised your hand every time he asked questions. There were so many girls in his classes who tried to seduce him, but none of them were as smart as you were. You always had perfect score on your test, and he knew that you wanted to make him proud. It was just a bonus that when you crossed your legs on the chair you were sitting, he could sometimes see your panties.

He tried to wait until the end of the year, to approach you, so he wouldn’t be your professor anymore when he would fuck you. But you gave him no choice with your flirty remarks and your outfits.

That’s why he called you into his office after your lesson ended. He wanted to speak with you about the paper you were working on, and he wanted you to tell him how it was going.

When you get into his office you start to talk about your paper. You hoped that he called you there for other reasons, but he is patiently listening while you ramble about the sources and literature you found. After a while he asks you if you would mind if he smoke, he tells you that he needs a little bit of relaxation before his next class.

You watched him as he lights up a cigarette and offers you one. You decline and watch him blow out the smoke. “You sure you don’t want one?” he asks and when you tell him that you never really smoked, he pats his thigh and tells you to come closer.

“You know, this time of the year everything is so hectic” he says, “maybe you could help me with some pent-up stress, you know. What you think?”

That’s how you end up on the floor on your knees under his desk. You kneel between his thighs unzipping his trousers and taking out his thick cock. He is bigger that you imagined, and you know that there’s no way you can take him whole into your mouth. He gathers your hair in his hand, and he makes you look up at him. “You always look so pretty for me, but I think you will look even better with these lips around my dick” he says, and he gently guides your head to his crotch.

You choke on him quite a lot. You can take half of his length without a problem but after that, your gag reflex makes you stop. You hear him mumble something about training your mouth. When John finishes his cigarette, he makes you stand up, your lipstick ruined, most of it is on his cock like a pretty mark you left.

He bends you over his desk, pulling your skirt up. You can feel his cock teasing you through your underwear. When he pulls your panties down and starts to push inside you can feel him stretching you. “Just like that, you’re taking me so well, you’re so wet for me” he says. John pushes one hand under your t-shirt, pulling it up so he can see your tits. He tells you to take it off, so you just stand there in your skirt and knee-high socks.

He fucks you rough, quick thrust that makes your eyes roll. He plays with your nipples, twisting and pulling them until your breast are sensitive. You know that you don’t have a lot of time, anytime now his colleague could come back from their lunch break and find you like this.

When John starts to rub circles on your clit you can feel your orgasm approaching. With one hand he rubs your most sensitive part, and the other one is around your throat. “I need you to cum on my cock, I need you to milk me dry with your sweet wet pussy” he tells you and you can feel that he is also close. You cum like the good girl you are right as he tells you. A few moments later he is cuming inside you, his hot seed spilling in your pussy.

He helps you to put your clothes on. He pulls up your panties, and when he sees that his cum is spilling from your pussy, he quickly pushes two fingers inside you, saying that it needs to stay where it belongs. You’re still there, in his office with your thighs still trembling when his colleague comes back. John walks you out on the hallway, saying that you should come to see him again tomorrow at noon, that you still have a lot of work to do. You just hope that his colleague can’t hear when he whispers that you should come without panties this time.

Masterlist You can support my work here : ko-fi

[oreo-creampies]

“𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐠𝐨?”

warnings; some exhibition, making out. (Everyone kisses everyone), grinding, biting, threesome, slapping your ass and pussy, hair pulling, choking, face fucking, knife play, light blood kink, degradation/praise, smoking, sweet/mean!stoner!satosugu, established relationship (suguru x reader), teasing, pierced!suguru

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧: MORE OF SATOSUGU X F READER PLEASEEEE🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

“Come here sweetness.” Suguru points between his parted thighs.

You close the short distance whilst fixating on his pierced lips wrap around the butt of the blunt. You want to kiss him, run your fingers through his hair. Whilst you run your hand over his chest and arms.

Smoke drifts past Suguru lips when he says, “You in my sweatpants.” Stealing the blunt when you stop between his legs. Sliding your fingers into his hair fighting every urge to pull him in for a kiss.

You take a puff giving him time to eblorate. When he doesn't, you ask, “What about ‘em?” Suguru drags his finger along the waistband, it hangs low showing a strip of your short pubic hairs. Your breath hitches as you take another puff. His touch is so exciting yet comforting.

Suguru openly admiring your hips. “The way they’re hanging low on your hips, teasing me with your pretty pussy is makin’ me hungry.” Slipping his hand under your snug shirt squeezing your side. Causing your shirt to ride up with his large hand.

You cry when Suguru bites your stomach making your pussy throb. Tugging on his hair when he drifts a little lower. You need to feel his wet pierced tongue on your clit.

Satoru reminds you, “Puff puff pass still counts even with y'all nearly fucking in front of me.” Taking a short third puff then passing it to Satoru.

You’re getting an eyeful of the outline of Satoru's cock. His snug sweatpants are generous. Satoru winks at you, smoking his blunt. Heat climbs into your cheeks as you look away.

Suguru leans back against the sofa, pulling you onto his lap. “Listen to him bitchen’ like he doesn't get off on it.” Kissing Suguru, you tug on his tight black compression shirt. Straddling, grinding your your clothed cunt on Suguru’s hard cock.

Horny and high you want Satoru to watch or join.

Satoru groans, “If you two are putting on a show who am I not to enjoy?” Suguru deepens the kiss with his passionate and needy hunger. Groaning when you part your lips for his pierced tongue.

He slaps your ass then squeezes your hips to guide your pace. Keeping it slow as you desperately seek any friction for your sensitive clit. Having an audience is getting you wetter.

Satoru asks, “You takin’ the blunt or am I finishin’ it?” Suguru pulls away to take the blunt. Dipping your head down kissing along the red ink of the two-headed snake running along his neck. Sliding your hand up his shirt, dragging your finger along his abs.

Suguru tilts his head to the side groaning. “If only you knew how good her soft lips feel.” He takes a slow puff, tugging your hair pulling you away to kiss you. Pushing bitter smoke past your lips following it with his tongue. Smoke slowly drifts out of the passionate kiss.

You tug on Suguru’s shirt craving to feel his skin on your’s. Pulling away to pass the blunt back to Satoru. Slipping Suguru's shirt off first then your’s, dropping both on the floor. Fondling Suguru’s thick pec with one hand. Trailing your fingers down his left side along the red snake that vanishes past his sweats. A beautiful trail to follow from his neck to his hard, heavy cock.

Satoru moans, “Trust me any chance you'll share I’ll take.” Rubbing his cock through his sweats. “She's so hot, I wanna rub my cock on her tits, cover em’ in cum.” Suguru tugs on the thin chain hanging from the nipple’s bar.

Suguru croons, “Hmm I dunno, what do you think princess?” Sucking on your soft nipple, rubbing his warm metal ball over your sensitive nipple. Following it with the softness of his warm tongue. Grabbing your nipple’s chain with his teeth tugging with a groan.

You let go, and sitting up, Suguru towers over you. Massaging your soft nipple with two fingers. “Should he just watch or do you wanna let us both have our fun?” Stuffing his hand down your sweats to squeeze a handful of your ass.

It's an easy decision, “You can pass me back n forth like a blunt. Or I can take both, I have two holes, or if you're comfortable with it you can fuck the same hole.” Slowly getting out of Suguru’s lap, tugging on his sweat pants. Suguru lifts his hips to let you slide his sweatpants off.

You bite your lip as you stare at Suguru's beautiful cock. He is too thick for you to wrap your hand around, but your finger tips are close. His thickness and length making him so heavy he hangs.

Suguru insists, “You can play with her tits and fuck her mouth while I eat her out." He takes another slow puff, leaning down to blow the smoke past your lips.

Satoru stands up to strip his clothes off, manspreading on the sofa next to Suguru. “How far are you willing to go for our cocks?” Satoru spits in his palm to stroking his cock. Swirling his long finger around himself. Smearing his pre-cum with his thumb with a quick swipe.

Turning around, pushing your sweatpants below your ass. Tugging on the waistband just below your cheeks making them jiggle. “You can use me like a fleshlight and pump me full of cum, cover me in cum.

Satoru groans, “I see why you let her smoke for free, then send her with an ounce. Her sweet little cunt definitely earns it. Damn she could smother me with her fat sweet pussy.”

Suguru orders, "Lay down on the sofa m' spread your legs for me." Taking the short blunt from Satoru before he moves over leaving the middle of the sofa open.

You drop your sweatpants, resting your head on Satoru's thigh, and spreading your legs open for Suguru. Holding your hand out for the short blunt. Taking a hit Satoru grabs your hair, lifting you up to meet him halfway.

Satoru roughly kissing you, biting your bottom lip till you let the smoke trickle into his mouth. Smoke escapes as Satoru pushes his tongue into your mouth. Suguru's hand comes down on your soft lips with a loud smack!

You jolt, crying from the sweetly stinging pain. Trying to close your legs Suguru folds you in a mating press. “Just for that.” Suguru bites and sucks on your thigh.

Suguru pushes a thick finger in till your lips touch his ring. Suguru uses his familiarity with your soft, wet cunt against you. Finger fucking you into a sloppy mess, you moan into Satoru’s mouth.

Satoru pulls away, gently prying your lips apart with thumb. He spits in your mouth, swallowing then sucking on his thumb. You’re their whore, spread out in between them with a soaking wet pussy.

Satoru grabs the near by switch blade, flicking it out. “Wanna use this on her?” Holding it close to your throat without touching you. The blade go close makes your heart race and your cunt clench.

Suguru sucking and licking your clit makes it difficult to keep your voice steady. “Cut meee!” Arching your back, twisting away from the overstimuating pleasure of Suguru’s fingers fucking your cunt sloppy.

He drags his pierced tongue along your clit. You tremble as a wave of intense pleasure waves over you. Moaning, grinding your clit on Suguru’s tongue, clenching his fingers. You love it when he plays with your pussy.

Pleading with them, “Fuck me at knife point, carving your name into my skin I don’t care as long as you fuck me.” Satoru drags the knife over your pierced nipple.

You clench Suguru’s fingers, whimpering, wiggling, arching your chest. It’s exhilarating the cold blade teasing your soft nipple. “You both are nasty sadistic perverts wanting to cut my pretty tits n eat mmmmmyy-“ Suguru slides his tongue down into ass.

Pumping his finger faster, spreading them apart get your cunt used to stretching. Suguru pulls away. “If I’m such a sadistic pervert then I’m fucking your ass no prep. You’d be so tight round my cock, n watchin’ you cry cause of how much it hurts would get me off.” There’s a hungry, predatory gleam in his dark brown eyes. He winks as your cunt clenches his thick fingers.

Satoru presses the knife to your lips before you can respond. “Ah you wanted to start name calling when we’ve been soooo nice.” Keeping your head still as he slides the knife down your chin to your throat.

You happily admit, “I love it when he’s mean to my pussy.” Moaning as Suguru massages your sweet spot with two long fingers. Digging your hips into the sofa, you’re unable to wiggle too much whilst Satoru pins you to the sofa with a knife to your throat.

Grabbing Satoru’s long and beautiful cock, you love how he stands up like you adore the way Suguru’s cock hangs. Slowly swirling your thumb over Satoru’s wet cock head.

You croon, “Look at your cock standing up, so eager. I know you want to bully me too, I’ve seen the way you stare at me. You wanna bend me over and fuck me till my legs won’t hold me upright.” Satoru glides knife’s tip across your throat.

Suguru croons, “That’s a good girl, tell us what filthy whore you are for us.” He pulls his fingers out to hit your cunt. Smack! Smack! Smack! You cry from the deliciously sharp sting in your cunt.

Satoru glides the knife down your chest, slicing below your breast. You gasp and whine from the sweet pain. “I wanna cum in and on you. I could spend hours with you tied up, tape a vibrator to your clit in between fucking you.” He leans down licking up the blood seeping out of the shallow cut.

Satoru drags his hot tongue up to your nipple, taking you in his mouth with a breathy mouth. Your hand free of his cock finds his soft snowy hair.

Suguru circles your sensitive, puffy clit with his large thumb. “We could keep her drunk and overstimulated for hours. You’d like that wouldn’t you, being our little cock sleeve, feeling both of of cocks rubbing together inside you.” He pushes his tongue past your glistening pussy lips, moaning at the taste of you.

Your pussy is quivering, clenching Suguru’s warm pierced tongue. The texture difference between his soft tongue and the hard metal is getting you off.

You’re in heat you grind your sloppy wet pussy onto Suguru’s handsome face. He punches your clit then pulls away, “Give me the knife and kiss me, see what see tastes like.” Satoru bites down around your nipple, squirming and whining. He groans when you tug on his hair.

Satoru lifts his head, staring you deep in the eyes with his piercing blue eyes, swirling with a sadistic hunger. “Keep crying like that n’ you’ll make me snap princess. Fuck the ways we can ruin you, fuck you into our high, brain dead slut.” He passes Suguru the knife, Suguru drags the blade along your thigh.

Suguru insists, “She’ll bounce back ready for more, she’s a whore, it’s what her sloppy pussy is made for. Isn’t that right?” He drags the knife closer to your cunt, circling his thumb faster.

Sweet intense pleasure ripples throughout your body. It overlaps the acute fear of a knife being so close to your cunt. Biting your lip and forcing yourself not to squirm when he traces the knife's tip next to your lip.

You watch your boyfriend kiss his best friend. Satoru's lips part for Suguru's pierced tongue, Satoru moans as he tastes you on Suguru. Satoru slide his hand into Suguru's hair, knocking the barely hanging on bun loose. His dark hair cascades down his broad shoulders and back.

There is a familiarity in the way they're kissing each other, how easily they melt into each other.

Suguru sets the knife between your parted legs. Sliding his finger down between your wet lips, pushing two fingers in. Moaning whilst watching Suguru gently grasp Satoru's cock. Satoru hips shutter as Suguru swipes his thumb over his cock, swirling his hand along Satoru with slow pumps.

Suguru's thick fingers rubs intoxicating small circles into your sensitive sweet spot. Your pussy quivers, thighs tremble and your back arches drive your hips down on his fingers. Causing Satoru to pin you to the sofa with his hand on your stomach.

Satoru and Suguru break away, Satoru dips his head into Suguru's neck, biting down and sucking. “If your marking him, then what about me?” Giving them a fake pout, Satoru pulls away smirking.

He groans whilst leaning his head back pumping his hips fucking Suguru’s fist. “I cut you didn’t I? Or doesn’t it not count till I carve my name on you?” Suguru slides his fingers out of you, holding them up to Satoru’s glossy pink lips. He take them in his mouth with a needy groan.

Suguru insists, “You should cut her up more, drag the knife along her skin ‘n make her squirm.” He let’s Satoru’s beautiful cock go, he swipes your clit with his thumb whilst staring down at you.

“Do you wanna taste him, me, or both of us?” Suguru’s gaze is so warm and gentle in this moment. As if he wasn’t previously holding a knife to your cunt before jerking off his friend in front of you.

Oreo’s m.list

[mooningningg]

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (2)

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 01, chapter 03

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 16.04k (long ahh)

content. virgin!megumi + experienced!reader, Explicit sexual content – dry humping, 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. we're heating up yalllll!!! and please give me feedback, i need to know what you think...

The hallway was nearly dead. Final bell rung, students scattered like roaches, and the only sounds left were the squeaks of custodians’ shoes on waxed tile. You checked over your shoulder before stepping around the corner—god forbid anyone saw you doing what you were about to do. Megumi was at his locker. Alone. Perfect. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, tapping the toe of your heel on the linoleum like it owed you money.

“So what time are we gonna start?” you asked. Megumi barely looked at you, sliding a textbook into the pit of his backpack like he’d been expecting this exact confrontation. “Tomorrow after lunch sounds good,” he muttered, shutting his locker.

You opened your mouth to agree—until he added, “Except Fridays. I’m not free Fridays.”

“Why not?” you asked, tilting your head. That made him stop. His hand tensed a little at the strap of his bag, and his jaw tightened.

“I said I’m not free,” he replied, curt and bitter. No explanation. No eye contact. Like the subject was shut down, dead, buried six feet under.

You blinked. “Okay... geez.”

There was an awkward silence before you straightened up. “Where?” Megumi finally looked at you.

Expression flat. “The library?” he offered—except he didn’t offer so much as mock your own question back at you in that deadpan way that made you want to strangle him.

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a concussion. “No. Obviously not. Everyone’s at the library. You think I’m gonna sit there and let people see me get tutored? Fuck no.”

He tilted his head at you, slowly. “You asked me three times to tutor you,” he said, unimpressed, “and now you don’t want to be seen with me?”

You scoffed. “It’s not like that.” Except... it kind of was. You scratched at your nail polish. “I just... don’t want people knowing I need tutoring. That’s all.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie. You just left out the part where the worst thing imaginable would be the entire school finding out that you—the hot, put-together, braincell-deprived queen of hallway dominance—were being saved academically by none other than Megumi Fushiguro. The social suicide would be irreversible.

Megumi studied your face, and for a split second—tiny, barely-there—his expression softened. Then it disappeared. He sighed through his nose. “Your place?”

You nearly gagged. “No way in hell.” He raised a brow. “Then my place.” You hesitated. “...Will anyone be there?”

“My dad’s never home.” A pause, you weighed it, it was private. No foot traffic. No one you’d run into.

Fine.

“Okay. After school.”

“Fine,” he echoed, slinging his bag onto one shoulder.

“DM me the address.”

“DM you?” he asked, like the phrase itself was in a different language.

You blinked. “Yeah. On Instagram?”

“I don’t use Instagram.”

Your jaw dropped. “What the fuck are you made of?”

“I don’t need social media,” he replied, monotone, already turning away.

“Okay what about Snapchat?”

“No.”

“Tiktok?” He blinked at you like you just asked him if he sacrificed animals.

“Twitter?”

“No.”

“BeReal?”

“What even is that?”

You groaned dramatically and yanked a pen and notebook from your bag. “Oh my god, just write it down like we’re in the 1800s.” He took the pen and jotted something quick and sharp. You snatched the paper back and stared.

A home address. Somewhere in a quiet residential stretch near the edge of Tokyo. You didn’t recognize the neighborhood, but it didn’t seem too far. “5PM,” he said as he adjusted his glasses.

You looked up. “Don’t be late,” he added, voice flat. “Or I’m not answering the door.” And before you could reply, Megumi was already walking off, hoodie pulled over his head like he hadn’t just completely dictated your entire life schedule without blinking.

You stood there in the hallway, staring at the little piece of paper in your hand. Megumi Fushiguro’s house.

What the fuck were you getting yourself into?

You hated when the day dragged like this.

That sticky, post-class limbo where everyone slowly trickled toward freedom, chattering, laughing, slamming lockers, making plans. You walked through it all like you were underwater, like every sound passed through cotton. Your heels clicked against the tile, echoing faintly behind you as you made your way toward the parking lot.

Your mind wasn’t quiet. Not even close. No plan. No clarity. No relief.

Just the endless cycle of circling grades, your future slipping out of your manicured hands, and the ghosts of things you didn’t want to admit still mattered. Like him.

Noritoshi fucking Kamo.

You hadn’t seen him in days. Not really. Glances in hallways didn’t count. The silence since the breakup had felt like both punishment and relief. And yet— There he was.

Across the parking lot, heading toward his car. One hand holding his keys, his expression unreadable in that impossibly calm, infuriatingly composed way. The soft amber sun carved highlights in his hair, golden against his blazer, his steps easy. You didn’t know why your feet moved. Didn’t know why your voice rose above the wind.

“Noritoshi!” He stopped. Turned.

You instantly regretted it. And yet… you were already walking toward him. Too fast. Too desperate. He looked surprised at first, taken aback that you—of all people—were approaching him now. But then his expression softened. Slightly. That dangerous softness, the one that had always undone you.

“Can we talk?” you asked, crossing your arms in a pathetic attempt to look casual. You hated how breathless you sounded. A long pause.

He nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

You stood there, face tilted up to him, the silence stretching like a blade between you. “I know we ended…roughly,” you said. You could still hear the screaming, the slamming door, the way his words punched into your ribs like fists.

Noritoshi didn’t say anything. Just watched. “But I… I miss you.”

The words came too fast. Too raw. You hated how small they made you sound. How you felt like you were trying to hold water in your hands, and it was slipping through every finger. He blinked once. His jaw twitched. “We can’t keep doing this, Y/N.”

Something in your chest cracked. “We’re not doing anything,” you replied quickly. “We’re—we’re just talking.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry. Not cruel. Just distant. Cautious. “This isn’t just talking and you know it.” You swallowed. “So what, you just pretend I don’t exist now?”

“I’m not pretending.” Your breath hitched. Your voice sharpened.

“No. No, you don’t get to just disappear from my life like I was some… phase. You knew everything about me. Every dark, fucked-up part I hide from everyone else—you knew it. You held it. You used it.” Noritoshi flinched at that, just barely.

“Don't do that,” he said quietly. “Don’t rewrite what we had.”

“I’m not!” you snapped, tears threatening behind your lash extensions. “I’m telling you that you knew me better than anyone ever has and now you’re acting like none of it matters. That I don’t matter.” You were spiraling now, grasping at anything to slow your own descent.

“This is just… this is just another fight, right?” you whispered. “It’s just a thing we’re doing again. We’ll be okay. We always come back. Right?”

“Y/N—” You stepped forward, voice barely stable. “Please, Toshi.”

You hadn’t said his name like that since before the last fight. The worst one. The one that ended it. His expression shattered—just a little. You could see the conflict, the guilt, the damn ache in his eyes. But his feet didn’t move.

“You know I’ll always care about you,” he said, quietly, slowly. “But we weren’t good for each other. Not in the end.”

“That’s bullshit,” you hissed. “You think I didn’t try? You think I didn’t bend until I broke just to keep us okay?”

“I know you did. And I know I didn’t always meet you halfway. But we’re toxic. You know that. You just don’t want to admit it.” You blinked. He wasn’t yelling, He didn’t need to. His voice was calm. Too calm. Final, and that was worse.

Because this time… he meant it. You felt yourself slipping—emotionally, physically, everything unspooling in front of him like you were standing naked and broken in public.

“I can’t do this again,” he said, a little softer now. “I won’t.”

And with that, he turned, opened his car door, and got inside. You stood there. Watching. Heart squeezed. Chest hollow. He drove off. And that was it.

You were still in the parking lot. Wind pushing your skirt. The sun dipping lower behind the trees. And you were just standing there like an idiot. No. Like a girl who loved someone who never really came back the way she needed him to. This time… this time, he really was gone, and for once, you didn’t chase. You just stood there and let yourself feel it.

Every. Last. Second. Of it.

You were five minutes late.

Exactly five.

And yet, despite all that tough talk and his passive-aggressive little warning about “not answering the door,” guess who still opened it?

That’s right. Mr. Rules-And-Rigidity himself.

Megumi Fushiguro stood at the threshold of his surprisingly clean, quiet, borderline nice house like the human equivalent of a sigh. Hoodie on. Glasses still in place. Sweatpants slung low and baggy on his hips—and okay, not to be dramatic or anything, but they definitely had one or two stains that looked like they’d been there since 2017.

Still, you were more concerned with the house. Not that you were gonna say it out loud, but…damn. It was actually kind of big. Not “my dad owns half of Shibuya” big, but “I have a stable home life and a functioning family” kind of big. Neat. Quiet. A little cold maybe, but it didn’t reek of Axe body spray or gamer chair sweat, which was already more than you could say for 90% of the male population.

He stepped aside with a small exhale that absolutely reeked of judgment.

“You’re late.”

You walked in without a word, brushing past him like you owned the place. “Door was still open.”

“So much for empty threats, huh?” you added under your breath.

His living room was muted, borderline minimalist. A coffee table sat in front of a long couch, already stacked with books, folders, and enough academic paperwork to give you a stress migraine just looking at it.

And there he was—Megumi, sitting on the couch like some moody little student council rep, flipping through pages with all the excitement of a dead fish.

“I talked to your teachers,” he said without looking at you. “Asked them what you’re missing. What you don’t turn in. What you fail at.”

You blinked. “Wait—you talked to them?”

He nodded, still focused on the paperwork.

“Like, you… went up to adults voluntarily and asked about me?”

“Yes,” he said, voice clipped, like he regretted it deeply.

You couldn’t help it—you snorted. “Kinda stalker behavior, Gumi.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You dropped your bag to the floor with a thud and finally flopped beside him on the couch, ignoring the fact that you were still in your uniform skirt and he was probably sitting way too close for comfort considering what this whole arrangement actually was.

“So,” you drawled, tugging your socks up lazily. “What’d they say?”

He turned a page. Didn’t even glance your way.

“Not good things. That’s for sure.”

You scoffed. “Wow. You got anyone in your life who actually says nice things about me?”

“Do you?” he deadpanned.

Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

He finally looked at you, eyes narrowed behind those damn glasses.

“You’re not very self-aware, huh?”

“Oh my god,” you snapped. “You’re, like, so annoying. You do realize I could’ve picked anyone else to tutor me, right?”

“But you didn’t,” he said simply, flipping another page. The audacity.

You rolled your eyes, arms crossing dramatically as you shifted to the side of the couch. “This is abuse. Academic abuse. I’m being mentally tormented.”

“Good,” he muttered. “Maybe then you’ll learn something.”

You gave him your best glare. He didn’t flinch. Not even a little.

And then, like he was done indulging your tantrum, he picked up the textbook with a sharp clap and flipped it open like it weighed five tons.

“Today,” he said, “we’re starting with Physics.”

You blinked. “Why the fuck would we do that?”

“Because,” he said calmly, “you’re very, very bad at it.”

You groaned. Audibly. Dramatically. Full-body exorcism style. “Ugh. I already hate this. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this. I should’ve just begged the board for extra credit or bribed Gojo or something—”

“Shut up and open your notebook.”

“This is going to be hell, I swear to god.”

Megumi didn’t respond. He just handed you a pencil like he was preparing to babysit a toddler. And you?

You took it—reluctantly, bitterly, and with the elegance of a girl who would rather be literally anywhere else. Because this was the beginning, Of schoolwork. Of tutoring. Of whatever this cursed partnership was becoming.

And for the record? You were already planning your escape, or at least, your next move. Because tutoring was only half the deal. And soon enough? He was gonna learn that the other half had way more interesting lessons.

An hour of mental agony.

An hour of squinting at numbers, scribbling down equations you didn’t understand, and pretending to care about some dude named Newton.

You slammed your pencil down like it had personally offended you and flopped sideways with a dramatic groan.

“I’m done,” you mumbled, shoving the practice sheet toward Megumi like it burned.

He didn’t answer. Just took it, adjusted his glasses, and started reading in dead silence. Pencil in hand. Methodical, boring little ticks as he checked things off—or didn’t.

You watched him while you waited.

He was close. Closer than usual.

His hoodie had slipped slightly, revealing his forearms. You stared at the small flex of muscle when he wrote, the subtle dip of his throat when he swallowed, the way his glasses sat low enough on his nose to give you the perfect view of his lashes.

Had his skin always looked that soft?

His hair was still a mess, sticking up at weird angles from earlier, and yet—you could see it. The potential. If he just let someone style it. If he wore literally anything but hoodie-and-sweats-on-laundry-day.

He had… a face. An actually nice one. And then he turned to you, eyes unreadable, and held the paper out.

A three. A fucking three out of twenty. You grabbed the paper. Stared at it like it personally insulted your bloodline.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I mean, you got three right,” he said calmly.

You looked at him, scandalized. “You’re supposed to be good at this! Why the hell do I suck so bad if you’re my tutor?”

“You weren’t going to magically get it in one hour,” Megumi replied. “And it’s not my fault you didn’t pay attention the past three months.”

“I am paying attention now!”

“Are you?”

“Yes! Kind of! This is supposed to help me.”

“It is helping you. I’m honestly shocked you got any right at all.”

“Oh, haur haur. I’m laughing so hard right now, Gumi.”

He looked at you like you were deranged. You groaned and flopped back again. “I think that’s enough for today.” You stood, stretching, and turned to look down at him. He was still sitting on the couch, arms crossed, textbook on his lap.

He stared up at you, one brow arched. “What are you doing?”

“My part,” you said with a smirk. “It’s my turn… to tutor you.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Right.” You plopped back down on the couch, this time with intention. You turned your full body toward him, crossing one leg over the other as you stared, eyes sharp and studying.

“Okay. Topic of the day: Kissing.” Megumi blinked once.

You didn’t wait. “It’s more important than you think. Seriously, you could look like a goddamn Greek statue, but if you’re a bad kisser? You’re done. Over. Dead in the water.”

“…Okay.”

You continued, all hand gestures and head tilts like you were giving a TED Talk. “It’s about pressure. Pacing. Not too much tongue, not too little. Your lips gotta feel intentional. Like you know what you’re doing, but not like you’re trying too hard. And when you’re kissing someone? Your hands matter.”

Megumi looked… oddly focused. He was listening, genuinely, nodding slowly like he was absorbing everything.

“Girls remember that shit,” you said. “A good kiss stays with you. A bad one? Unforgivable.”

You leaned back slightly, tilting your head. “So. Have you ever kissed a girl before?”

Silence. He didn’t answer right away, then, quietly, “…I mean. When I was eight—”

“That doesn’t count.”

You cut him off with a laugh and a sharp look. “No way. Actual kissing, Gumi. You’re seriously telling me you’ve never kissed anyone?” He looked away, flushed faintly pink at the ears.

You blinked once. No fucking way. That actually explains so much. You smiled to yourself, eyes narrowing. He didn’t even know what was about to hit him.

Megumi blinked, and then—God help you—he started defending himself.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s a big deal,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “It’s not like I’ve never thought about it or anything. It’s just—like—why would I practice kissing? It’s not like you can just study that, and it’s not exactly something you can wing, and it’s not like I ever—”

You rolled your eyes so hard your soul almost left your body. “Jesus Christ.”

And before he could spiral into another long-winded monologue about why he’s never kissed someone, you grabbed his face with both hands—firm, smushed his cheeks between your palms, and pressed a fast, slightly messy peck to his lips.

Megumi froze. Like entire body stiff, full system-shutdown level frozen.

You pulled back casually, dropping your hands with a shrug. “You weren’t gonna shut up, emo boy.”

He stared at you like you’d just committed a federal crime. “What the fuck?”

You smirked. “Oh relax. That was just a preview. Call it a jumpstart.”

“That was my first kiss.”

You blinked. “Wait—that counts?”

He looked at you like you’d stepped on a puppy. “Well,” you said, tilting your head. “You’re lucky it was with me, then.”

Megumi exhaled, sharply. Like he wasn’t sure if he was angry, confused, or about to combust. “And anyway,” you added, already getting comfortable again, “that wasn’t even a kiss-kiss. That was baby shit. If you want to actually learn, you gotta stop being a pussy.”

Megumi scoffed. “I’m not—”

“You are.” You leaned in slightly. “But that’s okay. I’ll fix you.”

He opened his mouth to argue again, but you waved a hand to cut him off. “Don’t make this weird. I’m literally helping you.”

“You kissed me.”

“And you’re welcome.” More silence. More glowering. He looked so serious, it was borderline pathetic.

You exhaled, soft and sure, then rested a hand on his knee. “Okay. Now, for real.” His breath hitched slightly.

“You’re not going to get it on the first try, and that’s fine. Just… relax. Let me lead.” You turned to face him completely. His knee brushed yours. His arms dropped to his sides. He looked nervous. But—intrigued. Definitely intrigued. You leaned in slow, just enough to give him time to process. And when your lips met his this time, it was softer. Slower. You didn’t push, didn’t smother—you let it melt.

Megumi’s lips were surprisingly soft.

A little stiff at first—unsure. But he moved with you. Carefully. Cautiously. And then a little more confidently when your hand slid to his jaw, thumb grazing the edge of his cheekbone, he smelled good—like clean laundry and mint gum. His breath fanned over your skin when you broke for air just slightly, and it was warm, intoxicating.

You kissed him again. Deeper. Pressing in. Tilting your head just enough to change the angle and whisper against his lips, “Good… just like that…”

He swallowed, and moved with you again. No tongue. Not yet.

But his lips stayed on yours, hesitant but obedient. And for someone who hadn’t done this before—he was catching on way too fast. When you finally pulled back, he was dazed. Eyes half-lidded. Lips a little pinker than before.

You smirked. “You’re not completely hopeless.”

“…Thanks?”

“Don’t sound too grateful, Gumi.” He blinked, still processing.

The air between you and Megumi thickens, and you can almost feel the discomfort radiating off him. His body’s so rigid—like he’s trying to hold onto whatever scrap of control he’s got left.

You have no intention of letting him keep it.

You lean in close, just enough to make his breath hitch, just enough to see the way his lips part when you make the slightest move.

“You know,” you start, voice low, a playful lilt hanging off every word, “if you’re gonna impress Miwa, you have to do more than just look cute and smile awkwardly. She wants a guy who knows what he’s doing.”

Megumi's hands twitch at his sides. He doesn't speak. Doesn’t even make eye contact. Too busy pretending his heart isn’t racing. Too busy trying to look composed, but failing miserably.

“Girls like me? We love a guy who knows how to use his mouth,” you continue, grinning as his eyes flicker towards your lips for half a second. “You wanna know how to kiss with tongue, don’t you?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, voice tight when he speaks. “I—I mean, I guess?”

“Oh, you guess?” You chuckle darkly. “Let me be clear: Miwa won’t even look at you if your kissing is weak. You know how to use it, Gumi?”

He bites his lip, and for a second you can’t help but notice how charming that slight vulnerability is. You could tease him for it forever, but instead, you press on.

“No?” You ask with an exaggerated pout. “I guess I’m just gonna have to teach you then, huh?”

You shift closer, your knee brushing his, and his body goes stiff again. But you’re too close now, and there’s no way he can pull back without making things worse.

You catch his eye again. “I’m serious about this. You need to feel it. The tongue is everything.”

Megumi’s breathing hitches, and the tension is suffocating now.

You smirk and slide a hand to his jaw, tilting his face toward you. The soft heat of his skin is so close—so close—that you feel it in your core. Slowly, carefully, you press your lips to his once more, testing. It’s light this time. Just enough to see if he’ll melt under your touch, if he’ll respond to you.

And oh, does he.

His lips part with hesitation, but he follows your lead, moving just enough to match the rhythm. It’s still clumsy, but you feel the difference. The awkwardness isn’t there anymore. There’s something deeper in this kiss.

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

“You’re getting better,” you murmur. “Now, let me show you how to do it right.”

His eyes widen, his breath shaky, but he nods, giving you all the permission you need.

With one smooth motion, you guide his hand to your waist, settling it on your side as you shift even closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of his chest against yours. He’s still unsure, but his hand remains firm on your waist, a silent sign that he’s trying. You guide him to press in a little more, lips brushing against his once again, this time deeper.

You slide your tongue along his lips, just enough to tease him. He hesitates, unsure, but when you kiss him again, you nudge him. He opens up for you—just a little—his tongue brushing lightly against yours.

You groan inwardly. He’s actually not bad. He’s still shy, still holding back, but the potential is there. The way his body moves with yours now—fuck, he’s catching on quicker than you thought.

“Good,” you murmur against his lips, guiding his hand around your waist to pull you in closer. “That’s it, Gumi.”

You move your tongue deeper, sliding it against his with more confidence, the kiss deepening as you coax him to follow. His hands twitch again, unsure, but you guide them, running them up your sides, showing him how to touch, how to pull you closer. The tension crackles between you, and you feel the faintest brush of his body against yours, his muscles tense, then relaxing as you show him exactly how to kiss.

You pull back slightly to catch your breath, your lips still hovering above his. He’s panting lightly now, eyes heavy-lidded and flushed from more than just the kiss. His breath brushes your skin in soft, uneven pants, and you catch the faintest glimpse of how his body reacts to the closeness—how it wants more.

"See?” you whisper, voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s how it’s done. Not so hard, is it?”

Megumi’s hands are still on you, but now there’s more confidence behind his touch. He’s following your lead—hesitant, yes, but growing.

“You’re… better than I thought,” he admits, his voice low and a little rougher than usual.

You smirk, sliding your hands to his chest. “Keep going, Gumi. You’ve got this.”

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you even closer, and you let him. You know where this is headed. And with how hot he’s looking right now, there’s no way you’ll stop this kiss from turning into something way more intense.

He leans in again, this time with more urgency, pulling you closer, as his lips crash back to yours. This time, he’s the one that guides you. You can feel it: his confidence is building with each slow, deliberate kiss.

And damn, you're loving every second of it.

The coffee shop was buzzing with its usual mid-afternoon energy, the chatter of students and the smell of burnt espresso filling the air. You sat across from Nobara, stirring your drink absentmindedly, trying to avoid meeting her eyes.

“So,” Nobara started, a smirk tugging at her lips. “How’d it go with Mister ‘I’ll Break Your Heart’?”

You let out a sharp sigh, leaning back in your seat. “I ran into him... in the parking lot.”

Nobara raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued. She set her cup down and leaned in. “You ran into him?” she repeated, her tone dry. “I’m guessing it wasn’t just a ‘Hey, good to see you’ kind of thing.”

“No. It wasn’t. I... I don’t even know what I was thinking,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I saw him walking to his car, and before I knew it, I was already calling out to him. It’s like he still... has this effect on me, you know?”

Nobara gave you a deadpan stare. “Are you serious right now?”

“I... I don’t know,” you groaned, rubbing your forehead. “I miss him, Nobara. It’s like... every time I think I’m done, he comes back and I let him in. I let him hurt me again. And I don't know why I keep doing it.”

Nobara’s expression softened slightly. She looked at you like she wanted to say something comforting, but her tough side always came out. "You know you're not the only one who’s had their heart fucked up by someone, right? But damn, girl, you’ve gotta stop playing with fire. That guy—he—isn't good for you."

You stared at the table, biting your lip. “I tried talking to him. I... told him I missed him.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nobara shot back, her voice sharp. “Why are you chasing him, huh? Why are you begging for someone who doesn’t deserve you? You’re fucking amazing, Y/N. You’re that bitch. You don’t need that shit.”

You blinked, her words hitting you harder than you expected. Nobara’s eyes were fierce, but there was something softer there, something real. She wasn’t just being the usual loud-mouthed, badass Nobara. She was trying to protect you.

“I don’t know,” you muttered again, running your hand through your hair. “It’s like... I can’t stop. I let him back in, and every time, he just pulls away. He says we’re not good for each other, and maybe... maybe he’s right. But I just want him.”

“Fuck that, Y/N,” she said, slamming her hand down on the table, making a few people glance over. “No one—no one—should make you feel like that. You deserve someone who doesn’t make you chase. You deserve someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

Her words wrapped around your heart, squeezing it tight. You tried to push back the lump in your throat, but it didn’t work.

“I’m tired of feeling this way,” you whispered. “I just want it to be okay. But... it isn’t, is it? He doesn’t want me anymore. Maybe he never did.”

Nobara gave you a look that was pure fire. “You don’t need him, Y/N. You’re strong, smart, and fucking gorgeous. And if he can’t see that? His loss.”

You chuckled softly, wiping away the tear that had threatened to fall. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

Nobara grinned, a little smugly. “Damn right I do. You don’t need some dumbass to define you. You’re Y/N, the girl who doesn’t need a man to validate her. Fuck that noise. You’re above that.”

You took a deep breath, finally lifting your eyes to meet hers. There was something in her gaze that softened, just a little bit, as if she understood. And for the first time in a while, you felt like maybe you could let go of the past.

“Thanks, Nobara,” you said quietly.

“No problem, babe. Now, let’s go fuck up some more boys with that attitude of yours, huh?”

You both cracked up, the tension in your chest easing as you took another sip of your coffee. Maybe it wasn’t all lost. Maybe, just maybe, you could start to move on. And maybe, just maybe, you were going to listen to the badass bitch sitting across from you who knew what was best for you—even if you didn’t always want to hear it.

You hated history.

No, hate was too soft. You loathed it. You’d rather eat your own acrylics than sit through another second of whatever crusty-ass war Megumi was droning about, but here you were again—on his couch, legs curled under you, pencil chewing at dangerous levels of dramatic frustration.

“Who gives a shit about the Meiji Restoration?” you huffed, throwing your head back like the weight of 1868 was personally trying to kill you.

Megumi didn’t even look up from his book. “People who want to pass.”

You shot him a glare. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’re the one who asked me to do this. Three times, actually,” he replied flatly, flipping the page. “So I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Don’t remind me,” you groaned.

He side-eyed you from over his glasses, calm, unreadable. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually read the material.”

“I did read it,” you said, grabbing the worksheet and waving it like a flag. “It’s just boring. Why do I care who opened up Japan’s ports or whatever? I’m not gonna write a love letter to Matthew Perry.”

“That’s not the point,” he said, tone sharper now, still annoyingly calm. “It’s about understanding cause and effect. How one shift in policy opened Japan to Western imperialism—”

You made a gagging noise and flopped back dramatically against the couch cushions. “You are literally sucking the life out of me.”

Megumi snapped the textbook closed with a sigh. “You’re not meeting me halfway. I can’t magically fix your grades if you won’t try.”

You looked at him, all stoic and unbothered and infuriatingly pretty in his usual hoodie and sweats, like he hadn’t just committed academic homicide.

“God, you’re like, so emotionally constipated.”

“I’m teaching you history. Not therapy,” he deadpanned.

You sat up, poking him in the arm with your pencil. “You don’t have to be such a robot about it.”

His gaze dropped to where your pencil touched him, then dragged back up to your eyes. “And you don’t have to act like failing is cute.”

You scoffed. “Rude.”

“Honest,” he corrected.

There was a pause. The kind that simmered just under the surface. You hated how close you were sitting again. Not that you moved. Not that either of you did.

Megumi picked the textbook back up. “We’re doing this again from the top.”

“Nooo,” you groaned, dragging the word like a dying breath.

“Yes. You don’t even know who Saigō Takamori is.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Isn’t that the guy from the Last Samurai?”

“That’s a Hollywood movie. It’s wrong.”

You blinked. “...I liked that movie.”

Megumi stared at you. “Of course you did.”

“Ugh, you’re such a buzzkill.”

“And you’re unbelievably loud for someone who knows nothing about the Tokugawa shogunate.”

You pouted, flopping again onto the cushions. “You're not even trying to make it fun.”

“It’s not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be retained,” he replied, firm.

You stared at him. He stared right back.

The silence hung, thick and heavy. Not quite hostile. Not quite… not.

You hated this. Hated that he was kind of right. Hated that you were the one who asked for this. Hated that his hair was a little messy and his voice did that low rumble when he got serious. You hated a lot of things right now.

Mostly history.

But maybe also the way your heart picked up just a little when he leaned forward to open the book again, pages rustling like a challenge.

“Chapter six,” he said. “Pay attention this time.”

You didn’t roll your eyes this time. Not because you were cooperating, but because—goddamn it—you kind of liked arguing with him.

Even if he was a buzzkill.

One hour later, you were emotionally six feet under.

History was officially banned. Cancelled. Abolished by executive decree—your decree. Megumi had made you read aloud, like some Victorian orphan in a Dickens novel, then quizzed you like it was his life's work to make you suffer. Your neck hurt. Your brain hurt. You were one Saigō Takamori fact away from throwing yourself into traffic.

You let your pencil drop to the floor with a heavy clack, followed by the thud of your body as you flopped backwards on the couch, arm thrown dramatically across your face like you were dying in a Shakespeare play.

“I’m literally brain dead,” you groaned.

“No, you’re just dramatic,” Megumi muttered, still flipping through the textbook like some sleep-deprived college TA. “You lasted fifty-six minutes without screaming this time. That’s a new record.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He raised a brow. “Charming.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, groaning louder when you saw he’d moved on to the next chapter. “Are you seriously trying to get to chapter seven?”

“We didn’t even finish six,” he said flatly.

“Well maybe you should try teaching in a bra and thong next time. See if that helps me retain it better.”

He blinked at you over the top of his glasses. “Do you think I’m enjoying this?”

“Obviously. You’re the only weirdo on Earth who gets off on tax reform and isolationist policies.”

“I don’t get off on—what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing a frontal lobotomy couldn’t fix,” you mumbled, still sprawled out like a corpse. “Ugh. I’m so done. I’m drained. I’m dying. Do you want me to actually pass or be found unresponsive with highlighter stains on my corpse?”

“Dramatic and ungrateful,” he sighed.

You sat up slowly, eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky you’re kinda cute or I’d have bailed day one.”

Megumi paused mid-page turn. “Wait. What?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He adjusted his glasses slightly, then looked at you—less irritated, more… thoughtful.

“I just realized something,” he said slowly.

You stared. “Uh-oh. That’s never good.”

He turned slightly toward you on the couch, one hand resting on the cushion between you. “It’s your part of the tutoring now.”

You blinked again. Brain lagging. “My what?”

“Your half of the deal,” he said, matter-of-fact. “I tutor you. You… do that.”

You stared.

Then sat upright like you’d just been hit with a water balloon of horny confusion. “Wait, that was today?”

He blinked at your sudden jolt of energy. “You literally said it’d be after every session—”

“Oh, shit, I did, didn’t I?”

He blinked again. “Did you forget?”

“No! I just—well—maybe.” You waved a hand. “You can’t expect me to remember anything after being violated by Japanese imperialism facts for an hour.”

Megumi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “So… what exactly are you teaching me today?”

You paused.

Brain stalling.

Because yeah—what was next? You’d kissed him already, well made out with him.

And now he was looking at you like he expected something.

“Uhhh,” you drawled, glancing at his sweatpants.

No, you decided. It was too soon to go down on him. You were hot, not insane. You didn’t suck dick for boys who corrected your historical analysis mid-sentence.

But you could—

You grinned.

“Have you ever heard of dry humping?” you asked sweetly.

Megumi looked like you’d just offered to kill his dog.

“…Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” you said, crossing your legs and leaning toward him like a corrupt school counselor. “It’s basically PG-13 sex with clothes on. Grinding, kissing, moaning—stroke game training, Gumi. Very important.”

He just stared at you, absolutely scandalized.

“I’m not going to—grind—on someone just because—”

You cut him off with a dramatic scoff. “You’re such a buzzkill. I’m trying to help you. This is literally for Miwa’s benefit.”

His nose wrinkled. “How does this even help?”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, listen: girls don’t just get off from dick, okay? It’s all about rhythm. Friction. Hip movement. How you build it. You think she’s gonna get wet if you just lay there like a fucking anime boy cardboard cutout?”

Megumi’s face flushed instantly. “I—I wouldn’t—!”

You smirked. “Exactly. You wouldn’t. Because I’m here teaching you. You’re welcome.”

He opened his mouth to argue, probably to say something logical or stupidly moral like this isn’t necessary or I don’t need to learn this like a test—

So you shut him up the only way you knew how. You swung one leg over and straddled his lap.

Megumi’s whole body locked up. “Wha—wait—”

“Relax.” You tugged at his hoodie strings, voice syrupy and dangerous. “It’s just dry humping, not a blood pact.”

His hands hovered mid-air like he had no idea where to put them. You could feel the panic radiating off of him. And underneath you? You could already feel how hard he was getting.

Oh, he was so fucked.

“You ready, Gumi?” you whispered.

His throat bobbed. “I—I think so.”

You tilted your head, smirking. “You think?”

He looked up at you with wide, hesitant eyes—flushed already, poor thing—and you felt that little rush again, the one that always hit right before you did something reckless.

And fuck.

You hadn’t even moved yet—hadn’t grinded, hadn’t kissed him—and already, you could feel it. The heat. The shape. The size. Your lips parted, just a little. Your body adjusted automatically. And there it was again.

Jesus Christ.

He was hard already. And not just hard—big. Like, shockingly big. Stupidly big. Bigger than you’d expected from the quiet, history-obsessed boy who couldn’t even say the word "porn" without blinking too fast. You kept your expression neutral—barely—but inside?

Oh my fucking God.

You forced yourself to breathe, forced your voice to stay cool. “Okay,” you murmured, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie. “Step one. Kissing. You’re not gonna be hot if you kiss like a sixth grader.”

“I don’t—”

“You talk too much.” You cut him off with your mouth.

Your lips pressed to his, slow and deep. No peck this time. No trial. You kissed him—like he already belonged to you. Your mouth moved with purpose, teasing his, coaxing it open. And when his hands twitched at your sides, you reached down, slid them firmly onto your hips.

You grinded forward. Barely. And Megumi whimpered. The sound punched heat straight between your legs. He kissed back, breath hitching, hands holding on like he didn’t know what else to do. You bit his bottom lip, tugged, then soothed it with your tongue, just to feel him shudder beneath you.

You pulled back, breath brushing his lips. “You’re allowed to use your tongue, you know.”

He blinked at you. “I—really?”

You smirked. “Gumi. That’s the whole point.” This time, he leaned in first. His mouth met yours, warmer now, hungrier. It wasn’t perfect—still a little too careful—but his tongue brushed yours and God he tasted like spearmint gum and nervous energy. You rolled your hips, slow and deliberate, and his hands clenched on your waist, pulling you closer with a quiet desperation he probably didn’t even notice.

You shifted against him again, dragging your heat along the ridge of his cock, and fuck—there it was again.

So big.

You weren’t going to say it. Wouldn’t dare—his ego didn’t need it, and it’d just make things messy. But holy shit, the idea of how clueless he probably was about what he was working with made your head spin.

You pressed your forehead to his, voice low, teasing. “Just like that, Gumi…”

He groaned, pulling your hips down more firmly, grinding up into you once, twice— “Like this?” he asked, voice raw, a little too innocent.

Your breath caught. His cock slid against you again, thick and perfectly placed through the layers, and it made your clit throb.

“F-fuck—yes,” you gasped before you could catch yourself.

He did it again. A little deeper this time. His mouth landed on your neck, clumsy but warm, and your body arched forward into him, chasing the friction. His hips jerked once more. A little stuttered. A little too hard.

Then he froze. Like really froze. “…Megumi?”

You pulled back. He wasn’t breathing. Then— “…Shit,” he whispered, face going red. “Shit. I—I didn’t mean to—”

You blinked. “Wait. Did you—?”

His hands flew off your waist like you were made of lava. “It just—it happened—I didn’t think—I wasn’t going to—”

You stared. Then burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” you wheezed, clutching your chest. “Did you just cum in your pants?”

He looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot. “I didn’t—mean to! I’ve never—I didn’t even know that could—”

You were still cackling. “Oh my God, you really did. You just—boom. Pants. Game over.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Get off me and stop laughing.”

“I can’t! This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I said stop—”

“Wait,” you cut him off, suddenly narrowing your eyes. “Megumi. Have you ever even jerked off?”

He looked personally offended. “I don’t even have time for that!”

You gawked. “You’ve never masturbated?”

“I’m busy!”

“Oh my God. You’ve never even watched porn, have you?” He looked away, face going bright red.

“I—I don’t need that kind of distraction,” he muttered. You stared at him.

Then bit your lip, grinning slow. “Well. That explains so much.”

He scowled. “I don’t see why it matters.”

“Because,” you said, crossing your arms and eyeing him up and down. “You’re packing, Gumi. And you’ve got no idea what to do with it.”

“I am not—” You cut him off again. “Don’t argue with me. You just dry humped me into an accidental orgasm. You need training.” He went silent.

You leaned forward slowly, conspiratorial. “…Nobara has tapes.”

Megumi’s soul visibly left his body. “What?”

You were already reaching for your phone. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you,” you said sweetly. “Homework’s over."

“I’m just saying—it wasn’t that deep.” You said it for the fourth time in ten minutes.

And Nobara? She was giving you that look. That are-you-hearing-yourself-right-now? look, standing across her room in pajama shorts and a crop top, holding a DVD case that literally had the words “Butlers in Heat 3” printed in metallic font.

“Not that deep?” she repeated, lifting a brow. “Babe. You just told me he came in his pants from dry humping.”

You flopped onto her bed like the drama queen you were. “It wasn’t that dramatic. He didn’t like—scream.”

Nobara narrowed her eyes. “Did you scream?”

You hesitated. “…Maybe.”

“Aha!” She spun in triumph. “See?! You’re into him.”

You scowled, chucking a pillow at her. “I am not. Don’t be stupid.”

She caught it with one hand, smirking. “Girl. You straddled his lap. You made out with him. You got off while teaching him how to thrust properly—”

“I was instructing him,” you snapped, sitting upright, scandalized. “That was for educational purposes.”

Nobara gave you the driest look in recorded history. “And his dick had nothing to do with it?” You crossed your arms, refusing to meet her eyes. “Okay. Fine. Maybe he’s a little… y’know.”

Nobara tilted her head. “No. I don’t know. Say it.”

You sighed like you were being waterboarded. “He’s… not small.”

“Not small?”

You grabbed the pillow and screamed into it. “He’s packing, okay?!”

Nobara snorted, cackling as she tossed another smut DVD into the pile on her floor. “Oh my God, I knew it. I knew he was hiding something under those ugly sweatpants.”

You groaned. “Stop. You’re making it worse.”

“What, that you’re lusting over emo boy with a sword complex?” she teased. “Not your fault he’s secretly got a third leg.”

“Nobara.”

She flopped down beside you, dramatically flipping open a dusty book labeled Advanced Body Language for Confident Girls, Vol. 2. It had a lipstick kiss on the cover. You hated that you knew it was hers.

“Okay,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “If he’s never watched porn, never jerked off, and his only sexual contact is you grinding on him like you’re doing CPR with your coochie—then we need to build a curriculum.”

You blinked. “Curriculum?”

“This is a project now.” She pulled out a pink notebook and labeled it Gumi: The Re-Education. “Day one: Visual stimulation. We start with classics. Something soft. Relatable. Build his palate.”

“Palate?”

“His taste, bitch.”

You stared at her. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”

She waved a hand. “Don’t even pretend you’re not gonna go back tomorrow and grind on him again the second he breathes near you.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t like him like that.”

“Sure.” She gave you a pointed look. “That’s why you came over here panting like a housewife whose pool boy just moaned her name.” You threw a slipper at her. She dodged it effortlessly.

“I’m serious,” you grumbled. “I don’t like him. He’s—he’s still Megumi. You know. Broody. Quiet. Judgy. Probably would call a girl’s outfit ‘impractical’ in the middle of foreplay.”

“Yeah, and now he’s got you on his lap making out like it’s prom night,” she deadpanned. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

You looked away. “It’s just… physical. That’s it.”

“Mhm.”

“I mean, he’s cute, I guess.”

“Mhm.”

“But like—not my type.”

“Oh yeah, your type is clearly ‘emotionally unstable ex who breaks things during fights.’”

“Nobara.”

She cracked open the DVD case and handed it to you. “Here. Show him this first. It’s got a solid plot, decent pacing, and a blowjob scene that changed my life sophomore year.”

You took it reluctantly, eyeing the cover. “This is so weird.”

“No,” she said seriously, “what’s weird is that your nerd boy’s walking around with a baseball bat in his pants and thinks missionary is just a church word.” You covered your face.

She patted your leg. “Don’t worry. We’ll teach him.”

You groaned into your hands. “I cannot believe I’m tutoring him in this while he’s teaching me about feudalism.”

Nobara just grinned. “Bitch,” she said. “That’s balance.”

You didn’t even knock this time.

Just barged into Megumi’s house like you owned it, arms full of very questionable materials: a pink plastic bag stuffed with romance novels, vintage DVDs, and one extremely worn-out copy of “Seducing the Shy Guy: A Visual Guide.”

Megumi looked up from the kitchen counter, a water bottle halfway to his mouth. He blinked. Once. Twice.

“What the hell is all that?”

“Supplementary materials,” you said cheerfully, kicking the door shut with your heel. “For your tutoring.”

He stared as you flopped down on the couch, books spilling out beside you like you were setting up for a smut-themed TED Talk.

“You brought porn to my house,” he said flatly.

“I brought educational erotica,” you corrected, holding up a DVD titled Pleasure Principles II. “It’s basically Sex Ed. But with better lighting and actual orgasms.”

He blinked again. “You’re insane.”

“And you are severely underexposed,” you said, tossing him a glossy book. He caught it with one hand, squinted at the cover, and immediately dropped it like it had burned him.

“That one’s good,” you offered. “Chapter six is about dirty talk. Very hands-on.”

“Why would I want to read about that?”

“Because, Gumi,” you said, as if it were obvious, “you literally didn’t know tongue was allowed until I explained it to you. You need visual aids.”

His jaw twitched.

You grabbed one of the DVDs and held it up. “Go. Take this. Watch it. It’s a softcore intro—great for virgins, emotionally repressed guys, or anyone who thinks socks during sex are normal.”

“I am not watching porn while you sit here on the couch.”

“Then go watch it in your room.”

“I’m not going to excuse myself like I’m committing a crime!”

You blinked at him. “You literally cum in, like, four hip thrusts. This is for your benefit.”

He turned red instantly. “Don’t say it like that!”

“I could’ve said it worse.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose like he was fighting demons. “You are the most aggravating person I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re welcome,” you chirped.

Megumi glared at you for a beat.

Then—completely ignoring your pile of smut—he walked over to the coffee table and dropped a worksheet in front of you.

“Here.”

You squinted. “What’s this?”

“Your actual tutoring.” He pointed to the top. “Physics. You bombed the quiz. You don’t even know what an inclined plane is.”

You recoiled like it was radioactive. “Ugh, you’re so predictable.”

He crossed his arms. “You’re the one who agreed to this.”

You stared at the worksheet. Then at him. Then at the porn DVDs. Then back at him.

“I could be teaching you how to eat a girl out right now,” you muttered.

“And I could be teaching you how to find the coefficient of friction, but here we are,” he deadpanned.

You huffed, grabbing the pencil like it had personally offended you. “This is abuse.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m gonna tell Nobara you’re bullying me.”

“Do it. I’ll show her your failing grade.” You scowled at him. He looked smug. The tension between you simmered like always.

You glanced once more at the DVD sitting beside you, then back down at the worksheet. Sighed like your life was over.

“…What the fuck is a pulley?”

You made it approximately twenty-seven minutes into that physics worksheet before your brain started leaking out of your ears.

Inclined planes. Pulleys. Some dumbass named Newton. Why the fuck did anything need to be this complicated? You didn’t care what angle a box slid down a hill. If a box wanted to fall, it could fall. You hoped it would.

You let your pencil drop onto the coffee table and slumped dramatically against the couch cushions, throwing an arm over your forehead like a dying Victorian widow. Your voice echoed in your head:

“I could be teaching you how to eat a girl out right now.”

You groaned. Loudly.

Silence answered you. Megumi had disappeared upstairs nearly an hour ago after muttering something about “needing to shower” and “getting away from your noise.” He took the DVD, too. Which meant you were stuck here, unsupervised.

Big mistake on his part. Naturally, you got up to snoop.

You weren’t gonna do anything weird. Just—wander. Browse. Maybe see what kind of nerdy little books he hid in his shelf. Possibly dig through his desk drawers if the urge got too strong. But then your attention snagged on something else entirely.

A photo frame.

Sitting on a small table near the wall. Half-tucked between stacks of books, as if he didn’t know what to do with it but couldn’t throw it away.

You stepped closer. It was a candid.

Three people, standing outside in the sun. One of them was Megumi—smaller, probably around twelve, scowling at the camera even back then. Beside him, a man—tall, dark-haired, handsome in a gruff, unshaven way, with a hand on Megumi’s shoulder and a tight, almost strained smile. But it was the girl that made you pause.

She looked older than Megumi. Maybe sixteen. Brown-haired, bright-eyed, laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her arm was around his other shoulder, pulling him close despite his awkward body language.

You didn’t know Megumi had a sister. You blinked at the frame. Tilted your head. It felt… strange. He never talked about his family. Ever. And it wasn’t like you cared—except you kind of did. You were curious. You liked details. Personal things. Even if they weren’t yours.

“Hey.”

You jolted like you got caught stealing.

Megumi was at the foot of the stairs now, hair damp and falling over his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest like it was freshly thrown on. He was in a plain black tee and grey sweats—same as earlier, but somehow... different.

Because this time? You knew what he’d been doing upstairs.

Your gaze flicked over him once—quick, instinctive. His forearms looked leaner. Veins visible. His collarbones peeking where the shirt collar tugged loose. He looked—Flawless.

And of course, you said nothing. You just smiled sweetly, like you weren’t staring at a boy who definitely just jacked off to softcore porn in his room and then took a cold shower to repent.

“Hey,” you said innocently. “You never told me you had a sister.”

His body stilled. You pointed to the photo still in your hand. “She’s cute.” Megumi’s eyes dropped to the frame. For a second, something unreadable crossed his face. Then he came over, slowly, and gently took it from you. Set it back on the shelf.

“She’s not… technically my sister,” he said, voice quieter now.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He sighed. Leaned against the wall like this was a question he’d been avoiding for years. “She’s… Tsumiki. My stepsister. We’re not blood related, but—she raised me, kind of. After everything.”

“Everything?”

“My dad… wasn’t really around. She was older. Always had to pick up the pieces.” You nodded, watching him. He wasn’t looking at you—eyes fixed on the floor, jaw tense.

“Was that him in the photo?” you asked, careful now. “Your dad?”

Megumi nodded once. “Yeah. For, like, ten minutes. He wasn’t exactly the type to stick around.”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t know what to say—just because you weren’t used to him saying anything. Especially not something this honest. “I didn’t mean to pry,” you said finally.

He glanced at you, and something in his expression softened. “You’d dig through my trash if I left you alone long enough.”

You smiled. “Only the top layer.”

His lips twitched—barely—but it was there.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s away now. Tsumiki. Boarding school. I haven’t seen her in a while.”

You nodded again. Then leaned in slightly. “She looks like she made you smile back then.”

“I didn’t know how to smile back then,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” you said lightly, stepping closer. “And now you just know how to cum in your pants from dry humping.”

He choked. You burst out laughing. “Why—” he looked away, red in the ears, “—why would you bring that up right now?”

“Because I know what you were doing up there,” you sing-songed, flopping back on the couch like a smug little gremlin. “Came back all clean and wet-haired like I wouldn’t notice.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re hot when flustered.” That shut him up. Completely. His ears went scarlet.

You bit your lip, victorious, but said nothing more. Let him marinate. Instead, you grabbed the physics worksheet and sighed like your life was ending. “Fine. I’ll finish this dumb inclined plane problem. But after that, we’re watching that blowjob scene together.”

Megumi blinked. “What?”

You looked up at him. Deadpan. “I'm kidding."

You were halfway through the worksheet—dragging your feet, doodling in the margins, completely miserable—when Megumi sat down beside you on the couch again, freshly showered, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. You didn’t look up, but you felt it: his body heat, the shift in the air, the way he was just looking at you.

Too quiet. Too thoughtful. You glanced over.

He wasn’t even pretending to read anymore. Just sitting there, expression unreadable, eyes lingering a little too long on your face like he was turning something over in his head.

“…What?” you asked.

He blinked once. Then said, carefully, “I don’t mean to ask, but—” Danger. “—you and Kamo…” Danger. You froze. Completely still.

The pencil stopped moving. Your jaw tightened. You didn’t turn your head, but your heart did this little involuntary lurch—like someone had just pulled up a trapdoor under you.

“…What about us?”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly hesitant. “I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think you two were over.”

You forced your voice out, flat. “We are.” Silence. Not disbelief. But not acceptance either.

“You seem pretty… locked in,” he said, after a beat. “The hallway. The looks. The kisses and stuff.” You didn’t say anything. Just kept staring at the worksheet in front of you like if you focused hard enough, it’d all go away.

“I saw it all the time,” Megumi continued, tone quieter now. “It was… kind of annoying.” Your eyes flicked up. He wasn’t looking at you now. He was looking at the table.

“…Why would it annoy you?” you asked. He didn’t answer right away. And maybe that should’ve been your first clue that this wasn’t just about Noritoshi. Not really.

Eventually, he said, “I guess I just assumed you weren’t the… real love type.” That hit you harder than you expected. Harder than it should’ve.

You blinked. Sat back slowly. Let the weight of that land. Because he was right, that was what people thought about you, wasn’t it?

Hot. Popular. Shallow. Fun. The girl who flirted because she could. Who dated because it was convenient. Who used her mouth for teasing, her body for leverage, and her feelings for nothing.

No one really expected you to fall in love.

Not for real. Not like that. And maybe you’d leaned into that. Maybe it was easier to be the girl who looked good in photos and said the right bitchy thing at the right time. Maybe you let people believe you didn’t care.

Because if you admitted you did? You’d have to admit how bad it had hurt. You swallowed.

“He didn’t love me either,” you said finally, voice low.

Megumi looked at you now. You didn’t flinch away.

“He liked the idea of me,” you continued. “The mouth. The legs. The attitude. The girl on his arm. But not the… actual stuff. Not the parts that cry at night or need too much or don’t let go when they should’ve.”

The silence was thick. And you hated how raw you sounded. How honest.

“I was a fucking mess with him,” you added, a bitter laugh under your breath. “He made me feel like I had to keep being her all the time. The version he liked. And every time I cracked, it was a fight. Or worse—he’d go quiet. Like I was a burden.”

Megumi didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just sat there, watching you unravel in real-time. And then—his voice, soft, like he was stepping on glass: “I never assumed you were a burden.”

You turned your head sharply. He didn’t look away.

“I assumed you were smart,” he said. “Annoying. Loud. Stubborn as hell. But not fake.” Your chest clenched.

“And definitely not someone who deserved to be treated like that.” You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until it left you all at once.

Megumi shifted closer. Only slightly. Like he wasn’t sure if he should. Like he was still trying to figure out where he stood with you in this strange, halfway-there space between academics and… everything else.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice just above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”

“You didn’t,” you lied.

His eyes flicked down to your hands—clenched in your lap. Tight, trembling.

“I don’t like talking about it,” you admitted. “People make assumptions. They always have.”

Megumi nodded once. “I know the feeling.”

You glanced at him. “Yeah?”

He shrugged. “People think I don’t feel anything. That I’m just this grumpy, emotionally stunted robot with too many books and a stick up my ass.”

You huffed. “Well, to be fair…”

He smirked faintly. And so did you. “…You’re not a robot,” you said. “You’re just emotionally constipated.”

“And you’re not shallow,” he said. “You’re just dramatic.”

You smiled, for real this time. Not because you were trying to impress him. But because for the first time in a while—you actually felt seen.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It just slipped out, low and tired, somewhere in the middle of that heavy, unbearable silence.

“Even then… he’s still the one who knows every part of me.”

Megumi didn’t speak.

And for once, you didn’t fill the silence with a joke. You just sat there, slouched on his couch with your legs curled under you, pencil forgotten, voice quieter than usual.

“He saw everything,” you said slowly. “Not just the pretty shit. He saw me cry. Scream. Shut down. The whole fucking mess. He saw it all.”

Megumi tilted his head, listening. Not interrupting.

“I’d get overwhelmed and just… spiral,” you continued, your voice slipping into something more bitter. “And he’d try to fix it. Bring food, text too much, get mad if I didn’t answer right away—he cared. I know he did.”

You exhaled sharply.

“But people only saw the fighting. The yelling in hallways. Him breaking things. Me walking out. Again. And again. Everyone just thought it was some dramatic high school bullshit. Toxic couple of the week.”

You let your head fall back against the cushion, staring at the ceiling like it might give you the right words.

“But no one saw the good days. No one saw the way he’d carry my bag when I was too tired. Or when he brought me soup when I got sick. Or when I didn’t say a word for a whole weekend and he just… stayed. Quiet. Right next to me. People don’t remember that part.”

You blinked hard, the back of your throat tight.

“I know it was fucked up. I know we were a mess. But sometimes… when someone sees every broken piece of you and still chooses you? Even if it’s ugly, even if it’s wrong… it’s hard to walk away from that.”

Still, Megumi said nothing, but his silence didn’t feel like judgment.

It felt like permission.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, voice quieter now. “Letting him go—it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I do. I keep thinking if I loved him, I’d stay. But maybe if I really loved him, I wouldn’t keep letting him hurt me.”

You let the words hang.

And Megumi finally said, very softly, “You don’t seem like the type to give up on people.”

You looked at him.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t teasing. He was just watching you, eyes serious, voice steady.

So you asked, carefully, “Why does that surprise you?”

“I guess I thought you didn’t do… real love,” he said, brows knit. “That it was all surface. Flirting. Fun. Games.”

You let out a sharp laugh—quiet and bitter. “God. Everyone thinks that.”

Megumi didn’t argue, and you didn’t blame him.

You leaned back, arms crossed over your chest, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “I can’t count how many people have said that. Or implied it. That I’m just good for a fling, a kiss, a picture on their arm. But love? No. That’s too deep for me. That’s for serious girls. Quiet ones. The ones who don’t have reputations.”

You looked away, eyes on nothing.

“You act like you don’t care for long enough… people start to believe it.” There was a beat of silence.

Then Megumi spoke, quieter than ever. “I know what that’s like.”

You glanced back at him. He wasn’t looking at you now. His hands were clasped between his knees, tense.

“My sister—Tsumiki—she’s sick,” he said. “Not a flu or cold. Not something you can take pills for. It’s… long-term. Terminal.”

Your breath caught.

“She’s in a care facility,” he continued. “Three hours away. I try to go when I can, but it’s… it’s hard. I’ve watched her get worse over time. Her hair’s thinner. Her voice is weak when she even speaks at all. The doctors say it’s just about making her comfortable now.”

You sat up straighter, slowly.

“She was the strong one,” Megumi murmured, almost to himself. “She used to look after me. Cooked for me. Dragged me out of bed when I wouldn’t go to school. She was the one who held everything together. And now…”

He blinked, jaw tightening. “Now I just sit there and watch her fade. And I can’t do anything about it.”

Your chest ached.

“I don’t talk about her,” he said. “Because people always say the same shit. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘You’re so strong.’ ‘Let me know if you need anything.’ And they don’t mean it. They don’t want to deal with it. With me. So I stopped trying.”

You didn’t realize you were reaching out until your fingers brushed his hand. Just a touch. Nothing dramatic. Just… there.

“I’m not gonna say I’m sorry,” you said, voice steady. “Because I know it won’t fix anything. But I won’t pretend I don’t give a shit.”

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t say anything either. But his fingers shifted—just slightly. Brushing back.

The moment held. Not confessions. Not resolutions. Just two people sitting in the quiet, cracked open at the edges. And maybe that was enough.

The study session ends with another snide remark about how the Tokugawa period was “such a snooze-fest it probably made people die of boredom before the swords could,” and Megumi’s exasperated sigh practically shakes the room.

But then—he smiles. Barely. Just a twitch at the corner of his lips. Like he hates that you’re funny.

You’re sitting a little too close now, knees brushing his. The banter's softer lately. Less biting. Still sharp, but it feels like fencing now instead of war. Controlled. Predictable. Dangerous only if you let it be.

You stretch your arms overhead like you’re done pretending you care about anything that happened before Instagram, and tilt your head. “Can we go to your room?”

Megumi’s spine straightens like a rod jammed down his back. “Wha—my… my room?”

You blink at him. “Yes, Fushiguro. Your bedroom. The one in your house. That we’re in right now.” You roll your eyes for effect. “Don’t make it weird.”

His ears flush. Not just his cheeks—his ears. You stifle a smirk.

“…Sure.”

His bedroom is smaller than you imagined, but cleaner. Quiet. He follows you in like he’s bracing for an ambush.

You stroll in unbothered, heels clicking softly against the floor as you drag your fingertips over the edges of his desk, his bookshelf. His space feels untouched, like he’s scared to actually live in it. No posters. No photos. No Miwa.

Good.

You stop in the middle of the room and turn. He’s standing stiff near the bed, unsure, blinking at you like you’re some unpredictable lab experiment.

“Sit,” you say, folding your arms.

“Why?”

You give him a look. Just tilt your head slightly—Really?—and say, “Just sit, Gumi.”

And he does. Right at the edge of the mattress, legs spread a little, posture painfully stiff like he’s being prepped for execution.

You step between his knees. Your hand settles on his thigh, and his whole body flinches.

You smile.

“We’ve covered equations,” you say, voice soft and smooth. “Memorized dates. Recited treaties and political reforms and chemical bonds.”

He nods slowly, still frozen.

“So now we’re doing something actually useful.”

His eyes dart to yours. Wide. Confused. Like he knows what you mean, but can’t believe you’re really saying it.

You lean in, resting your weight on your hand against his leg. “Sex isn’t just penetration, Gumi. It’s not ‘stick it in and hope she makes noise.’ You have to know how to touch. How to start.”

Your fingers slide up to the button of his jeans, and you pop it open without breaking eye contact.

He chokes on a breath. “W-wait—what are you—”

“Teaching,” you murmur. “This is what a handjob is for. It’s the easiest thing in the world, but you’d be shocked how many guys fuck it up.”

You tug his zipper down slow. His chest rises, lips parting slightly like he’s already forgetting how to breathe.

“It’s about rhythm. Pressure. Confidence.” You wrap your fingers around the waistband of his boxers and pull everything down in one practiced motion. “And most of all—awareness.”

You free his cock from the confines of his pants, and fuck—yeah. You blink once. He’s thick. Heavy. Hard already. The head flushed, wet at the tip.

Soooo fucking big, your hand wraps around him slowly. He gasps. Actually gasps.

“See?” you whisper, stroking once, fingers tight but not too tight. “You’re not doing anything. But you’re feeling everything.”

His hips twitch. You stroke again, dragging your palm down his length, then curling back up—slow, fluid.

“You can’t skip this part. You skip this, she’s dry and frustrated and faking it before you even get your pants off.”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“Touching is everything,” you continue. “If you don’t know how to use your hands, you don’t deserve to use your dick. Understand?”

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, voice barely there.

You hum approvingly, then circle your thumb over the tip, collecting the precum and slicking it down the shaft as you stroke a little faster.

“Girls want to feel wanted,” you murmur. “Like you need them. This—” you squeeze gently near the base, “—is how you show them that.”

His jaw clenches. His thighs tremble under your grip.

“You have to build it. Make it last. Make it burn. And just when they’re about to lose it—then you go harder. Then you give in.”

His head drops back, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck—” he moans. “Shit—”

“You’re close already?” you tease, pumping him faster now. “Tch. You’ve really never had this before?”

“N-never—fuck—”

“God,” you laugh, leaning in. “No wonder you’re always so tense.”

His cock twitches in your fist, leaking down your fingers. You adjust your grip—faster, tighter, more deliberate. Your wrist flicks with every stroke, rhythm perfectly brutal.

“Right under the head,” you say, letting your thumb swirl there again. “That spot? Yeah. Memorize it. That’s where her hands’ll go when she wants to break you.”

“F-fuck—” he gasps. “I—I—shit—”

“Let it go,” you breathe. “Don’t hold it in. I want to see it.”

He groans—loud, breathless. His hand flies up to your wrist, holding you there as his cock jerks violently in your grip. Cum spills over your fist, hot and messy and so much, coating your fingers as his whole body shudders through it. You don’t stop until he’s twitching, gasping, overstimulated and ruined.

Then you finally let go, slick and smug and glowing with satisfaction. You lift your hand like you’re examining it in science class.

“Hands,” you say simply. “Step one.”

He exhales shakily, head falling forward like he just got hit by a truck. You wipe your hand on his shirt without asking.

“Hey—” he protests weakly.

You grin. “You made the mess, baby. Own it.”

Your heart was still doing backflips, your breath still a little uneven—but you cleaned yourself up like nothing happened. Even touched up your gloss in the mirror, finger-combed your hair, tried to get rid of that hazy, cock-drunk look from your face.

It didn’t help. Because you’d just finished pretending you were still a functioning human being when the front gate squealed open.

A car door. Then another. Then keys.

Your spine stiffened like a corpse in rigor mortis. “Megumi.”

He was already zipping up. Calm. Too calm. Voice flat and casual, like you hadn’t just had his dick in your hand. “That’s my dad.”

“Your what—”

“I didn’t know he’d be home. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” you hissed, grabbing your bag and spinning around. “I’m literally full-glam after jacking you off and he’s going to walk in and see me glowing.”

“You wiped it off.”

“That’s not the point! My mascara’s smudged and my knees are weak.”

“Try not to look guilty,” he murmured, slipping on his hoodie like this was just Tuesday.

You glared. “You’re not even panicking.”

“I don’t need to panic.” His voice stayed maddeningly steady. “You’re going to walk down. Smile. Say hi. Leave. Done.”

You were still fuming when he grabbed your wrist, you blinked down at his hand, warm. Big. Callused at the base of his fingers. You felt that same little jolt shoot straight through your chest. Electricity. From your palm to your spine.

He didn’t notice, or if he did, he ignored it completely.

He opened the bedroom door, pulled you along—quiet, calm, dead behind the eyes—and started leading you down the stairs just as the front door creaked open, and then you heard it:

“Yo, Megumi.” his voice was deep. Lazy. Like he didn’t give a fuck about anything.

You glanced up and immediately wished you hadn’t. There, standing in the entryway with keys in one hand and a takeout bag in the other, was Toji Fushiguro. Tall. Broad. Black button-down rolled to the elbows. Scar on his lip. He looked like he bench-pressed people for fun.

He looked at his son. Then at you, then back at Megumi again.

“This the girl you told me about?” he asked, cocking his head just slightly. “The one you’re tutoring?”

Your breath caught in your throat. Megumi, without missing a beat, said, “Yeah.” That was it. No awkwardness. No explanation. Just yeah. Like you weren’t standing there feeling like your soul had just evaporated.

Toji raised a brow. “She’s pretty.”

You almost choked. Megumi didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. Toji stepped inside, placed the bag on the counter, and gave you another once-over. “You always study in that outfit?”

You plastered on a brittle smile. “Only when I want the equations to submit to me.”

Toji let out a quiet laugh. “You got bite. I like that.”

You wanted to disappear into the drywall. “I was just about to leave, actually,” you said quickly. “Didn’t realize Megumi lived with someone—”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Toji interrupted.

You blinked. “I’m fine, really—”

“Sit down,” he said, not looking at you. He was unpacking the food. “We’ve got enough.”

“I really should—" Toji didn’t even lift his head. Just said, too casually:

“Unless you wanna explain to your parents why a grown man saw you sneaking out of my son’s room looking like that.” That shut you up.

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You turned to Megumi. “He’s bluffing, right?”

Megumi just shrugged. “He’s not.”

You turned back to Toji, who was already pulling out plates. Like the whole thing was settled. “You’re staying,” he said. And you did.

You sat. Quietly. On the barstool next to Megumi, who—of course—looked completely unbothered. His hair was still a little messy. His glasses slightly crooked. But otherwise, you’d never know he’d just come in his pants fifteen minutes ago.

“Don’t make it weird,” Megumi murmured under his breath.

“You made it weird,” you hissed back.

Toji plopped a plate in front of you and smirked. “So. How long you been tutoring her?”

Megumi stared ahead. “A few weeks.”

You smiled stiffly. “It’s really productive.”

Toji looked amused as hell. “I bet.”

Megumi sighed. “Dad.”

“What? I didn’t say anything.” You looked at Megumi’s face—red ears, clenched jaw, one long exhale like he was already regretting everything—and had to bite the inside of your cheek not to laugh.

God, you thought. Maybe this was the real lesson. Not the history. Not the chemistry, but this, damage control. Dignity salvage. Post-nut performance.

And Megumi? Megumi was aces at it.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

You sat at the small kitchen table with your legs crossed, trying to appear composed while your brain was still tap-dancing in trauma heels. The table was warm wood, the lights were dim, and the clink of silverware was the only sound for a long, awkward minute.

Megumi passed you a bowl of rice. You blinked at it.

“…Thanks,” you mumbled, still not looking him in the eye.

He spooned more onto his own plate like this was any other night.

Toji dropped into the seat across from you, arms spreading along the chair like he was lounging in a booth and not sitting next to the girl who had just given his son a handjob upstairs.

“You allergic to anything?” he asked casually.

“Nope,” you replied, way too quickly. “No allergies. Totally healthy. Blood pressure’s great. Iron levels are solid.”

Toji blinked once. Then smirked. “You’re nervous.”

You stabbed a piece of chicken. “I’m fine.”

“She’s not,” Megumi muttered beside you.

You kicked his shin under the table. Lightly. He nudged your knee back. Casually. Like he wasn’t trying to make it obvious. You didn’t know what was worse—getting caught, or the fact that Megumi wasn’t even sweating it. He looked so calm. Like he wasn’t fully aware his father was three feet away from the exact place he came in his pants not thirty minutes ago.

“So,” Toji said, gesturing toward you with his chopsticks. “What’s your deal?”

You blinked. “My… deal?”

“Yeah. What do you do when you’re not harassing my son in his own house?” You coughed. Megumi set down his glass with a sigh.

“She’s failing chemistry,” he deadpanned. “And history. And math. And she can’t focus for more than ten minutes at a time.”

“Rude,” you muttered, nudging him harder.

“She’s also loud. Dramatic. Obsessed with her phone. And thinks the Meiji Restoration is a band name.”

You glared at him. “You’re so lucky I like you.”

Toji snorted. “Hah. Like him?” Your jaw snapped shut.

Toji leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. “You know he used to get into fights in middle school?”

You blinked. “Megumi?”

“Yeah,” Toji said, like he was just talking about the weather. “Kid had a temper. Silent rage kind. Didn’t talk much, but if someone messed with his friends or got on his nerves—bam. Straight for the throat.”

Megumi stared at his rice. “We don’t need to talk about that.”

You turned to him, eyebrows high. “You? Fighting people?”

“I had a lot of energy.”

“You had rage issues, apparently.”

“I don’t anymore,” he said calmly.

Toji grinned. “Only because he started channeling it into studying. Got obsessed with winning tests instead of fights.”

You looked at Megumi again, this time a little softer. “You’re such a nerd.”

He nudged your foot again under the table. This time—gentle. You felt your shoulders slowly lower. Just a bit.

Toji turned to you again, chewing thoughtfully. “You two dating?” Megumi stiffened slightly. You choked on your water.

“No,” Megumi said after a beat.

“No,” you echoed, wiping your mouth.

“Shame,” Toji said. “You’ve got decent banter. Would’ve been a power couple.”

You both looked at your plates. It was quiet again. A little too quiet. Then, suddenly, Megumi reached for the last piece of grilled eggplant—and slid it onto your plate.

You looked at it. Then at him.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept eating like it didn’t matter. But it did. Because Megumi noticed you’d been eyeing it earlier. And he gave it to you without saying a word.

Your heart tripped. You swallowed. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Toji saw it. You knew he did. But he just huffed, shook his head like he’d seen this movie before, and went back to eating.

You were one hallway away from freedom.

One hallway.

After forty minutes of Satoru’s so-called lecture—which included three unrelated tangents, a metaphor involving ramen, and him nearly falling off his desk while impersonating a Tokugawa shogun—you’d packed your bag, slipped on your sunglasses, and made a beeline for the exit.

But he was faster.

“Yo, heartbreaker,” Gojo called from behind, voice sing-song and annoying. “Wait up!”

You didn’t. But he still caught up, striding beside you like he wasn’t the bane of your academic existence.

“Was my class too stimulating today?” he teased, hands in his pockets. “You looked real focused. Even took notes.”

You blinked. “Oh. Right. The notes.”

Your spiral-bound notebook held exactly three lines: “i hate this man”, “meiji these nuts”, a dramatic drawing of Megumi’s glasses with hearts around them you’d already scribbled out

“Uh-huh,” Gojo hummed. “So. How’s tutoring going?”

Your spine snapped straight.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t. There’s no way he knew.

“Fine,” you replied, too fast.

He tilted his head. “Just fine?”

You added a smile. Too wide. Too fake. “Amazing, actually. Megumi’s a really patient teacher.”

“Patient,” he repeated. “He yelled at me in middle school for calling the mitochondria ‘the powerhouse of the cell’ too many times.”

You shrugged. “He likes me better.”

Gojo snorted. “Doubtful. But cute try.”

You were already halfway to the stairs when he called after you— “Don’t forget the midterm’s tomorrow”

You stopped. Your heart dropped. “Midterm?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Multiple choice. Bonus essay. Covers the last six weeks of stuff you definitely weren’t paying attention to.”

You turned around slowly. “Since when is that tomorrow?”

“Since always. I announced it three times.”

You squinted. “You also said Napoleon invented Nutella.”

“Which is true,” he said, clearly lying. “Anyway, Megumi’s smart. I’m expecting results, yeah?”

You nodded, stomach curling. “Totally. Results. Coming right up.”

He gave you a wink, then disappeared down the hall, humming like this wasn’t the beginning of your academic funeral. You sighed. Megumi was going to be so smug about this. And worse? You were going to have to actually study. Or… at least pretend to.

You failed.

Twenty-two percent.

One out of twenty-five multiple choice. One barely coherent paragraph on the essay. And a stupid smiley face sticker Gojo slapped on it like it wasn’t the nail in your academic coffin.

It should’ve been funny. Hell, it used to be funny—failing things, fucking off, shrugging through it with a toss of your hair and a flip of your skirt. But now?

Now it just felt pathetic.

Now you were standing in front of Megumi’s house again, glossing your lips in your phone’s camera like everything wasn’t falling apart. Like you weren’t seconds from spiraling. Like your ego wasn’t barely stitched together with fake confidence and denial.

You didn’t knock this time.

Not when your phone was buzzing with Gojo’s “yikes” text. Not when your report card sat crumpled in your bag, screaming 22% at you like it was carved into your skin. You fixed your lip gloss in your reflection—because if you looked okay, maybe it wouldn’t feel so pathetic.

Megumi opened the door five seconds later.

And yeah, you knew.

You knew instantly that he knew.

He didn’t say hi. Didn’t scowl or raise an eyebrow or let out that bratty sigh he always did when he saw you. No, today? Today he looked done. Cold. Like every inch of warmth he’d ever barely shown you had frozen over.

“I brought boba,” you said, stepping in anyway like you weren’t dying inside. “Taro, obviously. You looked like a taro guy.”

Nothing.

You set the cup on the table. His arms were crossed. His hoodie hung off his frame like a threat.

“Gojo told me,” he said flatly.

Your stomach dropped.

You kept your tone light. “Told you what?”

“That you failed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow, so he’s doing the morning announcements now—”

“You told me you were studying.” His voice was razor-sharp. “You told me you cared.”

“I do care—”

“Bullshit.” His voice cracked through the room. “You didn’t study. You didn’t even try.”

“I did!”

“No,” he snapped, eyes narrowed. “You flirted. You scrolled Instagram. You half-assed everything I gave you and then lied to my face.”

You scoffed. “Jesus, dramatic much?”

“I wasted my time.”

“You volunteered!”

“You begged me!”

“And you said yes!” you shot back. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t enjoy it—finally getting to feel smart and smug and better than me for once.”

His fists clenched. “I’m not better than you.”

“Oh really?” You laughed. Bitter. “Because you act like you are. Like I’m just some dumb bitch who doesn’t deserve to pass.”

“If the shoe fits—”

“You motherfucker—”

“I gave you everything,” Megumi cut you off. “I planned lessons, I asked your teachers, I gave you my notes—hell, I let you in my house!”

“Oh please. You liked it. Having me here. Made you feel special.”

“You used me.” You flinched. He wasn’t wrong. But it still stung.

“Don’t turn this around,” you snapped. “You think I don’t notice how you look at me? Like I’m just some project to fix. You’re just pissed because I didn’t end up being your little success story.”

“You’re pissed because you failed and you didn't even try,” he growled, stepping forward. “and you wonder why gojo or me doesn't kiss you on the forehead and give you a gold star on your homework at the end of the day."

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you,” Megumi shouted. “You want to play victim? Fine. But don’t come crying to me when you keep failing everything you touch.”

You clenched your jaw. “At least I’m not some emotionless virgin nerd who thinks being good at math makes you better than everyone.”

Silence. His mouth parted slightly—just enough for you to see it land.

He looked away. And for a second, you felt bad. But you were angry. And embarrassed. And spiraling.

“You know what?” he said, voice lower now—hurt. Quiet, but dangerous. “I should’ve known. Should’ve listened when everyone said you were just a shallow, spoiled brat with not enough brain cells.”

You froze. That one dug.

“That’s what all of you do, isn’t it?” you whispered, voice trembling. “Assume. Judge. You think I don’t hear what people say behind my back?”

Megumi didn’t respond. “You think I don’t know I’m the joke?”

His throat bobbed.

“I let you in,” you hissed. “I trusted you. I let you see me when I didn’t let anyone see me. And now? You’re just like the rest of them.”

Megumi flinched — but only for a second. Then he barked a humorless laugh. “Oh, fuck off.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

“You let me in?” he repeated, eyes wide, voice rising with every word. “You let me in? You show up here with excuses and think that’s vulnerability?”

Your chest twisted. “Don’t twist my words—”

“No,” he cut you off, stepping toward you, furious. “You don’t get to play that card, not after lying to me over and over. You didn’t let me in. You used me. Like everyone else. Like I’m disposable the second you’re bored.”

“That’s not true!”

“Isn’t it?” Megumi shouted. “You didn’t give a shit about learning. You cared about passing long enough to get people off your back. You cared about looking like you were trying. And I was the idiot who actually believed you meant it.”

Your throat burned. “So now I’m a liar? A manipulative bitch?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Say it,” you dared, voice cracking. “Go ahead. Call me a bitch, a slut, say it like everyone else does.”

“You said it first,” Megumi snapped. “Is that what you think of yourself?”

You blinked. That landed too hard.

Megumi ran a hand through his hair, pacing, seething. “I tried so fucking hard, and it still wasn’t enough. Nothing’s enough for you. Not effort, not time, not me.”

“Then why’d you say yes?” you screamed. “Why’d you let me stay? Why the fuck did you let me touch you if you were just gonna throw it in my face the second things got hard?”

For a moment—just a moment—Megumi looked stunned. And then he laughed. Not a funny laugh. A bitter one. Quiet and venomous. “You wanna know why?” he said, stepping forward, every word sharp enough to cut. “Because I was fucking stupid.”

Your stomach dropped. “I was stupid enough to think there was more to you than a pretty face and a loud mouth. Stupid enough to think if I just gave you a chance, if I helped, you’d prove everyone wrong.” His eyes burned into yours. “But they were right. You are exactly who they said you were.”

The words hit you like a slap. You blinked. Once. Twice. Heart in your throat. And then— “You’re a jerk,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You’re a fucking asshole.” He didn’t flinch. “You—” you pushed him hard in the chest, palms slamming against him, “—don’t get to say that to me.” Another shove. “You don’t fucking know me!”

“Don’t I?” he snapped, not backing away. “I know you’d rather look hot than be smart. I know you’d rather lie to everyone than admit when you’re struggling. I know the second things stop going your way, you throw a tantrum.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You flirt your way out of everything and call it confidence. You coast by on being pretty and mean and then cry victim when someone doesn’t bend to you!” You hit his chest again, harder.

“Fuck you!”

“You said you let me in?” he shouted, grabbing your wrists. “You didn’t let me in. You let me orbit you. You let me touch the surface just enough to feel like I mattered. But I didn’t, did I?”

“Let go of me!”

He did—instantly.

And when he took a step back, his voice came out quieter, but no less cutting.

Megumi’s chest rose and fell, too fast. His fists were trembling at his sides. “I wanted to help you,” he said, softer. “And I thought maybe—fuck, maybe if I did, if I stuck around, you’d actually see that.”

You stared at him. He shook his head. “But all you saw was a hopeless case. A virgin. A joke.”

You swallowed.

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Should’ve known better.”

There was a long pause. Then you laughed. Cold. Bitter. “Poor Megumi. Got feelings. Got rejected. Welcome to the real world.”

His jaw clenched. “Get out.”

“Gladly,” you snapped, turning around.

“Next time,” he called after you, voice shaking with rage, “ask someone else to clean up your mess.”

You spun halfway around, eyes blazing. “Next time, I won’t waste my time on someone who can’t even handle a kiss without falling apart.”

He didn’t reply. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t have to. Because the damage was done.

And when you walked out the door this time—slamming it behind you so hard it rattled the frame—you didn’t look back, but god, you wanted to. You wanted to look back so fucking bad. And that’s how you knew this wasn’t over. Not really. Not even close.

parts, chapter 03

taglist, @crispycatt @littlevoidfairy @bookfreakk @1-rxse-1 @starzfaerie @zephyairies @moonmaiden1996 @simonexxx1 @pinkmeatball218 @evii1e @xavisbabie @maeviees @justanotherasiangirl @tiasd1ary @shioribuns @allysainz @mwrgwt

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Mary Harrington finally gives up one day, boards a plane home alone knowing that her husband is likely already in bed with a woman ten years younger than her. For the first time in her life, she doesn't feel hurt. Only mildly disgusted, maybe with herself too.

She arrives in Hawkins to ruins that are slowly getting rebuilt, smoke almost cleared, and weird whispers about her son and his new friend, the trailer trash Eddie Munson. Something about being too close, too intimate for two men. She feels the familiar disdain, the words "what would your father think" - and then exhales and lets them go. She is past caring about Richard Harrington.

Instead, she sits down with them. She is honest, she was in love once and she knows those eyes - Steve's look like her own, after all. Behind the adoration, she sees the darkness in Steve's face, the pain, and thinks - I couldn't fix my husband, but I can fix this. She gently asks them both if anyone has been giving them trouble. When she hears several familiar names of local God-fearing women, she laughs for the first time in what feels like forever. "Leave them to me," she says.

She stops by for coffee. Chats a little. Gently opens the topic of the rumors about her son. And then: "I understand, Linda. Homosexuality is a sin. What a funny thing, one could say the same about fucking my husband last spring. Of course, it's been so long...I'm sure your husband knows?" One by one, the rumors quiet down and Mary's smile grows into its old radiance.

The first evening back, she summons all the remaining rage, disappointment and sadness over wasted years, poking at old wounds until she's sobbing. And like that, she calls Richard and wails into the phone how everything is destroyed, their house almost gone, and gently guides Richard to the brilliant idea of signing over the small flat in the center he's been renting to Steve. She knows Richard has no patience for her emotions, and she sobs out how Steve has been fixing the town, how he'd become everything Richard had ever wanted, a true pillar of the community, but he has nowhere to sleep, oh how it's breaking her heart, what would the town think-

He promises to send over his lawyer the next day. She thanks him through the tears, says one last "I love you" and with the click of the ended call, dries her tears and pours herself a glass of wine. "How did I do?" she asks.

Steve just laughs and hands her a cheese plate he's been preparing in the kitchen. He nudges Eddie who is staring with wide eyes. "What?" asks Steve with a smirk. "You've always admired my bitchiness and pragmatism. Where do you think I got it from?"

The flat is signed over the next day. Mary kisses her son and Eddie goodbye - she would go back to her parents for a while, she says, just to get the divorce finalized. Plus, one of her old friends still seems interested, her being the one that got away and all that, and Mary intends to test that theory. She will keep in touch, she says. And for the first time, Steve believes her.

[syoddeye]

knight!ghost x reader. hand-waving details. all vibes, as usual. cw: noncon touching, manipulation

After years beneath your mother’s watchful eye—less a daughter than a jewel kept safe under lock and key—you are at last released.

Invited to accompany your elder sister to court following her marriage to the esteemed Lord Garrick. Your first steps beyond the confines of home toward something far grander. The world opens before you like a storybook.

It’s a rare opportunity for a young lady of gentle birth. The kind of chance your mother spent years safeguarding you against, fearing the pitfalls of courtly life. An opportunity your sister now extends like a gift.

You intend to follow in her footsteps. To make the most of it.

As his carriage ferries you across the countryside, Lord Garrick indulges in his role as guide and guardian. He names estates and their residents you pass, calling out their banners and bloodlines, reciting them from memory like a living codex, its margins filled with his own notations and stories from years of soldiering in the King’s service and court.

Most names you know from lessons or gossip: daughters and sons married off, the odd spoiled reputation and scandal, matriarchs and patriarchs pulling strings. But being the sheltered girl that you are, one name catches your thoughts like a burr. 

Lord Garrick slips a miniature into your hand. It is no larger than your palm, with rich watercolors painted on smoothed ivory: a large man, almost comically set in the tiny frame.

His skin is pale, his eyes a warm, untroubled brown. He wears a slight smile, and his armor gleams with the seal of the King.

“An old comrade—Sir Simon Riley.”

You run a thumb over the edge. “Is he as handsome as his portrait?” you ask, shy as a girl should be when entertaining fancies.

Lord Garrick only grins. “He is, dear one.”

“And noble? Chivalrous?”

“The very image,” he assures. His wry expression is lost on you.

You are too steeped in fantasy to notice. Already imagining the weight of his hand around yours, already composing the vows he might whisper when he asks you to dance. Him, tall and solemn. You, breathless and giggling. 

You do not yet understand how generous portrait artists can be, the choices they make to soften a mouth or warm a gaze.

When you arrive, you trail in your sister’s shadow, a daisy behind a rose, trying not to stare too openly at every knight that turns his helm. Try not to appear too eager.

You curtsy. You dine. You take your place among the constellation of other young and unmarried ladies, each one a little star burning with her own hopes.

Time passes. You thrive. You charm. You are granted permission and invitation to winter beside your sister, a small victory. Come spring, you’ll be presented formally.

On the morning of the first frost, Lord Garrick finds you in the solar, where you sit with your companions and needlework, your thoughts pleasantly idle.

“There’s someone I’m due to introduce you to,” he says. “Sir Riley.”

He offers you his arm, and you take it. He guides you through the winding halls, past tapestries older than your bloodline. The keep quiets as you tread through an unfamiliar wing. The room he stops at is narrow and dark, the hearth cold, the shutters drawn.

It rouses an unsettling feeling in your stomach. A wrong note, a song sung off-key. Doubt prickles, fine as thorns. The chamber is too plain, too tucked-away for an introduction. 

But the man you’ve come to love as a brother—steady, kind Lord Garrick—pats your hand, and the doubt recedes, momentarily quieted.

He bids you wait. He’ll fetch Sir Riley himself.

You let him go with a wobbling smile.

When the door creaks open again, it is not Lord Garrick who enters.

It is Sir Riley. You know him at once, though the helm conceals his face. Your heart skips.

“‘eard you been wantin’ to meet me, girl,” his low voice rolls thick like smoke. Heavy, like the blade at his hip.

You do not move. The knight fills the doorway as he did his portrait frame. Your hands knit loosely before you, trembling.

“It’s…an honor, sir,” you manage. Your eyes dart toward the door, hoping Garrick will follow, show his face. “I wasn’t expecting…That is, I thought Lord Garrick would–”

“Thought he’d stay? Look after you?” Sir Riley asks, stepping inside. “Nah. Garrick’s a busy man. ‘Sides, if it’s lookin’ after y’need, no one’ll do better.”

The door shuts with a click, and the bolt sliding shut might as well stick between your ribs.

You offer a smile, trying to summon the composure that’s served you well in the halls. Yet even your propriety has teeth, and it gnaws at the edges of your nerves. This isn’t how introductions are made. You know that. A lady does not meet a man alone, knight or not, not without a chaperone.

And yet here you are. 

He moves further in, slow and certain, untroubled by the circumstances and its consequences. He unfastens one gauntlet, then the other, metal clinking as he sets each piece aside.

You step back, heart kicking against your ribs.

“I only meant…we’ve only just met, and I’m sure your time is better spent elsewhere—”

He says nothing. His fingers move next to the clasps at his shoulders. One pauldron. Then the other. Each piece comes away with unhurried care, as though he has all the time in the world.

The bulk sloughs off like a shell, revealing more and more of his frame until only the breastplate and helmet remain. You realize then that you’ve backed into the wall.

“I should go,” you eke out. “I’ve no doubt you’re very tired from your duties, and this isn’t right—”

Sir Riley laughs, rough like the scrape of flint.

“You’re a nervous one.”

He reaches up and unhooks his helmet, slow as sunrise. When it lifts off, you are not prepared.

He is not unhandsome, no, but he is not the man in the portrait, either.

His nose has clearly been broken more than once and healed crooked. A jagged scar bisects an eyebrow with a fleshy knot on the end, mirrored by another that pulls taut across his lips. His skin is a map of violence—keloids, silvered cuts, and pitted lines all speaking to a life earned inch by brutal inch.

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. Rich brown, as the painting promised—but the warmth there is tempered with something else. Hunger. The kind you’ve spied in the King’s hunting hounds. Not the gentle yearning or tender longing you had quietly imagined for yourself.

“What’s wrong? Kyle said you found me pretty, pet.”

The word—pet—snaps like a ribbon.

In its reverberation, you feel the whole truth of it: you are very much alone, and Sir Riley is very much not what you were told.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes. You are caught between alarm and something stranger. It burns low in your belly, confusing and unwelcome.

You look at him again, truly look this time.

And realize: perhaps the artist hadn’t lied or embellished. Not entirely. Perhaps the man in the portrait once matched reality, before war carved itself into his skin. Before duty hardened whatever youth he’d once had.

You try not to flinch when he steps closer, but your body betrays you—a stiffening of the spine, a renewed tremor in your limbs.

Sir Riley notices.

He watches you the way a wolf watches a fox kit or rabbit. Clearly delighted by the prey he’s cornered. He lets the silence sit, lets your discomfort curdle before breaking it.

“You’re more beautiful than your picture,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your mouth dries. There aren’t many portraits of you beyond your family’s walls. Yet months ago, Garrick had insisted on one—a secret commission, a memento for your sister, a gift. All before your invitation to court.

You never questioned what became of it.

“I—I should go.”

You move to slip past him, but he doesn’t allow it. One step, and he cuts off your path with his bulk, the door now out of reach. Trapped between the edge of the room and him, the air tastes different—ash and smoke, hay and wet dog. It wrinkles your nose.

You try again. “Lord Garrick—he didn’t say—he never said you—”

“Yeah?” 

He smiles. Not kindly.

“That I-I,” you whisper, heart beating hard enough that you’re sure he must hear it. “That I’d be alone. This isn’t right—”

“Not alone, pet,” he shakes his head. “I’m here, aren't I? I’ll see you well looked after.”

Without pause or permission, he takes your hand.

You could faint.

Your bare hand disappears, swallowed by his callused palm. His thick knuckles are as battered as his face, broken and reset countless times. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist and applies a brief and slight pressure, just enough to remind you of his strength.

You jerk instinctively, a soft tug.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he brings your hand to his mouth.

“No need to shy from me,” he rasps.

Your breath catches. 

(You really could faint, but a deep, sharp fear urges you to stay upright. Awake. That to fall now—the alternative—)

He kisses each of your fingers, one by one, unhurried. His lips are cracked. Chapped. Your skin burns under each press. You can’t move. You should, but your feet fail.

He smiles into your knuckles. Almost fond. “You’re shaking.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

“You don’t know what to do with yourself now, do you?” he drawls. “Bet you had a whole story in that pretty little head. Knight in shining armor, riding in to sweep you off your feet.”

His grip tightens, and he leans in, breath fanning over your cheek.

“Want me to do that, pet? Sweep you off your feet and take you away?”

Your heart screams no.

But nothing comes.

He watches you in that awful silence—measured and methodical. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with you first. His hand, still curled around yours, begins to move again, with new purpose.

He lifts your fingers and guides them toward his face.

You resist, weak and instinctive, and he overcomes it with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Go on. You’ve been staring.”

Your fingertips brush the ridge of the scar across his lip. It’s rough, raised, healed poorly. You flinch, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts your hand higher, until your touch ghosts over the thick welt at his eyebrow.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” he asks, almost amused.

Your throat tightens. “No—no, I—”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie. Don’t like liars. You scared?”

You are. You’re mortified, shaking with it now—caught between a girlhood fantasy and the brutal reality of the man standing before you. There’s something violent in your own confusion. In the heat crawling down your neck and into your chest, in the tears prickling hot behind your eyes.

He sees it. Of course he does.

And he pounces.

One blink, and then his mouth is on yours without ceremony. It’s a brutal kiss, a claiming thing, harsh and sudden and full of heat. Devoid of the romance you once imagined.

You gasp, startled, but his free hand comes to the back of your head, fingers spanning your skull to hold you in place. He doesn’t let you pull away. He licks into your mouth and steals the air.

It’s too much. He is too much.

When he finally pulls back, your breath is ragged and your tears have finally broken free, hot trails slipping down your cheeks. The horror of what’s just happened crashes over you all at once, like a bucket of cold water sloshed down your spine. Your legs nearly buckle.

He stares, thumb wiping spit from your chin.

“There she is,” he says quietly, near reverent.

You stand there, unmoving. Caught. The pounding of your heart drowns out every thought, each beat frantic, panicked. A bird slamming itself against a windowpane in desperation. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you’re allowed to say. The room grows smaller by the second, the walls pressing in.

He studies you, a delicate thing worth examining up close.

“Didn’t think you’d be this sweet,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Garrick said he had a girl for me. Said you were pretty. Polite. Court-bred. Figured I’d ‘ave to steal into your rooms, take some insurance to make you mine, you know. But Garrick said there’d be no need. That you’d behave. A proper good girl. That what you are?”

His eyes flick over your features—warm cheeks, wet-eyed, lips parted in confusion and fright. His thumb grazes beneath your chin.

“Look at you. Shakin’. Precious thing. ‘Course you are.”

He kisses you again. Harder.

No longer exploratory, no longer testing the waters. His moves as if owed. He takes and takes, lips dragging against yours, breath hot and heavy through his nose. Teeth sink into your lips, imprinting themselves on the pith of your mouth, sucking your tongue. You whimper, but his hand is already sliding down the line of your throat, splaying wide to feel your pulse.

Another panicked noise makes him smile.

He sighs. “Didn’t guess you’d be this soft. Bet you’re soft everywhere.”

Then—

The door bursts open.

A gasp of startled voices—servants. They freeze in the doorway, wide-eyed at the sight of the two of you locked together.

Panic explodes inside you. You jerk back from him, gasping, desperate to speak, to explain—this isn’t what it looks like—but you never get the chance.

Sir Riley doesn’t release you. His arm tightens, his grip anchoring you in place. He turns toward the intruders, unbothered and unashamed. Cold.

In a few short, lethal words, he promises consequences. He names each one of them—their roles, their kin. Swears they’ll feel his hand and blade personally should they utter a word of what they’ve seen.

They flee. Mute. Terrified.

When the door shuts again, it’s like the last breath is sucked from the room.

You’re a mess. Shaking, weeping, mouth swollen and burning. You are ruined. You know it. They will talk. People always do.

With the cuff of his sleeve, Sir Riley dabs your cheek, and then your chin. A mocking taste of the tenderness you’d dreamt of. He hums, too soft for the wicked glint in his eye, and tips your face back up with two fingers beneath your jaw.

“What a predicament we find ourselves in, hm?” he murmurs against your damp skin. “How fortunate that Garrick and I already ‘ave an audience with the King.”

He plants a chaste peck on your cheek.

“Dry your tears, pet.”

He smiles. A pleased shape that rekindles the hunger in his eyes.

“By spring, you’ll be Lady Riley. That’s a promise.”

[carnalcrows]

FIXER UPPER

summary: You weren’t supposed to fall for him. Not the mountain guide with a sharp tongue and rough hands. Not when your kingdom was unraveling, your brother was missing, and your heart was already cracked from too many years spent waiting behind closed gates. But then again—none of this was supposed to happen. The eternal winter. The betrayal. The truth hidden beneath ice and silence. Now the world is colder than it’s ever been, and the only way forward might be through the storm. And through him.

pairing: kristoff! toji fushiguro x anna! bottom male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, angst, fluff, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, slow burn, emotional repression, ice magic, betrayal, brief imprisonment, soft reindeer, sibling angst, rooftop kissing, snowman lore.

word count: 6.9k (nice)

best viewed in dark mode

The bells rang at dawn.

You were already awake, sitting half-dressed on the edge of your bed, staring at the same spot on the stone wall you’d memorised sometime around age twelve. The castle had started buzzing hours ago, and now the sound of carriages rolling through the gates echoed through the open window like thunder. For the first time in forever, Arendelle wasn’t quiet.

The kingdom was opening its doors.

Which meant… today, you were allowed to leave your room.

Your heart slammed in your chest. Not from nerves. From the need to move.

You shoved your boots on, didn’t bother with the rest of the ceremonial layers, and ducked out the servant passageway before anyone could stop you. The halls were alive with chatter — voices and footsteps and rustling silk. You slipped past them like smoke, taking the stairs two at a time until the front doors loomed in sight.

Sunlight poured in.

People. Real people. Vendors and nobles, and foreign visitors spilling across the courtyard. Colours you hadn’t seen in years. Laughter. Horses. The smell of cinnamon bread and too much perfume.

It was overwhelming.

It was perfect.

You grinned.

You were halfway through your first lap around the courtyard when someone found you.

“Your Highness—!”

You turned. One of the advisors. Maybe. You hadn’t really learned names outside the staff.

“We’ve been looking everywhere—”

“I was doing reconnaissance,” you said. “For security purposes. You know. Royal stuff.”

They frowned. “You’re supposed to be helping your brother prepare for the coronation.”

“I’m helping him by staying out of his way.”

“Please go inside.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

Back in the great hall, the atmosphere had shifted. Nanami stood tall in his regalia — gold-trimmed, stiff-shouldered, eyes so carefully blank you wanted to shake him. He looked like a statue. Not a man about to become king.

You approached the throne and leaned in just enough to murmur, “You okay?”

He didn’t look at you. “Don’t be late.”

“That’s your way of saying thank you, right?”

Still nothing.

God, he was the worst at this.

You’d never been a fan of formalwear.

It itched. It clung in the wrong places. And every time you turned your head too fast, the collar threatened to cut off circulation. But apparently, this was the price of being royalty — buttoned cuffs and boots polished until they blinded your reflection.

Still, you had to admit: the ballroom looked beautiful.

Light poured in from the windows above. Music wound through the air, soft strings and brass layered under the quiet murmur of people trying not to seem impressed. The polished floor reflected everything — gold trim, blue velvet, the shine of new crowns.

And then there was him.

He was leaning casually near one of the refreshment tables, cup in hand, expression relaxed. Like this was all just a formality he didn’t need to pretend to care about. His eyes skimmed the room once, then found yours.

He smiled.

You turned too fast and almost knocked over a chair.

Somehow, you ended up near the dessert table.

Somehow, he ended up beside you.

“Not a fan of cake?” he asked, eyes flicking down to your still-empty plate.

You shrugged. “Trying to leave room for the fifth course. Which I’m assuming is just a bigger cake.”

He laughed. “Bold strategy. Let me know if it pays off.”

You glanced at him sideways. “And you are…?”

“Prince Geto of the Southern Isles,” he said, offering a small, mocking bow. “But you can call me Suguru.”

You arched an eyebrow. “And what brings a prince to our frozen little corner of the world?”

He took a sip from his glass. “Adventure. Opportunity. The chance to meet someone worth remembering.”

Oh.

Oh, he was good.

By the time the coronation began, you were absolutely not thinking straight.

Nanami stood tall as the crown was placed on his head— steady hands, steady voice, no hint of nerves. He looked like he belonged there. You stood beside him, a few respectful paces back, trying not to bounce on your heels like a child.

Geto was somewhere in the crowd.

You could feel it.

The crown settled. The hall applauded. Trumpets flared.

And just like that— the gates stayed open.

You found Suguru again that night.

Or maybe he found you.

Either way, the two of you ended up out on the terrace together — stars overhead, lanterns strung between columns, the city below glittering like frost on stone. You laughed more than you meant to. He listened like it mattered. And when the conversation shifted — when his hand brushed yours and didn’t pull away — something inside you softened.

“This is going to sound crazy,” you said, breath fogging in the air between you, “but… I think I was supposed to meet you.”

He smiled.

And that’s how, two hours later, you ended up back inside — cheeks flushed, hands clasped — announcing your engagement to a room full of stunned nobles.

Nanami’s face didn’t move.

But his voice was cold when he said, “You can’t marry someone you just met.”

Silence swept through the ballroom like a second frost. The music faltered, and dozens of gazes turned toward you — some scandalised, others pitying, and a few gleeful in that tight-lipped way only nobility knew how to be.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Nanami stepped down from the dais, movements precise, posture stiff. “You heard me. This is absurd.”

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, a flush that had nothing to do with embarrassment. “You weren’t even there. You didn’t talk to him. You haven’t talked to me in years.”

Nanami’s jaw flexed. “Because it wasn’t safe.”

“No,” you snapped. “Because it was easier. Easier to shut me out than deal with whatever you were hiding.”

His eyes flicked toward Geto — still standing at your side, calm and unreadable — then back to you. “You think this is love?”

“I think this is my choice.”

“I’m still the king.”

You took a step forward. “Then maybe act like it.”

The words hit something. You saw it in the way Nanami’s expression faltered — just for a breath, a flicker — and then hardened again.

“This conversation is over,” he said tightly. “The engagement is denied.”

And then the cold cracked through the room.

It started at his feet — a sudden spread of frost lacing across the polished floor, spidering out in sharp, fractal lines. A gasp rippled through the crowd as the temperature plummeted. Ice climbed the pillars. The chandelier groaned above.

You turned, heart hammering. “Nanami?”

He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Pale steam curled from his fingers.

He whispered, “No—”

A guard moved. Nanami flinched. Another spike of ice burst from the floor and shattered the edge of the dais.

The ballroom erupted into chaos.

Guests scattered. Dresses rustled. Someone screamed. Nanami backed away from the growing ring of frost, breath shallow, panic blooming on his face for the first time in your life.

“I didn’t mean—” he started.

But you were already moving.

“Wait—Nanami, stop!”

He didn’t. He bolted.

You chased after him through the now-frozen gates, out into the courtyard. The snow hadn’t started yet, but the sky had turned the colour of ash.

“Nanami!” you called again, voice raw, but he didn’t look back. Not once.

And then he was gone.

Vanished through the outer gates, his footprints icing over behind him.

The guards hesitated. No one followed.

So you did.

You didn’t even stop to change. You just grabbed your cloak, shoved your way through the muttering nobles, and ducked into the stables. Saddle or not, you were riding out.

Because whatever had just happened—whatever Nanami had kept secret all these years—you were going to find him.

And for once, you were going to be the one who stayed.

You didn’t make it far on horseback before the storm started.

It came from the mountains—whipping winds and a wall of snow so sudden it nearly knocked you off your horse. By the time you reached the base of the pass, the cold had sunk its teeth into your bones, and the road ahead was nothing but white.

You pressed forward anyway.

You didn’t have a plan. Just a direction, and the stubborn need to see this through.

The kingdom was in trouble. Your brother was alone. And whether or not Nanami ever wanted to talk to you again, you weren’t about to let him freeze to death on some ice-covered cliff. Not after everything.

Not again.

The wind howled around you as you crested the next ridge. Snow clung to your lashes, blurred your vision, and soaked your cloak. You urged the horse onward until its hooves slipped on the path, and you had to dismount. The rest, you'd do on foot.

The ice under your boots groaned with every step.

You didn’t stop moving.

Until a voice broke through the storm.

“You’re gonna die if you keep walking like that.”

You whirled.

A man stood just ahead, leaning against a snow-dusted outcrop with his arms crossed. Tall. Broad. Scowl permanently carved into his face. His cloak was rough and patched, lined with fur, and his hair was dark and windswept, half-frozen at the tips.

Beside him stood a reindeer, calmly chewing on a mouthful of frost.

You blinked. “...Are you talking to me?”

“No,” the man said flatly. “I’m talking to the blizzard. Of course I’m talking to you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you always greet strangers with insults, or am I special?”

He shrugged. “You look like a royal idiot. You ride out alone in the middle of a storm, dressed like a ballroom extra, and you’re heading straight toward an avalanche zone.”

You scowled. “I’m looking for someone.”

“So are the wolves. Hope you’re faster.”

“Excuse me?”

He jerked his head toward the woods. “They’ve been following you since the ridge.”

You glanced over your shoulder. Nothing but trees.

He smirked. “You didn’t notice?”

Your stomach turned. “Who are you?”

“Toji,” he said. “Mountain runner. Ice harvester. Grumpy bastard. Take your pick.”

You stared. “...Right.”

Toji tilted his head. “And you?”

You hesitated. You should’ve lied. Said you were a traveller. A scholar. Anything else.

But you didn’t.

“Prince of Arendelle.”

Toji blinked. “Of course you are.”

“You’ve heard what happened?”

“Hard not to. Giant magical panic storm tends to make headlines.”

You exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling up through your chest. “Look, I don’t have time to explain. I need to find my brother. He’s—he’s not well. And the longer he’s out here alone, the worse it’ll get.”

Toji’s gaze sharpened. “The king?”

You nodded. “He ran. I followed. I don’t care what anyone says—I’m not leaving him out here.”

Toji looked at you for a long moment, jaw working like he was chewing on the idea.

Then he said, “You’re coming with me.”

You blinked. “I am?”

He turned and started walking. “You’re gonna get yourself killed otherwise. I know these mountains. You don’t. So if you want to find your brother alive, stay close and keep your mouth shut.”

You opened your mouth.

He didn’t even look back. “Starting now.”

You snapped your mouth shut.

The reindeer—Megumi, apparently—gave you a judgmental side-eye as you followed. You wrapped your cloak tighter and trudged into the storm after them.

And, maybe for the first time that day, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

The path narrowed as you moved higher, trees closing in, branches heavy with ice. Wind tugged at your cloak, but you kept going, boots slipping now and then on the uneven trail. Toji didn’t slow for you—just walked ahead like the cold didn’t bother him at all.

He glanced over his shoulder once. “You always this quiet?”

You huffed. “You told me not to talk.”

“That was before I realised silence makes you look more lost.”

You squinted at his back. “Do you always insult people you’re helping?”

“Only when they dress like they’ve never stepped outside the castle.”

You bit your tongue.

Megumi snorted beside you, smug and unbothered.

By nightfall, the wind had calmed, but the temperature dropped lower. Your fingers were stiff, and your legs ached from walking. Toji eventually pointed out a hollow beneath a rocky ledge, shielded from the worst of the wind.

“We’ll camp here.”

You looked around. “You… do this often?”

Toji raised an eyebrow. “Sleep under a rock with strangers? Not really.”

You didn’t reply. You just sank down on the cold-packed ground, pulling your knees to your chest. Snowflakes caught in your hair and melted against your temple.

Toji dropped a small bundle beside you—blankets, rough wool, but warm.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

He sat a few feet away, unbothered by the cold, arms folded behind his head like it was a summer evening. You watched him in the firelight, the way his breath curled in the air, the lines around his mouth softening when he closed his eyes.

“So…” you said finally. “What’s your deal?”

He cracked an eye open. “My deal?”

“You live up here. Alone. With a reindeer.”

Megumi snorted.

Toji smirked. “The reindeer’s better company than most people.”

You waited.

He didn’t elaborate.

You sighed and leaned your head back against the stone. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“About what?”

“The magic. My brother. The storm.”

Toji shrugged. “Seen worse.” You blinked. “Worse than an eternal winter?”

“I once saw a bear take out an entire logging camp because someone stepped on her cub’s tail.”

“…Okay. Fair.”

He glanced at you again, something quieter in his expression. “But yeah. I’ve seen what fear does to people. Your brother’s scared. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Your throat tightened. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. The fire crackled. Snow fell in slow, lazy spirals, and for the first time in days, you let yourself rest.

Even if only for a little while.

You woke to the soft crunch of snow and something… off. A rhythm. Humming, maybe. Low and meandering, like someone trying to keep themselves company and doing a poor job of staying in tune.

Toji was already up, crouched near what was left of the fire, blade in hand as he shaved slivers of ice off a frozen log. His eyes flicked toward the trees.

“You hear that?” he asked without looking up.

You sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your face. “What is that?”

“Annoying,” Toji muttered. “And getting closer.”

The humming grew louder, now accompanied by the unmistakable sound of boots crunching through snow. Then a voice, conversational and way too chipper for the setting: “—No, you’re going the wrong way. I told you, the tree with the weird bend is a landmark. Not a sign of poor navigation—hi!”

A figure came stumbling through the trees, wrapped in layers of mismatched winter gear, cheeks flushed from the cold, curly pink scarf bouncing with every step. His smile was bright, genuine, and completely out of place in the frozen wild.

“Oh, thank God,” he breathed, hands on his knees. “I was starting to think I imagined the campfire.”

Toji straightened slowly. “Who the hell are you?”

The guy grinned, unbothered. “Yuuji. Just a guy. I hike. I talk to myself. Occasionally rescue royals from hypothermia. You know. Standard Tuesday stuff.”

You blinked at him. “...Are you alone?”

“Nope.” He pointed behind him. “Got a reindeer that left me about twenty minutes ago and a snowman I built that tried to stage a coup. So technically? Yes.”

You stared.

He held up his hands. “Okay, maybe not a coup. He just... rolled away. Emotionally.”

Toji exhaled through his nose. “You’re insane.”

“I get that a lot.”

You stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “You said you saw a fire?”

Yuuji nodded. “Last night. Came looking this morning. I’ve been up the trail before—if you’re headed toward the summit, you’re gonna want to take the eastern fork. The West is avalanche territory. I mean, unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

You exchanged a glance with Toji.

The man had just wandered in out of nowhere with a goofy smile and more scarves than sense, and somehow, he knew the trails better than either of you.

“…You’ve been to the palace?” you asked.

Yuuji perked up. “Oh yeah. Big, spooky, lots of sharp angles. Saw it last week. Thought it was haunted. Still might be.”

Toji didn’t look convinced. “And you just… want to help?”

Yuuji shrugged. “I mean, not help help. I’m not trying to get stabbed or anything. But I can walk and point dramatically. Pretty good at both.”

There was a long pause.

You tried not to smile. “You really built a snowman that ran away?”

“Yeah,” Yuuji sighed. “He was my best work. Had little stick arms and everything.”

Toji muttered, “We don’t have time for this.”

You turned to Yuuji. “We’ll take the east trail. If you’re heading that way—”

“Lead the way,” he grinned, already turning on his heel. “Just don’t blame me if the snowman finds us. He holds grudges.”

You pulled your cloak tighter, fell into step beside him, and tried very hard not to laugh when Toji muttered under his breath, “We’re gonna regret this.”

You probably would. But at least it wouldn’t be boring.

The east trail started narrow, tucked between cliffs that rose like jagged teeth on either side, the snow pressed hard into the ground by wind and weight. It was quiet up here—quieter than you expected, the kind of quiet that made your breath feel loud.

Yuuji didn’t seem to notice. He filled the silence easily, narrating your path with cheerful commentary as he stomped ahead, occasionally pointing out “dangerous icicles” that were barely within reach or snowdrifts that, in his words, “definitely looked haunted.”

Toji mostly ignored him, trudging on with the patience of someone long used to tuning people out.

You walked in the middle.

It wasn’t the worst place to be.

Eventually, the trees opened up to a small ridge, the trail flattening out just long enough for you to catch your breath. You pushed your hood back, letting the chill air bite at your ears, and glanced out over the valley below.

That’s when you saw it.

Rising in the distance like a jagged shard of glass—sharp, towering, almost impossibly symmetrical. The palace. Nanami’s palace. Iced over in blue and white and silver, pulsing faintly in the dim winter light like it had a heartbeat.

You stopped.

Toji followed your gaze. “That it?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Yuuji shaded his eyes with one hand. “He really went full dramatic recluse, huh?”

Toji glanced at you. “You sure about this?”

You swallowed. The frost still clung to your ribs, a weight that hadn’t quite gone away since the courtyard. “I have to talk to him.”

Toji didn’t ask why. He just adjusted the strap on his shoulder and started walking again.

The closer you got, the more the wind picked up. Not wild, but purposeful—like it was watching. Judging. Snow whipped around your ankles, and the air buzzed faintly with something you couldn’t name. Magic, maybe. Or fear.

The gates of the palace loomed ahead, carved from solid ice, clear and seamless like water frozen mid-fall. You reached out a hand. The cold stung, but it didn’t bite. The doors parted with a whisper.

Inside, the air was still. Heavy.

Every sound echoed.

You stepped forward, your boots clinking faintly on the slick floor. Toji stayed a pace behind, his presence solid at your back. Yuuji stayed outside, saying something about “respecting magical sibling privacy” and “keeping an eye on the snowman situation.”

You didn’t even make it halfway down the corridor before you saw him.

Nanami stood at the far end of the hall, framed by a window that stretched to the ceiling, frost spidering out from his bare hands.

He didn’t turn. But he spoke.

“You shouldn’t have come.” You took a breath. “And yet here I am.” He finally looked at you.

His face was pale, tired, drawn tight with something between guilt and exhaustion. His coat—one of his favourites—was rimmed in frost, heavy with snow. His eyes, always so precise, looked almost… haunted.

“You’re not safe here.”

“I’m not safe out there either.” His hands curled at his sides. “This isn’t a game.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “But you’re still my brother. That’s not changing.” Something flickered behind his expression. Not soft. Not sharp. Just… uncertain.

You took another step forward.

“Let me help.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t move away, but he didn’t reach for you either. His hands stayed clenched, trembling faintly at his sides. The ice beneath your feet groaned with every word, subtle cracks threading outward like a heartbeat gone wrong.

“I’ve already done enough damage,” he said, voice flat. “The longer I stay near anyone, the worse it gets.”

“You think I care?” Your voice cracked with the cold, or maybe it cracked from something deeper. “You think I haven’t already lost enough time with you? You shut me out for years, and I—I let it happen. Because I thought maybe you needed space, or maybe I just didn’t matter enough.”

His shoulders flinched. That got to him. You stepped forward.

“You’re not dangerous,” you said. “You’re scared. You’ve always been scared.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” he snapped. “If everything you touched broke, if people looked at you and saw a curse instead of a king?”

The words echoed in the chamber, sharp and cold and final.

You took another step. “I don’t see a curse.”

He laughed, bitter and small. “Then you’re the only one.”

The wind picked up again, swirling between the columns, a current of snowflakes lifting off the floor like dust. You didn’t stop. You closed the space until you were barely a foot away and said, softer now:

“I’m still here.”

Nanami looked down at you.

For a second, you saw it—the boy he used to be. The brother who used to sneak you pastries in the dead of night, who read aloud from ledgers just to make the words sound pretty, who built snowmen with you in the courtyard before anyone cared who was watching.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he whispered. “You don’t have to,” you said. “You just have to come home.” The room went quiet again. And then the wind stopped.

You didn’t realise you’d been holding your breath until Nanami’s shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding out of him like something broken finally unclenching.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

 “I know.”

And for the first time in forever, he pulled you into his arms. It wasn’t warm. Not yet. But it was real.

And it was enough.

You didn’t know how long you stood there—his arms stiff around you at first, then slowly loosening, settling into something almost like comfort. The palace seemed to sigh with you, the magic in the air softening, the cold retreating from your skin just enough to feel your fingers again.

Toji waited just inside the archway, arms crossed but gaze steady. He hadn’t interrupted, hadn’t moved. He just stood there like he’d always been meant to stand behind you.

Nanami pulled back, looking down at his hands like he didn’t recognise them. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You gave a half-smile. “You think I came this far just to see your good side?”

His laugh was short but real, and that was a victory all its own.

He looked past you then, toward Toji. “You brought backup.”

“More like he dragged me here,” you said. “I didn’t exactly come equipped for ice climbing and wolf evasion.”

Nanami’s brow furrowed. “Wolves?”

“Don’t worry,” Toji said. “I scared them off.”

“With what?” Nanami asked, incredulous.

“Toji,” you said, deadpan, “is the wolf.”

Nanami blinked. “That… makes sense.”

Before you could say more, heavy footsteps echoed from the entrance.

“Hey!” Yuuji’s voice rang down the corridor, a little out of breath. “Sorry to ruin the mood, but we’ve got company!” You turned fast. “What kind of company?”

Yuuji skidded into view, cheeks red from running. “The angry kind. A couple of guards, and—uh—Geto.”

Your stomach dropped. Nanami’s face darkened. “What is he doing here?” You didn’t have an answer.

Toji was already moving, hand on his blade, expression sharp. “They followed you.” You shook your head. “No. I—I didn’t tell anyone—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Toji said. “They’re here now.” Nanami stepped forward, a flicker of frost lacing the floor beneath his feet again. “They want me gone. If they take me, they’ll imprison me—or worse.”

“Then we don’t let them.” Yuuji nodded. “I’ll hold the front door!” You stared. “You’re not armed.”

“I have enthusiasm!” Toji sighed. “He’s going to die.”

“Not if we stop this before it starts,” you said. Nanami’s hand touched your shoulder. “You shouldn’t be in the middle of this.” You met his eyes. “I’ve always been in the middle of this. I just finally decided to stand still.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t have to.

—

The front of the palace looked different when you returned to it—sharper, somehow. The wind had picked up again, curling along the pillars like it was bracing for a fight. Snow clung to the arches in delicate spirals, and the air felt charged, brittle.

Geto stood in the open just beyond the gate, dressed in the same polished coat he’d worn to the coronation. He looked almost out of place surrounded by frost—too smooth, too warm. His eyes flicked upward when he spotted you.

“You came all this way for him,” he said, voice casual, but not quite smiling. “How romantic.”

Toji stepped forward before you could. “Cut the shit. What do you want?”

Geto tilted his head. “What everyone wants. Order. Stability. A kingdom that isn’t gripped by magic and fear.” Nanami stepped into view behind you.

Geto didn’t flinch. “And the monster makes his entrance.”

You could feel Nanami tense beside you. Toji moved subtly closer, like he could anchor the space between all of you before it cracked.

“I’m not your enemy,” Nanami said, low.

“Tell that to the frostbite victims,” Geto replied, cold.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “We can fix it. Nanami’s not a threat. He never was.” Geto’s gaze slid to you, then measured, quiet. “You’re in love with an idea. You always were.”

You felt that one in your ribs.

Toji’s voice was a growl. “You’re wasting our time.”

“Funny,” Geto said, and stepped forward, hand twitching toward something under his coat. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

And then the air snapped. Nanami moved.

So did Toji.

A crack of ice shot across the ground, fast and sudden, catching Geto mid-step. He slipped, barely, but it was enough. Toji closed the distance with a snarl, hand around Geto’s collar, blade flashing in the light.

But Geto didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t fight back.

He just smiled.

“Arendelle deserves better than chaos,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Toji knocked him out with the hilt of his blade.

It was over in seconds.

You stood in the snow, breathing hard, heart pounding, staring down at the man you’d once imagined yourself marrying—and felt nothing but relief.

Not grief.

Not anger.

Just… release.

Nanami’s hand found your shoulder again. “Thank you.”

You turned. “You’re the one who saved us.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you came for me first.”

You didn’t say anything to that.

You didn’t have to.

—

You left Geto in the snow, unconscious and disarmed, his breath fogging faintly against the pale light. Toji bound his hands with a cord from his pack, tight and deliberate, then turned to you.

“We need to move,” he said. “This won’t be the last of it.”

He was right.

You didn’t ask how he knew. You could feel it too—the heaviness in the air, the way the wind shifted. Something bigger was coming. And you hadn’t seen Gojo since the coronation.

That alone should’ve told you everything.

You took the southern ridge back toward the lowlands, hoping to circle the storm’s edge before it reached the valley. Yuuji caught up just past the ice falls, cheeks red, voice hoarse but chipper.

“I think I lost a boot,” he panted. “But I saved the snowman!”

Megumi made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

You slowed as you reached the next crest. Down below, the castle rose dark against the horizon, snow curling off the battlements like breath. Fires burned low in the city. The gates were sealed.

Toji frowned. “That’s not good.”

You stared. “What is?”

He pointed. Near the outer wall, rows of torches lined the square. Uniformed guards stood at attention, flanked by banners you didn’t recognise—crest designs subtly altered, new emblems sewn in gold thread.

At the centre of it all stood Gojo Satoru.

He wore white trimmed in silver, the old king’s seal draped around his shoulders like a shroud. His expression was unreadable from this distance, but you could see how the guards looked at him—like a man they already believed in.

Your stomach sank.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you whispered.

Nanami’s breath was steady beside you, but his hands had curled into fists again. “He moved fast.”

“He’s been planning this,” Toji said. “He was waiting.” Yuuji looked between you all, confused. “Wait—who is that?”

You answered without thinking. “The king’s advisor.”

“Former advisor,” Nanami corrected quietly. And then, like he felt you watching, Gojo looked up. His eyes met yours across the snow-covered distance, and for the briefest moment, he smiled.

It wasn’t friendly.

You backed away from the ridge. “We need to get inside,” you said. “Now.”

Toji nodded once, sharp. “I’ll find a way.” He was already moving when your hand caught his arm.

He paused. “I mean it,” you said. “Be careful.” He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time all day.

And then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. Just for a second. Just enough.

Then he was gone.

You watched him disappear into the trees. The sky overhead began to darken again. And you had a feeling that this wasn’t the end.

It was just the beginning.

The courtyard gates were already open when you reached them.

You weren’t sure if that made it easier or worse. The guards didn’t stop you—just looked past you, like their orders hadn’t included you. Like, maybe someone wanted you to walk straight in.

Inside, the square had transformed. Banners had been torn down and replaced with clean lines, crisp crests you didn’t recognise. Silver instead of gold. White instead of blue. Everywhere you looked, Gojo’s version of the kingdom had already begun to take shape.

He stood at the steps of the palace, hands clasped behind his back, posture regal.

You used to think he was handsome in that distant, untouchable way. The kind of man who knew he was smarter than the room and enjoyed pretending otherwise. But now, standing in front of him, all you saw was a crown he hadn’t earned.

He smiled as you approached.

“You made it,” he said, like this was a party. “And here I was, starting to think you got lost.”

“I should’ve known it was you.”

Gojo gave a soft laugh. “You were always too trusting. It’s cute. Naive. A little exhausting.” Your hands clenched at your sides. “You were our advisor.”

He tilted his head. “You say that like I didn’t advise. I tried. Really. But when the throne is handed to a walking disaster and a prince who believes in fairy tales, someone has to keep the kingdom standing.”

“You mean under your rule.” He smiled wider. “Exactly.” 

Nanami stepped forward beside you.

Gojo’s smile faltered.

“I thought you’d run,” he said. “That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?” Nanami didn’t answer. He just lifted one hand, palm out.

The wind shifted.

The torches flickered.

Frost spread beneath his feet—and this time, it moved with control. Precise. Elegant. The guards backed up instinctively, unsure.

Gojo raised his chin. “You really think you can scare me now?”

“No,” Nanami said, calm. “I think you already are.”

Gojo reached for something beneath his coat.

He never got the chance.

Toji hit him like a storm.

No warning. Just a blur of motion, steel flashing in the light, Gojo’s body hitting the ground with a grunt. Toji’s foot came down hard on Gojo’s arm, pinning him, blade poised just above his throat.

Gojo hissed. “You—”

“Me,” Toji said flatly. “The guy who didn’t betray the crown.”

Around you, the guards froze.

And then Yuuji burst into the square with a triumphant yell, waving a flag he had absolutely not been given permission to wave, riding Megumi bareback like a child on holiday.

“Victory or whatever!” he shouted.

The silence that followed was… surreal.

And then someone in the crowd laughed.

Nanami stepped forward.

“This ends now,” he said. “No more fear. No more hiding.”

The guards looked at each other, uncertain.

Then, slowly, one by one—they lowered their weapons.

Gojo didn’t speak again.

He was taken to the dungeons that night.

And Arendelle began to thaw.

It didn’t happen all at once—the thaw. The snow melted slowly, retreating in ribbons from the rooftops, slipping from the edges of shutters and gutters and castle spires like a long-held breath finally let go. The sky brightened day by day. Light found its way into corners that hadn’t seen it in weeks.

People came out of their homes again. Windows opened. Children screamed in delight at the sudden return of puddles.

Nanami didn’t take the throne immediately. He stepped back from it, quietly, without ceremony. Said he needed time to learn how to rule without fear. Without shutting people out. Without shutting you out.

You believed him.

You spent the next few days in the palace, helping repair what you could—broken windows, damaged halls, frostbitten crops that needed replanting. Yuuji became a local legend. The snowman reappeared and promptly fell apart again. And Toji…

Toji stayed.

Not because he had to. But because, when it was all over, when the guards laid down their arms and the flags were restored, he looked at you and didn’t say goodbye.

Instead, he said, “You owe me a drink.”

You said, “You saved the kingdom.”

He shrugged. “I’ll settle for the drink.”

And then he smiled.

The room was quiet, dimly lit by the low burn of the fireplace and the silver spill of moonlight through the frosted windowpanes. You’d slipped away from the feast hours ago. The crown still felt too heavy on your brother’s head. The castle, too full of laughter that didn’t quite reach your chest. But Toji had found you anyway—of course, he had.

He didn’t say much when he closed the door behind him, just watched you for a long moment from across the room. You met his eyes, said nothing, and held out your hand.

He took it without hesitation.

When he kissed you, it was softer than you expected. Slow. Like a man who’d thought about this more times than he’d admit and didn’t want to get it wrong. You let yourself lean into him, your fingers tangling in the back of his shirt, your breath catching when he deepened it—when he backed you into the windowsill and kissed you like you were something worth losing a war over.

Your hands slid beneath his coat, feeling heat and scar tissue and steady strength. His mouth never left yours for long, just long enough to murmur your name against your skin, to breathe out a curse when you pulled at the layers of his shirt, when your fingers dragged along his spine and felt him shudder.

The fire crackled behind you. His palm found your waist, then your ribs, then higher, fingers splayed like he was trying to memorise you by feel alone. When you gasped into his mouth, he pulled back, just enough to look at you.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all he needed.

The rest was slow. Clothes slipped away one piece at a time, each fold of fabric kissed away like a promise. He traced his hands down your chest like he’d waited his whole life to do it—like you were the only beautiful thing left in the world. You felt him everywhere: the drag of his lips down your throat, the press of his palms against your hips, the way he whispered your name like it meant something sacred.

You weren’t cold anymore.

He laid you down carefully—no rush, no weight you didn’t want. Just heat. Just skin. The brush of his mouth over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest, his breath warm and ragged when you arched into him, gasped his name, trembled beneath his hands. He was gentle, but thorough, moving like a man who didn’t need to ask what you wanted—he already knew. He gave it slowly, completely, one kiss, one stroke, one breath at a time.

When he finally entered you, it stole what little breath you had left.

It wasn’t pain. Not with him. It was weight and heat and fullness, your body adjusting to him like you’d been made for this, for him. His hand found yours and didn’t let go. His mouth never strayed far from your throat, murmuring soft praises and curses that blurred together as he moved—slow at first, then deeper, drawn into you with every gasp that escaped your lips.

You moaned into his mouth when he kissed you again, fingers clutching at his back, the slow, grinding rhythm of him inside you building into something bright and unbearable. He hit a spot that made your vision blur, your legs tighten around his hips.

“There?” he breathed.

You could only nod.

He groaned, deep in his chest, and began to move with more purpose, each thrust sending sparks down your spine. The pleasure coiled in your belly, tighter and tighter, like a thread pulled taut. You could feel him unravelling too—his movements growing rougher, his voice rasping your name like a prayer, his grip tightening around your waist like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

When you came, it ripped through you like fire, all warmth and shuddering release, your whole body arching into his. He followed you moments later, a muffled curse into your skin, hips stuttering as he spilled into you, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he’d break if he let go.

You held him there.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to look at you, eyes dark and full of something you didn’t have a name for.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

You smiled, fingers brushing through his hair. “Good. Because I’d just come looking for you.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. Softer.

And in the silence that followed, in the cooling warmth of tangled limbs and moonlight, you fell asleep with his heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

The spring that followed was the softest Arendelle had ever seen.

Snowmelt shimmered on the cobblestones, pooling into gutters and gardens alike. Wildflowers broke through the frost like they’d been waiting for permission. Birds returned to the palace towers. The market reopened in full colour, with banners strung from every window and laughter that finally sounded real again.

Your brother ruled with a quieter hand now. Firmer in some ways, softer in others. He smiled more. Trusted more. Sometimes he let you sit in on council meetings and didn’t scold you for making faces behind the baroness from the western fjord. That felt like progress.

Gojo’s name faded into the background of the castle, mentioned only in whispers. The cell he occupied stayed locked. Empty, most days. No one talked about how the key had gone missing.

You didn’t ask.

Geto was never seen again. Some said he vanished over the mountains. Others said he drowned. You knew better than to assume anything with him.

Yuuji still came by the palace every week, usually tracking in mud or snow or some combination of both, and the snowman—rebuilt, reshaped, reimagined—never strayed far from his side. He talked to it like it answered. You never asked if it did.

Nanami asked you once, what you planned to do now that peace had returned.

You said you weren’t sure. That you might stay. That you might leave.

But you knew the truth before the words even finished forming.

Because Toji was waiting at the garden wall, arms folded, sun cutting across the sharp line of his jaw, looking at you like he always did—like you were something steady. Something real.

You walked down the steps without hurrying.

He met you halfway.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with a trade envoy,” you said.

Toji hummed. “You’re late.”

“I was busy being important.”

“Mm.” His mouth tilted in a smirk. “Wanna be less important for a while?”

You stepped into his arms like you’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

He kissed you there, beneath the arching vines and bloom-heavy branches, with the whole kingdom breathing easy for once. It was slow and certain. And when you leaned into him, fingers curling into the back of his coat, it felt like more than enough.

You stayed there until the light dipped lower, until the shadows stretched long across the courtyard and the sky turned gold behind the mountains.

Peace, it seemed, was a quiet thing.

But it was yours.

And this time, it was going to last.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @sa1ki-deactivated20250510 @sooniebby @seomn

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[risingoftime]

TWO STEP TRAP | SMOKE STACK TWINS X F!READER |

You are one of the best dancers at the Midnight Blues joint in Chicago; it was only a matter of time before you encountered the Smoke Stack Twins. Their names linger in the club like perfume and cigars. If you are in the scene, you know them… and of course, they knew you.

contains: 18+ mdni, prequel to sinners, dancer!reader, porn with plot, smut, oral (Stack is a eater), threesome, p in v, pet names, man handling, body worshipping?? talking you through it, fingering, fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time.

You picked up your pace as you looked down at the watch on your wrist. It was nearly ten pm, and Marcus would threaten to lock your ass out if you didn’t arrive on time. He knew better though, you were the one that everyone came to see. Word spread quickly in the streets of Chicago, but there’s a place folks whisper about but rarely name out loud for fear of the White man hearing. It ain’t on any map called The Last Two Step, but if you know the right knock and carry enough heartbreak in your shoes, it’ll guide you behind an unmarked door at the edge of South Parkway Boulevard. In the joint, velvet smoke curls through the air, and every note from Ambrose’s piano drips slow and sticky, like honey off a blade. The Last Two Step is where time forgets itself in the sway of hips and the clink of glasses filled with bourbon. Nobody stumbles in by accident. If you find yourself there, something or someone wanted you to. And once you cross that threshold, baby, the night decides what happens next.

At the corner of your eye, you could see a slightly older, light-skinned woman shimmying her body down the alley to the hidden doorway of the club. “Miss Felicity! Wait up & hold the door, will you?” You hollered. Her head whipped to look behind her in alarm, but her glare softened once she saw you quickly following after her. She laughed at you as you tried to steady your breath.

“When will you learn your lesson and stop rushing at the last minute?” Felicity shook her head as you hurried inside and double-checked to see if anyone followed after y'all.

You flashed her a grin and said, “Probably right after you stop pretending you don’t love the thrill. Chaos builds character. Have you ever heard that?”

“Girl, you’re practically asking for trouble,” she muttered. Ambrose and the boys were still setting up the stage and tuning their instruments when you passed the wooden dance floor towards the changerooms in the back. Their eyes tracked the way you walked and paused to sneak a peek at your backside when they thought you wouldn’t notice. They were never slick enough to avoid getting caught. “Y’all are no better than little boys!” Felicity swatted at them as she climbed onto the stage and straightened her skirt. Felicity’s voice carried throughout the establishment even when she wasn’t singing and harmonizing with the band.

“Can’t blame us for admiring!” one of them defended.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed into the changeroom, more like a storage closet the dancers used to store their things and prepare for the night. Soon enough, the floor out there would be packed with sweaty bodies, hungry eyes, and a swanky beat that was hard to resist. And you? You’d be right in the middle, moving like a snake, soaking up the spotlight like it was poured just for you. Showing off your sultry moves, enticing the eyes of whoever looked upon you.

You weren’t just entertainment. You were a magnet. Marcus, the owner, knew it too. He would give you some of the shares to keep the crowd thick and thirsty, which is why he called you “eye candy.” A walking advertisement, you were good publicity for his juke joint. The three other girls in the room with you, Jacqueline, Deborah, and Ann, had the same deal. They didn’t care for me much, never had been. You drew too much attention, and it didn’t help that you didn’t come from the same background as them. You were the daughter of sharecroppers or “cotton pickers,” they say. Your skin was dark and smooth, shimmering in the light and under sweat. Your full lips, tantalizing gaze, and body that bloomed too fast for your age made you all the more unforgettable. Slim, sultry, and curved just right were the words used to describe her.

Looking into the handheld mirror as you finished the last touches to your makeup, you could see Marcus in the corner of your eye. “Baby, I ain’t paying you to doll yourself up and hide away!” His tone was playful, but there was an edge to his voice, and you knew that if you said the wrong thing, Marcus’ temper would appear. That is probably why he still ain’t been able to keep a woman. He’s only truly satisfied when he's drunk.

“Geez, what’s the hurry?” you whined as you hiked up your skirt higher to show more of your bare legs and patted down any stray hairs on your head from the finger curls.

“I gotta handle some business with the twins. Show ’em this is the kinda spot they wanna put their money in,” Marcus said, smoothing down his vest with a wink. The mention of the twins made your ears perk up. Smoke & Stack weren’t just names; they were similar to legends, stitched into the underbelly of Chicago. You didn’t just meet the Smoke Stack twins, you survived an encounter with them. If they were sniffing around Marcus’s place, it meant money was about to flow, and trouble wasn’t too far behind.

The music thrummed through your body and travelled to your chest as you allowed yourself to get lost in the rhythm and blues. All around you, a sea of Black bodies moved as one to the voice of Felicity and Ambrose’s band. In the night, they became a living and breathing entity under the heavy and melliferous air of the juke joint. The outside world slipped away in this moment, and all that mattered was the here and now. This is why you always answered the call of The Last Two Step, chasing the high of being free and being a person who is looked up to and not down upon. So far, there were no signs of the twins, and Marcus was growing more antsy by the minute. He’s resorted to pouring you more alcohol than he could offer, anything to make the party look wild and enticing to anyone who came inside.

Anticipation is the sweetest form of torture, and when the identical twins strolled through the entrance, it seemed as though the room truly came alive. Your eyes met with one of them. It wasn’t easy to tell them apart. He flashed a crooked smile, revealing a set of grills over his canines and front teeth. You twirled lightly, letting your waist roll slowly and deliberately. A glance over your shoulder caught the twins approaching Marcus at the bar, who suddenly looked boyish beside their commanding, muscular forms. Marcus was tall, handsome, and fit, but the twins had a figure that only one could have achieved by working hard in the fields.

Jacqueline broke you out of your thoughts when she walked beside you, “If one of those twins so much as smiled my way, I'd be slippin' outta my panties without a second thought.” She looked at the group of men with hungry eyes, drinking them in. You couldn’t blame her, but you’d be damned if any of the other dancers got a taste of the twins before you did. If the rumours were true, the twins were hung like a horse and knew how to eat a girl out so well that she could start humming in colours she had never seen before.

You watched as Deborah and Jacqueline positioned themselves near the twins and got brutally ignored. Better them than you. It’s better that you learn what not to do through them than make a fool of yourself. Moments passed as you danced amongst the crowd, and the music began to slow into a two-step dance, and people began to couple off. Scanning the crowd, you could see a man making his way to you. He’s been ogling you for most of the night and didn’t look too rough. Shit, one dance won’t hurt, right? It’s not like it’ll be your first or last.

Mid-stride, one of the twins drawled, “Ease up, kid,” bumpin’ his shoulder with a grin. “I’ll take it from here, see?”

The young man screwed up his face, about to give the southern gentlemen a piece of his mind but thought better of it when he saw the twin flash him a crooked smile. Smoothing out his button-up shirt, the young man puffed out his chest and recovered quickly. “No worries, boss.” He gave me a once-over before nodding his head in dismissal. The unnamed twin didn’t even bother to turn his head to ensure he was gone before extending a hand in your direction.

“May I have this dance?” His smile revealed the notorious grill the twins were famous for, shining faintly in the dimly lit venue. You couldn’t recall whether it was Smoke or Stack who wore it. Ultimately, did it matter? You paused and accepted his hand. His warm, large, and calloused grip completely enveloped your hand. Aside from counting cash, your thoughts drifted to what else his fingers might be good at. He instantly pulled you in closer with ease. Your bodies were flush against each other, now chest to chest. You peered up at him.

“Well, I don’t have much of a choice, now do I?” You countered. The chuckle that left his throat vibrated throughout his whole body. It didn’t help that when you took a breath to calm your erratic heart, his cologne and natural fragrance evaded your senses. As the two of you fell into rhythm with the music, the thoughts running in your head were anything but holy. It was rare for a man to elicit such a response from you on the first encounter.

“A lady always has a choice,” he rebutted, voice like molasses slow drippin’ off a spoon.

“Who said I was a lady?” you challenged, chin tilted and your cheeks filled with heat. Once it slipped out of your mouth, there was no snatching it back. You've always been reckless with how words leapt past your lips without permission. He didn’t as much as blink at your question and didn’t smirk either. Just stepped in closer, real close, until the scent of smoke, cologne, and something else curled in your nose again. His thigh rose between your legs, stopping just shy of making contact with your center, enough to make your breath catch in your throat, dipping you down and pulling you back up in time with the strums of the guitar that played aloud.

“Then I reckon I ain’t gotta treat you like one,” he murmured, voice pitched low and dangerous, his eyes never leaving yours. “But I do like a woman who talks back.” You swore your knees might buckle right there. “S’wrong? Cat’s got your tongue?” he joked to lighten the obvious tension that grew quickly between you two. You could hear your heartbeat over the hum of the blues and chatter surrounding you. His thigh lingered, firm and deliberate, almost making you forget your damn name. But you weren’t going to let him have the upper hand. Not entirely.

Leaning in just a little, with parted lips and sharp eyes. “And what do they call you, stranger?” your voice came out strong and daring like you weren’t already trying to keep your head on straight.

He didn’t answer right away, dragging his gaze from your eyes to your lips, then down to the space between you that barely existed anymore. “They call me Stack,” he finally said, a slow smile began curling at the corner of his mouth. “But you can call me Elias Moore.” He said it like a promise as he lowered his deep red fedora hat, his eyes never leaving yours. His name hung in the air, impossible to ignore. The kind of name a woman didn’t forget, even if she wanted to. The Elias Stack Moore stood before you. Being his girl could open up more doors for you than you could count.

“Come on,” he drawled, his hand brushing the small of your back. “Dance floor’s gettin’ too damn crowded for what I got in mind.” You felt him guide you, firm but unhurried, through the sea of moving bodies, past the haze of cigar smoke and spilled bourbon. Nobody paid y’all any mind. Juke joints were built on secrets and sideway glances anyway.

The changeroom door creaked as he pushed it open with his shoulder. The low bulb above our heads flickered like it knew what was coming. Inside, it smelled like lavender powder and dust. The old velvet curtains were draped over crates, hiding booze and our valuables. The crooked mirror watched us from their respective corners. He closed the door behind you with a click that felt louder than it was.

He leaned against it for a beat, arms crossed, watching you like he was still deciding whether to kiss you or ruin you slowly. “Now,” Stack’s voice dropped to a sinful hush, “where were we?”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. This boy must’ve lost his goddamn mind if he thought the two of you were going to get hot and heavy in this sorry excuse of a change room. You weren’t a lady, but you had class and respect, very little of it, but it was there nonetheless. The two of you stood in the quiet room, and the silence stretched thick with possibility. Stack pushed off the door and lazily strolled toward you like he had all the time in the world. His boots barely made a sound on the old wooden floors. Every inch he closed made your skin feel tighter.

“You always this quiet when you want something?” he asked. Stack stopped shy of touching you, his hands at his sides like he dared you to lean in first. The nerves in your body buzzed like a live wire. You were all too aware of how your desires practically had you ready to drop to your knees. But you kept your face unreadable, and it was your best defence. You’d been raised to survive men like Elias Stack Moore. The smooth talkers with heat behind their eyes and a storm tucked inside their smiles.

“Depends on what I want,” you finally said. “And whether it’s worth the noise.”

“Oh, I’m worth it,” he replied. Stack threw his hat on the dressing room counter to reveal his face. But I ain’t cheap.” You gave him a steady look up and down. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show a sliver of his skin. Everything he wore appeared nicely tailored to his physique, too.

“Neither am I,” you shot back.

Stack was now an inch away from your face, his warmth wrapped around you like steam off a kettle. His hand reached out, not to grasp nor to grope, but to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, rough fingers grazing your cheek like an invitation.

“Trust me, sugar, you keep carryin’ on as you do, and Chicago gon’ be hollerin’ your name louder than they ever did mine or my brother’s.”

“Well then,” you said, sliding your hand up his chest, fingers trailing the buttons of his shirt like you were counting sins, “guess it's a damn good thing I don't mind how my name sounds in another’s mouth.”

Shifting your hips just enough to make your intentions loud and clear without a single word more. Stack’s breath hitches just a little, but you caught it. You always did. You knew that taking it further would be a reckless mistake, but Lord, it’d feel like salvation. The end of a prolonged drought, giving in, would feel like the first rainfall. Wet, overwhelming, and too damn good to stop. Stack’s eyes told you he was ready to drown in it, and hell, you might just let him.

She didn't have to speak, just the slow roll of her hips were enough to knock the wind out of him. She knew how deep she could cut without drawing blood. His breath caught in his throat, bare and ragged. God help him. He wanted to ruin you in a way that leaves a mark and memory.

Stack knew better. He knew this would get messy. With a glance at your slicked thighs, Stack knew you'd provide no mercy.

Leaning in close, lips just shy of his ear. “Still quiet, Stack?” you whispered in a sweet and teasing voice. “I figured by now you'd know how to beg.” You loved turning his words and spinning them against him. His raw reactions were entertaining to see.

Stack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes didn't waver. “I don't beg, sugar,” his tone changed to a quiet and threatening one. “I take.”

You flashed him a wicked smile and hooked a finger around his belt buckle. “Then come take it.”

He didn't wait, with his hands on your waist, before you could exhale. His rough palms and fingers dug in as if he meant to claim something, or he already had.

“You sure about this?” He muttered against your neck, voice hoarse. Hot breath dragging over your skin. “Cause once I get started, I ain't stopping till I’ve wrung every drop outta yah.”

“Make good on allat talk,” you replied. That was all it took. Stack kissed you like he was desperate. Teeth and tongue felt like a little too much and not nearly enough. You moaned into his mouth as he pressed you up against the old brick wall, grinding against you with slow, punishing friction. His hands found the hem of your skirt, bunching it up, and slid a hand underneath with practiced ease.

“Fuck,” Stack groaned when he felt how soaked you already were. Two fingers slipped along your folds. “You tryna kill me, baby?”

“I ain't even started yet.”

He dropped to his knees like he'd been praying for the chance. Pulling your thighs apart and pushing your back against the cool wall. With a tongue hot and desperate, he licked up your pussy, groaning like you were his last meal. Your hand shot to his head, gripping tight, guiding him just as you liked it. He didn't need much. He was already lost in you. Every moan sounded like praise.

“That’s it,” you hissed, rocking yourself into his mouth. “Don’t fucking stop now.”

“I won’t,” Stack promised. Not until your legs were shaking, and his jaw was slick with you. Not until your pretty moans turned into curses and your body tried to escape, then pleasure only could chase you.

When he finally stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked at you, a man completely undone. Stack spun you around like it was second nature, pressing you into the wall with one hand, pinning your wrists above your head. His belt clinked open behind you, the soft grating of his zipper loud in the stillness.

"You sure you can take it, girl?" he muttered. Looking back, you could see Stack grip his thick length in his hand, pumping it up and down before lining his dick against your soaked entrance, teasing but firm. "Ain't no holding back tonight."

“Give it to me like you mean it,” you snapped.

Stack slammed into you in one cunning and possessive thrust. You gasped when your forehead hit the brick. He didn't give you a second to adjust, just wrapped an arm around your waist and started working his hips in a relentless tempo. The room echoed with sounds of skin meeting skin, moans, and his low curses. His other hand found your clit, and began rubbing small circles to make you fall apart all over again.

“You feel that?” he panted in your ear with pride. “This pussy is mine.”

You cried out, eyes fluttering shut from ecstasy. “Stack… fuck—” was all you managed to get out before he began grinding himself deeper inside.

Your orgasm was intense and all-consuming, tearing a high pitched outcry to escape your lips as you clenched your walls around him. Stack’s thrusts began to be uneven and passionate as he chased his own high. And just when he was on the edge, body trembling, and his muscles taut against yours…

“Well, goddam!”

Both of your heads snapped to the door. Stack froze inside of you, jaw clenched, with wide eyes at the sight of his twin brother.

Smoke stood there, curtly closing the door behind him and leaning against the doorframe like he walked in on a business deal instead of his brother balls deep in another’s soul.

“I come lookin’ for Stack and come to find this.” He gestured between the two of you with an amused look. “Y’all ain't even had the decency to lock the door?”

“Get the fuck out, Smoke,” Stack sounded feral.

Smoke smirked in return, kissing his teeth. “Don’t let me interrupt,” his fingers slipped behind him to turn the lock on the door. “Finish where you left off.”

Stack didn’t pull out. He didn’t even make a move as Smoke’s laughter faded. His grip on your hips tightened like he was claiming you harder now that he’d been seen. He was practically primal, yet there was a hesitation, a shift between the three of you.

“Good. Thought I might stick around this time.”

“You got one fuckin’ second to turn around,” Stack growled, still buried inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back.

“Relax,” Smoke said, voice smooth as whiskey and twice as dangerous. “Ain’t here to fight. I just figured if you were gonna fuck her like you mean it. You’d also let her choose who she wants.”

You turned your head slowly, pulse thrumming like a drum. Smoke leaned in the doorway again, one brow raised, hunger in his eyes like he already knew the answer. Stack’s jaw flexed. His hands never left your skin.

“This ain’t a game, Smoke.”

“Never said it was.” His gaze dropped to where your bodies were still joined. “But I seen the way she looks at me, too. Don’t play like you didn’t notice.”

It was the truth, they were identical twins after all. The thought had crossed your mind if they were also the same down there. Smoke had always been the smoother one. The devil that smiled back at you when you flirted with danger. And now, with Stack buried deep and your body still trembling from the last orgasm, part of you wanted to see what it’d be like to be stretched between both of them.

It’s up to her,” Smoke said, you could hear the smile in his voice. “Ain’t it?” Stack didn’t speak. His silence was a storm ready to break.

You turned to face them both, hips still pushed back. You looked at Smoke through your eyelashes, and said, “You better double check that the door is locked this time.”

Smoke jiggled the door handle before focusing his sights on you, bent forward as if committing the sight to memory.

“ Such a pretty little thing,” he murmured. “Didn’t expect you to be so generous.”

Stack remained silent. He just thrust into you once, hard enough to make you gasp and grip the wall again.

“She ain’t yours,” Stack burst, but his voice lacked conviction. He knew what this was. I knew it wasn’t just about possession.

“Ain’t tryin’ to take her,” Smoke replied, stepping near.

His hands were on you before you could think, one sliding up the nape of your neck, the other tilting your chin to face him. He kissed you softly at first until you deepened the kiss. You moaned into his mouth, feeling Stack start to move again behind you, his speed staggering with every second.

“And you’re just lettin’ him have all the fun?” he mumbled against your mouth.

Stack growled low in his throat. “You want a turn, Smoke? Take her mouth. But you better be sure she can handle both of us.”

“Oh, I can,” you whispered, drunk on the moment.

Smoke stepped out of his clothes, his dick already thick and ready. He guided you down to your knees with his hand. You opened your mouth, lips wrapping around him just as Stack banged back into you from behind.

The stretch of both was overwhelming, one in your mouth and one buried deep. Stack fucked you harder now, his hold bruising on your hips, while Smoke let you control the pace with your tongue until he lost his patience and started to thrust into your mouth.

“Look at you,” Smoke groaned. “Takin’ us both like it’s what you were made for.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you moaned around him, the vibrations making Smoke’s jaw clench. Stack was close, you could feel it in the way his rhythm stuttered and his breathing picked up.

“She’s squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight,” Stack gasped. “She’s gonna make me—fuck—” He pulled out just in time to spill across your back, thick ropes of cum marking your skin while Smoke slid out of your mouth and lifted your chin again.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet,” Smoke growled, hauling you into his arms like you weighed nothing. He laid you down flat on the velvet covered crates nearby, pushing your knees back and plunging into you with a groan. The angle was brutal and somehow filthier. His eyes locked on yours the whole time, making it impossible for you to look away.

Stack leaned nearby, watching, still catching his breath, chest slick with sweat.

“Don’t think she’s ever been full till tonight.” Smoke said between thrusts.

You cried out, the pressure building fast and hot, your nails scraping down Smoke’s back. He fucked you through it, didn’t stop even as your body shook and your thighs tried to close. You came again loudly and broken open for Smoke to finally bury himself and release inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound was your breath and heartbeat, all three of you covered in sweat and something that felt dangerously close to obsession. Then Stack muttered lowly, “This doesn't change shit.”

“Oh, it changes everything, brother.” Smoke chuckled, pulling out slowly, the evidence of what you had just done dripping down your thighs.

taglist: @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax

➴ feel free to send me more thots

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Early 20th Century Trains

Trains were a popular means of transportation during the early 20th century. The previous decades saw to the explosion of more trains, more services and more tracks linking country communities which were isolated from cities and larger towns. So what do we need to know about trains in the early 20th century?

Typical layout

A basic layout of a train is as follows: passenger compartments, dining cars, luggage and guard vans.

Compartments: Compartments are where the passengers sat. They were divided between three classes – first, second, third. First class compartments were the most expensive. The seats were upholstered, and the floors were often carpeted. They were much larger than the other class compartments. They would be fitted with gas light like the rest of the train, the windows would have curtains, and the walls would often be panelled with wood. Second class compartments were less luxurious but pretty much the same as the first class only smaller and less grand. Third class would feature wooden benches or seats fitted with cushions or fabric, they were smaller and often more crowded. Compartments could be offered as corridor compartments which offered more movement between compartments and cars. Compartments would offer seating areas and areas to store hand luggage. Some trains travelling overnight would offer sleeper cars which offered beds and an area to wash.

Dining Cars: Dining cars were offered on some trains. There would be tables for the passengers to eat and get something to drink. Dining cars were usually offered only to certain classes or segregated by class.

Luggage Cars: Where large luggage would be stored.

Guard Vans: Where railway security staff could get warm. It also held a stove and hand-operated brakes which the designated guard would use to slow the train if needed.

Separation

Trains in this era were divided by class and in some case race. Unlike the American states and South Africa where there were laws preventing certain races from mixing with others or from using any class other than third class, Europe was a little more forgiving in the case of race. However, this is not to say there was no segregation. This was Europe at the height of the age of Empire. People who hailed from the ‘colonies’ were discriminated through subtler means than simple prevention, they would be discouraged from attempting to use the upper class tickets and sometimes they were even treated not as well as other passengers. Class was the main division on the train. First class of course had more ability to move, more access to amenities. They often had separate dining cars where they could sit down to full meals. Larger trains might even offer some other common areas such as smoking compartments. Second class were sometimes permitted to dine in the dining cars but may not have been allowed access to full meals. Third class was not permitted access to the dining cars, often having to bring along meals or buy food at the station before departure. The classes were not allowed to mingle. In cases of a first-class person travelling with a servant, they had the choice to either purchase a first-class ticket for their servant or leave them in third class.

Train and Station Staff

Trains did not run by themselves. The passengers and the train had many needs and there had to be an army of staff available to keep things chugging along *hehe*. That being said, the train staff weren’t the only people who kept things going smoothly, the station staff at each stop would also help out the staff and the passengers.

On the Train:

Drivers: These were the people who drove the train.

Firemen: These were the people who shovelled coal and kept an eye on the steam pressure.

Guards: The guards were there to keep the passengers safe. They sometimes checked tickets and would patrol the luggage cars, mainly to keep an out for anybody sneaking onto the trains without a ticket.

Conductors: Conductors would go from car to car to check tickets, collected any outstanding fares and kept an eye on things in the compartments.

Engineers: Would travel on the train to help out with repairs on the train.

Dining car staff: Such as maids to serve tea and coffee, waiters to serve food and if the train is large enough, kitchen staff and bartenders.

The Station:

Station Masters: Was the person in charge of the station, overseeing the flow of trains and passengers through the station.

Porters: Handled the luggage.

Signalmen: Oversaw the signals to keep the trains on track *hehe*.

Parts of the train

The train is a beast of many parts. A train in this era is a steam train, which links of cars connected together behind a steam engine.

Buffers & Buffing Gear: These are the parts of the train built in to absorb impact.

Cars: The segments of the train.

Couplers: This is what connects the train cars together.

Cowcatcher/Pilot: This is the frame that sits at the very front of the train used to clear things off the track.

Carriages: These are the cars that the passenger compartments are.

Headlamp: This is the light at the front used to improve visibility.

Freight Cars: Used for transporting goods.

Locomotive: This is the train’s engine. It is the driving force of the train, where the driver and the firemen would work.

Truck: The framework that connects the axles to the wheels.

Smokebox: Where the exhaust system of the stream engine is housed.

[fictionalsweethearts]

SUBLIMATE THE PAIN | SEVIKA X READER | ARCANE

Synopsis: Sevika helps you to explore yourself and subside the pain and the shame of self pleasure.

Contains: comfort, soft!sevika, unexperienced!reader, wlw, first sexual experiences, soft talk, masturbation, fingering.

A pretty personal fic, tbh, but Sevika as a character seems to be patient and loving when it comes to sex and I'm here to write about it. Enjoy!

Sevika had promised you patience and comfort, a woman with her vast sexual experience knew the unpleasant and uncomfortable details of love. She knew the burning and the pain, the disgust, the sorrow, the shame and the numbness, and for that reason she had promised to accompany you in the process with as much patience as necessary.

She kissed you again on the neck, a mirror stood before you sitting on the bed, Sevika's vast hand ran over your breasts and her grey eyes looked at you through the reflection, inviting you to stop ignoring the signs of your body. Her breasts brushed your back, her mechanical hand gently parted your legs and revealed the juiciness and softness of your core.

"How do you pretend to touch her without knowing her?" The woman asked. "You ignore many things, babe."

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment since you had your first kiss of the evening, but you promised not to let shyness win you over this time. It was the third night and the third time you tried, the last two having ended with a sudden lock-in in the bathroom or tears of shame and frustration running down your cheeks.

"I can't. I swear I can't." You cried as Sevika kissed your wet cheeks.

"Of course you can, don't be like that with yourself."

You considered that Sevika could be your mentor in this unknown field for you, the guide that would allow you to understand sex as something more than a mere routine or necessary act. "To begin with, doll, we don't intend to have a child with this. Not even if we wanted to. Second, I've seen as many pussies in my life as I've smoked cigarettes and yours is undoubtedly beautiful."

You laughed to hide your shame, but Sevika meant it. She was decades ahead of you in sexual experiences, she knew the female anatomy in depth, taking the time to explore herself first. Sevika knew that no one could teach her how to have an orgasm, and she fondly remembers the first times she tried self pleasure in the silence of her room, picturing that pretty girl at the market who used to sell her peaches at a good price. It was another Zaun, more precarious, less saturated with pornography and violence, and certainly her brain needed little to start imagining. And the softness of the girl's breasts under her blouse, her long neck and olive eyes were more than enough to awaken that visceral desire in her.

She dedicated her first orgasm to that girl and her peach scent. It was in a way tender, but the starting point of an endless journey through the unexplored region of sexuality. She soon discovered that inserting a finger was pleasant, that if she moved it in a certain way, it was even more so. She discovered that her breasts were sensitive if touched properly, that her entire skin was a map of erogenous zones and tickles, that rubbing her pussy against the pillow was delicious, and that after an orgasm she slept better. And soon, as soon as she was over five foot seven and learned to smoke without coughing, Sevika discovered that touching herself tasted better if someone she liked did it for her.

"Slow." Sevika whispered, placing a kiss on your shoulder. "Look at yourself. What do you see?"

"My pussy." You whispered, barely giving your reflection time to look back at you.

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

"It's not bad it's…"

"Strange?"

"I don't usually look at my pussy, Sev." You groaned.

"You should, it's pretty." Sevika laughed, caressing your waist with her metal fingers. "Think of all the men who have been staring at their cocks for as long as they've been conscious of them hanging between their legs, do you think they feel ashamed?"

You hesitated. "No?"

"There are two things a man always believes to be true." Sevika said, her tone lighter. "That they have the fattest cock on the block and that they can duel a bear without weapons, and win."

You laughed, your legs shaking slightly. Sevika smiled back. "If only you had the confidence they have in themselves, doll. It would be all so different."

Your expression sobered, this time giving the gap between your legs a longer look, that much neglected organ that deserved just a little more recognition in your life and in the lives of many other women.

"Look at the labia majora, the shape of it, the length of it…" Sevika whispered. "It frames the labia minora, the ones closest to the entrance."

You'd seen them in some anatomy book at the library, but recognizing them on yourself was quite different.

"I should have shaved more." You groaned in frustration.

Sevika snorted. "Are you saying that because of you or me? Cause lemme tell you, a hairy pussy doesn't grosses me out. On the contrary."

"But it does to me."

"Mine repels you?" Sevika inquired, leaving you speechless for a moment.

"No…" you whispered. "Yours… it's yours."

"I see. Now think the same about yours, sweetie." Sevika said. "Yours is what it is and that's it. Don't you dare apologize for how your body looks. Do I apologize for not having an arm?"

And you fell silent once more. Sevika sighed, kissing your neck. “You get my point.”

Sevika reveled in your body, in your flushed cheeks and focused eyes. She loved seeing you present. “You’re already wet.” She whispered. “But it can get wetter. Take two fingers.”

Sevika brought you index and middle fingers parted to the sides of your entrance, urging you to press. “Massage, slow.” She whispered, showing you the movement.

You obeyed, following the motion timidly at first, until you soon understood the purpose. That movement, however subtle, opened a pent-up dam that began to make you wetter and wetter. You moaned, feeling the urge to touch the rest but Sevika held your wrist. “Start from edges.” She said. “Don’t rush it.”

It was one of your vices, quick, silent masturbation. With your legs closed, a hand on your mouth and your eyes closed tightly, as if you were committing a crime that you wanted to finish soon. They were fleeting moments of pleasure that later turned into disconnection with yourself.

But Sevika knew you deserved better than that.

With your index finger you traced circles on your labia majora, slowly while Sevika whispered in your ear, kissed it and bit your lobe, making you shudder subtly. It was a constant and gentle movement, with no other purpose than to explore yourself.

"Come closer to the center." Sevika whispered. "Apply pressure, rub a little."

Your eyelids fluttered at that tickling between your legs, the sticky and wet murmur of your folds that made Sevika moan softly and her breathing accelerate, her breasts pressing against your back. Your hips moved unconsciously, you looked at your hand through the mirror, delicately between your legs with the elegance of an erotic painting.

"You're so pretty." Sevika gasped. "Look how your cheeks blush."

"Yours too."

Sevika smiled. "It just turns me on like you can't imagine seeing you touching yourself."

Sevika was known to be an avid spectator. More than once she would abstain from participating and sit on the couch in the brothel with a cigarette between her teeth, asking her girl to give her a show. There was something about watching such an intimate ritual that stirred every nerve fiber in her. Watching them unfold before her, rubbing themselves the way they liked, moaning genuinely, shuddering, whimpering and sighing, being able to see how their own hand is able to take them on a roller coaster of sensations. That ritual held a power that Sevika was fascinated to behold, and tonight you were her apprentice and her muse.

Sevika squeezed your breast, playing with your hardened, sensitive nipple. She already wanted to taste them, but she had to be patient. The appetizer was your self-exploration, the dessert was her mouth between your legs.

"You know… when there's too much business to attend to." Sevika said, her grey eyes watching you. "I can't visit the girls, so I lay back on my bed with a cigarette between my lips…" she murmured. "And I squeeze my breasts. Over and over, I touch them… massage them… while thinking of old encounters, of sounds… smells. You know how I love smells."

"All of them." You whimpered.

"Yes… from the armpits to the neck, between a couple of breasts and a wet pussy." Sevika sucked in between her teeth. "All of them."

You remember how Sevika had taken to sniffing you the first time she had you. She inhaled the scent of your neck and the crook of your elbows, behind your knees and your armpits. It was a scent loaded with codes, codes that communicated intentions. The pheromones were the best card to attract the most finicky organ of the human body; the nose.

"Sev." You whimpered. "Can you…?"

"That would be the shortcut, so no. I won't touch you yet."

You groaned, tilting your head back as Sevika placed a kiss on the top of your head. "Patience." Sevika drew your hand to the shy hood at the top of your pussy. "Pamper her, that's what it's for."

You traced circles around it, letting out a gasp. Sevika kept her hand on your wrist, indicating the methodical and steady pace, drawing sweet moans from you. "I'm wet just by looking at you." She whispered.

You bit your lip, the urge to grind harder and harder. An orgasm was building inside you, steady and certain, as Sevika kissed your neck and motioned for you to quicken your pace. "Ah, fuck…"

"Moan better." Sevika said. "You can be as loud as you want here."

You whimpered, your hips seeking more contact as you moved and you rubbed against your hand. Sevika pressed her fingers against you, urging you on. "Keep going… don't rush." ​​

"Ah, Sev."

"You like it? It's better when you don' try to cum in two minutes."

You hurried your hand, but Sevika held you back. This wasn't a race and you were certainly getting ahead of yourself. "Old habits die hard."

Her metal hand held your legs apart, her other hand ascending to your chin to make you look at yourself in the mirror again. “We’ll try again, okay?”

This part was the one you liked the least. It wasn’t just the pain, it was the accumulated frustration from past sessions with no results. Sevika told you it was all in your head, that you were just as deserving of this pleasure as others. But you still felt skeptical.

“Middle finger.” She whispered, bringing it to your entrance. “Just press, darling. Soften your entrance.”

You pressed your lips together, obeying her command even though you preferred to rub. You eased the tip of your finger, gently moving it in circles. “It already burns.” You whined.

“I know. We talked about sublimating pain, remember?” You nodded. “Your body is already relaxed, you’re wet. You need to focus on breathing.”

It seemed that when it came to penetration, your body locked up. It was an overwhelming burn, a wall of fire if you will, closing in around your fingers and keeping you from entering. Sevika had tried this in the past, drawing whimpers from you that would never stop causing her guilt. This time, however, it was about allowing yourself to do it.

"I don't like it, Sev."

"You don't like it because you're predisposed to suffer." she insisted. "I know you can, babygirl."

You looked at Sevika through the mirror, her grey eyes soothing you. "Breathe, deep. One… two…" you inhaled, your hand between your legs, the wall of fire present. "Three. Exhale…"

You dared to venture deeper, your walls coupling to your finger as the burn quickened your breathing. "Shh." Sevika kissed your neck. "Breathe again."

One… two… three…

Exhale.

“Ah…” you moaned, inserting the last bit of your finger and feeling the latent but less painful tension. “Mhm.”

“Good girl, look at yourself.”

You opened your eyes, looking at yourself in the mirror. The palm of your hand rested against your clit, your finger inserted all the way in, like a new but unrejected intrusion. “Sev.”

“I told you you could, you're taking it whole.” Sevika smiled. "Can you move it?"

You barely curled your finger, but you recognized the rugous wall inside you. "Yes…" you moaned.

"Breath for me." continued Sevika, gently taking your wrist as she motioned you to curl your fingers once more. "One... two..."

"Mhm, Sev." you moaned, your eyes closing. "Fuck."

"Does it hurt?"

"The pressure." you managed to explain.

"You're tensing, baby. Relax..." Sevika let out a pant, kissing the side of your neck. "You're doing so good."

You endured and took a deep breath, curling your finger against the inner wall Sevika talked you about. You felt a tickle, barely diminishing due to an increasingly timid pain.

And Sevika seemed pleased. "You did good, baby. Rest."

You pulled your finger back when the pressure forced it, only for Sevika to cup your chin in her fingers and pull you in for a long kiss. "Well done." She said between kisses. "Fuck, you looked so beautiful."

Sevika showered you in kisses, from your mouth to your navel, repeating how proud she was of you. "You've crossed the threshold, gorgeous. You just need to practice."

You smiled, feeling the hint of a happy cry build up in your throat. But Sevika cheered you up with another kiss. "We'll try again tomorrow. Sooner than later I'll have you cumming in my fingers over and over again."

You chuckled, watching Sevika kiss your inner thigh. "It's rude to look at the food without eating it, y'know?" you teased her.

"How rude of me." she purred, her kisses coming closer to your wet and now dilated pussy. "You better moan properly, doll."

"All you want."

[lovelybucky1]

Ain’t as Good as I Once Was

warnings: old man!logan x AFAB!reader, riding, bratting, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, age gap, punishment, degradation, 18+ minors dni, divider from @strangergraphics

“C’mon, girlie, if you want it, you’re gonna have to take it yourself,” Logan’s gruff voice says from below you.

You’re sitting on his lap, trying desperately to fuck yourself on his cock as he sigs back and watches you. Despite your begging, Logan refuses to do the work for you.

“I’m too old for this shit. If you’re that fuckin’ horny, you can take care of it yourself,” he told you smugly.

You sank down on his cock and have been trying to bounce on it, but the strain on your thighs is too much to reach a satisfying pace.

“Please, Daddy, can’t you just fuck me?” you whine pathetically. Logan smirks a bit and chuckles through his nose.

“I ain’t as good as I once was, dollface. I doubt my old bones can fuck you the way you want me to,” he says, not seeming apologetic in the slightest.

You know he’s full of shit. He may be old and gray, but his healing factor keeps him in peak condition. He’d be able to fuck you just fine, he’s just a crotchety old man who wants to see you suffer for his entertainment.

He places a large hand on your hip and starts gently guiding you, urging you to rock back and forth. You follow his movements and while it’s better than what you were attempting, it’s still not what you want.

“You’re a spoiled fuckin’ princess, that’s the problem. So used to Daddy takin’ care of ya, you forgot how to ride, is that it?” Shamelessly you bite your lip and nod.

You wouldn’t call yourself spoiled. Well cared for is a better term. Logan never lets his girl go to bed unsatisfied, and now he’s suffering from the consequences of his actions.

“C’mon, flip me over and fuck me,” you say.

Logan raises an eyebrow at you.

“Who do you think you are, givin’ orders? If I want you to ride my cock, then that’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna fuck that pretty pussy with it until she’s had her fill.”

Logan lets go of your hip but you keep up with the same pace he set. With his hand now freed, he reaches over to the nightstand to grab his cigar and lighter. He lights up and smokes it as if he were at the bar, not in bed, deep inside his girl.

He looks up at you, bored, as smoke pours out of his mouth. You’ve been riding the edge of just enough for the past fifteen minutes and you’re getting increasingly frustrated with Logan’s lack of help. You briefly consider being more of a brat in hopes of egging him on enough to punish you with a hard fuck, but with the kind of mood he’s in, it’s likely that the punishment would be stopping entirely.

You let your head hang down as you brace yourself with your hands on his chest. The solid muscle covered in gray hair is hot, unnaturally so, under your touch and you desperately want to feel that heat on your back while he fucks you from behind.

“Daddy,” you plead quietly.

“What’s the matter, dollface?” he asks, playing dumb like the tease he is.

“I can’t do it.”

Logan smirks around his cigar like you just said the magic words he’s been waiting to hear this whole time.

“What’re you saying?”

You pout down at him. “I can’t make myself cum. I need you to do it for me”

Logan, surprisingly, grins at you. “Bet you regret calling me an old man now, huh?”

You furrow your brows in confusion, but you quickly realize what he’s talking about. Before this all started, you pounced on his lap and asked him to fuck you. He told you he was busy reading his book, and in your usual bratty fashion, you replied, “What, you can’t get it up, old man?”

“I didn’t mean it, Daddy,” you whine. “I swear, I was just teasing you.”

Logan hums but makes no effort to move. “Guess you better start behaving if you want something from me.”

“I promise I’ll be good. I won’t talk back anymore,” you attempt to bargain.

You both know that’s about as empty of a promise as you could give, but Logan doesn’t seem to care. He prefers when you’re trouble anyway; it’s the game you play. He’s the grumpy and mean and you’re the spoiled, demanding princess.

Logan stubs his cigar out in the ashtray on the nightstand and places both hands on your hips. He lifts you off of him with ease, something that never fails to amaze you, and sets you on the bed next to him.

He moves so he’s kneeling between your legs and holding them up around his waist, his cock lined up at your entrance.

“Spoiled fuckin’ rotten, you are,” he mutters as he pushes inside.

Logan always makes sure his girl goes to bed satisfied, no matter how much of a brat she is.