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tonycries · 22 days ago

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FAST N' FURIOUS!

Synopsis. When he’s furious, he’s fast. And rough.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, angry s, manhandIing, they’re FÉRAL, full neIsons, headIocks, creampíes, cúmplay, GOJO’S POWERS, fíngering, chokíng, spítting, p talking, true form Sukuna, dp, p sIapping, breaking the bed, ratio technique, exhíbitionísm (Geto), rough s, they’re big, dumbíficatíon, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Heheh hope you have a lovely week <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - BACK-BREAKER.

CRACK!

It takes a second for Toji to even register the splintering noise let alone realize that he’d just shattered your bed into almost a thousand pieces. Darkened eyes narrowing- a bad gig today and now this?

“Mmm, Toji–” You’re turning your dazed head back to whimper oh-so-cutely. Lips wobbling as you take in the state of your poor bedsprings, “You broke the- oh!”

And Toji Fushiguro didn’t care.

He didn’t care if your bed was in one piece let alone sagging on one side. And before you can even flutter your teary lashes, you’re finding yourself flatly sprawled on your bedroom floor. Spine arched into a curve, legs smeared open by his strong knee.

“Be good for me, girl.” One of his rough, scarred hands creeps up on your neck to manhandle you still. He spanks his puffy n’ red tip down your core with a dampened pap! Voice fuming, “Your husband’s had a baaad day.”

Wait…husband?

Your poor mouth dangles open to ask what he meant by that- but the only thing sneaking out is a shrill whimper. “Fuh-fuck! Oh my god, why are you so big-”

Because Toji’s sheathing in a few of his hard, solid inches in a single thrust. Barely giving you time to adjust, barely letting you even breathe prior to holding onto your rapidly pulsating throat n’ dragging your body up and down in harsh jerks to meet his.

“Fuck. Shut up.” He’s channeling out a seething hiss, every one of your sweet sounds made his large, weeping tip twitch. Achingly. “Shut up and take- it-”

It’d been nearly hours now since he’d come back from some mission gone awry n’ taken it out on your poor, sensitive cunt. Now tenderly weeping out every time he furiously pours out another batch of wadded pre.

Toji’s barely even moving in his usually looong, teasing strikes that have you squirming endlessly. Right now he’s fucking you through the frigidly polished hardwood with rough, pummeling half-thrusts that have his own pelvis burning bright red at the slamming impact.

And you’re so sensitive from it.

Sobbing, “B-but it’s so much.”

“Shit- if this pretty pussy can’t take it then no one can, doll.” Toji has the audacity to tilt his head sexily and whistle. The wet underside of his shaft rawly inching deeper to stretch your hole wiiidely. “What is it- want me to beg? S’that it? You want me to beg, mama?”

Whining, his rude restraint on your windpipe grows stronger - and so does his cadence.

With a grunt he swats his plush balls against your cunt and watches as the contact makes your eyes stupidly whirl. “N-ngh- Toji–!”

“Heh- alright then…please.” Grinning, he’s so mean in the way he’s leaning his muscular body down so that you’re dealing with the brunt of his weight. “Please. Hold those legs up f’me and ngh- let your husband blow off a lil’ steam.” Mockingly, annoyed - but not at you, never at you. “Please.”

Leisurely, you’re only half-way registering what you’re doing once your hands instinctively dive down to perk the inner part of your thighs up. “Like this?”

“More.”

Struggling. “This?”

He snickers, “Difficult? Need me to fuck ya into the hah– floor instead?” He already was. Letting him throw your jittery legs onto his shoulders and bending–“Not enough, my wife.”

“Wh-what?!”

“I said…” It’s such a primal mating press right then n’ there on the ground. Your thighs on his deltoids, your ass against his washboard abs.

Toji pliably uses his inhuman strength to roughen you up all he wanted, the fleshy curves of his muscles flexing as he did. It was so mouth-watering to ogle him - all veins of his neck popping out, pecs tense, temple glittered with a thin line of sweat. Easing inside. Groaning, “-not enough.”

“O-oh mmm–” You’re steadily melting as his rugged length angles a straight whack! against the cute target of cute g-spot. Still so delicately bruised from all those rounds prior. “There! Right- ngh- there, baby–”

So deep and big inside of you now that his cocktip was stretchin’ the areas of your walls until you’re damn near seeing stars.

Swabbing every slick orifice with his reddened, blushing crown, he’s so far gone that the way you twist your hands into his beefy forearms and claaaw your way down only makes him let off a dopey smile. “Tch- like kitten scratches, mmmm- yeah yeah, try harder, doll.”

Harder. Faster. And it was all because of that damn gig- what that damn Shiu had said…

It feels so raw having him inside you, spank after spank you’re reeling from- easily making a complete mess of you.

Hiking his naturally sculptured thighs further upwards to press a deep snog against your cervix, you’re feeling the spheroid of his mushroomy tip surface the spongy layer of your womb and you sob.

“Harder. C’mon now- harder.” Toji bites out at you, the honed points of his canines gleaming with a layer of slobber. He was drooling at the repeatedly squelching music of your hot, dripping pussy now. “Oh, the lil’ kitty’s purring for me now…h-heh. Is she gonna cum—?”

He knew the state of your sweet, syrupy cunt more than you did.

Because just then you’re feeling the white-hot sparks swimming near your navel, thighs shaking ‘round Toji’s gyration hips. You can only nod and nod and nod, “C-close! Not gonna last…”

“There there, mama.” He flicks the pinkish edge of his tongue over his scarred lips, just the sight of you all wet and leaking over him maddening. Flopping his tastebuds out to taste your salty tear-tracks, “Cum for me.” Before you can utter a word, his free hand spanks down on your weepy cunt and dips a thumb past your slit. Treating your quivering clit like a button- one strike on your pretty nub, one strike to your g-spot. “Cum. Harder now.”

You don’t even realize you do until Toji’s gasping.

Until he’s grinning, until his painfully rock-hard cock bulges just a few centimeters even bigger at the sight of your mouth gaping in awe.

Toes curled, mouth flapping, overstimulated to tears. “T-Toji–! Cum…ing…”

Your slick-sprayed thighs plaster to the side of his obliques, front glued to his ladder-like abs as he sliiides down between vicious thrusts. Leaving no room for you to collect your breath. Leaving no room for you to even start thinking again—

“We haven’t broken the floor yet, doll.” Toji rustles his heady breath over your features, feral. “And Shiu’s gonna see what happens when he tries ta flirt with my wife.”

Oh.

♡ NANAMI KENTO - A reeeal man

You had your mouth gagged with Nanami’s silky yellow tie, your eyes curling to the back of your head. Jittery hands struggling to find purchase anywhere for dear life—“Mmpf, Ken—!”

And you were just so cute with your wet, puffy folds squeezin’ down on him that Nanami has to force himself to tear his hazy irises away from your cunt. “S’alright, my love.” Cooing, one of his fat thumbs darts up to swipe away the line of sparkly drool seeping from your lips. “Don’t wanna be mean. And I- ngh- don’t wanna be too rough, but…”

But he couldn’t help it.

Oh, ever since the moment he woke up in this very hospital bed after fighting that damned curse Mahito- Nanami Kento couldn’t help himself.

Parched for his dear wife’s pretty pussy when he thought he’d never see you again, he’s just slightly roughened up after Shoko had mended him, as good as new. Able to fuck you as good as new in this sloppy full nelson.

Chiseled pecs heaving, groans claggy.

“Fuck, darling, you’d be lucky if I don’t eat you alive.”

Whining, your back arches as his rugged hands come sliding underneath your knees to tug them all the way up to your tits. Tight. Rude.

His scorching hot breath hits the side of ear in gusts, “I’m- I’m gonna break you, my wife.” Uttering this just as Nanami’s feet plant firmly flat on the creaky bedsprings to shovel his cock deeper. The utter fuckin’ stress of everything that’d happened during battle only making his reddened, ravaged cock oh-so-merciless. “I’m gonna fuck you so had that m’gonna hafta apologize.”

You swear the round, curving edge of his cocktip only grows harder every time he’s remembering - getting angrier. Furiously pumping between your pussylips, it just feels so good to have your calm, sensible husband take it out on your pussy until the toned area of his pelvis is stinging red.

“Ngh– mmm- there.”

And Nanami didn’t know whether he should be proud or shocked at the way that geysering hole of yours only grows wetter. A sticky lather of syrup trickling down his veiny shaft- “You…you like that?”

All you can do is nod- your head falling slightly backwards to hit his strong collarbone, where he takes the opportunity to sweetly kiss the side of your cheek.

Murmuring - more to himself this time than you. “You want it- rough.”

It all happens at once- in one blink of your dewy eyes.

Nanami has your whiny throat caught in one of his big, beefy biceps in a headlock. His ankles looped over yours to smear them even further apart, n’ his large, bulbous cock swinging inside so deep.

And you suddenly have your teary cunt stinging with impact, your tastebuds sizzling at the stretch. “I’m r-really gonna break you, my love.” And yet, he just couldn’t stop himself. He’s rovering his hungry shaft with hard, slamming thrusts. “Really, really…”

Slap after slap.

Even though Nanami’s voice was so very gentle with you, his hips were anything but.

As if he’s slowly regaining his cursed strength and ramming every shred of it into swabbing your sloppy orifice. Letting his hip bones dig deeply into the cheeks of your ass, you’re whining. “M-more!”

“More…?”

“More.” Cheeks still stuffed with the length of his tie, you’re hastily trying to spit it out- just to have him push one of his ringed hands over and squeeze your cheeks. Pushing. Holding you still. And Nanami’s sheer cadence is so hard n’ fast that your legs fall further open like they’re completely boneless. “Want you in like mmm- this.”

Like this?

The metallic clinic bedframe creaks as he only picks up his pace, grunting. “Being all- hah-disrespected like this?” Drilling into you like he was crazed- he’s never been so sloppy, so disoriented, so messy with a pool of precum laying over your folds. He spanks his wedding band on your swollen clit and watches as you squirm. “How does it feel like this, huh?” Tugging rudely on that sensitive nub, “Lettin’ me treat that pussy like a little slut?”

It’s like he’s tightening his restraint on your windpipe and asking you into making your shrilling wails. Goading you to.

“P-please-”

“How does it feel? Goood?”

Your maw splashes a polish of drool down his veiny forearm, your head pathetically airy with bloodrush. All you can whimper are tiny ‘yesses’ and ‘please!’

Voice higher-pitched, breaking. “Don’t say things like that.” Cutting off your rapid breaths as he raises his toned spine to rut n’ rut- “Gonna hafta draw you a long-” His thick veins were throbbing at this point, patterning across every inch inside of you. The towering curves of his body frame twitch as he’s feeling the stress seep away from him. “-loooong bath after this- and the deepest- massage.”

You’re so wet that you’re squirting off a few dribbles of syrupy sap and his precum, shiny in the overhead lights. And he breathes, “And another ring- fuck!”

Oh, with his blond brows furrowed and his glassy gaze blurred at the feeling of your sweet, sweet cunt- Nanami doesn’t waste a single second before striking your sensitive g-spot with a slick thwack!

Repeatedly. Accurately, oh-so-hard with his strength that your teeth are on edge. “F-fuck! There-” Your poor hips are starting to run away from the raw impact, but Nanami can’t bear that-

“Come- come back.” Headlock still in place, you’re being hauled back down until the line of his tawny happy trail nuzzles your back. One more thrash of his weepy divot into your g-spot. Two more. Three more. Four-

And it’s only later that your mind registers the pricking sensation of the charged air around you two. Almost as if your pussydrunk husband was leaking…electricity? No, that couldn’t be. It was more like…

Oh, fuck…your eyes widen. His ratio technique.

He was out of control- and it seems like Nanami is hit with the very same realization. Gasping sharply, “Oh, darling, you are not going to be walking out of this.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Jury Duty

“Now…I don’t get mad, gorgeous.” Oh, but Geto Suguru was fuming - not because you’d messed up your sneaky lil’ mission to collect data from the sorcerers- no.

The very memory makes him slide his glistening fingertips down your raw, leaking slit. Letting off the loudest ringing sluuuurp–! once he’s digging between your puffy folds to squeeze your clit. Humming, “But was it quite so necessary to be that…close?”

He was mad because of just how sweetly you were talking to that nameless assistant that’d tried his best to get your number. Oh, if only Geto could’ve taken care of him right then and there.

“B-but-”

“Was it?” Raising his head, his darkened eyes face your little audience of the rest of his cult members, surrounding the two of you on the tatami mats. “Did you think you could pull a fast one on me?”

Heads bowed, reverent of their leader. Each n’ every one there shivers at his attention- and you don’t even get to hear their answer before he’s kissing his plush lips down the line of your back- holding you firmly still with a hand at your throat once the curve of his cock slips just between your legs.

You’re whining, “No it wasn’t- please!”

“Stay.” Voice deep, tone guttural. He’s clinging on with a clawed hand onto the side of your hips, no matter how much you wrestle and thrash and ache for more- you couldn’t move because of his carnal, strong hold. Not a single inch.

“He was just hck! being nice.”

“And now you can’t stop talking about him, gorgeous?” And Geto knows he’s being unfair. He knows he’s being mean. But the way you just turned so slippery n’ wet once he’s spanking the entrance to your cunt with his reddened, blushing tip makes him only grin. “Guess you’ll just get to talk out of her.”

Geto was silently seething, watching the way your spit-stuck mouth hangs faaaar ajar with every solid inch he slips inside. Sensually, slow enough that your thighs twitch and you can’t do anything but whine once he’s holding you still to rub the fat of his veins against your sweetest spots. Over and over.

“H-heh-” Something in his voice cracks. “Don’t think she even deserves this. Now, do we think she deserves my entire fucking cock, hm—?”

Oh, the low purr in his voice makes both you and the cult shiver- and your popped ears catch a few stray agreements. Geto’s answering tone low in your ear, “You’re lucky they’re being nice~”

But he wasn’t - and before you know it, your boyfriend has one thigh hiked to help take you from behind. The spheroid of his mushroomed tip flared and red-hot lodging straight into your cervix as he sinks in, pushing and pushing and pushing.

He gasps at the slight resistance of your tight hole, “Take it.” Honed fangs snarling, partially-closed eyes locked onto the way slick was gluing your pussylips all sweet n’ together. Your mouth drops as you stare over your shoulder and wonder whether he was even talking to you.

Because his low, breathy tone made it sound like Geto was babbling like never before.

Spitting straight down the glittery slope of your slit so that you whimper. “Can’t hear you, pretty baby. Speak up.”

“Suguru–” Your mouth huffs out, lower lip pushing into a pout. Your eyes criss-cross stupidly once he flinches at the sound of his name on your tastebuds and strikes the spongy layer of your g-spot dead-on- as if it’d just electrocuted him. Slapping down two hands on the side of your hips to haul you deeper down his bludgeoning, split-ended crown. He probes a circular bruise into you, “O-ohhh mmm- s’in so deep-”

“And who said you could speak, gorgeous?”

You’re letting off a whiny shrill, questions building up on your tastebuds. Only for Geto to beat you to it and thwack! his meaty cockhead repeatedly against the splotch of your g-spot until you can’t speak.

Tilting his head towards your spectators with a grin, “Right~? I didn’t say hah- she couldn’t speak, right?” Seemingly nodding, you could feel him lean his weight further down into the base of your spine, pinning you down. “So shut up and take- it-” Punctuating his words with stiff jackhammers that blow your mind. “Let this filthy hole be the one ngh- talking t’me- she’s muuuuch sweeter than you.”

As if he’d just planned it, his flared slit snags on the quivering entrance to your pussy and makes such a saccharine squelch!

“Heh…when she’s not swallowing my fat fucking cock, that is.”

So vulgar.

You’ve never seen him like this- you’ve never had him like this.

Fucking you so deeply into the futon that you’re half-sure the pattern of the tatami below would still be on your front by tomorrow. He wasn’t just pounding away, though- it was hard, precise mazings of his slimy shaft that drove you the most mad. Geto spanks his hips down until it gives a good pummel against your g-spot and wonders whether it might’ve bruised.

“B-but-” Just barely managing to get out of your drivelling mouth before two of his arms loop underneath your own and hoist you halfway upwards. Held up only by his big, beefy biceps, splayed out like such a slut.

He sags his pretty face into the crook of your neck, still driving his hips until the fuzz of his happy trail was scratching you raw. “Still talking, gorgeous?”

“But- wanna-”

“Wanna? Hmmmm…” For a second, Geto looks as if he might just as the rest of his association whether or not you deserved to. And for a second, you expect him to.

But it happens all at once- his wrist reaching out to tilt back your woozy head, his rosy lips puckering, spitting a wadded stream of saliva straight into your half-open mouth.

He’s wrenching shut your jaw and making you swallow—“Clean that mouth out. Talking to hah- bastards.” Absolutely no shame, absolutely no disgust in the way he plants a lecherous slide of his tongue down in a French kiss. Fuck. “Mmm- now you’re mine. Say ‘thank you’, my girl.”

The sheer girth of his length already has you blubbering, mouth moving before your mind. He’s stirring up your insides n’ every ridge until you mewl, “Th-thank you.”

“Good—” The very same hand that was latched onto your jaw now moves to your cheeks, squishin’ them into an embarrassing pout as Geto makes you stare straight at the sprawling audience you two have. Heady. “Now…ask them if you deserve to cum.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “Fuck.”

It’s just about the only thing that your poor, twitching boyfriend can say right now.

And as he bruises a roughened hold upon each side of your bouncing hips, echoing in a pant. “F-fuck!” Baritone cracking into something high, he throws his head back into the cushy pillows and ruts just as far as his spine could curvaceously arch.

Mahogany eyes fluttering shut, teary lashes touching his cheek.

It takes the soft, fleeting caress of your fingers gliding across his bangs for Choso to even register that he should open his eyes. And you coo out in a gentle voice, “Is everything alright, baby–?”

“Yes-” Breath hitching, he’s almost immediately back-tracking his answer when your dewy wet folds try to clench ‘round his girth. And the very feeling makes him once more sloppily thrust- “No.” You smile as Choso’s plush lower lips fall into a pout, “N-no teasing, baby.”

Oh, there was something so primal about the way that Choso’s saying it.

Like he’s burning up with red, hot power sizzling underneath his skin. You’re pulling on his hair when he whacks your cervix once and the only thing he can keen is a low–“Harder.” Harder. “No- harder.”

It just isn’t enough, some carnal part of him thinks it might never be enough.

And the only thing that the half-curse can do is channel out a few harder hits, feeling his heart race at how that constant ramming of skin on your skin makes his v-line sting.

“Fuck- nghh-” Your eyes scrunch shut with a few pearly tears at the sultry sensation. Never ever has your boyfriend pounded into you like this, never has he held your drooling cunt hostage while he shoveled his length from the very tip-top of his strawberry divot, bottoming out until he physically can’t anymore. “So good mmm, feels so good, Cho.”

“Yeah? Yeah?” Watching as your puffy core starts squirtin’ out a few sleek ribbons of slick, Choso crinkles his nose and all but begs. “Can- can I go harder then, baby? Please?”

Oh?

He’s never the first to ask to go harder- usually, you are.

And that itself is enough to get you nodding stupidly, your glassy peripherals swirling in unison with his veiny shaft. Stirring in a slight curving gyration inside of your gummy walls before he pulls out and slams all the way back in. Methodical and mean.

“Fuck-” His flared mushroom tip hits the side of your g-spot and Choso drools. “M’not gonna hck! make it out of this alive. What…what is this feeling-”

Before you can even think of answering, he plants his feet firmly flat on the floor and uses the sinful leverage to slide you upwards on his hips. The feeling of your perky clit gliding down his happy trail making the man hiss—Reaching upwards, eyes dilated. “Feels like m’gonna eat you alive.”

Oh…you had an idea what it was.

Something about putting his cursed energy into overdrive during a mission today. And you’re sure that your dear, inexperienced boyfriend was simply stressed from the day.

Unsure how to take it out. Unsure how to do anything but flinch once you’re opening your sweet maw to shrill a few teasing words. “Awww– seemed like you’re under some ngh- stress, baby. Want me to take care of that for you?”

“I said no fucking- teasing-”

Choso looks as shocked as you at those words - apologies ripe on his tongue, cherry-pink lips wobbling adorably as he tries to reel it back in- Only for the weepy hole on top of his swollen crown to pour out a generous load of wadded pre, striking right into the very back of your pussy.

Going harder. Sloppier. And he’s so big that every second has your chin glitter with bubbles of spit.

“O-oh.” And he’s sucking in a shallow breath as if he’d just had an epiphany. Dark brows knitting together, the crevice of his damp mouth opens up to let his pinkish tongue peek through. Carefully grazing his thumb down that lil’ tummy bulge he was fucking into you, “You’re gonna take me like- like a good girl.”

Fuck- you’re so wet by now that the bottom half of his abs were polished with a glittery sheen. Making it sooo much easier for him to slip n’ slide you with his manhandling arms. “A good- ngh-”

“Yeeeeah, exactly that.” And he looks so drunk on that little sentence, a dopey smile playing along his mouth once he presses down on that bumpy, cylindrical outline. Giggling, “H-heh, my good girl. You’re gonna take me, aren’t you, my baby?”

Hands clawing onto the plush curves of his deltoids, you can only throw your head back and let yourself be moved. “Yeah- go on. Have your fun, Cho—”

“My fun. My fun.” Almost as if he couldn’t believe it. The buzz of his powers going into overdrive makes his long, sensitive shaft even more sensitive, rovering down your ridged walls so fast that his delicate veins start throbbing. “That means…I can bend you like this-”

His right hand, so loving n’ soft on your hips- starts arching you back, back, back back- until every ramming kiss of his glazed tip stirs your insides fully.

Until he’s staring at that tummy bulge and watching with such heart eyes, “And- and I can fuck you like this-” Not only were his hips rutting up animalistically, his strong, beefy arms were flexing upon your sides and making you bounce. Milking him. Slouching his toned upper body over to bite on the crook of your neck, “And I can bite-”

With his honed canines nibbling down on your heated skin, Choso’s mouth departs with cracked whimpers every time his tender slit was rubbin’ up on the side of your cervix.

“Please- ngh- please please please-” You’re throwing your head back as his ruby-red tip starts to twitch. Ferally. Every time he slides his velvety length through your walls, he’s striking hard enough that both of you see stars.

And Choso grins–“Can be all r-rough- and this pussy’s still mine.”

So it only made sense that he was going to cream himself inside like it. Like you owned him, he’s circling your hips in a wide semi-circle that makes his veins snag all over the insides of your cunt. Lecherous. Loud.

Choso just can’t stop whining with every splat! of salty white cum that sprays out into your pussy, “Gonna do this again.” Not even slowing. Not even faltering. His pulsating cock is just so big that you can’t even spill all over, just sheathing him in a layer of syrupy white. “Gotta- have to.”

Mewling, “Yes— please- make me cum, baby.”

“Hmm—” And fuck- you’d nearly forgotten just how strong he was. Because in a matter of mere sultry moments, you’re being bent forwards with a powerful hand at your throat. “Only if you spit in my mouth.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - TRUE true form!

Ryomen Sukuna was big - so big that every smash of his dual, blushing tips made you throw your head back and see stars.

And his arms weren’t letting you off easy, either. All four of his bulbous, beefy biceps flexed once he kept his hold on either side of your body- damn near holding you off of the bed in midair as he fucked you like he hated you.

“P-please, how are you so hck! big, Kuna?” You’re whining, your chin splashing with a syrupy bout of saliva. And every tiny twitch of your boneless hips left his bludgeoning shafts travelling straight to the bottom of your pussy.

“P-P-please-” He’s mocking, gruff voice clinging onto the back of your neck like adhesive. You’re just on all fours and shaking like a leaf- “S’that any way to talk to your hah- king, little human?”

“Nooo- but…”

“Shut up and take it then- heh.” Legs boneless, every ricket! of the mattress leaves you wincing at the recoil of his hips. Ramming into yours so hard that you’re sure you have bruises now- his thighs on your own, his abs on your spine, his twin cockheads on the entrance to your womb.

And you have nothing more to say, every other end of your sentence smashed up every time he’d wetly plastering your cervix with a layer of pre. It was so hot n’ hard having him filling up your every tender orifice. “It’s so rough.”

And what else did you even expect?

Cutely asking him not to destroy a few souls- tch, of course he was pent up. Of course, he was seething and taking out every shred of it by clawing down the base of your spine and pushing n’ pushing.

Bottomed out but still half-rutting like it would kill him if you didn’t take any more.

Each lil’ clench of your bubblegum pussy making his black, clawing nails only surge, his muscles ripple even bigger, fangs growing-

“Haaa? What? You want me ta be gentle?” Sukuna purrs, low. And you’re whimpering once you feel the slimy tip of what felt like his second tongue sliiiide down your stuffed slit. “Your king will show you ‘gentle’, brat.”

Mewling, each spank of the velvety underside of his cursed tongue leaves you jolting. Purposefully dragging over his textured tastebuds just so that he could taste every syrupy ounce of you.

And not even clinging onto the aged headboard of the bed and squirming could get him to let up.

Could get him to move even a single inch when he’s alternating between rude bangs of his matching plump crowns into your cervix, and then a glutinous flick of his tongue. Again and again, he was letting it alllll out on you until you’re all bruised and battered on the gooey ends of your pussy.

Sukuna’s only holding you to his broad pecs with two of his hands, the other two drifting down to smear your sheeny thighs open. So, so wide but his toned hips were so bulky that stretchin’ round him made your hamstrings ache.

“You won’t let me fuuuck- consume humans and now you won’t let me consume this?” Both mouths drooling, he greedily gazes at the way each single whack! of his breeder balls leaves your cunt hole trembling n’ geysering. He spits, molten hot irritation. “Spoiled brat…I’m starved.”

“Can’t- hck! can’t help it- it’s so much-”

Spank after spank, he slots his second mouth in a steamy French kiss just where your cunt was quivering with delight. Every geysering slosh of sap streaming down to his greedy throat- “Yeah? Sayin’ that when yer making such a ngh- mess?”

And you were just slobbering everywhere, painting a translucent little puddle underneath you that he’s eagerly lapping up. Probin’ oh-so-stupidly deep that you can only babble, “Y-yes?”

“Tch.”

Oh. Oh.

That sinful little answer of yours makes the King’s tattooed body erupt in goosebumps. And you swear you’re feeling the weight of him press you into the bedsprings even deeper. So feverish, so hot that you blearily snap your head around and drink in the sight of Ryomen Sukuna with horns.

Red, jagged and long.

His true form.

And it was so unfairly sexy, glinting canines snapping at the tendons of your throat. “And ya think you deserve to be messy, hm?” Grinning in such a gone way, he tilts his head as he presses down on the edge of your spine with one knee. Drilling into you like he’s crazed. Out of control. “Think you deserve more?”

“Mmm- can feel you both inside- ngh, both-”

Something in his glowing, crimson eyes was dark- primal. And it was boring at you dead-on once Sukuna splays an open palm of his in front of your face and croons—“Prove it t’me. Spit.”

Your glossy, puckered lips curve into a pout, starin’ at that opened palm of his straight ahead underneath you. Saliva already dribbling down each side of your twitching lips, like he was spearheading you from the other side and pushing it out. You spit-

Only for Sukuna’s second mouth to manifest right at that very split-second on his palm, so that you’re spitting in there instead. “Filthy thing.” And as that great glittery glob disappears between his cursed lips, you don’t know whether he’s talking to you or his mouth. “Want more then, huh?”

And, truthfully, he doesn’t even know if you can handle it.

Doesn’t know if your stretched-out cunt can take any more with his mushy tongue trying to pry apart your core even further. But he wasn’t feeling any ounce of mercy.

Trying to fill you up so much that you’ll be able to feel it even weeks from now, Sukuna’s lengthy nails leave marks all over your waist as he hoists you up even more. Hissing at the way your fingers reach up to graze just the base of his draconic horns.

And the King blushes, he gasps.

“You- you vicious fuckin’ woman.”

You’d just made Ryomen Sukuna stutter.

The roughened thrust that comes next so hard that your eyes are swirling cartoonishly, arms aching where you yearn to touch that part of his true true form.

Holding on while he pounds you like he’s pressing you in to the royal silk sheets, the flatness of his tongue smacks down on the crevice of your pussy. Slipping inside- a third intrusion—“Now you’re really in for it, lil’ human.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - Got milk(ed)?

“This is what you make me, pretty.” And Ino’s tugging whatever’s left of his damn ski mask, he’s bending your legs firmly into a mating press with natural toned strength you didn’t even know he had. “And this is how you’re going to get hah! fucked.”

And just one swipe of his cute, pre-glazed tip would be enough for your boyfriend to be salivating at the mouth. Lips twitching with eagerness as he sinks his heavy shaft inside.

But right now?

Oh, right now he wasn’t even sensually slowing down to listen to your pretty trilling moans. He’s not going easy on you, he’s doing nothing but sheathing his prolonged length whole in a way that makes your woozy eyes tear up.

Lips speckling with drivelling spit as you whine, “Shit-” The doughy heels of your feet find purchase on his slender shoulders, unsure whether you wanted to push or have him stretch you out more more more- “Shit- you’re so big.”

“Gonna cry about it?” He smirks- meanly. And where the hell was your sweet, innocent boyfriend?

The Ino right now was just spanking down a few of his thoroughly ringed digits on your soppy slit, leaving you n’ your quivering cunt seeing stars at the sensation. Stirrin’ around the rotund, bawling edge of his pink crown until he manages to bully all the way into the back of your pussy.

Just barely managing to open your mouth, “O-oh my god- Taku, it feels so- oh!”

“Whaaat–?” And shit- the way his straight nosebridge was crinkling was sexy, looking at you through hazily half-lidded eyes that told you he wanted to devour you whole. “Look at her- just look.”

Ino lets his knobbly fingertips glissade down your folds and latches onto the button of your clit just enough to pull-pull-puuull. Low, gentle voice tinged with something so raspy as he groans, “M’being so meeean to her, making her cry n’ she’ll still mmm- sucking me in, sweetness.”

Truly, you were just so wet that your oversaturated walls were gulping down his every solid inch like you were starved. Filling up every orifice and cranny with his hot, heavy length- “B-because it’s just so good.”

“Is it—?” Ino sighs out, airy and flushed. For merely a split-second before he’s snapping out of it and promptly kneeing apart the insides of your thighs.

Bed creaking in protest when he reels his lean hips back to bring them down with a ringing smack! It’s so loud that it makes Ino’s pelvis sting, his chestnut lashes wring with tears, and he has to gnaw down on his lush lower lip to bite back a few broken whimpers. “Fuck- fuck, don’t you dare make me all pathetic, pretty.”

Mewling, one of his slender hands comes to push your cheeks together in a pathetic lil’ pout. The edges of his frigid rings lacquering with your spit- and the other keeps slithering right between your legs.

Not only was he toying with your clit now - he was circlin’ your cute, rubbery hole. Long middle finger scratching your outer entrance with his bands of metal before shoving its way inside-

“S-still taking me.” And for a lecherous moment there it almost sounds as if he’s just lost himself, it almost sounds like he’s breaking. Before shaking the tawny bangs out of his eyes and snarling down a feral grin. “Pretty hole’s takin’ all of me- wonder if you can take ngh- more, sweetness.”

“Sh-shiiiit–!” Your hands claw red, red lines all down Ino’s sculptured back when you feel the probing push of yet another one of his fingers.

Already stuffed to the brim with his sleek, pummeling cock - and now here he was thrusting in a sloppy cadence of whack-whacking your cervix with his bulbously swabbing tip and tormenting your g-spot with the glides of his digits.

They’re agonizing when they’re stimulating you at the same time, and the only thing you can do is throw your head back and listen to the noisy squelches and slurps. Moaning, you claw at his dextrous wrist as he spanks a third fingerpad on your slope. “Another- oh, fuck!”

Pushing and pushing

Ino groans huskily at the snug resistance when all three of his fingers can’t poke around- brows scrunching, tongue sticking out.

He looked drunk and gone by the time he’s hissing out a sharp breath and flipping the two of you over. And oh- oh, this position was ideal.

Because not only did it give him the heavenly view of your thighs spread all open n’ straddling his hips to ride him- but it also let him dip his creamy fingers down and rub them all over your geysering cunt. Bullying them the entire way inside up to his mountainous knuckles because enough is never enough.

“Fuck- oh.” Ino tumbles his head back once he’s hearing the sappy plop! of your dripping pussy gobbling up his second finger. Entire body twitching at the feeling of his chilly ring digging in- “Pretty, pretty- I can’t do this anymore I hck! need it—”

Your lips quirk up into a smug smile, hips hitting down with a slam of clammy skin sticking onto skin. And he can only half-rut, savage and angrily pumping his cock. “Aww, already, Taku?”

“Yes. Yes.” He’s begging by now. Pleading. This little roleplay you’d begun, now starting to completely switch when he had you on top like this ready to milk his swollen, reddened cock dry.

Such a pretty coral pink at his tip, and it matches the innocent blush on Ino’s hollow cheeks once he’s guiding one of your hands up to choke him. Gurgling out, “I want you to be angry at me now, sweetness.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Mercy.

“Th-this is where you’re weak, right?”

And the strongest’s voice cracks.

Gojo utters out a rough breath as he catches his thumb on that designer blindfold of his dangling ‘round your neck and plasters you against his tensely glissading abs. The tip of his cock driving between your wet, aching folds, he’s jerking you up just enough to push his reddish crown into your g-spot with a splat!

“O-oh please mmmm–” Your mouth parts with a ribbon of sleek spit, tumbling out in a heap into the pillow lodged underneath your face. “There- right there, Satoru!”

“There- there.” You’re hearing him raspily utter from behind, each pant higher and more broken than the last. With your back arched oh-so-deliciously, he’s hiking up one of his meaty thighs to pin to the side of your hips and pump even deeper- “There?”

Oh, he knew it was there.

He’s rubbin’ his swollen, veiny shaft all over your sweetest areas like a massage. He was mean. And you’re crying out the cutest lil’ whines that only make him bite back a sleazy grin. “Such a good, tight pussy takin’ me- h-heh, so good taking me, sweetheart. So good…”

“S-so rough.” Your hazy peripherals whirl in circles ‘round the whites of your eyes, brows scrunching with every thwack! of his honed, chiseled v-line striking the cheeks of your ass. “It’s so much- ngh.”

And the only response that Gojo’s overheated body can think of is to twist his large fingers into the jostling fabric at your neck to pull you further backwards. Your breath stutters damply, chest heaving.

He didn’t care. He was going hard. Hissing swiftly in your ear, “If you think this is too much maybe I should knock you up then, my wife.” Something in the cloyingly sticky air crackles - power, raw need - as he snickers to himself. “Should I—? Should I knock you up like they say?”

They: those damn elders.

He wasn’t just irritated after that ambushed meeting on damn Gojo heirs - he was furious.

The very reason that Gojo hadn’t made two steps past the door to your shared penthouse before he’s practically dragging you to the bedroom. Shoving his heavy, aching cock inside until you were full, full, full-

“M-maybe you should.” You’re blubbering out through the primal mewls ripping through your throat, just another one of his jackhammers rendering you stupid. Almost instant the way he slimily grazes his bulbous tip down to whack the entrance of your cunt.

And Gojo seethes— cheeks angrily ruddied, spit flying in glittery flecks. “I should?”

“Yes mmm- please.”

“I…should?”

It’s not a question - it’s a realization.

The clammy pads of his fingers shake unstably, his touch zaps you with cursed energy, movements sensually languid- almost like Gojo doesn’t even register what his hefty body is doing right now. Almost like he doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s toeing his left foot upwards to plant it down on the crown of your scalp until he’s looking down at his pretty, pathetically drooling wife and gasping.

“Oh. Oh.” The red n’ full cock speared inside of you twitches, so big that he swabs all your each sultry, shrouded nook and cranny . “You don’t know how haaah- badly it pissed me off, my girl. Wanted to purple hollow all those fuckers.”

Your hands fist the silk of the pillowcase now sticking to you like adhesive, hips squirming restlessly- he was so fast that the back of your ass was raw with the texture of his pale happy trail. “Wh-what did?”

“Hearin’ them talk about an heir. Hearin’ them talk about you ngh- pregnant.” He snarls, heel pressing down with slight force that makes all the blood rush from your melty mind straight down to your dripping pussy. He’s fucking you like he hates you. “When really I’m your husband-”

As he speaks, the slick curve of his cockhead snags on your bundle of nerves. Your husband’s Six Eyes working overtime when he’s watching - mouth ajar, gaze half-lidded - as his lengthy shaft impales your gummy walls and drives riiiight into your womb. Precisely.

Gojo blushes at the x-ray vision, “-and I get to make my wife pregnant when she wants.”

They wanted a Gojo heir, they’re going to get one.

With your thighs shaking, breaths heaving- before you know it, he’s timing a direct three hits from your cute lil’ g-spot n’ barreling straight into your womb. And it makes you cum.

Long, vein-covered length barely even pulling out - Gojo feels your walls clench around his thick girth and he’s only half-rutting.

“That’s it- that’s it that’s it that’s it-” You can hear the pure crazed smile in his husked tone, the edges of his rosy lips twisting with every adorably pulsing ba-thump! of your cunt. Faster. Harder. He was wincing with each recoil of his sloppy strokes, unable to even bear being separated from the syrupy depths of your pussy. “Take it- take it like good girl-”

“I-it’s shoooo—” Left so helpless by the merciless way he was pounding you through your high, your mouth was slurring out bubbles of spittle after each second strike. “-so much- hck! So much.”

“More. Yeah, you’re gonna take more, my girl.” He can’t help but memorize the shocked lines of your face and giggle. Octaves higher. Movements filthier. Running a hand down to toy with your clit, “You’re gonna be filled up to the briiim.”

And usually Gojo would’ve rubbed the soft, velvety tips of his fingers on your sensitive nub in hearts. Maybe even his name, teasingly. Usually.

But he didn’t have the patience for that right now.

Right now, he was twisting his touch onto where you were most swollen and pinching your clit. Hard. Power sparking like some lewd bullet vibrator.

All that it takes for him to throw his head back and finish off in such a raw, primal way all up inside of your cunt. And you’re not even sure if Gojo registers it - whether he even feels himself cum, because he’s still drilling away like he’s addicted.

Bed dipping at the force of his blows, sheets staining pure white with the slippery sheen of seed that glues down your thighs. Toes curling, it’s only when you’re sniffling back a tear of overstimulation that Gojo snaps his head down to catch the pearly ribbon of cum escaping your geysering folds—“Need to get you pregnant. Need to- more.”

“What?”

You’re so wet that it feels like a damn waterfall down there, and your husband only glides his knobbly thumb down to plug every sappy, ivory ounce back into your hole. “More, my girl.”

The air bristles with charged atoms as he swerves his slender hips just right to push the knotted cobwebs of cum accurately against your womb. Every part of him charged, every part of him still powerful and fuming.

Whining, your knees buckle as if you were unsure whether you wanted to run or hit your hips back. Again and again.

And Gojo’s voice still shakes as he clings a hand onto the side of your birthing hips to manhandle you further down to him. Unable to escape. “You didn’t think you’re h-heh- getting off easy…mama?”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Mrs. CEO

“I have never seen a CEO this clumsy-” Higuruma’s deep, drawling voice speaks over the haze of your nth high of the night. Thin lips twitching as he takes in the sight of you sprawled on top of your own office desk, shuffling over so many important documents. “-ma’am.”

But oh, he couldn’t go easy on you just yet. Not when you had so much work to do.

And it’s why he’s shuffling his polished shoes further in a step backwards, tongue flicking out to lick his lips as he smeeears the layer of his cum sticking to your cunt like glue.

Grumbling, “Forgetting the most important hah- meeting of the day. I should report you.” Formal office pants still on, the dangling metal piece of his belt kisses the right cheek of your ass and makes you hiss. Rubbing your gummy walls raw on the slick, winding patterns of his veins.

And it’s just so wet with all your sappy syrupy and his, travelling down to where you’re rubbing your thighs together. “Are you complaining, hm?”

Spank! Spank! Spank!

Three exact swats of his rude hands slamming down on the teary crevice of your slit, Higuruma makes sure to angle his strikes just right so that he can feel the way your clit just quivers. “Watch that pretty mouth, angel.”

And he’s moving so agonizingly, just torturing you with the curve of his mushroomy tip bulldozing straight near your g-spot.

Never quite hitting it, never quite missing.

Right up until you throw your head back with a wail and keen–“Please.” Swervin’ your hips back in lecherous figure eights that damn near gets the man above you hypnotized. “M’sorry, Hiromi.”

Spank!

A hand on your throat- “No, you’re not.” One more to pinch n’ tug on your oversensitive clit until you feel all raw, you’re seeing stars every time he rolls his hips to play with your dripping pussy just right.

“You n’ this filthy hole need me to ngh- finally fuck some sense into you, riiight–? Finally stop that pretty lil’ head from being filled with just cock?”

You don’t know if you’re nodding, you don’t know if you’re sobbing- but before you can register it, Higuruma’s hiking his capped knee up onto the desk so hard that it rattles. Nearly stepping on the base of your spine just to arch you perfectly.

Whining, “O-ohhh mm- jus’ that deep.” The new angle makes him stretch you open so wide that every splash of buttery white cum slips out of your entrance like a waterfall. Your pussy struggling to suck in his sheer size into your hot insides, “Fuck me- oh, yes, fuck me.”

“S’what I’m doing, silly angel.” The vice-like restraint on your throat is mean, and Higuruma’s tone is even meaner. Cooing- but he’s dragging you by the neck upwards to look directly into his eyes as he sliiiides his lengthy, scorching cock inside and out. “Or are you already that ngh- stupid on my cock, hm?”

So deep, so fat that he can’t even help if the vein-covered sides of his shaft brush up against your sweetest spots by mistake.

Hips papping back into his, “More.” Cloying layers of seed saturate your innards so much, and you’re so sensitive that every honed thrust makes your knees weaken. “S’more, Hiro, c’mon.”

And the worst part was that your personal assistant’s pinning you with his weight and holding you there to watch you struggling and squirm. Slimy, erect cockhead driving right into the target of your lil’ nerves like he’s addicted to that very spot, “You’ll take what you’re given.” He tilts his head with a smile, “Why don’tcha get some work done, sugar?”

Oh.

You could barely even pick up the pen let alone sign off on important contracts like you were supposed to be doing right now.

And yet, every time your poor, boneless wrist showed signs of faltering, Higuruma would grit his teeth and painfully slow down his cadence. Each time he lazily rubs just the large, rotund curve of his cocktip on your g-spot, watching as you jerk your hips back for more-

Spank! Spank!

Massaging two direct swats on the flooded slope of your pussy, “Fuck! This tight little hole really can’t stay that hck! long without me?” Loosening his tie still on him, “She’s even worse than you, angel.”

And he’s milking himself on you- punishing your cunt with the most lecherous drags of his sloppy shaft. Each time you feel him enter past the door to your womb, you can only throw your head back and bite down on the velvety fabric of his damn office tie.

“H-hck! Please- gonna—” Muffled, your handwriting’s gone astray on whatever document it is by now. “So close-”

Tapping his chin as he pretends to think, “Hm, I’ll let you cum-” And before a gorgeous smile could even start to light up your face, before you can even breathe, Higuruma’s crowning your sweaty scalp with one hand and pushing you to further lay on the mahogany desk. Drooling in such a heaping puddle right then n’ there, “If you can use those fuck! awful manners n’ say ‘please’...”

“Please.”

“Louder.”

“Please-”

Purring, “Can’t hear you, ma’am—”

And you were so far gone that your irises are turning clockwise in circles inside of your eyes, mouth overspilling with a glittered polish of drool and whimpers.

You thrash your hips up higher on the table, “Please-” Batting your lashes just how you knew he was weak for. “Pretty please, baby.”

Oh- that did it.

That did it.

Because with a final one-two-three more vulgar strokes pumped into your puffy, sopping wet pussy, it isn’t just you hitting your high - it’s Higuruma, too.

Your stern, sensible personal assistant who slams the chiseled upper half of his body the minute he feels your melty walls clenching and heaves. Meaty quads shaking with every wiry ribbon of cum he departs, letting the goopy mess fill up your cunt to the maximum.

Gasping- “Fuck, look what you did. L-look.”

And for a second you’re so disoriented by your own white-hot flashes of bliss that you barely even hear what he’s saying. In your own little reverie until you’re hit with a spraying splat! of something near your shoulder.

Blinking, you’re turning behind you and noticing that Higuruma Hiromi was crying tears of overstimulation.

Crying.

“S’all your fault, angel.” Your thighs quake with each bout of your high, and just that tiny squeezing motion was enough for him to bead out another thin trail of tears. Milking himself. Your pussy’s holding him hostage until he’s nearly dry, only wrenchin’ out a few pearly knots of seed. Emptied out.

So lazy and feverishly drunk that he reaches over to softly kiss the matching wedding ring on your hand, “Next time you’re not missing another meeting with me, my wife.”

A/N. OO I NEEDA WRITE HIGURUMA’S ONE LONGER

Plagiarism not authorized.

10K notes · View notes

danysdaughter · 26 days ago

Text

Still Yours

pairing | thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 9.4k words

summary | bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, soft!bucky, miscommunication, established relationship, mentions of mental health/trauma

a/n | I enjoyed writing this so much omg. an apology for my last angst fest fic, based on this request. just two emotionally constipated dumbasses in love.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

The first thing you felt was the drag of his mouth along your collarbone—hot, wet, unhurried.

Then his body—solid, heavy, familiar—settled deeper between your thighs, pinning you to the sheets like he belonged there.

Like he knew he belonged there.

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, hips rolling in slow, punishing thrusts that pulled gasps from your throat. “You feel so good—always feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into the curve of his ass, urging him deeper.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he panted, forehead resting against yours. “Come on, I know you’re close.”

You could barely form words. Everything was heat and friction and the slow climb to a peak that had been building for days. He’d been gone—missions, briefings, whatever other bullshit Val had piled on him—and you hadn’t had this, hadn’t had him, in far too long.

Now, you were starving for him.

And from the way he was panting against your mouth, he was just as gone for you.

Bucky’s rhythm faltered for a second—just a split moment—as his cock pulsed deep inside you and he moaned, low and wrecked.

Then—bzzzt.

The phone on the nightstand lit up.

The sound sliced through the heat like cold water.

You groaned, your hands clawing into his shoulders, nails dragging down the flex of his back. “Ignore it,” you muttered, voice thick.

He nodded without looking, mouth already on your throat again. “Wasn’t gonna stop.”

Bzzzt.

He hesitated. You felt the tension in his hips, the shift in his weight. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to grab it—like his fucking conditioning made him twitch toward the sound.

“James,” you growled, pulling his face back to yours. “Focus.”

He smirked—flushed, wild-eyed, strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. “Yes, ma’am.”

He rocked back into you, deeper this time, harder. You gasped, arching into him, fingernails biting into his arms.

“You’re such a good girl,” he grunted, “always take me so—”

Bzzzt.

The sound felt louder now.

Persistent.

You tensed beneath him, and he slowed—just a fraction. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.

You whispered, dangerously low, “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare.”

He paused. Exhaled. “I won’t,” he murmured.

And he didn’t.

Not when you kissed him. Not when your legs tightened around him again, pulling him back into that rhythm. Not when your hips met his in frantic, greedy movement, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

But then—

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Buzzing. Relentless.

Like it knew it was ruining something.

His rhythm faltered again. Slower this time. His breath hitched.

And you could see it—feel it—his mind slipping.

“Two seconds, baby,” he whispered, barely coherent.

Then he reached.

You froze. Staring.

He reached for the phone.

“For fuck’s sake—” You shoved his chest, hard enough to make him fall back slightly, the weight of him disappearing as you slid out from under him.

“What?” he asked, dazed, already answering the call. “Where’re you going?”

You grabbed your robe from the edge of the bed, slipping it on in one fluid motion, not even sparing him a glance as you stalked toward the kitchen.

“To make a goddamn sandwich,” you snapped over your shoulder.

And then Bucky was left there, shirtless and half-hard, with the call pressed to his ear and the echo of your frustration ringing louder than the goddamn phone ever did.

────────────────────────

The quiet creak of the bedroom door broke through the stillness as you stood at the kitchen counter, barefoot, chewing slowly on the sandwich you’d slapped together out of spite and mild hunger. Your tiny silk robe hugged your hips, and the morning light from the window behind you cast a low, golden glow across your back.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You could feel him watching you—feel the apology radiating off him before he even spoke.

A few seconds later, Bucky padded into the kitchen fully dressed, freshly showered, dog tags glinting faintly beneath his shirt collar. His hair was still damp, slicked back lazily with his fingers.

Your stomach twisted.

He stopped beside you, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. “It’s the team.”

You nodded, still chewing.

You didn’t need him to say it. You’d known the second that phone buzzed three times in a row.

“In the city?”

He nodded. “Watchtower. Just a briefing. Maybe recon. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nodded again, finishing the bite and setting the crust on the plate. The silence stretched.

Bucky leaned in, crowding into your space slightly like he always did when he needed you to ground him. “You angry?”

You sighed, licking a crumb from your bottom lip. Then you turned, finally facing him, and your arms slid easily around his neck.

He exhaled the moment you touched him—like that one gesture released the tension wrapped around his ribs.

“No,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not angry.”

His arms circled your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You sure?”

You nodded into his shoulder. “I know what I signed up for. You’re out there saving the world.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, voice softer now. “Still. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate leaving.”

You looked up at him for a long beat, reading the guilt in his eyes. Then, deadpan:

“Well. You did spend the last ten minutes of our morning trying to ignore your phone while balls-deep in me. I’d call that balance.”

He huffed a low, surprised laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “Hey. You asked.”

He kissed you, slow and lingering, and whispered against your mouth, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

You pulled back just enough to give him that classic stare—the flat one that usually made Bob flinch.

“Honestly?” you said, voice dry. “Just the luck of the draw, hon.”

Bucky barked out a real laugh this time, low and raspy. “That sounds about right.”

You smiled—small, real—then leaned in and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand trailed down your spine, fingers resting at the hem of your robe, his lips ghosting along your jaw now.

“I told them I’d be there in fifteen.”

“Mmhm.”

“But the drive’s only ten.”

You hummed, finishing your sip of water, eyes moving to your sandwich.

“So,” he murmured, mouth back at your ear now, voice dipping low, “technically that gives us five minutes to finish what we started.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze under lowered lashes.

The look in his eyes was full of hope. And want. And a little desperation.

You kissed him—once, slow and sultry—letting him feel your mouth move over his.

Then you pulled back, just enough to whisper against his lips, “Mm. No.”

He blinked. “What?”

You turned, picking your sandwich back up and walking away toward the couch. “You already finished once today. Let a girl eat.”

Behind you, Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”

“And yet, here you are,” you called over your shoulder, settling down and flipping through the remote like your thighs weren’t still sticky from him.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes lingering like he was committing you to memory. Then he sighed, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door.

“Call me after?” you said casually.

He looked back, already halfway out.

“Always.”

────────────────────────

The conference room in the Watchtower was, unfortunately, real. Sterile and over-lit with its polished black table and transparent display screens, it felt more like the waiting room of a tech-startup funeral than the nerve center of the New Avengers.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, jaw clenched, half-listening as Val paced in front of a projected graph that looked like it was bleeding red. His phone buzzed once in his pocket—his eyes flicked down—but it wasn’t you, and the hollow ache behind his ribs twisted a little deeper.

This was the thing that had pulled him away. Not a mission. Not a world-ending threat. Just PR bullshit.

Val tapped the screen with her manicured finger like it had personally offended her. “The numbers are bad. Public trust in the New Avengers is declining, and fast. People don’t like what they don’t recognize. And right now, you’re a bunch of strangers with messy optics and zero cohesion.”

At her side, Mel nodded without looking up from her tablet. “Engagement down 22% week-over-week. Headlines are skewing nostalgic. Keywords trending: ‘wish Cap was back,’ ‘where’s the heart,’ and ‘vigilante vibes.’”

Yelena lounged back in her chair like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her feet were propped on the table’s edge, one boot bouncing with slow, deliberate disinterest. “Maybe they’re just mourning the glory days,” she muttered, twisting her gum around her finger. “Old team got shiny deaths and glossy documentaries. We get memes.”

Ava, seated across from her, gave a quiet snort. “We’re not here to trend. We’re here to finish missions.”

Val didn’t even blink. “You’re here to represent global security and inspire public trust. And without that trust, you’re nothing more than privately-funded vigilantes in almost matching gear.”

“I like our gear,” Alexei rumbled helpfully from the end, arms crossed over his chest like a stubborn bear.

Val spared him a look. “You’re the closest thing we have to comic relief, Alexei. Lean into it.”

“Is that what they call ‘noble heroism’ now?” he huffed.

Walker sat ramrod straight, jaw working, his suit perfectly zipped. “You think Cap worried about popularity? We’re not running a fashion campaign.”

“No,” Val said flatly. “But Cap didn’t publicly decapitate someone with a shield on live television either.”

Yelena snorted. “Yikes.”

John’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Point is,” Val continued, “you all need a rebrand. Yelena—your personality makes you relatable. Media loves you. You’ll handle most interviews.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Great. I’ll practice my ‘Good Morning, America’ smile.”

“Ava,” Val said, turning, “your trauma narrative plays well. But lean into redemption. Soft lighting. No more disappearing mid-interview.”

Ava’s response was a flat stare. “I’ll try not to phase through my own dignity.”

Val didn’t even acknowledge the jab.

“John,” she said, and his head snapped up like a soldier awaiting orders. “Less cowboy, more Captain. Smile more. No threats on-camera. Pretend you like people.”

He scoffed under his breath, muttering something about “hand-holding and fairy tales.”

“Alexei,” she said, deadpan, “people like the Soviet uncle bit. Keep it up.”

Alexei beamed.

“Bob, you’re doing fine. Stay polite. And no more jokes about punching through tanks, they’re fact-checking you.”

Bob looked vaguely hurt. “It was metaphorical.”

Val finally turned her gaze to Bucky, her expression shifting slightly—not warmer, but sharper, more calculated. She paced a slow step closer to where he sat, hands clasped behind her back like a politician delivering bad news with a smile.

“You, Barnes, are the key,” she said simply. “You’re the most recognized face on this team, and not just because of your past as the Winter Soldier.”

She gestured toward the screen behind her, now displaying a montage of Bucky’s appearances—post-congressional interviews, old wartime footage, newer press photos where he stood stoically beside Sam.

“You were a war hero before you were ever the Winter Soldier. Sergeant James Barnes, the Howling Commando, the man who fought beside Captain America during the most iconic conflict of the 20th century. And, until very recently, a U.S. Congressman advocating for post-snap veteran reform. Your file reads like a patriotic fantasy novel.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. But something in his jaw ticked.

Val leaned in a little, her voice softening, but not with kindness—just control.

“What we need now is that Bucky. The leader. The charming, respectful, golden-era face people want to believe in. Friendly. Accessible. And most importantly…”

She paused.

“Available.”

That made Bucky’s eyes lift, expression tightening. “You do know I have a girlfriend, right? I’m in a committed relationship.”

Val didn’t miss a beat. “One the public doesn’t know about. And doesn’t need to.”

He sat forward slightly, steel entering his voice. “You’re asking me to lie.”

“No,” Val said, waving a hand. “I’m asking you to protect her. Think of it this way—if no one knows who she is, no one can leverage her. No threats. No gossip. No crossfire. It’s smarter this way.”

Mel tapped her tablet again. “We’ve already scrubbed mentions, just in case. Nothing linking her name to yours comes up in connection to the New Avengers.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. He hated this. Every inch of it.

“Why is it so important that I look ‘available’?” he asked flatly.

Val’s smile sharpened. “Because people want to like you. And people like what they want. It’s a psychological pull. You become more desirable, more approachable—someone they imagine they could know. That they could be with. It builds trust, makes you more likable. Marketable.”

He stared at her for a long beat.

“You want to make me into a fantasy.”

“I want to make you into a symbol,” Val corrected coolly. “And symbols don’t get girlfriends.”

Across the room, Yelena let out a low, mocking whistle. “Wow. That’s not creepy at all.”

Ava shook her head. “What’s next? Tinder profiles and fan edits?”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s optics. We all knew this came with the job.”

But Bucky barely heard them. His mind was already drifting—to you, still barefoot in the kitchen, silk robe sliding over bare thighs, chewing your sandwich with zero interest in who he was to the rest of the world. Just who he was to you.

And now, he had to pretend you didn’t exist.

He didn’t respond. Just sat back in his chair and regretted every second he hadn’t spent in your arms this morning.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower always smelled like metal and over-sterilized air. You hated it.

Fluorescents buzzed overhead as you stepped off the elevator, holding a small, zippered pouch in your hand—the charger Bucky had forgotten, again, even though you reminded him three times before he left.

The place felt like a cross between a tech firm and a concrete bunker: all gray walls, touchscreen doors, and state-mandated potted plants.

The main floor—what passed for a communal living space—was half chaos, half nap zone. Yelena was sprawled on one end of the sectional couch, flipping through something on her tablet and eating dried mango slices from a bag she probably stole from someone else.

Ava stood leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching the room like she was waiting for someone to step out of line so she could phase them through a floor. Bob was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a comic book held way too close to his face, murmuring what you assumed was commentary under his breath.

Alexei was telling a story. Loudly. And probably badly.

Bucky spotted you first. He was standing near the open kitchen area, talking with Mel—Val’s too-efficient assistant who always looked like she was plotting the next step of a corporate coup.

His entire expression changed when he saw you. The tension in his shoulders dropped a little, the corner of his mouth lifted, and for a second, he didn’t look like the unofficial leader of a barely-tethered government strike team. He just looked like your boyfriend.

You handed him the charger without ceremony.

“You left this.”

He took it with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck like it was the first time he’d ever been caught forgetting something (it wasn't). “Thanks. Thought I had it packed.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the “p.”

You didn’t mean to stay. You weren’t supposed to linger. But Bucky motioned for you to walk with him, and you didn’t say no.

Up close, you noticed the tired edge in his face. Like whatever conversation he’d been having before you arrived had worn him down more than a mission ever could.

He told you about it—about Val’s latest brainstorm. That the team needed to be more “media-friendly.” That they wanted him to lean into the good ol’ days: Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, WWII hero, former Congressman, the smile-that-could-end-wars poster boy.

You listened without interrupting, arms crossed, eyes squinting toward the ceiling as you tried to think through what he was actually saying.

When he finished, you just shrugged.

“Well,” you said, “sounds like when celebrities fake relationships before a movie comes out. Or pretend they’re single to sell tickets.”

Bucky blinked. “How do you even know that?”

You gave him a flat look, expression unreadable. “I was born in 1995, babe. Not the fucking 40s.”

Behind him, Walker snorted loudly. He’d been pretending not to listen, but of course he was.

“Damn,” he said, leaning against the fridge like he was waiting for someone to ask for his input (nobody did). “My wife would’ve never let me get away with that.”

You turned to look at him. Not annoyed. Not even angry. Just blank. Like staring at a particularly ugly lamp in a hotel room.

“That’s why she’s your ex-wife,” you said, voice calm. “And good for her.”

Yelena, without looking up from her tablet, let out a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Ava smirked quietly. Even Alexei stopped mid-sentence to grin like someone had dropped his favorite sitcom back into rotation.

Bucky watched all of it happen with a complicated kind of amusement. But it didn’t last.

Because then he had to say the next part.

He rubbed his hands down your arms, slow and hesitant, like bracing you.

“Val advised…” he started, then caught himself. “She recommended that maybe—for now—you don’t come around the tower. Or get seen with us in general.”

He didn’t say “hide.” He didn’t have to.

Your face didn’t change much. Not really. But he saw it. That tiny prickle of tension in your jaw. The slight shift in your eyes when you looked away from him for just a second too long.

You muttered something low. A lazy, “Whatever.” But the way you pulled your arms away said everything.

“I need to go anyway.”

Bucky stepped closer, voice soft but strained. “You don’t have to leave right away.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes unreadable, lips pressed in that almost-smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.

Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and warm, the way you always did when you were trying not to let the weight of something show.

“See you at home,” you murmured.

Your voice dipped at the end, barely above a whisper as you pulled back. “If you’re still allowed to come home, anyway.”

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t bitter.

It was worse.

It was tired.

Before he could answer, before he could say anything at all, you turned and walked to the elevator, the soft sound of your footsteps swallowed by the Watchtower’s chaos.

He didn’t follow.

And that hurt more than you cared to admit.

────────────────────────

It was slow. Almost imperceptible, at first.

A missed call here. A text left on “read” longer than usual. A two-day mission becoming a four-day stretch at the tower. No big fights. No yelling. No doors slammed.

Just quiet.

But that was the thing about quiet—Bucky had lived in it for too long. He knew its weight. Knew how it filled rooms like fog, hiding the way things shifted underneath.

Now, it was in everything.

He sat on the edge of his bed in the Watchtower, staring at the wall, phone still in hand from a message he hadn’t sent. His thoughts weren’t here—weren’t in this too-bright room, or with Val’s next debrief, or on the press event they had the next morning.

They were in Brooklyn.

Your shared apartment. The one with the soft light and creaky floorboards, and the tiny espresso machine you swore was better than anything Bucky had ever tasted. That place was home. It smelled like your lavender detergent and your coconut shampoo and your weirdly specific collection of candles labeled things like “wet grass” and “Scandinavian night.”

His body ached to be there. Just... there. On the couch. Next to you.

He used to spend three days a week here, tops. Two, if he could push it. The rest he’d guard selfishly for you—days spent sleeping beside you, cooking breakfast together, reading on opposite ends of the couch while your foot found his thigh and stayed there. You’d talk to him, let the silence stretch and snap and re-stitch. You never pushed. You never pried.

You were his quiet. The right kind of quiet.

Now? Now he barely remembered the last night he’d actually fallen asleep next to you. Really slept. Not just crashed on the bed after some back-to-back PR gig that left him in a suit with aching teeth from smiling too much.

He hated it.

He hated talking to the press, hated the way they asked questions like they already had the answers written. He hated being told to laugh, to charm, to tell stories that didn’t feel like his anymore. He hated Val’s smug reminders that likability mattered. That perception mattered.

Sometimes, he wished he’d never gone to Congress. That he hadn’t let convinced himself into the platform, the speeches, the idea that he could do good with a microphone instead of a mission.

Sometimes, he wished he’d just… faded.

Found a quiet nine-to-five. Something with a routine. Something boring.

Something normal.

Like you had.

You worked corporate communications. You clocked in and out. You had a clean desk, ergonomic chair, sarcastic co-workers. You went for runs in the park on weekends, had lunch dates with your girlfriends, took yoga classes when you weren’t too exhausted from the week.

You lived in the world like a real person.

And he’d wanted that so badly. Not for himself—but with you.

Because you were his normal. His constant. The stillness that didn’t suffocate. The grounding he’d clung to after years of floating through someone else’s chaos.

But now?

Now he didn’t know how to reach for it without dragging it into the spotlight with him.

And every time he came home and found you already asleep, back to him, or out with friends instead of waiting, or just… quiet in a way that wasn’t yours anymore—

He felt it.

The drift.

And he hated it.

────────────────────────

You didn’t talk about it.

You didn’t let yourself think about it.

The distance. His absence. The too-quiet apartment, the untouched half of the bed, the silence when your phone didn’t buzz all day. It wasn’t worth thinking about. People were dying in the world—actual, breathing, bleeding people—and you were going to be pathetic about your boyfriend missing dinner?

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

So you cleaned. You ran. You worked. You answered emails with snide internal commentary and booked your usual yoga class for Tuesday even though you hated the new instructor’s voice. You refused to call it coping.

It was just living.

And tonight? Tonight was fine.

It was Saturday. He’d said he’d be back for dinner.

You didn’t text to confirm because you didn’t want to hover. Didn’t want to be needy. He’d said it, he’d meant it, and you would trust that. Like always.

So, you cooked.

Beef stew—slow and thick and comforting. Heavenly mashed potatoes, made with way more butter than you’d ever admit to aloud. Roasted vegetables, because Bucky needed something green on his plate or he’d sulk. It was all simmering gently on the stove while you lay curled on the couch in your oldest pair of yoga shorts and a hoodie, eating straight from a pint of mint chocolate chip.

It was fine.

Okay, it was your cheat day.

Okay, you’d had more cheat days than planned recently.

You’d also bought a new pair of jeans in the next size up, but that was irrelevant. You were not stress-eating. You were just... adapting to your changing lifestyle.

Had Bucky noticed?

The thought came and went before you could kill it.

He hadn’t said anything. Not that you needed him to. But still.

The sound of the TV murmured in the background, some fluff piece news channel you’d forgotten to mute while scrolling your phone. Something about the New Avengers. You tuned in just enough to glance at the footage—drone shots of a crumbling government facility somewhere in Eastern Europe, flames curling up the side of a building like hands.

You recognized the team instantly. Yelena, tossing her baton mid-air like it annoyed her to carry it. Ava disappearing through smoke. John looking way too pleased with himself.

And then—there he was.

Bucky.

His tactical suit was soot-streaked, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, face streaked with ash. He was helping someone—no, two people—down the fire escape, guiding them through smoke with one hand steady on their backs.

Then it happened.

One of the women—civilian, blonde, maybe late 20s—turned and kissed him on the cheek. A hard, grateful kind of kiss. The kind that left a smudge of ash on his jaw.

She clung to him like he’d saved her life.

Maybe he had.

And Bucky? He smiled.

Not his press smile. Not the tight, practiced one. But something else—softer. Real.

You blinked.

Let out a breath through your nose. “Jesus Christ.”

It wasn’t like he kissed her. It wasn’t like he meant anything by it. She’d probably thought she was about to die, and then Bucky Barnes dragged her out of a collapsing building, and she just… reacted.

You weren’t jealous.

You were just being dramatic.

This was not about you.

But somehow, that one moment served to curdle the rest of the evening.

You changed the channel without saying anything, the ice cream melting slowly in your hands. The scent of stew floated in from the kitchen, warm and rich, but you didn’t move.

Dinner would keep.

You weren't sure if he would.

────────────────────────

It was past ten by the time Bucky stepped into the apartment.

The hallway had been dark. The front door had creaked louder than usual. And the only light inside was the kitchen, glowing soft and golden like a memory. It lit the space just enough to reveal the forgotten dinner plates covered in cling film on the counter, the quiet hum of the microwave keeping your meal warm—like it was still waiting.

But you weren’t.

His breath caught in his throat as he toed off his boots, silence wrapping around him like a punishment.

He said six.

Not “around six,” not “if I can swing it.” Just six. Sharp. He said it with his hands on your waist and his lips in your hair the night before. Said it like he meant it.

And now it was 10:18.

He could barely look at the time. The guilt clawed at him, sharp and low and constant. Every second he’d spent at the tower—every extra minute talking to reporters, doing damage control, smiling on cue—had eaten at him like acid.

He was supposed to be here.

In your shared space. In this soft, too-warm apartment that smelled faintly like roasted vegetables and your perfume.

And the worst part wasn’t just that he’d missed dinner. It was that he knew exactly what you’d done in his absence.

You wouldn’t have texted. Wouldn’t have called. You would’ve made his favorite meal anyway. You would’ve set out two bowls. You would’ve eaten alone, probably on the couch, probably in silence. And you would’ve told yourself—it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine—like you had any interest in believing it anymore.

The bathroom door clicked open.

He froze.

You stepped out, already dressed for bed—an oversized button-down, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Your hair was twisted up and pinned in the messy, practical way you always wore it when you were done for the day. Slippers scuffed softly against the floor as you walked into the hall, blinking slightly at the light.

You stopped when you saw him.

Both of you just stood there for a moment—frozen in that strange tension where neither of you knew which role to play yet. He looked at you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak.

Then he remembered how to breathe.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said quietly, voice rougher than he meant. Like he’d been holding it in all night. “I—I got caught up. I didn’t mean to—”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just blinked at him. No surprise on your face. No anger.

Just quiet.

Then you gave a little shrug—small and tired, the kind of shrug that said what else is new?—and turned toward the kitchen.

“There’s food in the microwave if you’re still hungry,” you said simply.

And then you walked past him.

No kiss. No touch. No sarcastic jab.

Just your scent, and the ache of knowing that he wasn’t even sure if he was following you to the bedroom or to the guest room tonight.

The door clicked softly behind you.

And Bucky stood alone in the glow of a kitchen he didn’t deserve.

────────────────────────

It was almost midnight when Bucky finally walked into the bedroom.

Not because he was tired. He’d been tired for hours.

He just needed to be sure you were asleep.

The microwave had long since gone silent. He’d eaten half the stew in distracted mouthfuls, barely tasting it, then spent an hour sitting in the living room in the dark, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on steepled hands. The guilt gnawed at him—not loud or dramatic, just steady, like water dripping against stone. It never stopped.

He pushed open the door slowly, as if afraid it would creak too loud. The room smelled like your shampoo, your skin, your cocoa body butter. His sanctuary. The place he used to walk into and feel immediate calm.

Now it just reminded him of everything he was missing, even while it was still right in front of him.

You were already in bed.

Covers pulled halfway up. Lights dimmed. Hair pinned back in the soft way you wore it only at night. You slept with your back to the door—back to him—and it made something inside him pinch.

He hesitated in the doorway, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the way your fingers curled under your pillow. Still. Quiet. Entirely out of reach.

He stripped silently, down to boxers and a threadbare black t-shirt, and slid beneath the sheets with a care that bordered on reverent.

Then—inch by inch—he moved closer.

It was tentative. Like approaching a deer in the woods. Like if he moved too fast, you might flinch and disappear.

His arm slid around your waist. Cautious. Testing.

You didn’t move.

So he let his chest press against your back, warm and slow. Let his knees curve behind yours, let his other hand reach up and tuck gently under your ribcage, pulling you flush.

Then—finally—he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Breathed you in like he hadn’t seen home in weeks.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Still, you didn’t stir. No tensing. No pulling away.

Just the soft, subconscious hum of sleep.

And that—that tiny, unconscious mercy—was enough to let him exhale for the first time all night.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And he held on to it like it might save him.

────────────────────────

The apartment smelled like detergent and coffee. Morning light streamed in through the windows, dust catching in the gold. On the surface, it looked like a Sunday—peaceful, slow, quiet.

But it wasn’t.

You sat on the couch, folding laundry with the precision of someone who needed something—anything—to occupy your hands. T-shirt, fold. Socks, fold. Hoodie, fold. The pile on the coffee table grew in neat little stacks, organized by drawer and category.

Bucky leaned in the doorway, watching you. Barefoot, hair tied up, one of his sweatshirts hanging loose around your shoulders. It should’ve been comforting. Familiar.

It wasn’t.

He moved to the kitchen, filled two mugs with coffee, brought yours over without a word. Set it down next to your knee. You gave a nod, murmured “thanks,” without looking up.

His stomach twisted.

He sat across from you, mug cradled in both hands, trying not to overthink it. Trying to act normal. Pretend that everything didn’t feel like it was three steps left of what it used to be.

“So,” he said, voice easy, like he was just easing into the day with you. “You still going to that yoga class on Tuesdays?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept folding a pair of socks, thumbs pressing the fabric into place. “Yeah.”

He waited for more.

Nothing.

“You like it?”

You shrugged, moved onto a fitted sheet. “It’s fine.”

Bucky nodded slowly, feeling the distance like a cold draft under a closed door.

That was how you talked to people you didn’t want to get stuck in a conversation with. To strangers. To coworkers who overshared. To the people you were polite to but had no desire to know.

He remembered how your voice used to sound when it was just the two of you—low, dry, threaded with sarcasm and occasional sweetness you tried hard to hide. He remembered the way your eyes used to flick up mid-conversation just to check that he was still smiling. He remembered you saying, “I hate everyone but you,” with a hand on his chest and a smirk you couldn't keep down.

Now?

Now you sounded like someone tolerating him.

And it broke something inside his chest that he didn’t know how to fix.

He took a sip of his coffee, staring into the steam, words catching behind his teeth.

You weren’t angry.

You weren’t cruel.

You were just... gone.

And it was killing him.

The silence had stretched too long. Not peaceful. Not content. Just tense.

Bucky watched you fold a hoodie and set it aside like it mattered. Like it was worth more attention than him. He had tried—coffee, questions, anything to coax out that sliver of warmth you used to give him without thinking.

Now it was measured. Distant. Like he was on the other side of something neither of you had noticed building until it was too high to climb over.

He stared into his coffee like it might offer an answer. It didn’t.

So finally—quietly, but not gently—he asked, “Are we okay?”

You froze mid-fold.

Your hands stilled, holding one of his long-sleeve shirts in your lap, fingers curled around the soft fabric.

And then, for the first time that morning, you looked at him.

Not a glance. Not a nod. You looked at him.

There was a frown on your lips. A deep furrow between your brows. The kind of look you gave when something was broken and you weren’t sure whether to fix it or walk away from it.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

The words hit harder than he was ready for.

You didn’t know.

And that terrified him.

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to process it, but nothing quite stuck. His hands tightened around the mug in his grip.

You looked down again, slowly folding the shirt in your lap. Your voice dropped, softer now. Barely above the hum of the fridge.

“I try not to think about it.”

Bucky’s throat tightened.

You weren’t trying to hurt him. But it hurt anyway.

Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Neither of you had talked about it. You’d just lived in the quiet space between exhaustion and effort, pretending the love was enough to keep everything from shifting.

You still loved him. He knew that.

But love wasn't fixing it. Not when you felt like strangers in the same home.

“I miss you,” he said, voice rough. “Even when I’m right here. I miss you.”

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

Just smoothed your fingers across the folded shirt like maybe if you kept them busy, the truth wouldn’t get too loud.

He wanted to reach across the coffee table, wanted to take your hands, wanted to say something to undo it all.

But neither of you were good at this part.

You were good at sarcasm. At quiet nights. At sex in the kitchen and lazy Sundays with pancakes and him pretending not to burn the bacon.

You weren’t good at asking for what you needed.

And right now, neither of you knew how to say what came next.

So the silence stretched again—thicker now, heavier.

The laundry was folded.

That’s what you clung to, bizarrely, like it meant something. Order. Control. You stacked the last shirt on the table and smoothed your palms down your thighs, blinking at nothing in particular.

You hadn’t spoken since I miss you.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you didn’t trust what might come out if you did.

Across from you, Bucky hadn’t moved much either. Just sat with the cooling coffee in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring at the place you used to lean into him without hesitation.

The silence thickened until it felt like breathing through gauze.

You stood up, grabbed your coffee, and walked into the kitchen. You weren’t thirsty. You just needed something to do.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said.

Your back tensed. The mug clinked slightly against the counter.

“I didn’t want this either,” you said, not turning around.

“You used to talk to me,” he murmured. “Even when you were annoyed. Even when you were tired. You still talked.”

You closed your eyes.

“It’s hard to talk,” you said, voice flat, “when you’re not around to listen.”

The armchair scraped back against the floor. Footsteps. Closer.

“I am listening,” he said, more desperate now. “I know I’ve been— I’ve been stretched. But I’m here now. Just talk to me.”

You turned around slowly, coffee mug still in your hand. You looked at him, really looked. And something inside you cracked—not because you didn’t love him.

Because you did.

That was the problem.

“I don’t want to be another thing you manage, Bucky.”

He froze.

You shook your head slowly. “You manage the media. You manage the team. You manage your image. I don’t want to be another box you tick at the end of the day.”

“I don’t think of you like that—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He stared at you, helpless.

“I don’t doubt you love me,” you continued. “But I can’t keep living in the spaces between your obligations. You show up late, you leave early. You touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish. And maybe I will, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take without losing myself.”

Your voice didn’t shake.

Your hands didn’t clench.

You weren’t yelling.

But you might as well have torn your heart out and set it on the counter between you.

Bucky swallowed hard. “So what? You’re done?”

You looked at him, and for the first time, there was no sarcasm. No tight-lipped smile. Just a hollow kind of truth.

“I’m tired,” you said. “And I don’t know how to not be tired anymore.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Your voice dropped lower. “I can’t be the only one holding the thread, babe.”

The silence returned. Bigger now.

You stepped around him, walked to the bedroom, and closed the door behind you—not slammed. Just shut.

Soft. But final.

While Bucky stood in the kitchen, frozen.

The coffee in his mug had gone cold.

The apartment felt foreign, like he’d wandered into someone else’s life and forgotten how to get back to his own.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, hands in his hair.

He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.

You were it. His peace. His pulse. The only thing in his life that ever made him feel real.

He didn’t care what Val said, or what public image they wanted to build, or how many staged smiles he had to fake for camera crews.

If it meant losing you?

Then it wasn’t worth anything.

And he would fix it.

He didn’t know how yet.

But he would.

Because if this ended, if you walked away and didn’t look back—

He’d be nothing but a name in a file again.

And he’d already spent too much of his life feeling like a ghost.

────────────────────────

Bucky had never cared for formal events, especially not since becoming the public face of a team that didn't particularly want one. But tonight wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t about strategy or good PR.

It was about you.

The invitation had landed on Val’s desk a week ago—a high-profile charity gala for Clean Futures, an international organization funding mental health programs for post-Blip survivors. Your company had a long-standing partnership with the group, which meant you’d be there. Representing. Smiling for photos. Dressed to kill.

And you hadn’t told him.

You didn’t need to. He hadn’t earned that kind of openness in weeks.

So Bucky had taken the opportunity and run with it.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the Watchtower’s prep room, tugging at the lapels of the black suit that Mel had somehow sourced last-minute. The cut was sharp, classic, tailored to emphasize broad shoulders and trim waist. His hair was slicked back, jaw clean-shaven, cufflinks engraved with the new Avengers insignia.

It felt like armor.

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the team.

It was for you.

Because maybe if he showed up—not as a soldier or a symbol or a ghost of a man who couldn’t keep promises—but as your man, he might finally break the wall you’d built brick by slow, exhausted brick.

"You look like a magazine ad for heartbreak,” Yelena said flatly as she passed him in the hallway, already halfway into a glittering black gown. “That is not a compliment.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “You know she’s gonna be there?”

“Do I look like her personal assistant?” she replied. “You’re the one who made Val jump through hoops to drag us into this.”

“It's for a good cause,” he said.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. Purely selfless.”

Ava walked by next, heels clicking. “You’re nervous,” she noted, glancing at him sideways.

“I’m not—”

“You’re sweating through a thousand dollars worth of tailoring. That’s nerves.”

He rolled his eyes.

Alexei, coming down the stairs in a tux that looked like it belonged to a different century, clapped him on the back. “You want advice? Make her laugh. Women like a man who makes them laugh.”

“Or,” Bob said quietly, trailing behind them with his bowtie untied and suit wrinkled, “you could just apologize. That works too.”

Bucky ignored them all as he fastened his bowtie and adjusted the cuffs one last time.

He didn’t know if you’d speak to him.

But he’d be damned if he stood across a ballroom from you and didn’t try.

────────────────────────

The camera flashes started the moment the New Avengers stepped out of the sleek black convoy outside the grand hotel.

Reporters lined the ropes, shouting names and questions, bulbs flashing like strobe lights in a storm. Val stood smug just off to the side, soaking it in like she’d orchestrated the whole damn thing.

Inside, the ballroom was already humming with rich voices, tinkling glassware, soft jazz echoing beneath a grand chandelier. Politicians, CEOs, heads of NGOs, tech royalty—all of them looking to shake hands and write checks.

Yelena rolled her eyes as a photographer barked her name, whispering something to Bob, who stayed glued to her side. Ava immediately veered away from the attention. John lapped up the press like a plant under a grow light. Alexei was already loudly asking where the vodka was.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at the cameras.

He wasn’t smiling.

He was scanning the ballroom, eyes darting over sequined gowns and tuxedoed silhouettes with laser focus. Looking. Searching. Waiting.

And then he saw you.

It hit him like a sucker punch.

You descended the marble staircase on the far side of the ballroom, a vision in crimson. He hadn’t seen the dress before—he would’ve remembered. The deep red clung to your body like it knew exactly where you wanted to be touched.

It shimmered subtly under the chandelier light, catching the gold in your skin, the delicate slope of your collarbone, the shape of your legs moving with slow, elegant precision.

You were talking to someone—corporate, probably. Networking. Smooth and composed, all polished charm and business poise. The person in front of you was smiling wide, laughing, but your expression was mild, professional. Exactly what it needed to be.

But then—

Like you felt him.

You turned.

Your eyes swept the crowd and locked on him like gravity itself had bent the light to make it happen.

Bucky froze.

Time narrowed.

The din of the gala dulled. His heartbeat went hot in his ears. All he could see was you—standing there in that goddamn dress, looking like a memory he hadn’t earned and a future he didn’t deserve.

And for a second, just one second, your expression broke.

Just a little.

Recognition. Surprise. And something else—something softer. Sharper.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

You turned back to your conversation, spine straightening, mouth curving into that polite smile you wore when you wanted to end something without causing a scene.

Bucky stood rooted in place, jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides.

Right.

He’d told you not to be seen near them. Told you to stay away, for safety. For PR. For a million reasons that didn’t mean a damn thing anymore.

And now?

He couldn’t just walk up to you. Couldn’t confess his love in front of the board members and donors and paparazzi. He knew you. Knew you’d hate it. Knew it would make you glare instead of melt.

So he’d have to find another way.

One that would mean something.

One that would be yours.

And Bucky Barnes had never been more ready to fight for something in his goddamn life.

────────────────────────

Bucky spent most of the night like a man caught in the wrong timeline.

The team had dispersed—mingling, sipping wine, taking photos they didn’t want to take. Yelena charmed a table of older donors by being blunt and hilarious.

Ava was already in a corner having a serious conversation about resource allocation. Bob, somehow, had gotten pulled into a group selfie with a senator. Even John had managed to slap on a half-decent smile and talk to two reporters without saying anything arrogant.

But Bucky?

Bucky stood there.

Dark suit, jaw clenched, drink untouched in his hand.

Watching you.

You moved through the room like you weren’t breaking his heart a little with every step. Laughing politely at something someone said. Holding your glass just so. The fabric of that crimson dress whispering around your ankles as you walked.

Every now and then, your eyes flicked to his. Brief. Electric. Then gone again.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

And then—heels clicking, voice like an ice pick—Val appeared beside him.

“You’re up.”

Bucky blinked. “Up for what?”

Val gave a thin, dry smile. “Speech. On behalf of the New Avengers. Seeing as the rest of your team has at least attempted to behave like functioning public figures, and you’ve done nothing but stand here looking like an emotionally repressed Greek statue all night.”

He blinked again. “I wasn’t told—”

“You are now,” she interrupted, already turning away. “It’s already been cleared with the host. Mic’s ready. Try not to say anything too traumatic.”

And with that, she pivoted away, already bored of him.

Public speaking. God help him.

But then his eyes found you again.

Still glowing under the chandeliers. Still you.

And he thought, maybe this is it.

He walked onto the stage to the quiet hum of low conversation and the gentle clinking of glasses. The host introduced him with a few polite words—"Representative of the New Avengers, veteran of WW2..."—and then stepped aside, leaving Bucky with the mic and a ballroom full of people who had no idea what he was about to say.

He gripped the podium tighter than he meant to.

Cleared his throat.

You were near the center, now seated at a table with your company’s execs. And your eyes were already on him.

God.

He hadn’t even started yet, and he was wrecked.

He cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

A few polite nods from the audience.

“I’m not… great at speeches,” he started, eyes sweeping the crowd once—but only once—before settling back on you.

“But I’m honored to speak tonight. Because this cause… matters. Mental health support for Blip survivors—that’s not just a talking point. It’s life-saving.”

People leaned in.

“I’ve seen firsthand what coming back can do to someone,” he said slowly, carefully. “What it feels like to be displaced. Lost. Like time’s moved on without you, and you’re just… dragging behind it, trying to catch up. And the worst part of that isn’t the confusion. It’s the loneliness.”

His voice was low, careful. This part, at least, he could manage.

“I think we talk a lot about the logistics of the Blip—people gone, people returned, the chaos. But we don’t talk enough about what it did to the people who stayed. Or the ones who came back and didn’t recognize the world anymore. People who survived, but didn’t feel alive.”

You shifted slightly in your seat. His eyes never left you.

“And I’m saying this not just as an Avenger or a veteran… but as someone who’s been there. Someone who came back from the dead—twice. And there were days I didn’t know how to keep going. I’ve spent years working on being more than what happened to me. I’ve sat in rooms trying to explain why it still hurts. Trying to find meaning.”

A pause.

“And I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t had someone to come home to.”

That’s when the shift happened.

Eyes widened. A few murmurs from the crowd. Even Val froze near the back.

“I’m not… great with this kind of thing,” Bucky said, adjusting the mic slightly. “But I’m standing here in front of all of you, not because I’m part of a superhero team, or because someone handed me a title. I’m standing here because there is a woman in this room who keeps me tethered.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t glance away from you, not even once.

“She’s my rock. My clarity. The only person who ever looked at me and saw something worth saving. She didn’t ask me to be a hero. She just asked me to be me. And somehow… she still loved what she saw.”

A breath.

“She is the reason I believe I deserve peace.”

Your eyes were locked on him, wide, unmoving.

Some of the audience was blinking. A few whispering.

But Bucky didn’t care.

Because he wasn’t talking to them.

He was talking to you.

“I was a soldier. Then a weapon. Then a politician. Now I’m trying to be a man. And I can’t be that without her.”

He swallowed, but didn’t falter.

And for the first time in weeks, his voice felt steady. Because for once, he wasn’t hiding. Not his love. Not his pain. Not what you meant to him.

He took a breath.

Then finished, simply:

“So thank you for supporting this cause. It’s not abstract. It’s personal. For all of us.”

A pause.

Then the room erupted in applause.

But Bucky didn’t hear it.

He was still looking at you.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel the distance.

────────────────────────

The applause was still echoing faintly through the ballroom, conversations blooming again like nothing had shifted—but Bucky knew better.

Something had shifted.

He stepped off the stage and straight into the tide of well-dressed bodies. Donors, board members, media people—shaking hands, smiling, complimenting him, dropping half-formed praises about “moving” and “authentic” and “genuine vulnerability.”

But he didn’t care.

He barely registered any of it.

His eyes were scanning the room. Looking for you. Like if he could just find you, ground himself in your orbit, maybe he could believe that what he’d just done was enough.

But you weren’t by the bar. You weren’t at the staircase. You weren’t by the back exit or near the dance floor or—

Then he felt it.

A hand—your hand—sliding around his arm, fingers warm against the fabric of his sleeve.

He turned, heart already beating faster.

You didn’t say anything.

Just gave him a look.

And gently, almost imperceptibly, tugged him away from the crowd.

Bucky followed without thinking, letting you lead him through a discreet side corridor, past a curtained alcove where the sounds of the gala dulled to a hum.

And when you stopped, when you turned to face him, he opened his mouth—

But he didn’t get a word out.

Because your hands were on his face, firm and sure, pulling him down into a kiss that knocked the breath from his chest.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t cautious.

It was needy. Real. Like you’d been starving for weeks and finally allowed to taste again. Like he was something you couldn’t help but want.

He melted into you with a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a groan—just relief. One hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair like he couldn’t believe this was real.

When you finally pulled back, breath warm against his lips, you didn’t let go.

Didn’t step away.

You just leaned your forehead to his and whispered, voice tinged with a half-smile—

“You’re gonna be in so much trouble.”

He huffed out something like a laugh. “Worth it.”

Your fingers lingered against his jaw.

The soft glow from the hallway barely reached the small alcove where you stood, still tucked away behind velvet drapes and polished columns. The noise of the gala felt far-off now—like another world neither of you belonged to.

Bucky wouldn't let go of you. His hands still rested on your waist like he didn’t trust the moment to last. Like if he blinked, you might fade again.

You leaned your shoulder into the wall, breathing finally steady. He looked at you—really looked at you—and reached for your hand.

“I’m gonna try,” he said, voice low, steady in the dark. “I know I’ve said it before, but this time… I mean it. I’m gonna try, really try. I don’t care how many speeches they want. I don’t care what the media says or what Val plans next. You’re it. You’re my whole damn life.”

Your lips parted, but he kept going.

“I love you,” he said. “And I know that’s not always enough to make it easy. But I want you to know that if you asked me—if you looked me in the eye right now and said to walk away from the Avengers, from all of it—”

His hand cupped the back of your neck.

“I would.”

Your heart twisted, eyes burning in that way they always did when he got too sincere.

You reached up and cupped his cheek, fingers brushing along his clean-shaven cheek, thumb skimming the line of his jaw.

“I know,” you whispered. “But you know I’d never ask that.”

He leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “Doesn’t change the fact that I would. You come first. You always do.”

You smiled, so gently he almost missed it.

“I don’t need you to walk away,” you murmured. “I just need you to walk back. To us. To me.”

He nodded. “I will.”

You kissed him again—slower this time. Like a promise. Like you were giving him something he already owned but forgot how to hold.

And when you pulled away, his mouth curved, that old smirk creeping back into place as his hands slid subtly down your back.

“You know,” he said, voice dipping, “this is a pretty dark corner. Not a lot of foot traffic.”

You snorted. “James.”

“I’m just saying,” he grinned, leaning in, “no one would see.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Keep it in your pants, Barnes.”

“What about when we get home?”

You kissed his jaw and murmured against his skin— “When we get home, Sergeant.”

His grin bloomed—lazy, boyish, free—and before you could say anything else, he kissed you again.

Longer. Slower. Sweeter.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut

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dduane · 1 month ago

Text

Just checking in

Because some of y'all are worrying about me, I know.

(Inserting a cut here. TW, as you might expect, for mentions of death and after-death issues. Also of crap beds, noisy clueless tourists, and giant koi.)

The "Trip Away From Home To Try To Get A Grip On Things" is proceeding as well as it can when the one element it would need to be perfect, and truly enjoyable, is missing. (sighing) If Peter was along in corporeal form, he would be lapping this up.

...Well, everything except the current weather. I'm in Interlaken, and it's raining. And not just some little passing episodic rain, either. This is more, even, than the Irish definition of "soft weather". It's coming down in the steady persistent way that would make Peter say "Well, that's on for the day..." And so it may be. So for the time being, I get to sit in the hotel and watch it rain, and consider the odds of actually getting up the Jungfrau to see the Aletsch Glacier before any more of it melts. (And those odds seem poor: but more of that later.)

So here's where I've been:

Dublin—overnight in U2's hotel. Which is very nice. And which has come down in price, astonishingly, on their singles. (Though I nonetheless thank, yet again, the folks who have made this difficult transitional people so much less problematic for me via Ko-Fi.) As Peter had been telling me I really should try this place some time when I had to be going somewhere else, I took him at his word.

Zürich, just briefly. (Shopping will wait until the run back.) On the way to:

Basel, for one night before the Eurovision finals. I don't know for sure, but it seems likely to me that Basel may have broken the record for biggest Eurovision venue (the St. Jakob's Stadion had 49K people in it on Saturday night). Also: one of my cabbies told me that the city had nearly half a million tourists in it... which, for a little-ish city like Basel, is a whole lot. I can tell you that about half them seemed to be walking around in the streets when we were trying to drive in them, and it was a nightmare, and my cabbies were saying terrible things in Baslerdeutsch.

Freiburg im Breisgau for two nights out of a planned three. ...I had to go early, as the bed in the [otherwise lovely] room the hotel had put me in was not good for my back. Fortunately I had enough funds on hand to simply kiss off that third night and return to the hotel in Basel, which not only had way better beds, but the most comfortable pillows I've ever slept on in a central-European hotel. I would go back to the Maerthof (money allowing: it ain't cheap...) for just the pillows alone. (And also the shower in the room was terrific, and I very much noticed and appreciated the numerous solid and well-placed accessibility aids. Ask for room 402, and don't freak out when the anti-sun glare blinds automatically come down at 0900.)

And now, Interlaken (already famous to some of you for this craziness, in which we found soup ads in Terry Pratchett's German editions). I'll be here tonight and tomorrow night, and then (probably, not decided yet) in Bern the night after. Zürich again the night after that, as I fly back to Dublin the next day, see people on the Dublin 2029 planning committee, and then... head back home to get on with gettin' on. ...Whatever that looks like.

Mental state: I miss him. Oh gods I miss him! Every fifth minute. Or third. And I always will! That's not a conditional. But I'm watching my moods (and physical health) with great care. If I start suspecting that I need antidepressents, or some other kind of specialized care, I'll go get it. There's lots of it around. (I note in passing that my appetite has slowly come back. My sleep patterns are still stupid, but I'm getting more sleep than earlier in this ten-day period.)

Be clear, too, that this isn't just me Being Tough because it's expected of me. I now have even more work-related responsibilities than I had earlier... as soon enough the copyrights on Peter's books will pass to my guardianship, and I have to make sure they're properly cared for. (In particular, his contract with his current e-book publisher is about to run out, and I think I'll be reclaiming those for publication at Ebooks Direct, as the other guys haven't been doing that stellar a job with them.)

And then I have to figure out: what do I need to do to write, now? Because there's a whole lot of that work that needs doing. Can I ever do it again in that house that's so quiet without him? And if not, how do I make this work? Peter has been the not-so-silent foundation of my life for forty years. (We missed that fortieth wedding anniversary by so little...) My most constant reader is now no longer in condition to read and report back...

(sighing) We shall see. Everything, now, is an adventure. Just nowhere near as cool a one as it was when he was here.

...Meanwhile, I'm enjoying the hotel in Interlaken, which has a charmingly modernized yes-this-is-the-Swiss-countryside-but-we-have-heard-of-modern-life-thank-you-very-fucking-much quality to it. And in particular: it's next to a feature called "The Japanese Garden" that features a pond with some of the BIGGEST damn koi I've ever seen. The damn things are like zeppelins. I'll post pics of them tomorrow: I want to see if there might be better lighting in the morning. They remind me of the ones at this hotel in Santa Monica that used to come up to the poolside bar seats and make adorable irresistible Fishy Faces at you until you fed them salted peanuts from the bar snacks. Which apparently they knew they were not allowed to have, but loved anyway, and they would make faces at you until you broke and appeased them.)

Meanwhile, here is this evening's wine. "Lucifer"? What's not to like? It's a light Valisan quaffing red.

("When you're drinking Swiss reds," says the Voice In My Head, "get the whole damn bottle. It's cheaper than by the glass. And if you don't finish it, or we don't finish it, you can always take it up to the room with you and have it tomorrow.")

(...You see what I put up with.) :)

Hugs to you all.

#status report #reporting in #Peter Morwood #tw:recent death

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differenteagletragedy · 2 months ago

Text

Part two of the one where Simon lets you move into a room in his house You tell Simon that you have at least a few weeks before you need to move out of your apartment and into his spare room, but he doesn't see the point in wasting time. The day after he offers to let you move in, he goes shopping, and the next few days are spent putting everything together. The bed, the dresser, two matching nightstands, some shelves — he makes sure everything is solid and sturdy for you, and he hopes you wouldn't notice how new it all is.

He cleans, too, every inch of the place. He's not a particularly messy man, but he'd bought the small two-bedroom house years ago, and he's not one for company. So he goes over everything, and he does what he can to make sure that his home is a good place for you, from the small stepstool he buys and sticks in the corner of the kitchen to the way he organizes his shaving supplies in the bathroom so you can have half the limited counterspace.

When you tell him you're ready, he brings his truck to the bar to pick up you and your things, and his heart aches, just a little, when he sees that all you have is a couple of bags slung over your shoulder. Without a word, he takes them from you and carries them out, and he tries to shrug off the slight disappointment he feels when you open the passenger door before he can do it for you.

"It's not much," he tells you on the short drive back. "Two bedrooms, just the one bathroom. I'm gone a lot. Stay as long as you like."

"What do you think for rent?" you ask. "I've got a little bit saved, and I can —"

"I meant what I said, love. There's no rush."

He hops out quickly after he pulls into the driveway, opening your door for you this time. He takes your bags and carries them in and into the room that's now yours, setting them carefully on the floor before turning to you, sticking his hand in his pocket and pulling out a key.

"Same one for both doors," he says. "Not much in the kitchen, but help yourself to anything you like. And let me know if you need anything at all."

The first few days, you don't see each other much. He stays in his room more than usual, not wanting to crowd you or make you feel uncomfortable. You pick up an extra shift at the bar, trying to make that rent he keeps telling you not to worry about.

One night during that first week, he comes home late from the gym, and he's pleasantly surprised to see you sitting in the living room, watching tv and having a snack.

"Oh, sorry," you say immediately when you hear the door open, like you'd done something wrong.

He smiles, just a bit, and nods for the couch, wanting you to be comfortable — maybe liking the idea of you warm and cozy in his space a little too much.

"Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart," he says, stepping closer.

You nod, and slowly sit back down, but on the edge of the cushion now, tense.

He doesn't care for it.

"What's on?" he asks.

"Oh, just this show I watch sometimes. It's a dumb reality thing ... I can check it out on my phone later."

You minimize yourself constantly, he's noticed that for a while now, but it's never been so clear as it is now, with you perched on his couch like you're waiting to run for cover. He still doesn't know your story, but in the moment, he'd love nothing more than to find whatever or whoever it was that put this innate fear in you and destroy it.

It's a war in him, a fight between keeping to himself and wanting you not to do the same. This particular battle is decided when he takes a seat on the other end of the couch and forces himself to tear his eyes away from you to look at the tv.

"Tell me about it."

You do. Nervously at first, but you slowly relax. He gives a small, satisfied smile when you scoot back to sit on the couch more comfortably and start to speak more freely, and he fights back a wider one when he really takes you in, bare feet and a loose t-shirt, lounging around at home. His home.

Yours too, now.

After that night, things get a little easier. You don’t sequester yourself in your room, and he warms up to you a bit more. It starts feeling natural, having you in his space. You fall into a rhythm.

Nearly a month in, he comes home one day to find you in the living room, pulling on your shoes, and he asks you where you're headed.

"We're headed to get some groceries," you tell him.

The directness is new, but certainly not unwelcome, and he follows behind you gladly as you lead the way to the store.

Grocery shopping with you makes him feel like a kid again, but one who had someone to dote on him. You walk by the produce, asking him carefully what he likes. What's his favorite kind of apple? What kind of berry does he prefer?

At one point, you actually tell him, "Simon, you have to get some vegetables," and he can't help but laugh at how you stare up at him pointedly, like he's supposed to know he's worth being cared for.

"What's your favorite dinner?" you ask him as you walk through the aisles, carefully scanning for prices before you put things in the cart.

"Don't know," he mutters. "Never really thought about it."

It's true, sort of. He eats, of course, and he has preferences, but it's never really been something to take pleasure in. There's never been some meal he craves, or some kind of food tied to a good memory. He mostly just wants to see if you'll say his name again.

But then he thinks for another beat and starts walking.

He puts a can of beans into the cart, then goes to another aisle and gets a loaf of bread. He doesn't say anything, but you nod and smile at him.

After you buy the groceries -- more specifically, after he buys the groceries, using his body to block the card reader while you laugh and try to wrestle your way around him to pay yourself -- you walk back home. He sets the bags on the counter, and together you put up all your purchases, but he notices you leave out the things he'd picked out.

"Hungry?"

"Generally."

Simon watches, arms crossed, as you heat the beans in a saucepan you'd pulled from under the stove. He doesn't move when you stand close to get to the toaster, and he watches your throat as you swallow when your arm brushes against his to put the bread in.

"You know, I would have made you anything," you tell him as you wait for the toast. "And this is what you picked?"

"Just had it a lot when I was a kid," he mutters, not offering more.

With the look you give him, a glance that's quick but still penetrates, he knows you understand the reluctance to get into the details. It's not the easiest thing to explain, how one can find comfort in the soft lulls of a tragedy. How oddly soothing it can feel to remember any bit of kindness from hands that ripped you apart.

You give him a plate first. Beans on toast, straight from his childhood. He takes a bite and nods, appreciative, and you grin.

A few bites later, you reach your hand up and swipe off a bit of food from the corner of his mouth, and seemingly without thinking, you lick it from your finger. He keeps his eyes on you for a moment longer, then sets his plate down.

Simon moves slowly, agonizingly so, giving you every chance to stop him. He puts his hands on your waist first, high and respectable, and when you just look at him, waiting, he drops them to your hips.

"This ok?" he asks, and when you nod, he dips his hands lower, over your thighs and to the back of them, lifting you up and dropping you on the counter.

"You didn't have to make me dinner, love," he says softly, working his body just slightly between your knees.

"You don't want me to pay any rent either," you tell him. "I can't just stay here for nothing."

The idea of you bringing nothing to this arrangement is laughable, but he keeps a straight face. He studies you, every fleck of color in your eyes and every line in your skin, maybe too intensely, but you just sit there, and you let him.

"You can tell me to stop," he finally says. "Won't be offended."

"I don't want you to stop."

With that, he brings his lips to your cheek, placing a gentle kiss there, then plants one on your jaw. When you still don't object, and even lift your hands to grasp onto his shoulders, he kisses your mouth.

He doesn't want to rush this, and he doesn't want to ask for something more than you want to give. He doesn't want you to feel like you owe him, but the idea of kissing you like this has been loud and persistent in his mind for longer than he cares to admit. He tries to bridge the two thoughts with his carefulness, but when he feels you start to kiss him back, he snaps.

Not visibly -- he doesn't shove his tongue down your throat or grope you with rough hands. That's not how Simon loses control. For him, snapping is internal. It's in realizing how good you feel in his arms and letting himself feel the weight of that.

He's not sure if it's the dinner you made him or something more innate, but when he kisses you, you taste like home.

In the moment, he can admit that to himself. But he's not ready for you to know. Not yet, anyway.

#call of duty simon riley #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod ghost #call of duty ghost #ghost x you #ghost x reader #roommate simon riley

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mercvry-glow · 2 months ago

Text

Where we fit

parings. jack abbot x wife!reader

warnings. none really! implied age gap, but not mentioned (jack late 40s, reader late 20s early 30s), they're parents, dogs, it's just really soft and sweet!

notes. technically a continuation of busy bee but can be read as a stand alone! I really loved it and thought they could all use a moment to themselves. as always enjoy and feedback is majorly appreciated and I love each and every one of you!

wc. 1400+

busy bee

There were very few things Jack Abbot liked to do with his free time. Truthfully, he barely knew what free time was—life as Trauma Attending had a way of swallowing hours whole. But when the stretch of days off did roll around, there was nothing he loved more than being with his wife and their five-year-old son, Lucas.

Especially at the park, with a brand new t-ball set, two excited dogs, and the kind of sunshine that made you forget the world could be dark at all.

“Alright, Lukey,” Jack said, kneeling beside his son in the grass, “feet apart, eyes on the ball, and don’t swing like you’re trying to launch it into orbit this time.”

Lucas grinned, missing both his front teeth, and adjusted his grip on the tiny bat with all the seriousness of a pro athlete. “I’m gonna hit it so far, Daddy.”

Your German Shepherd—Ranger—stood alert nearby, tail wagging like a metronome of anticipation. Your Bernese puppy, Riley, was happily chewing on one of the old ropes Jack had brought, completely uninterested in the game.

Jack glanced over his shoulder to where you were sitting on the blanket, hair loose and sunlit, watching the both of them with that warm, quiet smile that made him fall in love all over again. You raised your iced tea in a mock toast when you caught his eye.

“Ready!” Lucas shouted.

Jack stepped back with a mock-serious nod. “Let’s see what you’ve got, slugger.”

Lucas swung hard. Too hard. The bat whooshed above the tee and nearly sent the kid spinning in a circle. He stumbled, caught himself, and looked up with wide eyes.

Jack tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. “Okay, maybe orbit was a little ambitious.”

Lucas burst into laughter, running to reset the ball. Ranger barked in encouragement, waiting to chase after a ball.

Jack glanced back at you again—this little pocket of peace and joy the two of you had carved out of a chaotic world—and felt something deep in his chest.

Yeah. This? This was everything.

Eventually Lucas connected on his third swing, the ball sailing a solid ten feet before plopping into the grass. Ranger took off after it like it had been launched from a cannon, barking triumphantly. Riley followed behind, mostly just excited that everyone else was excited.

“That was a good one!” Jack called, clapping as Lucas threw his arms up in the air like he’d just hit a grand slam at the World Series.

“I did it, Mommy!” Lucas yelled, already sprinting back toward the blanket.

You reached out to pull him into your lap, laughing as he nearly knocked over the half full tea. “You crushed it, baby. Think you could show me how it’s done?”

Jack walked over and dropped beside the both of you, brushing his hand across the back of your bare shoulder as he sat. “I think we’ve got a future MVP on our hands.”

Lucas beamed and turned his attention to the dogs, who were now wrestling each other near the tree line, the t-ball forgotten. “Ranger’s not sharing,” he declared with authority, then ran off again to referee the two canines.

Jack leaned back on his hands and looked over toward you, soaking it all in—the quiet, the warmth, the way Lucas’s laughter carried across the breeze like music. “God, he’s getting big.”

“He really is,” you said, watching your son try to wrestle the ball out of Riley’s mouth. “It’s weird. Some days he still feels like our baby. And then other days I blink and swear I’m already seeing the teenager.”

Jack chuckled. “Please don’t say that. I’m not ready for puberty. Or girls. Or him learning sarcasm.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “He already has your sarcasm.”

“Not possible. I am the gold standard of maturity.”

You snorted into your drink and gave him a playful shove.

You both sat like that for a while—quiet, happy. Jack let the sun warm his face and watched his family, wondering how he’d gotten lucky enough to land here. The job, the shift work, the exhaustion—all of it faded in the presence of this moment.

No sirens. No beeping monitors. Just grass-stained knees, wagging tails, and his wife’s hand finding his, fingers lacing together like they belonged that way.

Because they did.

Not long after the sun began its slow dip toward the horizon, casting golden light across the grass and tinting everything in soft amber. Lucas was finally worn out—shirt rumpled, cheeks flushed, hands sticky from the popsicle Jack had gotten him from the ice cream truck that rolled by a few minutes earlier. He was lying on the blanket now, Riley curled up against his side like a warm, fuzzy pillow, her oversized paws twitching in sleep.

Ranger sat a little ways off, tongue out, eyes alert, watching the path like the loyal grump he was. The world felt quiet in a way that only parks at dusk can be—just the occasional bark in the distance, the rustle of wind through trees, and the whisper of Jack’s laugh as you carefully attempted to fold the picnic blanket with a five-year-old and two dogs trying to “help.”

“We really should start bringing an actual bag instead of stuffing everything in the backseat like college kids,” you said, raising an eyebrow at the pile of snacks, sunscreen, a half-bucket of baseballs, and two random socks that had somehow lost their mates.

Jack smirked and leaned down to grab a tangle of leashes and water bottles. “But that would require additional planning. And maturity. Two things I gave up when I decided to become a father.”

You let out a small laugh, light and tired in the best way. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, brushing past her to drop the stuff by the truck. “It’s basically all I’ve got going for me.”

You rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered. Turning back toward the blanket, you paused—Lucas was fast asleep now, lips parted, one chubby hand still clutching Riley’s paw. The puppy didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

“I’ll get him,” Jack said, already moving before you had even thought to ask.

He crouched down the best he could, gathered his son into his arms with practiced ease, and cradled him against his chest. Lucas murmured something half-asleep and tucked his face into Jack’s shoulder.

“Smells like grass and juice,” Jack muttered with a grin. “Definitely mine.”

He carried Lucas to the truck, gently settling him into the booster seat and pulling the straps over his little shoulders without waking him. While you wrangled the dogs next—Riley, reluctantly giving up her spot beside Lucas, and Ranger, who jumped into the back with the energy of a dog half his age.

By the time they finished packing up, the sky had deepened to that rich, dusky blue, and the first few stars were peeking out.

You leaned against the passenger side door, arms crossed loosely, watching Jack close up the truck bed. He turned and caught your gaze—soft, tired eyes, full of that quiet kind of love that doesn’t need to be said out loud.

But he said it anyway. In his way.

“Days like this… they save me,” he said, voice low. “More than you know.”

You stepped into him, arms sliding around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. “I do know,” you whispered.

His arms came around you without hesitation, holding you close, swaying a little in the cool evening air. No rush. No urgency. Just the slow, steady beat of his heart against your ear and the peace of a day well spent.

He pressed a kiss into your hair. “Let’s do it again next weekend.”

“You always say that,” you said teasingly.

“And I always mean it,” Jack replied, voice full of something warm and unwavering.

You both stayed like that for another beat, the kind of stillness that makes everything else feel far away.

Then the dogs barked from the backseat, clearly ready to go, and Lucas stirred with a tiny snore that made you both laugh quietly.

Jack opened the truck door for you, still holding your hand, and helped you up into the seat before walking around to the driver’s side.

The truck rumbled to life, and as you pulled away from the park, the dogs curled up in the back, and Lucas sleeping soundly, Jack reached over and let his fingers find yours again on the console.

Still, always, home.

mercvry-glow 2025

#the pitt #the pitt x reader #the pitt max #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott #jack abbott x reader #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbott x reader #jack abbot fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #shawn hatosy #the pitt hbo #Jack Abbot.<3 #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbott x reader

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wildflower-ramblings · 18 days ago

Text

Surrender

You bite off more than you can chew

AKA you meet John Price at a bar and goad him into fucking you stupid

18+ MINORS DNI

This is basically porn without plot...except with plot hastily shoved in.

I just wanted to get railed by John Price 🤷‍♀️

I'm also going back to my roots - the first CoD fic I ever read was reader meeting John in a bar 🥺 it only feels right that my first full length smutty fic is the same

It's a long boi too - 5.7k

The air was thick with the press of bodies, heavy with the smell of sweat and sound of boisterous conversation. You weren’t drunk; far from it, but just tipsy enough for your inhibitions to be left at the door, rationality checked in like an unwanted coat. You weren’t even quite sure what you were celebrating any more – were you celebrating? – just that Jess had all but demand you come out and get drunk with her, and a combination of stress and frustration from your own life and worry for what she’d get up to without your presence had caused you to agree. Now, a couple of cocktails in, you were pleasantly buzzed enough that the presence of so many strangers around you brought excitement rather than apprehension. Jess seemed to agree, as she scanned the groups with an appraising eye, seemingly searching for something you were unaware of. Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to find it – instead turning to you with eyes even less focused than your own, grabbing your hands and dragging you to the bar with the loud declaration that she needs another round. It’s far from packed inside, but you still have to jostle for a place at the bar, fighting not to be pushed aside by a group of barely legal lads who are clearly soon to be cut off, if they haven’t been already. Your attention is only half on them as you try to talk Jess out of ordering shots, reminding her of the what happened last time she had tequila, enough so that you don’t notice the boys getting rowdy until one is shoved straight into you. You’re unsteady already, so the slight change in balance (and your damned heels) makes you stumble right into a solid body you hadn’t noticed was there before.

“Easy there, love.” a deep voice says, something about the tone making you feel hot all over, a fact not helped by the very large hand that’s splayed across your back. You look up, mouth already open to apologise, only to be rendered speechless.

Fuck me, he’s hot.

The bar is a regular haunt for them; far enough from base to be free of the fresh-faced privates with more testosterone than thoughts in their brains, sweet-talking pretty little things with tales of bravado that never left the tarmac; yet close enough that even the most impetuous of patrons know better than to bother the men in the corner with war in their eyes. It’s a good place to decompress, to shake off the weight of the latest deployment and attempt to settle back into something more domesticated, better suited to civilian life. Each new mission weighs heavier on John, the weight of every order he receives, every call he has to make dragging him further and further from something that can be tamed. This brief respite – the low light of a dingy bar, away from the prying eyes and rigidity of base, the buzz of alcohol in his system – is the only respite he allows himself, the closest he comes to allowing his iron-clad restraint to slip.

It’s busier than usual tonight – he thinks he saw some poster advertising some band earlier in the evening, and figures these must be the remnants of that crowd, already well on their way to intoxication. He thinks he should leave, head back to his office on base and fish out the bottle he keeps for best – and worst – days, and leave the younger men to their prowl; he can already see Kyle eyeing the prospects with the same calculating gaze he uses for missions, and he knows it won’t be long until Johnny spots some pretty thing at the bar and beelines for them with the excuse of buying another round. Simon had long since disappeared; though whether he’d decided he’d had enough or simply gone out for a smoke it was always hard to tell. But somehow, John found himself dragged to the crowded bar alongside Kyle with the promise of one last round, grumbling but unwilling to deny the younger man. The sergeant is in the middle of ordering when John feels someone stumble into him, and instinctively he reaches out to steady them, arm around their waist before he looks down, only to be met with a pair of eyes that immediately has him breathless.

Yeah, he can stay for another round.

You’re not sure to be grateful to Jess or curse her for knowing you so well, as she takes one look at the man whose arms you had – literally – fallen into, and seems to be determined to set you up. Either that, she’s trying to keep you occupied so she can hook up with his friend, who smoothly introduces himself as Kyle, and invites the two of you to join their table whilst you’re still stumbling over your words. You find yourself pressed into a booth between the man whose arms you’d fallen into (“John,” he’d introduced in that same deep voice, and you’d almost melted there and then), and a friend of theirs (“Sergeant John MacTavish, ma’am, call me Johnny.” he’d said – an attempt at flirtation that may have worked if you hadn’t already met the other John first). Both Johnny and Kyle were flirts big enough to rival Jess, and conversation was easy between your group as the two younger men attempted to one-up each other with increasingly wild tales of military antics; interrupted occasionally by John’s deep, gravelly voice in your ear, either calling them out or backing up their stories, though mostly he chose to remain silent, content to simply watch his mates flirt shamelessly.

Despite the attention of two very attractive and very interested men, you find yourself drawn to their companion, the one who isn’t fawning over you, but instead sits back and watches you, eyes dark as they catalogue every movement you make, trailing over the exposed parts of your skin when he thinks you’re not paying attention. At some point, your hand had come to rest on his burly thigh, far too high to be innocent, and despite his initial shock he hadn’t moved away.

You can tell he’s interested – knew from the first moment his eyes met yours at the bar, the way his pupils dilated and his gaze lingered on your skin – but something is holding him back, keeping him from indulging in what you both want, despite your obvious flirtations. You wonder if it’s part of military training, something drilled into them about keeping calm under pressure, that gave him his iron-clad will.

You wonder what it will take to break it.

You don’t know if Jess or Johnny who suggests it – your brief interactions with the rambunctious Scotsman had taught you that he was eerily similar to your best friend in his ability to seek out trouble – but somehow you’re coerced into the shots Jess had wanted earlier. You close your eyes as you tip the shot back, not noticing the way John’s eyes follow the curve of your neck when your head tips back, the bob of your throat as you swallow, his mind going to much different scenarios. You do notice his chuckle when you grimace at the taste of the alcohol, and you pout at him.

“Not going to join us?”

“I’ll stick to whisky, thank you.” he says, tipping his glass in acknowledgement.

“Probably a good idea. This stuff is foul, I’m not sure I’ll ever get the taste out of my mouth.”

“Here.” He holds the glass of amber liquid towards you. “This’ll help.”

You’re suddenly struck with an idea – you lean in, your eyes locked on his as your lip wraps around the glass, swallowing. A stray drop catches on your lip, and without breaking eye contact you flick your tongue out to catch it, enjoying the way John’s eyes follow the motion. You think you can hear someone wolf-whistle in the background, but you can’t find it in you to care, not with the way John is looking at you – like he could devour you whole.

It’s not long before you and John are the only ones left – Johnny having made an excuse about being tired, though it’s more likely he was sick of being the third (fifth) wheel; and Jess and Kyle having not-so-subtly disappeared to the ‘bathroom’ one after the other. Not that you can blame her – you would let John fuck you in the dirty bar bathroom, if he’d only ask. Unfortunately for you, he’s too much of a gentleman, refusing to allow you to walk the five minutes to your flat alone, even amongst your half-hearted protestations that you would be fine. You can’t find it in you to be truly upset, not when every part of you is humming with need, desperate to keep him in your presence.

The walk is mostly quiet – you’re not sure what’s going through his mind, but yours is occupied with with ways to get him inside your apartment, to convince him that you want this as much as he does. You barely even notice that you’ve arrived until you spot the familiar bright blue door.

“This it?”

“Yeah.” you bite your lip, suddenly unsure. Despite the obvious attraction, and your rather blatant flirtations, he’s given you no indication that he intends to take things any further. You’re not sure how to ask.

“I’ll walk you up.” his tone leaves no room for argument, and a part of you hopes it’s because he doesn’t plan to leave. Your mind swirls with with possibilities, both of dragging him into your bed, and of him leaving you at the door without a word, never to see you again.

You’re distracted as you pull out your keys, so much so that you forget about the dodgy step – the same hole that had been there since before you moved in, and had probably been there since the nineties – and immediately stumble, keys slipping from your grip. John is beside you in an instant, deftly plucking them from the air before you’ve even noticed you’ve dropped them, his hand on your waist to steady you.

“Careful, love.” he rumbles, dangerously close to your ear. He’s once again in your space, taking up all your senses. You want to keep him there as long as possible, and you’re fairly certain he wants that too, as he doesn’t hand you the keys, and he makes no move to pull away.

“Thank you, John.” you breathe, placing a hand on his thick bicep and squeezing lightly, and you can see the effect it has on him. His eyes darken, and his grip on your waist tightens just slightly.

“Don’t do that, love.”

“Why not?” you keep your voice low, unwilling to break whatever fragile bubble you’ve built around the two of you, the one where nothing else exists but you. The one where he’s so close to giving in, to giving you both what you want.

“I’m not what you want.”

“And how do you know that?” you murmur, letting your hand brush gently from his arm, across his broad shoulders, to rest on his chest, right over his heart. You can almost imagine you can feel it hammering under your touch. “Tell me you’re not interested and I’ll stop.”

“You don't know me, love. Trust me, you don’t want me.”

“You didn’t say you’re not interested.” You say, stepping closer to him, so close you swear you can see the conflict playing out behind his eyes. You lean up, lips ghosting against the shell of his ear. “You trying to scare me off? Or are you afraid you can’t handle me?”

His jaw twitches, clenched tight. Fingers clenching around around the keys, white-knuckled.

“Inside. Now.”

He doesn’t touch you as he follows you up the stairs to your apartment, but you can feel the weight of his stare on you, heavier than any hands you’ve had on your body before. Neither of you speaks – the tension is drawn so tight that you’re afraid the slightest sound will cause it to snap, and you’re not sure if you’re more frightened or excited by the prospect.

Your hands tremble as they try to fit the key into the lock, and suddenly his hand is covering yours, steadying it; but the electricity it sends through your skin nearly causes your knees to buckle. Almost as if he can read your thoughts, his other hand goes to your hip, his body a wall of muscle behind you, so close but not touching, almost as if to say fall if you have to, I’ll catch you.

You’re only too eager to take him up on the offer.

It’s only when the door clicks shut behind him that you turn to look at him. His broad frame almost dwarfs the door, but your entire world was drawn down to just his eyes; the bright blue is gone, replaced with a dark storm that under other circumstances would be terrifying, but here in the low light of your apartment it causes a thrill to go through you, heat pooling in your belly. You feel simultaneously powerful and fragile – a siren luring the sailor in, only to find you’ve been caught his net the whole time, your voice holding no more power over him than a ship has over the ocean.

It’s then that his control snaps; stepping forwards, he grips the back of your neck like he’s scruffing a stray cat, and drags you into an open-mouthed kiss. His other hand splays across your back, pressing you close with no way to escape his grip. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, unable to do anything but surrender. All of your senses are taken over by him – the warmth of his hands even through your clothes, the taste of whisky on this tongue, the scent of something masculine and faintly smoky overwhelming you until you couldn’t think of anything but him.

When he finally pulls away you’re breathless, staring up at him with glassy eyes, leaning into his hand like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. It might very well be; you feel so weightless you might float away, the warmth of his hands being the only things keeping you tethered. You let out a disappointed wine when he drops his hands and steps back from you, looking pleased with himself at the desperate noise. If you’d been any more lucid you might have noticed the faint growl in his voice, the only sign that he was just as affected as you were.

“Clothes off. Now.”

All your earlier bravado is gone; you can only scramble to obey with an eagerness unmatched by even the most well trained soldiers under his command. And he knows it too; there’s a knowing glint in his eyes as his lips curl in the hint of a smirk, arms folding across his chest as he watches you kick off your shoes, reaching for the zipper of your dress.

“Eager thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs, and you find yourself nodding reflexively, letting the dress fall to the ground, leaving you in nothing but your bra and panties. His hands find your waist as you unclasp your bra, his lips at the shell of your ear, voice low and sending shivers down your spine. “Just need someone to tell you what to do, is that it?” His lips just barely brush against your skin, trailing a path across your jaw, as one hand skims up your side to your chest, palm cupping your breast, and you tangle your hand in his hair in a desperate attempt to keep his lips on your skin. “Need someone to make you behave?” He pulls back to watch your face as he gives your breast a squeeze, tugging at your peaked nipple and sending a jolt straight to your core.

“Yes.” You breathe, and his mouth is on yours again, tongue sweeping into your mouth and swallowing your gasp. His hands are everywhere, kneading at the swell of your breasts and tracing the curve of your spine, slipping beneath your panties to grip at the curve of your ass, pressing your hips against forward against the unmistakable bulge in his pants. Your hands leave his hair move to tug your underwear off, but you’re quickly stopped by his hands gripping yours, bringing them to his lips.

“Allow me.” He murmurs, sinking to the ground. His hands are delicate as they grip the waistband of your panties, dragging them slowly down as his lips follow, brushing kisses against the soft flesh of your hip, thigh, your knee; getting further and further from where you want them. He may be on his knees before you, but you’re acutely aware that he is still in control; each kiss to your bare skin perfectly calculated to bring you closer to madness, ignoring his own almost painful arousal. His lips trail back up your legs, and you can feel yourself growing wetter as he gets closer and closer to where you need him most – only to ghost right over your pussy, his lips instead moving to your hips, your stomach, everywhere but where you want them. You whine, hands tugging at his hair, try to bring his mouth where you want it. Instead, he continues up your body, until his lips brush the underside of your breast, before wrapping around a peaked nipple and sucking. You all but collapse into his arms with the jolt of pleasure it sends through your body and he chuckles lowly, standing to place a brief kiss to your lips.

“Bedroom, sweetheart.”

“Second door-” you barely have time breathe out before you’re swept off your feet, clinging to his shoulders as he swiftly locates your bedroom. Barely a beat passes between him laying you on the bed and fitting his body over yours, lips capturing your own, and fitting one large thigh in between your legs. He grips your hips and guides them over the rough fabric, his own arousal pressing into your hip. You can tell already that it’s going to be impressive, and your hand reaches down to grip him through the fabric, desperate to feel him.

With a groan he pulls away from your lips, gripping your wrist and pulling it off him as he looks down at you with pupils blow so wide they’re nearly black. For a moment you think he plans to fuck you just like this; you laid out bare, and him still fully clothed, and that just won’t do. You need to feel his skin against yours, need to be able to touch and kiss and bite. You impatiently paw at his shirt, and he separates from your lips just long enough to remove it, giving a breathy chuckle at your impatience. He doesn’t give you any time to admire him, as he moves down the bed, nudging your legs apart with his shoulders and settling between them. You think you should be self-conscious, having him so close to your most intimate parts, but the hungry look in his eyes only has you getting more worked up.

“Look at you…” he breathes, and you’re not sure it’s meant for you to hear. You shift impatiently, desperate for some kind of touch, anything, needing him to do something. His eyes flicker up to yours, amused.

“Need something?” He says, placing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, so close but so far from where you want him.

“Please, John-” you whine, hips bucking. Slowly he kisses up your thigh until he’s at your folds, so close-

His nose brushes against your clit and you jolt, fingers curling into the sheets. He’s barely even touched you, yet you’re so wound up that the slightest touch sends electricity through you. And then his mouth is on you, tongue rolling over your clit, and you arch off the bed with an obscene moan. A broad hand is splayed out on your stomach, holding your hips still, as he other hand grips your hip with almost bruising force to keep you against his mouth. His tongue laves through your folds, dipping into your entrance just slightly before rolling over your clit, and back again, your hips rocking into his face with every stroke, frantically chasing your pleasure. It’s devastating how fast he has you reaching your peak, the warmth pooling in your belly as your hand cards through his hair, walls clenching around his tongue as he fucks it into you, your whole body on fire. And then he wraps his lips around your clit and you break, eyes rolling, screaming his name as body tries to curl in on itself, thighs clamping around his head in a way you’d think would be painful, if you’d been able to think at all. You feel your orgasm in your whole body, every inch of you drawing tight before you melt, boneless and heavy, yet still not sated.

He kisses up your body slowly, giving you time to come down from your high. His hips slot between yours as he draws you into a slow kiss, letting you taste yourself on him as he grinds his clothed bulge against you with the same languid pace as his kiss. You’ve just come, but you want more – want all of him. You need to feel him inside you.

“Want you-” you whine, hands moving for his belt, clumsily tugging at it with clumsy hands, still shaking from your orgasm.

“’m getting there, sweetheart.” he groans into your mouth, gripping both your hands in one of his to try and move them away. “Patience.”

“No.” you whine, hand slipping under the waistband of his pants, reaching down to cup his length through his underwear. His movements still immediately, head dropping to your neck as his hips buck into the warmth of your hand.

“Brat.” he nips at your jaw, before he pulls away from you and moves to stand. You open your mouth to complain but are quickly silenced by the sight of his hands at his belt, thick fingers undoing the buckle with ease before impatiently shoving his pants and underwear down simultaneously, allowing his cock to spring free. You’re not sure what happens afterwards, too focused on the image of John’s large hand gripping his flushed length. He looks big even in his own hand – you want to know what he’ll look like with your smaller ones wrapped around it. You’re not sure you’ll be able to cover it completely even with both your hands, but god do you want to try. Your mouth practically waters as you rise up off the bed, reaching towards him, but he stops you with a hand on your shoulder.

“Lay back, sweetheart.” He growls, stills fisting his aching cock as he crawls back over you, pushing at your shoulder gently to force you down. But you resist, too focused on getting your mouth on him. You want to know how he’ll taste, how heavy he’ll will feel on your tongue, how wrecked he'll sound when he comes down your throat.

“Please, John, let me-” your hands are on his shoulders as you give him your best pleading eyes, licking your lips as you try to move on top of him. “Please let me suck your cock.”

“It’s alright-” he starts, but you silence him with a kiss, tongue licking into his mouth, giving him just a taste of what you want to do with his cock.

“I want to.” you breathe when you pull away, enjoying the heady look in his eyes as he gives in.

He allows you to push him back, to settle on your knees in front of him, but his eyes never leave yours. His tangles loosely in your hair, not tight enough to pull, but firm enough to remind you who’s in charge.

Your eyes remained fixed on his as take him into your hand, giving him a few languid strokes, before leaning down and letting your tongue flick over the head.

You watch as his breathing stutters, as his jaw twitches in what you’ve learnt is an attempt to restrain himself, to keep some semblance of control, as your hand continues to work his cock, your tongue swirling over the head and lapping at the beads of precum there.

You don’t want him controlled. You want to see him break.

Without warning you wrap your lips around his cock, taking him as deep as you can. You hear him swear above you, his hand tightening almost painfully in your hair as he fights the urge to buck his hips into the warmth of your mouth. You pull back, swirling your tongue around his tip, before bobbing your head again, taking him deeper, as your hand strokes what you can’t fit in your mouth. The noise he makes is positively sinful, half way between a moan and a growl, and you want to hear him make it again. You pull off his cock with a swirl of your tongue, but this time your mouth trails down his length, eventually reaching his heavy balls, and suck.

“Fuck.” He growls. With a grip just on the right side of painful, he pulls you off him, dragging your face up to his and meeting your lips in a bruising kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, uncaring of the taste of himself as he guides you onto your back, hips slotting between yours, cock hot and heavy where it rests on your stomach. With his cock so close to where you need it, you think he might finally fuck you, but instead his hand trails down to cup your mound, fingers trailing through the arousal that’s gathered there, bringing it up tow swirl around your clit. You’re still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and the faint touch has you gasping, hips bucking into him, desperate to be filled.

“Have to get you ready, love.”

“’m ready now- please, John-”

“Patience.” he repeats his earlier words, thumb pressing lightly on your clit as his finger teases your entrance. “Gonna be a tight fit sweetheart, gotta stretch you out.” Just the thought of his cock bullying its way inside you has you clenching around nothing, and you think he can see it on you, as he teases a thick finger inside you, groaning at the way your walls clamp down around him. He adds a second finger, palm grinding against your clit, working you over into another orgasm with ease. You come with a cry, walls clenching around his fingers, and he groans at the sensation, imagining how you’ll feel coming around his cock. The thought alone is enough to have pulling his fingers from you, using the wetness on his fingers to fist his cock as he lines the weeping head with your slit. The feel of his tip pressing into you has you clinging to his shoulders, and he grips your leg, wrapping it over his hip, opening you further and allowing him to slip in deeper.

It’s achingly slow, the way he feeds his cock into you, as though he wants you to feel every single inch, every ridge and vein. By the time he bottoms out you’re nearly mad with anticipation, nails biting into his back as you try to force him to move, to give you some kind of relief.

“Fuck, sweetheart-” he groans at the sensation, fighting the urge to rut into with abandon, desperate to draw this out until he can feel you cumming.

You roll your hips up to meet his, desperately seeking the pleasure he’s withholding from you. But he denies you; keeping his thrusts just slow enough to keep you teetering on the edge without tipping over, driving you closer and closer to madness with each stroke, until you’re a sobbing, babbling wreck; begging him to please let you come.

“You wanna come, sweetheart?” He drawls, nosing along your jaw, his thumb just barely ghosting over where you need it.

“Yes.”

“Gonna have to ask nicer than that.” he teases, cock dragging against your walls in a way that's just shy of enough.

“Please, John, I – I’m so close – please, I –” you babble, half delirious with pleasure. Despite your previous orgasms, you need it, need him.

“Good girl.” he all but growls, thumb pressing down on your clit. That’s all it takes; you crash, white hot pleasure thrumming through every inch, clenching around his cock in attempt to drag him over the edge with you.

But he pulls out suddenly, cock slapping against your twitching, overstimulated clit as he squeezes the base to try and stave off his own orgasm. He taps it against your clit once, twice more more, enjoying the way you moan and writhe away from the contact, before he flips you over, dragging your limp and pliant body onto your knees. You can just barely manage to hold yourself up as he sinks his cock into your tight heat once more, the new angle hitting something inside you that has your eyes rolling back. The grip he has on your hips is is bruising as he sets a much faster pace, fucking into you as though you’re nothing more than a pretty little toy for him to use. It’s all you can do to grip the sheets but your head and try to keep yourself upright as he chases his own relief.

It’s not enough for John, however – if you can still hold yourself up, he hasn’t fucked you thoroughly enough. With one hand gripping your hips, his other arm against your chest and gripping the base of your throat like a collar, he drags your body up to meet his, your head dropping back onto his shoulder as his cock manages to hit even deeper inside you. Still not satisfied, he drags his fingers over your clit harshly; still sensitive, he has you on the precipice of another orgasm remarkably fast.

“I can’t- John-” Your hand goes to his where it fits over your cunt; you grip it tightly, but make no attempt to pull him away.

“One more, sweetheart. Let me feel you.” His lips ghost across your neck, his other hand kneading at your breast, and the combined sensations are enough to push you over the edge.

You come so hard you can’t even scream, your vision turning white and you collapse forward, the weight of John’s body following you, pinning you to the mattress. You barely register the feeling of John’s release shortly after, groaning as his hips stutter, as though trying to fuck his come deeper into you. He has just enough sense to roll off you slightly before he collapses fully, though his body is still a comforting weight tethering you to reality. Everything feels fuzzy, your limbs heavy. Even the brush of his breath against your neck lights up your skin like a livewire. You’re not sure how long the two of you lie there; with his warm body pressed against yours, and the gentle caress of his hands over your sweat-slicked skin, you feel lulled into an almost dreamlike state. You’re not sure if it’s minutes or hours before you feel his lips on your shoulder, his body pulling away from yours. You moan at the sensation of him slowly drags his cock from your sensitive walls, his cum already beginning to leak out. You barely even register him roll you onto your back, parting your thighs and settling between them, his eyes already dark as they fix onto your cunt.

“Fuck, that’s a pretty sight.” He says, mostly to himself, watching the pearly liquid dripping from your folds. He swipes his fingers through your folds, collecting what’s leaked out, before he stuffs them back inside of you.

“Look so pretty full of me, sweetheart.” You’re not sure if it’s the sound of his voice, his words, or his fingers inside you, but you can’t help but moan and clench down around him. He shifts his body so he can capture your lips, fingers still inside you. He kisses you languidly, tenderly, like he hadn’t just fucked your brain to liquid and left you boneless.

“You broken, love?” You can only weakly shake your head no, eyes still closed. “Don’t tell me you’ve had enough already.” You slowly open your eyes, finding him looking down at you with eyes dark, a smug look on his face like he’s won some game you weren't aware you were playing. Despite how tired you are, how blissed out you feel, you find yourself shaking your head, as if unwilling to disappoint him.

“Good. I’m not done with you yet.”

You wake in the morning with a pleasant ache between your thighs, your limbs still loose and boneless as you melt back into the mattress. You’re vaguely aware of the lack of another body in bed with you, but your limbs feel too heavy to move to check. You think you hear the sound of movement in your apartment, though it could just be your neighbours – either way, you’re too comfortable to care. It’s only when you hear the sound of footsteps approaching that you lazily open your eyes, just in time to see John, shirtless, broad chest and arms on full display as he places a steaming mug on your bedside table. You can’t help but admire him all over again in the golden morning light, eyes trailing over the expanse of his shoulders, remembering how he’d draped your legs over them whilst he buried his face in your cunt; the thickness of his fingers when he buried them inside you.

“Mornin’, love.” He leans over you, his hand gently cradling your face, and you rise up to meet his lips. It’s devoid of last night’s urgency, but still leaves you just as breathless and hungry. Your grip tightens as he moves to pull away, and you follow him, trying to bring his lips back to yours.

“Needy little thing.” He chuckles, pushing you back into the mattress and settling over you, his hand a solid weight on your throat as he tilts your head to look up at him. “Didn’t get enough last night?”

You say nothing, simply draw him back into a kiss, legs falling open as you allow him to settle between them.

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writersdrug · 10 months ago

Note

no thoughts just waitress!reader showing up for shifts like nothings wrong after the date situation

just keeping it calm and professional. working her shifts efficiently and no longer bantering/flirting with ghost, who would rather reader melt down and tear into him than putting up the walls around herself hehe

Ok I'm combining some asks here that had some different ideas - I got so many of you guys demanding reparation for making reader cry 😭 here's the comfort chapter! (Still a tad angsty at the beginning)

Ghost had finished your tips for you that night. He had half a mind to slide a hundred in your payout folder as an apology for ruining your date... but what good would that do? That would make you quit for good, if you hadn't already.

He lays in his bed, eyes stuck to the ceiling, still in his jeans and black shirt. He wishes he could snuff out the guilt that sits heavily in his gut. He wonders what you're doing - probably crying, possibly making a half-assed voodoo doll of himself and stabbing his chest with a dull steak knife, because that's all he feels right now.

He gets up early the next day after a rough three hours of sleep. He lumbers down the stairs to the office - Price is there, sorting out cash and working on the next supply order. He looks at Simon, who's rubbing his eyes and looking worse for wear.

"Mornin'." Price says, turning back to the monitor. Ghost grunts in response, dropping himself onto the couch behind Price. His head aches from the lack of sleep, thoughts circling in his mind about how to apologize to you. He can imagine you won't want to talk to him - or, if you do, it'll most likely be profanities wedged between insults. He'd love for you to berate him right now, and make him feel like he got what he deserved.

Price sighs. "You sleep alright?"

"I've had better."

"Nightmare?"

"... yea, somethin' like that."

Price huffs. "I'm workin' front of house today." He says, grabbing the bag of tips and standing up. "Goin' down to drop these in the safe, then I'll help you stock up."

Simon opens his eyes, looking at Price with confusion. "You?"

Price nods. "Dove called out sick. Sounded like she's got the lurgy."

That delivers the final blow to Simon. He knows you're not sick - you're avoiding him now. All plans to apologize are now out the window, and the more time passes, the harder it'll be to do it.

"You've only got yourself to blame, Simon." Price says, heading down to the restaurant floor.

He curses under his breath as Price leaves. How he heard about what happened - he could only assume it had been from Soap. He drops his arm over his face and groans. He wants to call out himself, but then they might as well shut down the entire pub for the day.

Should he try phoning you? Would you answer, let alone allow him to get more than five words out? What would he say? "Sorry I ruined your date, I was jealous tha' ya got a life outside of the pub." There is no variation of an apology that feels like it would be enough. He made you cry, for fucks sake. That was a punishment in and of itself, but he still had to own up to what he'd done.

He sighs loudly; his body feels heavy as he drags himself off the couch, trudging down the stairs. He still has a bar to run.

It had to have been the longest shift of Simon's life, and he even wrapped things up a bit earlier than usual. He didn't have the gift of your incessant chatting or being able to tease you to make the time pass. Price was a solid companion in front of house, but there was hardly a conversation to be held - even with the usual bar crowd. The patrons had a look of confusion for the majority of the night, wondering why Soap wasn't popping his head out of the kitchen to chat every once in a while - and why the hell the owner was serving tables, and not the chipper, spunky waitress.

When Simon had locked up for the night, he noticed your bike was no longer in the alley. Johnny must have dropped it off on the way back to his place.

Today isn't much different - at least, not for Simon. He's still suffering from a lack of sleep, he's irritable (he had a spat with Johnny in the morning, over something he can't even remember), and his work ethic is suffering. He's not worried about slicing bar fruit; it'll give him something to do later, when he needs it. Maybe the rush will kick him back into shape.

He stares at the dishes on the edge of the bar - they're all in need of a good polish, but he finds himself stuck on staring at the bar fridge. There's nothing else he needs to stock up on - it's packed completely full with wine, champagne, and cans of beer. He gently kicks the side of it with his boot. He should be checking the to-go boxes, helping Soap with setting up the condiments and soups, making sure the tables all had full salt and pepper shakers. That's what you would be doing. But, you're not here, and neither is Price. He can only hope tonight isn't as busy as the previous night, otherwise he'll have to close some tables. Which would make customers mad. Which would make Price mad. Which would-

Suddenly, he hears three loud bangs against the back door. He freezes, the sound triggering a Pavlovian response. He immediately looks up to the kitchen window - Soap opens the door, and you come jogging inside. You greet him with a smile. He asks how you're feeling, and you say "much better".

He doesn't know what to do with himself, but he just stands there like an idiot as you hang your bag and jacket on a hook. Stands there as you push your way into the restaurant, barely sparing him a glance as you scurry by him. Stands there as you run up the stairs, two at a time, diving nose-first into your chores so you can avoid Simon.

He can't speak. Should he? What can he say? "I'm sorry," for starters, but it isn't that simple. He thought you might have quit, and was preparing his heart for the worst. But now, here you are, running back and forth through the pub and setting up your tables - and it feels like you've never been farther away from him.

In all honesty, you can't bring yourself to talk to him either. You're feeling just as ashamed with your behavior two nights ago as he is about his own. Why the fuck would you expect someone - let alone your boss - to do your chores so that you could run off and have fun on a date? Not only that, but you'd made a scene; you felt like you had half-assed the ice bins in your scramble to get them cleaned, and then you sobbed in the middle of the restaurant. The cherry on top, however, was when you called Price yesterday and told him you had a cold, calling out of your shift. It was a cowardly thing to do, and you could tell he wasn't buying your story.

But: bills need to be paid, rent is due, and you can't lose this job. So you sucked it up and came in today - Simon is easy enough to ignore, separated from you by the bar.

At first, the quiet bartender was relieved that you had showed up for your shift - he wouldn't have searched for a new waitress if you had quit, instead choosing to deal with the consequences of his actions. But he's quickly getting more and more irritated with the silent treatment you're serving. You only talk to him when necessary: a simple "thanks" when you grab your drinks and run them to your tables. You busy yourself between rolling silverware, (over)stocking napkins and condiments, and even going so far as to spray the menus down and scrub them with a rag. You spend more time in the kitchen with Soap; each peal of laughter shared between the two of you is another arrow in Simon's chest. He's stuck behind the bar, listening to woes spilling from drunken lips, forced to watch you flit around and pretend he doesn't exist.

You can't keep this up forever.

Still, you do for most of the night. Even when your shift is coming to an end, the kitchen closed while you close the tabs for your remaining tables, you don't cave and sit at the bar with Simon. You sit at the farthest table from him, the farthest chair, in fact, skimming over your tip receipts - and talking to Soap (who was only able to sit with you since you had helped him knock out his tasks).

Simon's never been as angry with Soap as he is now - and the worst part is he knows it's not justified. He's watching from behind the bar, polishing glasses so hard they might wane into cups. He wants to talk to you. He will talk to you before the night is over. He doesn't expect forgiveness, but he expects that you'll at least let him offer an apology.

One of the regulars at the bar looks to whatever Simon is glaring at, chuckling quietly when he sees you. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Stuff it, Mike." Simon grumbles.

Meanwhile, you walk back from closing out your last table, plopping back in the booth with Soap. "What are you doing after this?"

"Sleepin'." he replies instantly, tossing back an onion ring. "Been dealin' with a grumpy bawbag since early this mornin', and I'm beat."

You glance over at the bar; Simon's back is facing you as he organizes the beer glasses. You really should apologize to him... you just couldn't figure out when the right time would be. He'd still be working by the time your shift ends, and you don't even know if he wants to speak to you at this point.

"Is he mad at me?" you ask, tapping your pen on the table.

Soap sighs. "I'm not goin' t' be the middle man, Bonnie." he says, looking at you intently. "If ye feel like somethin' needs to be said, go talk to 'im."

You groan, leaning back against the seat. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"It just isn't! He's already pissed at me, and he probably thinks I'm a slacker. What good is an apology?"

"Ye won't know 'til ye talk to 'im, hmm?"

"What if he fires me?"

Johnny barks with laughter, and you frown. "I'm being serious."

"He'd never fire ye." he says, getting up out of the booth. He stretches both arms above his head and lets out a grunt. "In fact, he was throwin' a fit yesterday n' today 'fore ye came in. Bitch took it out on me."

You winced. "I'm sorry-"

"Save it fer 'im." Soap interjected. He left you at the booth with the onion rings and your tips, disappearing into the kitchen. You huff, hunching back over your tips and scribbling through them.

Deep down, you know Soap is right. If anything, you could just apologize to Simon. If he chooses to be grumpy about it, so be it. You've got tough skin... still, you can't stand the thought of him being upset with you - not because of your work ethic, but because you liked him. A lot. And you wanted him to like you back, even if it was in the most platonic way.

But that didn't change anything. An apology was due, and you were going to give him one before you left tonight.

You grabbed an onion ring and popped it in your mouth, grimacing when you realized they were cold. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Simon making his was across the floor to your booth.

Great. Guess the apology is coming now.

He stops at the edge of the table, wiping his hands in a rag. You pretend to punch numbers into your phone's calculator, but they're all random - you just want to look like you're busy.

"May I sit?" he asks, tucking the rag into his back pocket.

You mumble out a "sure", still not looking at him. You hear his large frame slide into the seat across from you, polyester squeaking underneath his weight. You continue to do random equations on your calculator, letting a thick blanket of tension settle between the two of you. You can feel his stare burning into your head, his arms folded over his chest... and you notice that his mask is in his hand. You finally look up at him.

It's not the first time you've seen his face - you've caught glimpses of it when he smokes in the alley, or when he eats whatever Soap throws under the warmer for you and Simon. But this time, he's not taking it off to be convenient. And, dear god, you're just now paying attention to how scarred, rugged, and handsome he is - but now's not the time for those kinds of thoughts. You feel like he's reaching out an olive branch, showing a possible vulnerable side to himself. So, you place your pen on the table and lean back.

He stays quiet for a moment longer, trying to figure out how to start this. He wants to make sure that you know he's here to apologize, not to ask for forgiveness. From his silence, you assume he's waiting for you to go first.

"I'm sorry about Tuesday night." you say, eyes dropping to the table. Simon's astounded that you're the one apologizing, but you continue. "I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, and I'm sorry for trying to dump my job on you."

He feels worse, now. Was that even possible? He was expecting anger, insults - a detailed, frustrated explanation of what you did last night since you did not go on that date. But you're the one saying sorry? You think you're to blame for all of this unspoken aggression? Oh, you really do confuse him, sometimes...

"You don't need t' be sorry, luv." he says, gazing at you with a softness you'd never seen before, not in his brown eyes, at least.

"No, I do." you say, nearly pleading with him to let you be apologetic. "I was being a brat, and whether you usually do the ice bins or not, I shouldn't have expected you would do them without asking." You push your pen on the table, doing your best to convey your feelings. "And yeah, I was late for my date, but... well, he sounded like a dick, anyways."

Simon chuckles, watching you stare at the table. "Well, I owe you an apology, too. I jus'..." he sighed heavily, running a hand down his jaw. "I don' even know. Guess I was bein' lazy, or... I got jealous tha' you've got a life outside of this pub. Feels like you belong here."

He immediately regrets saying that - it sounds way too possessive and... just straight up weird. But you smile, taking comfort in the fact that he still wants you here. That this was the whole reason behind the mess.

"Soap called you a bitch. Said you were an asshole all day."

Simon scoffs. "Yea... 'm pretty sure Price would tell ya the same. And he wants ya back, too. Couldn't stand waitin' on tables, he was tryin' t' trade places with me all night."

You laugh. The world seems alright again - not perfect, but good enough. It might take a night of sleeping the tension away before you're fully back to your normal self, but this is a leap in the right direction. You look at Simon, into his brown, steady eyes, as they stare right back at you.

He breaks the silence. "I really am sorry for ruinin' your date."

You smile softly. "Thank you, Simon. I forgive you."

And just like that, the weight of his guilt is lifted away. The lingering sourness remains, a reminder that he had made you cry. But you had forgiven him, which was more than he was hoping to get tonight.

"Are we better?" you ask timidly.

He nods once. "Better."

You smile - you slowly slide your stack of receipts to him, biting your lip. "Cool - can I have my money?"

Just like that, his smirk drops - but you know it's all in good humor. He huffs, snatching the stack from the table and scoots his way out of the booth. "Always got money on the mind, eh?"

"I've always got rent on my mind." you retort, following after him with the bowl of onion rings. You plant yourself at your usual spot on the end of the bar, right near the POS where Simon cashes out your tips. He tries to hurry up, assuming you want to dip and go home after such an intense conversation. He slides the mask back over his face and punches his code in, trying to edit your tips into the system as quickly as he can.

"Simon?"

"Hm?" his response is instant, turning around to look back at you. You've got your phone on the bartop, and your back and jacket on the unoccupied seat next to you.

"Can I stay for a drink?"

He's melting on the inside, only held together by his own skin. He sets your receipts down and opts to do them later, right before whenever you decide to leave. He won't miss on an opportunity to have you stay longer.

"Course, luv. What's it gonna be?"

"You know how to make a cosmo?"

He chuckles, grabbing a glass from the shelf behind him. "Sure do."

#bartender ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost cod #cod x reader #call of duty

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alchemistc · 2 months ago

Text

favors

Tommy's the kind of asshole who checks his phone at the table in the middle of a first date, now.

In his defence, it hasn't been a great first date. And not in any sort of charming way, either.

In his defence, he's been waiting on this text for what feels like longer than it actually has been (four weeks, three days - he feels stupid admitting he's got a rough estimate of the hours too, but the point is he's been waiting. Hoping. Took this invitation to dinner as an attempt to remind himself he was the one who walked out.)

Tommy is absolutely the kind of asshole who glances up from his lap to find his date staring at him with his jaw clenched and doesn't bother to make more of an excuse than "Sorry, family thing, I gotta go."

Tommy's the kind of asshole who drops three twenties on the table and doesn't bother to say goodbye as he winds his way through tables - this place was pretentious as fuck, anyway - and pushes through the rotating door.

He's not even halfway to his truck when his phone displays an incoming call.

The last time he'd seen that name flash across his screen he'd been - well, he'd been a ball of nerves for all of five seconds before a winded voice had asked him to commit some light treason and Tommy had hopped to.

"Evan. Hey."

He remembers Evan had always thought he was so cool, and he sort of wishes Evan could see him now, with sweaty palms and a nervous hitch to his step as he twists around the wire fencing that will lead him to the truck he'd dropped thirty-five bucks to park, in this stupid downtown lot for this stupid date that hadn't distracted him for a minute at the stupid restaurant that only served tapas and hipster whiskey.

His voice is a little tremulous, a little off. "Hi Tommy."

Tommy doesn't waste time. He's done enough of that, and Evan sounds - Jesus he sounds awful. Sad, deep in his bones. Tired. A little out of it. "Everything okay?"

"I did have feelings for you. When I said that. I - It was such a shitty thing to say and I realized I never apologized for it even though I meant to and...and I did. I do, still, really."

It's the kind of opening Tommy couldn't have dreamt up in a million years. It's solid proof that Evan has worked it over in his mind at least half as many times as Tommy, trying to figure out where it all went wrong, how he'd ruined it so quickly when everything he'd been a sad sack about pretending he didn't want had been right there, ready for the taking. When he'd done that devastating bambi-eyed, through the lashes glance up, even though they were the same fucking height, and Tommy had stuck his foot in his mouth so badly he'd knocked out a couple teeth.

"Okay. I -."

Whatever he'd have come up with in that moment escapes his brain a second later when Evan continues.

"Which is why what I wanted to ask you may be, like, super awkward."

Tommy's a little grateful to find his truck is only two spaces from where he is at the moment. Has to bite back the sharp deprecating laugh when he realizes this is another fucking favor, not a goddamn reconciliation. He left a date for this.

A bad one.

But still.

"Okay." Clipped is a good term for the way the word comes out of his mouth. He's already wincing before he's even finished saying it, because if he can tell Evan's hurting from his voice alone, surely Evan can tell from his own tone that he's...annoyed. In pain. Wishing he could rip the memory of Evan Buckley from the spot it's nestled beneath his ribcage, where he can't shake it loose.

Evan's quiet for a long, long moment. They'd been great at getting immediately horny any time there was even a hint of strife. Not so easy to do when they haven't been together now for longer than they ever were. "I was wondering if I could borrow your truck on Tuesday."

And that's - that's a fairly reasonable request, as far as the 118 standard goes. Still makes him want to cry, a little.

"Can I ask why?"

"It's... Uh...?" The pause lasts long enough that Tommy has to check and make sure Evan's still on the line. His next words are quieter, but he can hear the tremble in them. Has to bite down the urge to make himself a shield against whatever it is that has him so emotional. Not his job, anymore. If it ever even had been.

The farther removed he is from all of this, the more he wonders if he really had imagined the connection between them. How the intimate moments felt charged with more than a desire to rip each other's clothes off, how the silly moments had felt like the prologue of a long and happy story.

"It's fine, Evan. I'll, uh - have to check my schedule but I think I can make it work."

He's free Tuesday. He and his truck both are. But maybe... Maybe this has run its course. Maybe Tommy will have to make more of an effort, his next bad first date.

"Eddie's moving back," Evan says, and there's a weird twist to his voice, a quirk around the name Tommy doesn't recognize. He'd always said "Eddie" with the kind of reverence Tommy couldn't fully grasp, a superhero and a confidante all rolled up in the lazy smirk and cow-brown eyes of a man Tommy had no hope of beating out on the Important To Evan Buckley scale. But if Tommy had to put a description to it, Evan kind of spits the name, now. "And until I can figure out a place to stay I need to get a few things in storage quickly. I just thought - it was stupid. Obviously it's short notice, and you shouldn't feel obligated to -."

"My spare room is empty," Tommy says. Tommy lies, more accurately. It's currently storing all the renovation shit he's been accumulating since the breakup turned him into an insane person pretending he knows a damn thing about fixing up a house.

This pause seems to hold a little more weight to it.

"...okay?" And there's - there's something there, in his voice, sun warm and yellow, bacon cooling on a paper towel and eggs still not plated while Evan swallowed and asked the one question Tommy had been hoping he wouldn't ask.

"I just meant - why spend the money on a storage unit, right?"

"Tommy."

"Let me check my schedule. I can get back to you. If Tuesday works, we can just - we can figure it out from there."

"Tommy."

And that's his "you're spiralling" voice. Tommy hadn't heard it often. Too busy trying to be as cool as his shiny new boyfriend thought he was. Too busy choking down the urge to sink a knife into his ribcage and carve out his heart to hand it over.

"I'll let you know by tomorrow morning," Tommy promises, and before he lets his words get away from him he ends the call.

Jesus fuck.

Hell.

What the fuck?

---

Tommy's so frayed with nerves he spends the entire drive slowly wearing a groove into the side of his cheek. By the time he makes it to the quiet street and sees Evan's Jeep parked on the curb, gate open and already stuffed full of boxes Tetris-style, he feels like he might just fucking explode.

It makes the terse, perfunctory head nod from Eddie on his way up the paved path just that much more confusing. That much more frustrating. He's got a set of keys swinging from his fingers, and doesn't even glance behind him as Evan pops the door open with a hip and stacks a box on top of two others already sitting in the porch.

There's clearly more going on here than Tommy is privy to.

"You aren't helping?" It's an innocent question. He doesn't even mean anything by it. Across the yard, Evan goes tense. Halfway down the drive, Eddie goes still, and swivels his gaze to Tommy.

"No one asked me to." By the stoop, Evan tips his gaze down, suddenly incredibly interested in whatever the label on the box he just set down says. He seems small. Not the man who'd guided him backwards up the lawn with so much tongue Tommy hadn't realized where he was until they were already inside. Not the man who'd confidently held a funeral for a long dead cowboy and roped Tommy into it without a care in the world that Tommy didn't believe in ghosts.

"Well, if anyone else was subletting you'd probably have had to give them more than a weeks notice to pack up their shit and leave, so I figured you'd be helping," Tommy says, because whatever the hell is going on with Eddie's face right now has him ready to raise locked wrists to chin height.

Eddie's tongue rolls along the inside of his cheek. "Buck says he's got it."

Knife, meet tension.

Tommy's always been more of a blunt instrument.

"Right."

"Didn't realize 'got it' meant calling in a favor with his ex, but hey, I haven't been around, in a while."

"Do we have a problem, Diaz?"

Eddie levers himself into the driver's seat of a vehicle that very distinctly isn't his truck. "Lot of that going around, at the moment."

That stone-faced look from the funeral is back on Evan's face.

Tommy's fist are clenched. He doesn't have a clue when that happened, or why it takes quite so much effort to shake his fingers loose.

Eddie clocks it. Stares for a long, long moment. Slams the door closed and backs out of the drive a little quicker than advisable, if the glare from the neighbor watering her hydrangeas is anything to go by.

He doesn't quite peel off down the street, but it seems like it takes him some effort to drive like a responsible adult.

Evan doesn't meet his gaze when he lopes across the lawn to meet him at the door.

He's gotta break the silence somehow. "So. Diaz seems pissed at me."

"It's not you."

"Uhuh."

"It's - I said something he -." Evan frowns. Twists a finger up into the slack of the tape along the top of one box. "Same old story. Buck makes it all about himself."

Tommy's missing something.

Tommy absolutely doesn't have the right to pry.

"What the hell does that mean?" Tommy asks, and watches the marble crumble.

---

It takes a day and a half to get everything out of Eddie's. Another half a day to stuff whatever they can into Tommy's bare spare room.

He'd bought a shed and stuffed the contents of his reno-supplies into it indiscriminately two nights earlier, at the ass end of three 24's from hell, and throws up an ironic thanks that Evan hadn't come by nearly often enough to be surprised by the new shed, or the dozen half-finished projects littering the house.

Tommy learns a lot of things that make him want to scream, over the course of the four-day span they squeeze that moving timeframe into.

It takes everything in him not to shoulder-check Eddie on the way out, once the final box is loaded into the bed of Tommy's truck.

He'd given them some privacy, before they left. Hopeful that Eddie would back down from this escalating argument of theirs, hopeful that he'd remember that his best fucking friend had sacrificed a hell of a lot, to allow him to move to El Paso. That he'd lost more since.

Evan hadn't spoken, the entire drive back to Tommy's.

He asks Evan out to coffee a moment before he offers to let him sleep on the couch until he finds something more permanent.

He should be less surprised than he is when they end up naked and sweaty and panting in his bed an hour later.

"We have to stop doing this."

Evan bites a nipple, and Tommy hisses.

"I'm serious, Evan. I can't do casual with you."

That gives him Evan's full attention. "What does that mean?"

"It means when I sleep with you I'm definitely having feelings for you."

He regrets the comment. Evan blows a raspberry into his sternum, and rolls onto his side to take in Tommy's expression. It's gotta be - well, it's gotta be a fucking mess. Just an absolute shit show of terror at having revealed too much. "I deserved that one."

Tommy smooths a hand over his shoulder. "You didn't, actually." After what he's been hearing about his friends and family, lately, Tommy's suddenly very aware of the words coming out of his mouth. "What I was trying to dance around is telling you I want to try again, and I don't want to fuck it up by falling into bed without actually...talking about it."

Evan snorts. Hitches his leg a little higher across Tommy's thigh. Yeah. Too late for that.

"I baked, to stop thinking about you. I baked cookies, and brownies, and three kinds of bread, and a Baked Alaska, and twelve different banana bread recipes, and - and it didn't change the fact that all I wanted to do was talk to you. See your face when you pull that stupidly bitchy look every time I don't know one of your references. Hold your hand and - and just be somewhere with you. Didn't matter where, I just...wanted. And I couldn't have it. So I baked."

"You made a Baked Alaska?"

"Tommy," Evan chides, but there are tears springing to the corner of Tommy's eyes and -

God he'd fucked this up so royally.

"Move in with me," Tommy says, the hysteria bubbling up in his throat, and he swallows it down, and down, and down again, because as the words settle under his skin, he realizes they feel right. What Evan had wanted, all those months ago, he'd wanted it too. He'd just been so fucking sure it would destroy him, in the end.

He's so goddamn tired of denying that what he really wants is for the rest of his life to be storied by memories of the man at his side, right here in this moment.

It's terrible timing. The worst idea. They're both rung out emotionally, grief and anger and insecurities bubbling just under the surface, ready to rise and make their lives miserable the moment they leave this bubble.

They haven't talked about any of it, not really.

"I'm serious. Why be apart, and all that?"

"Tommy."

The way his name curls out of Evan Buckley's mouth is like a favorite song. He never gets tired of hearing it.

Even when it's exasperated and confused. "I'm in love with you," Tommy murmurs, because his streak of insanity clearly hasn't passed. Evan's breath hitches. The worst part is that it's true. In a way he doesn't know how to quantify. He'd do a hell of a lot more than steal government property, for this man. He'd stay, for this man, at the risk of destroying his entire soul.

"Don't ask me because you feel sorry I'm technically homeless." It's an out. Teed up and ready for Tommy to swing. Tommy goes for the bunt.

"Pretty sure that was more of a demand than a question. You can say no."

Evan peeks through his lashes, chin tipped against Tommy's chest. "What if you change your mind?"

Well. That's a sore subject. Should have expected that.

Tommy slips a hand down his side. Gathers up his hand to slide their fingers together. "I won't. Believe me, at this point I've tried."

There's a quirk to Evans smile he hasn't seen in a long time. He's missed it. God, he's missed it.

This doesn't fix anything. Not a damn thing.

But Tommy doesn't want him to spend a single night going forward wondering whether or not he's worth all the trouble the rest of his family seems to have made him feel he is.

They'd been there, before. Right on the edge of something serious. Something permanent.

They can get it back.

"You're being serious," Evan comments, like he needs the confirmation just to make sure he's not hallucinating. Tommy hooks one of his legs, rolls until Evan is half under him.

"Baked Alaska serious," he intones, just to see Evan laugh.

"Where am I gonna put my bike rack?" he asks, after a serious, weighty pause, and Tommy presses in to suck Evans lower lip between his teeth in retaliation.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic

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winwintea · 7 months ago

Text

inyun

PAIRING ↬ next door neighbor!mark lee x fem!reader

TAGS ↬ fluff, romance, slight angst, potential soulmates, past lives au, friends to (?), shared dreams, the idea of inyun/inyeon or “fate”

SUMMARY ↬ when you move into a small apartment complex in seoul, your next-door neighbor, mark lee, seems like nothing more than an ordinary guy. but as the two of you get to know each other more, it suddenly feels like you’ve known him forever. then mark mentions his grandmother's belief in 인연. the idea that every encounter is woven by threads of fate. are these coincidences between you and mark really accidental or is there something deeper going on?

WORD COUNT ↬ 3.7k+

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ somebody (me) decided to rewatch past lives 🙈 this was supposed to be fluff and a gift for @https-lvesick but finals week started sinking in… thank you to my saviors @viasdreams and @polarisjisung for beta reading, love y'all <33

PLAYLIST ↬ jazz bar - dreamcatcher; mago - gfriend; you - nct dream; dejavu - nu’est w; wham bam shang-a-lang - silver

THERE IS A WORD IN KOREAN:

"인연"

it means providence or fate.

but it's specifically about the relationships between people.

it's an "인연" if two strangers even walk by each other in the street and their clothes accidentally brush. because it means there must have been something between them in their past lives.

Your apartment door was wide open, boxes half-unpacked and filling the hallway. You’d tried to keep things organized, but between the moving of your furniture and the delivery guy calling for directions, you slowly lost your organization.

You were crouched on the floor, handling a box of kitchenware, when you heard a muffled voice behind you.

“Uh, hi? Excuse me?”

Startled, you turned to see a guy standing at the end of the hallway, a paper bag balanced in one hand and a set of keys dangling from the other. He was dressed in a simple hoodie and sweatpants, glasses fixed upon his face, and his hair slightly tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Are… are you my new neighbor?” he asked in Korean, motioning toward the boxes that completely blocked his door.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” your voice squeaked as you responded in some broken korean, not mentally prepared to face a neighbor on the first day of moving him. You scrambled to move a tower of books out of his way. “I didn’t realize—let me just—”

“It’s fine, really,” he interrupted in English this time with a small laugh. “I’m Mark, by the way. Do you speak English?”

“Oh!” You paused mid-shove, shocked at his perfect accent. “Yes. Yes I do.” You were suddenly aware of how disheveled you looked. “Y/N,” you replied, brushing stray hair from your face. “Nice to meet you, and again, sorry for the mess. Your English is really good.”

“No worries. Happens to the best of us,” Mark said, crouching to help move the heavier boxes. “I’m from Canada, so English is kind of my thing.”

“Aah. I see.” You nodded, still mortified.

“This is your first day here?”

“Yeah. My friends were supposed to help, but they bailed at the last minute. So here I am, single-handedly creating a big explosive mess.”

Mark chuckled, lifting a box with ease. “I’d say you’re doing a pretty solid job for one person. Though... maybe try not to block your neighbors' doors next time.”

“Noted,” you said with an embarrassed laugh, standing to hold the door open as he slid the box inside.

When the hallway was clear, you expected him to leave, but he stayed, looking at the stacks of boxes still waiting to be unpacked. “Need an extra pair of hands?”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

“I insist,” Mark said with a grin. “I’m a pro at this. Moved like five times in the last three years.”

Before you could protest further, Mark rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He moved like he really had done this a hundred times, lifting heavy items with ease and made the process less awkward with his small jokes.

“This box says ‘Bathroom,’ but it’s definitely full of shoes,” he teased, pulling out a pair of sneakers.

“Okay, maybe I got a little lazy with the labels,” you admitted.

“Lazy? Nah, this is strategic. Keeps life exciting,” he quipped, tossing the sneakers back in.

You laughed, the tension from earlier fading away. Somehow, he’d turned what felt like a stressful task into something almost fun.

Once the last box was inside, Mark clapped his hands together. “Mission accomplished. And since I’m basically your hero now, I think I’ve earned a reward. Got any snacks?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, I have… instant ramen?”

Mark grinned. “Perfect. My favorite.”

After settling in for a few days, you don’t encounter Mark again. That is, until a series of random moments start pulling you back into his orbit.

On one of those nights, just past 9 p.m., the apartment complex suddenly plunges into darkness. The familiar buzz of your refrigerator stops, and the streetlights outside shut off, leaving your apartment only dimly lit from the moon.

Groaning, you fumble around for your phone, only to realize the battery is at 4%. Great. You grab a flashlight, slowly open your door, and step out into the hallway, hoping to find someone who knows what is going on.

That’s when you spot him.

Mark is sitting on the floor just outside his door, a small stack of candles beside him.

“Hey,” he greets, a faint smile on his face as he waves a lighter. “Power’s out in the whole block, apparently. Wanna borrow a candle?”

You take in his setup and smirk. He’s surrounded by neatly arranged tea lights and thick pillar candles.“Uh, are you in a cult or something?”

“Eh, my grandma’s kinda superstitious. Always told me to keep candles around the house just in case,” he says, shrugging. “I thought she was overreacting, but turns out she’s kind of a genius.”

You sit down a few feet away, gratefully accepting a candle he lights for you. The flame brightens up the dark hallway, leaving warm shadows on Mark’s face.

“So,” you start, leaning against the wall, “What do you normally do during blackouts? Just... sit around and wait?”

“Basically. Or… get this,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “People actually talk to each other. Crazy, right? You could, I don’t know, tell me something about yourself. Like… how many candles do you keep at home?”

“None,” you admit holding up your flashlight. “This is all I’ve got. I guess I’m doomed in a blackout. Your grandma would be so disappointed in me.”

“She would,” he agrees with a laugh. “But I’ll let it slide. Only because you’re new here.”

The conversation flows easily after that. You both begin trading random facts: Your favorite childhood snacks, his love for playing guitar, the time you accidentally dyed your hair orange trying to bleach it yourself. He counters with a tale of a botched bleach job that left him looking like a walking science experiment for months.

Minutes turn into an hour, the candles continuing to burn as the two of you share quiet laughter and stories. And for the first time that night, the darkness doesn’t feel so bad.

—

A few days later, you’re hauling overstuffed grocery bags up the stairs when Mark pokes his head out of his apartment. His hair is tousled, and he’s wearing an oversized hoodie that practically swallows him whole.

“Oh, hey!” he calls, his face lighting up when he spots you. “Need help?”

“I got it, thanks!” you manage to say, despite your arms straining and the bag handles digging into your fingers.

Before you can argue, Mark is already down the hall, grabbing it from you, and effortlessly carrying it to your door. “Looks like this thing was holding on for dear life,” he teases, hoisting it easily as he follows you to your door.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I was gonna knock on your door anyway,” he interrupts with a grin. “I baked something earlier and thought you might want to try it.”

That makes you pause mid-door unlock. “You bake?”

“Why does everyone react like that?” he says with mock offense. “Yes, I bake. Don’t look so shocked.”

“You don’t look like the baking type. Or cooking.”

“Oh, I can’t cook.” He scowls as if thinking about a bad memory, “But baking is pretty easy. It’s just throwing everything into one bowl, mixing it up, and waiting. Piece of cake. Or, in this case, cookies.”

A few minutes later, you’re both sitting on your tiny kitchen floor, a plate of freshly baked cookies between you. The smell of warm chocolate and butter fills the air.

“These are amazing,” you say after taking a bite, your voice muffled by the cookie in your mouth.

Mark beams, leaning back against the counter. “Not bad, right? I got the recipe off some YouTube channel. Figured I’d test it out before offering it to my friends.”

You squint your eyes, pretending to look offended. “Wait, so I’m just the guinea pig?”

He admits, laughing. “Pretty much. But hey, honest opinion: too sweet? Not sweet enough?”

“Perfect,” you reply, reaching out for another. “But you should’ve added nuts. Makes it more sophisticated. Just make sure you aren’t allergic.”

He gasps, clutching his chest. “Sophisticated? Wow. Didn’t know I was baking for royalty.”

You chuckle, playfully tossing a crumpled napkin at him, and the conversation once again flows effortlessly from there. You laugh over Mark’s failed attempts at “fancy” macarons, and somehow turn into stories about childhood food disasters.

By the time the plate is empty and an hour has vanished. With Mark, even the simplest moments feel like they belong in a movie.

—

Then it’s yet another lazy Sunday when the doorbell rings. You open the door to find Mark holding a massive box labeled 50-pack instant ramen.

“I think this is yours,” he says, biting back a laugh.

You glance at the label and groan. “Oh my God. I ordered five. Five!”

“Well, congrats,” he says, handing you the box. “Looks like you’re set for the next year.”

You sigh, dragging the box inside. A few minutes later, there’s another knock. Mark’s returned to your door, grinning this time.

“You know,” he starts, leaning against the doorframe, “if you need help finishing all that ramen, I’m just next door. We could, like, host a ‘ramen buffet.’ Charge admission or something.”

You snort. “Sure. I’ll make you the first VIP guest. Free ramen for life.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve ever gotten,” he says, eyes sparkling. “But seriously, I’ll take a few packs off your hands if it’s too much. My midnight snack stash could use a refill.”

Later, you text him a picture of your pantry.

YOU: Your VIP pass is ready

MARK: I’ll bring the chopsticks! 😂

The first time the dream comes, it’s vivid enough to remember even after you wake up. In the dream you’re walking through a bustling marketplace, the air thick with the scents and noise of those around you. People push past you, but you don’t feel overwhelmed by them. Instead, there’s a strange pull, like a thread tugging at your body. You turn your head and catch a glimpse of someone—a young man with a warm smile, eyes glinting in the sunlight, and a soft laugh that echoes through the din.

You can’t see his face clearly, but his hand brushes yours as he passes. And in that moment, it leaves a spark. A warmth that feels almost familiar.

When you wake up, the details are already fading, but the feeling of that touch, that spark, seems to linger, and you can’t seem to get it out of your head.

A few days later, you're sitting with Mark in the hallway outside your apartments, the floor scattered with takeout boxes and empty soda cans. The two of you have somehow fallen into the habit of these late-night talks, sharing parts of your day and random thoughts that cross your mind in the moment.

“Have you ever had weird dreams?” you ask, swirling the straw in your drink.

Mark leans back against the wall, his hair slightly messy from running his hand through it too many times. “Weird how?”

“Like…” You pause, trying to find the right words. “Like they’re not just dreams. More like memories. But not yours.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Okay, now you’ve got me curious. Spill.”

You chuckle, feeling a little silly but continuing anyway. “I’ve been dreaming about this place—a market or something. It’s super crowded, and I’m just walking around. But then…” Your voice trails off as the memory becomes clearer in your mind. “There’s this guy. I don’t know him, but when I see him, it’s like I do. And when our hands brush…”

Mark’s expression shifts, his playful smile fading into something more serious. He sits up straighter. “Wait. You said a market?”

“Yeah.”

“And… hands brushing?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

Your stomach flips. “Yeah. Why?”

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair again. “Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but… I’ve had the exact same dream.”

For a moment, the world feels like it’s spinning. You blink at him, looking for any hint that he’s maybe joking, but his face is earnest, his brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve a mystery.

“No way,” you say, laughing nervously. “You’re messing with me.”

“I’m not!” Mark protests, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I swear. There’s a market, right? And I’m just walking, but then I see someone—you, I guess? And when our hands touch, it’s like—”

“—like a spark,” you finish for him, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mark stares at you, his eyes wide. “Exactly.”

The air between you grows silent, the laughter and casual banter from earlier replaced by something more ominous.

“Do you think it means something?” you ask after a long pause, your voice trying to stabilize itself.

Mark lets out a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “My grandma used to say that some people are connected through 인연—fate, you know? Like… maybe we knew each other before. In another life.”

You study his face, the soft curve of his jaw and the way his lips press together like he’s holding back more than he’s saying out loud. “Do you believe that?”

He turns to look at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know. But if it’s true…” He pauses, his gaze dropping to his hands, which rest in his lap. “Maybe it’s why I feel like I’ve known you forever, even though we just met.”

Your breath catches, his words affecting something deep inside you. The dreams, the strange familiarity, the unexplainable pull towards him, the way you could spend hours with each other, you’ve felt since the day you moved in. It’s all beginning to make a strange kind of sense.

You don’t say anything, but your hand brushes his as you reach for your drink, and in that moment, the spark from your dream seems to jolt back to life.

Mark glances down, his fingers twitching as if he’s tempted to close the gap. Instead, he looks at you.“Maybe we’re just imagining things,” he says softly, but the hope in his voice betrays his words.

“Maybe,” you reply, though you’re not sure you believe it either.

For the rest of the night, neither of you mention the dreams again. But when you go to bed, the image of two hands brushing in a crowded marketplace still lingers in your mind, clearer than ever.

It’s a Friday evening, and you’re sitting on Mark’s couch, a blanket thrown over both of your laps. The faint smell of popcorn fills the air as a half-watched movie plays on the screen. Mark’s head is tilted back, his eyes weary from the long day, his fingers idly drumming to a beat on the couch cushion between you.

You glance at him, noting how cozy it seems here. It’s moments like these that feel strange… and effortless. Like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

“Hey,” you say, nudging his arm lightly. “You’re zoning out. The movie isn't that bad.”

Mark snorts, turning his head toward you. “Oh, yeah? Name one character besides the main guy.”

“Uh... The dog?”

“Exactly.” He laughs, his eyes crinkling in that way that makes your stomach flip.

But before you can laugh along, his phone buzzes on the coffee table, breaking the moment. Mark’s smile fades as he leans forward to grab it. You watch his face shift—something serious.

“Who is it?” you ask, your voice careful.

“It’s... uh, an email. From SM,” he says, mentioning the entertainment company where he’s been interning. He hesitates, scrolling through the message. “They want me to come in for a meeting. Apparently, there’s a potential opening on one of their teams in Vancouver.”

You sit up straighter. “Vancouver? Like... Canada?”

He nods, his thumb still hovering over his phone screen. “Yeah. They’ve got this big international project coming up, and I guess they think I’d be a good fit.”

You’re silent for a moment, the weight of his words setting in. “That’s... amazing, Mark. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” His tone is quiet, almost hesitant, and it doesn’t match the words. He sets his phone back down and leans back again, trying to avoid your gaze.

“So,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant even as your chest tightens, “you’re thinking of going?”

Mark runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’ve noticed over the months. “I don’t know yet. It’s a huge opportunity, but... I’d have to leave. Like, soon.”

“Right,” you say, your voice a little too steady. “It makes sense. You’ve been working toward something like this for a long time.”

He finally looks at you, his dark eyes searching. “Yeah, but... leaving means leaving everything. Everyone.”

You know what he’s implying, but neither of you says it out loud.

—

It’s the day of Mark’s big decision. Whether to take the overseas job offer or stay in Seoul. You’ve been avoiding the topic, scared of what it might mean for you. But tonight, the two of you find yourselves on the rooftop of your apartment building. The breeze carries the faint scent of flowers that Mark planted the other day in the community garden.

You sit side by side on the edge, legs dangling over the low wall. Although dangerous, Mark always promised that he’d catch you if you fell. He also wrapped a blanket around your shoulders. He’s always thoughtful like that.

For a while, neither of you says anything, just watching the sun slowly start to descend down the bustling city.

Finally, Mark breaks the silence. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about 인연.”

You turn to look at him. His face is painted in soft, golden light. “Yeah? What about it?”

He chuckles softly, almost nervously, running a hand through his hair. “At first, I thought it was just a cool idea. Like, ‘Oh, that’s neat. Fate and past lives and stuff.’ But… I don’t know. Every time I’m with you, it feels like there’s something bigger happening. Like I’ve known you forever, and I don’t even know why.”

Your breath catches. Hearing him say it out loud makes it feel so much more real than you imagined in your head. “I feel it too. Like… we’ve been here before. Not just on this rooftop, but in some other life, in some other time.”

Mark finally turns to you, his eyes searching yours. “But what if we’re just making this up? What if we’re using fate as an excuse to… I don’t know, hold onto something that isn’t real?”

The vulnerability in his voice shakes you. He’s scared, just like you are. Scared of the intensity of it all, scared of what it means to let go. Or to keep holding on.

You take a deep breath, trying to find the right words.

“I don’t know if this is fate, Mark. I don’t know if some invisible thread tied us together, or if we’re just two people who got lucky enough to meet. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s not about why we found each other, but what we do with it now.”

Mark looks at you, his lips parting as if to speak, but he hesitates. You can tell he’s turning your words over in his mind, weighing them. “So… what do we do with it? What if I take the job? What if I leave? Does that mean we weren’t meant to be?”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” You reach for his hand, your fingers brushing before he laces them with yours. “You taking the job or staying doesn’t erase what we’ve shared. If this is fate, Mark, it’ll find a way to bring us back together. And if it’s not… then I’ll still be grateful for every moment we’ve had.”

“You make it sound so easy. Like letting go wouldn’t completely wreck me.” His grip tightens, and you see his throat bob as he swallows hard.

You smile, but there’s a little sadness to your voice. “Who says letting go has to mean goodbye? Maybe it just means letting the story unfold the way it’s meant to.”

The silence that follows feels heavy but not uncomfortable. You can see the wheels turning in Mark’s mind. He’s thinking, unsure of what to say.

Finally, he exhales a long, shaky breath. “I don’t know if I believe in fate, either. But I believe in you. And I believe in us.”

Your heart skips a beat, but he’s not done yet.

“So… if I stay, it won’t be because I’m afraid of losing whatever this is. It’ll be because I want to keep building it with you. And if I go… it’ll be because I know we’re strong enough to handle the distance.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you laugh softly, shaking your head. “You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

He grins, that familiar smile that’s become so dear to you.

“Not really. I’m just winging it.”

You both laugh, the warmth from your voices cutting through the bittersweetness of the moment. The future feels uncertain, but for the first time, that uncertainty doesn’t feel so scary.

As the last rays of sunlight fade, you rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Whether it’s fate, luck, or sheer coincidence, you’re here now. And for now, that’s enough.

TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @yizhrt @polarisjisung @multifandomania

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yandere-daydreams · 6 months ago

Text

Title: Hypothermia.

Pairing: Yandere!Winter Spirit x Reader (OC).

Word Count: 2.6k.

TW: Kidnapping, Hypothermia, Obsessive Behavior, Implied/Mentioned Death, Manipulation, Implied Stalking, and Implied Cannibalism.

[Spring]

You’d heard, once, that in its final stages, freezing to death could actually be quite warm.

It was called paradoxical undressing, or something similar enough to warrant the connection. First, you’d be shivering and lost, then rigid and confused, and in the final moments of your life, hypothermia would compel you to spend your last drops of energy stripping yourself of all things good and warming, ridding yourself of any barriers that might’ve saved you from its fatal touch. In the end, you’d die paralyzed, breathless, and worst of all, convinced that you were the warmest you’d ever been. It was a cruel thing to do to anyone, let alone a innocent victim of bad luck. That, or it was supposed to be a kindness, meant to make you feel just a little more at-home as you laid down and accepted what you couldn’t stave off. How you’d take it was something you couldn’t speak for just yet, but you had a feeling that would change soon enough.

So, to reiterate, you’d know you were freezing to death when you started to feel warm. Whether or not it was true, the superstition proved to be a small mercy, because you still felt pretty fucking cold.

You couldn’t feel anything below your knees. Your arms were at least somewhat protected where they were tucked against your chest, half-buried underneath the heavy flannel you’d been able to steal on your way out, but there wasn’t anything you could do about how the snow and ice sunk into the leather of your boots, how the wind seemed to cut through the paper-thin denim of your jeans. A scarf saved your nose and mouth from the worst of the chill, but in the middle of the night, miles and miles and miles away from the nearest streetlamp or flashlight, you couldn’t afford to cover your eyes. It was a miracle that you weren’t crying. You weren’t sure, but you didn’t want to find out if your tears would freeze against your cheeks.

You took another shuffling step forward, and your foot caught on a half-buried tree root, sending you crumbling to the ground. Cold bit into your hands and knees, and you choked out a miserable whine, your dignity abandoned around the time you lost the ability to move your fingers. Not for the first time, you thought about turning back. You could still taste blood on your lips, sure, could still attempt to ignore the ache in your gut where hunger should’ve been, but nothing could’ve been worse than this. At least, next time you tried to run, you could do it during the day, when the cold would be just a little more forgiving. At least, next time, you could save yourself a few hours of trouble and drown yourself in the sink, right next to the other co—

Something flashed across your peripheral – movement, light. You shambled to your feet, snapping in the direction of a dull glow just barely bright enough to cut through the dark of the forest, to prove that there were other people wandering these godforsaken woods at this unholy time of night. You were exhausted beyond sleep, hopeless beyond aid, but still, you forced yourself to stumble around trees and over snowdrifts, to blink away the haziness in your vision and believe that the silhouette of a cabin you could see through the darkness was just that – a cabin. It was a small structure, no more than a couple of rooms, and you couldn’t see any roads or cars, but the windows were lit, and smoke was rising from the chimney, and the snow had been cleared away from the porch, proving that someone was actively taking care of the property. For the first time in hours, you dragged yourself onto something other than endless sleet and for the first time in your life, found yourself thankful to be walking on perfectly solid, perfectly dry earth.

You made it onto the porch before stopping. It was a stupid thing to worry about, really – whether or not some recluse living all alone in the middle of the woods would like you. The roads were closed, iced-over, and you weren’t going to get another chance to find help, but that also meant you weren’t going to find other help. If the cabin’s owner didn’t take kindly to uninvited guests, then you might’ve been better off wandering back into the forest. There were worse things in the world than the cold.

…

Actually, on second thought, there really weren’t. Before you could hesitate again, you brought a fist to the door and knocked stiffly. It swung open in an instant.

You blinked once, then twice, before acknowledging the man standing in the now-open doorway. Saying he looked out of place would’ve been an understatement. Rather than the old, grisly, lumberjack-type you’d been expecting, he almost seemed princely – a little too tall and a little too angular, willowy in a way that made you feel smaller by comparison. His skin was bone-white, like the blood running underneath it was blue rather than red, and his shoulder-length hair was so pale, calling it any shade of blonde wouldn’t have done justice to its absolute lack of color. He was dressed for another season – his white tunic long-sleeved, but thin and open to the navel, and his pants made out of a similarly unsubstantial type of linen. His eyes were the worst part, the same pale blue as open sky or clear water. The color wasn’t damning on its own, but something about the lighting made his pupils seem nonexistent – shades of blue spiraling into themselves indefinitely. You might’ve thought he was blind if his gaze hadn’t been so tangibly fixed on you.

“My love,” he sighed, each word slightly distorted by an accent you couldn’t name. Then, with a slight gasp, “Come in, come in. Ah, poor thing, you’re already half-frozen.”

More than half, but you weren’t in a place to correct him. “…I’m sorry to bother you,” you muttered, letting yourself be swept into the cabin and all-but dropped into an armchair so close to the fireplace, it felt like the flames were licking at your knees. You shuffled that much closer and peeled off your scarf, embarrassed not to have thought to do so before knocking.

While your host fluttered around you, mumbling about hot drinks and meals, you took another stab at explaining yourself. Even if he wasn’t listening, it couldn’t hurt to make yourself seem that much more unfortunate. “I—I’m staying in another cabin a few miles up the mountain. It was me and a few friends, but the snowstorm caught us off-guard, and after losing power—”

“They always seem to,” he cut in, pausing behind you. A quilted blanket was draped over your shoulders, and you pulled it over your chest with no hesitation. “I can’t fathom why. The seasons change at the same time every year.”

You bit back a scowl, not sure whether to feel patronized or offended. “We were waiting for the roads to re-open, but there was an accident, and—”

“And you ran out of food.” Another log was thrown on the fire, sending tendrils of heat crawling up your arms and rooting into your chest. “I should make you some tea, shouldn’t I? Oh, or would you prefer something to eat?”

You should’ve been starving, but the idea of eating alone had you gagging on bile. You dropped your eyes into your lap. “…I’m alright, thank you. Just a little cold.”

There was another sigh, this one more dismissive than the first. You heard light footsteps against old wood, the sound delicate shifting, and then, he was perched on the lip of the fireplace, his chin propped on his fist and his expression wistful in a distant sort of way. Well, as much as you could see of it, anyway. You refused to let your gaze rise above his collarbones. “You’re going to be stubborn about this, aren’t you?”

The question was playful, accompanied by an airy laugh. This time, you couldn’t swallow your frown. “I’m sorry, but if we’ve met before, I don’t—”

“I suppose you wouldn’t.” He seemed to have a problem with that – coming too quickly, before you were fully prepared to move on. “I think people are still calling me Boreas, but it has been some time since I last checked. I wouldn’t mind if you chose another name.”

“Bor,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I’m—”

“(Y/n).” You physically recoiled – crowding yourself against the back of your seat. Bor only laughed. “That’s my fault. It’s just—I’ve been so excited to meet you. There aren’t a lot of people who understand each other like we do.”

Huh.

Well, he was crazy, clearly. That was fine. It was still better than freezing to death. Probably.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” he asked, practically grinning. “That’s alright. Winter’s a scary time, and we ought to seek refuge in one another.”

It was a sweet sentiment posed at the worst possible time. Memories of dark rooms and torn blankets flickered across your mind, but you did your best to keep them at bay. “I think I’ve had enough huddling, for a while.”

“Of course, nor would I expect otherwise. You’ll be comfortable here, I promise. We’ll knit, and embroider, and cook – there’s quite a lot of things you can cook over an open fire. It’s a shame most people never get a chance to try it.” He paused, shook his head, as if cutting himself off. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat? You must’ve walked an awfully long way.”

The idea of eating was still repulsive, but when you tried to reaffirm your rejection, you couldn’t quite seem to. You were starting to regain feeling in your chest again, and with it, your stomach. With the cold momentarily put aside, emptiness took precedent – exhaustion and thirst and would-be hunger forming a shell of hollowness at your core. You’d have to get out of this cabin at some point, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to give yourself something to burn when you did.

“A cup of tea would be nice.”

Bor beamed. “I’ve already got the kettle on.”

And, just like that, he was gone, swept into another room before you could so much as mention that you preferred cream to sugar. With a deep exhale, you collapsed against the back of your chair, glancing around the cabin’s interior. It was larger than you guessed – the living room alone bigger than the entirety of its exterior would’ve suggested. Your tired eyes glanced over shelves of clutter and knickknacks, tables crowded with well-worn books and half-emptied mugs, chairs and sofas all piled high with pillows and blankets in every shape and color and form you could imagine. It would’ve been homey, under better circumstances. Even now, under circumstances that were very much not better, you found yourself slackening, shifting, closing your eyes for just a touch longer than you should’ve. By the time Bor blustered back in, a teacup in either hand, you were tracing the delicate conch shells carved into either armrest of your seat just to keep yourself awake. He waited patiently for you to pick yourself up, accept the cup, and bring it eagerly to your lips.

The taste was familiar and light – peppermint, or something similarly seasonal. Rather than returning to his post by the hearth, Bor perched himself on the arm of your chair. “Isn’t that better?” And then, before your addled mind could thing to answer, “It must’ve been difficult – being all alone for so long. I’d say I can’t imagine how you must’ve felt, but I had plenty of time to imagine.”

You drained half the cup before managing to drag it far enough away from your mouth to respond. “It was only a few days.”

“Far more than you should’ve had to endure. I was tempted to send you company, but—” His smile took on a bashful lilt. “You wouldn’t have liked it. Maybe later on, if I’m ever forced to leave you on your own again.”

“You make it sound like I’m not going home.”

He was almost too quick to clarify, laughing as he strung an arm over your shoulders, pulling you close to his side. He was cold as ice, but you let him – too tired to resist. “And we’d never want you to think something like that, would we? I already feel terrible about how long you had to stay away.”

His words were sympathetic, but that was all. You could still make out the crescent moon of his smile, the glee in his voice, the satisfaction in how tightly he held you against him. Bristling, you tried to pull away, but you must’ve spent more of your strength than you realized. As soon as you drew back, a spear of pure cold bit into your arm where his hand was curled around it, then your chest, sending you shrinking and shivering into his side. Bor only hummed, raking his fingers through your hair. “Tired, darling?” You wanted to refuse, to pull yourself together, to leave, but even as you started to shake your head, you knew it just wasn’t possible. Slowly, shakily, you managed to nod, and Bor rewarded you with a ginger kiss to the top of your head. His lips were as cold as his skin. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Walking was a fantasy – as implausible as flying pigs or Christmas in July. You made no effort to protest as Bor gathered you in his arms and, with a surprising amount of strength for his lean form, carried you deeper into the cabin. The passing scenery blurred together, your mind too exhausted and your vision too fogged to hold focus. You only fully processed where he was taking you when you felt your back press into something soft – a bed, one softer and warmer than anything you’d ever felt, before.

It was nice. As if by instinct, your hands found the buttons of your borrowed flannel, fumbling for a moment before a more capable pair took over. Your shoes were done away with next, then your jeans, leaving you in just your oversized undershirt. You wouldn’t have minded if he took that, too. Anything to make you feel a little less overheated.

Eventually, his weight settled next to yours, and with your eyes shut, you curled into him – resting your head in his lap as he rubbed freezing shapes into your back. By some miracle, you found the will to speak, if only in a whisper. “I didn’t hurt anyone. It was an accident.”

“I know. No one would say that you did.”

“It’s what they would’ve wanted. Not all of us had to die.”

“My thoughts exactly. We should take care of each other, shouldn’t we?”

“I don’t want to go home.” You could still taste the iron on your tongue – raw meat tinged with ice-cold ash. “I don’t think I can.”

A chirping laugh filled the bedroom – bright and piercing and as cutting as a cold wind through tender flesh. You forced yourself to open your eyes, and by anything but your own volition, met his. “But, love,” he murmured, leaning down to press a lingering kiss into your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then finally, your lips.

In the brief moment before he pulled away, you genuinely believed you would never feel cold again.

“You’re already here.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere monster #monster x reader

1K notes · View notes

tonycries · 10 months ago

Text

I Lasted Ten Rounds!

Synopsis. Marathons - they’re better in bed.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, marathon séx, major overstím, pússydrunk boys, CÚMPLAY, creampíes, mean Geto, squírting, innappropríate use of jujutsu (Gojo and Sukuna), pússy-slappíng, best friend!Choso, aphrodísiacs, true form Sukuna, dp, spítting, BRÉEDING, making them cry, full nélson, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.9k

A/N. Hope y’all have a good leak day mwah <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 5 rounds

“Raw.” he breathes, and there’s a strained - almost whiny - shudder being wrenched out of Toji’s hulking body when he sinks inch after long, hefty inch into your plush cunt. Bullying past the barely-there resistance of that first ring of muscle with such a harsh tug of your pliant body down his swollen cock. “R-raw. You- fuck- you finally let me–”

No, it wasn’t the first time you let Toji fuck you into these silken bedsheets without a condom - that was a few hours ago. But that didn’t stop him from spitting out that same, strained accusation, the same greedy little push and pull of his toned hips smacking sloppily against your clingy pussy.

He was addicted.

“O-oh, Toji–” you’re babbling, swollen lips glossed with tears, thighs burning at just how long he’s been pounding into you like this. “S’already the- the third? Fourth? Or-”

“Fifth.” he’s cutting you off, with a hoarse chuckle - voice shot already. “Fifth n’-” Head lolling drunkenly into the crook of your neck, it’s all he can do to bite out brokenly, “-oh, my girl- hope y’know m’not hahhh- letting you go until I physically can’t anymore.”

Fifth, huh?

Oh, it was setting in - fuck, was he feeling it. You were so pretty underneath him, sweat-slicked body splayed out all shamefully for him, slurring words barely coherently. And Toji couldn’t even keep his eyes open, stars popping up behind his lids at every one of your velvety clenches, abs burning with each ravaged mash of his overworked, weepy head against your ravaged g-spot.

Fingers jittery where he’s hauling your body desperately to his muscled one. Clinging onto you so close - like a lifeline - that you could hear every tremoringly quiet ah! ah ah! following those long, solid glides, feel his happy trail scratching against your sluttily arched back.

It almost hurt - but it hurt so good, that even after painting your gluey, sloshing insides white four times tonight already, Toji wanted more more more-

A bludgeoning knee comes down to shove your thighs spread even wider, spreading your puffy pussy lips so gapingly around his thick shaft.

“Oh sh-shit.” he’s hissing. And Toji Fushiguro never stutters, he never throws his head back to let out such pained whimper like this.“Such a f-filthy pussy.” His pretty pink lips purse to spit a languid wad of his spit down on the bullseye of your slobbering cunt. The chilling dredges oozing a slow trail down your split-open pussy. “The fifth time- n’ y’pretend like this cute cunt of yours can’t handle more of me.”

“Ngh-” your teeth are clamping around one of the cushiony pillows, trembly fingers scrambling jerkily at the headboard, the plush mattress, anything- “You’re in s-so deep- feels like m’gonna pass out. How the hell are you still going?”

Toji rolls his eyes, acting for all the world like those whiny little words of yours don’t have his red, angry tip painting your insides with another honeyed coat of his sweltering precum. “Told ya not to hah- test me doll- just had to run that pretty mouth, huh?”

You’re keening when all five of his calloused fingers come up to smush your cheeks together embarrassingly, “Saying m’not gonna last going in raw- look where ya are now.” Toji’s craning his head to leave wet little kisses up your spine, your jaw, your forehead. Fully bending you in half to meet his lips, angling his riotous hips to graze his sensitive slit right against the swollen, bruised divots on your cervix. “Look where I am- I can’t stop.”

And your hypnotized hips can only manage to give a last sticky heave meeting Toji’s drunken staccato before splaying limply down on the bed. Moaning around the lewd sucking of his lips around your heavy tongue.

“No- no come back- shit, m’not-” He’s slowly losing control of those lingering thrusts, desperation bleeding into the way his big arms frantically circle around your weakening waist. Dragging you up, up, up like some glorified ragdoll, “How are ya n-not able to keep up when you hah- came up with the idea, ma.” And for all how gentle he’s being suckling on your pouty lower lip, one hand of his glides down easily to cup at your bulging pussy. Smearing in another quick, branding stream of saliva on your struggling, swollen folds spread so lewdly open around his thick hilt, “Ohhh, gonna make a man lose his sanity with a pussy this heavenly. Doesn’t seem so fair now, does it?”

That delirious little shake of your head makes him bare his canines in a grin, smiling at how utterly fucked-out you were on his mean cock. There’s a lazy, glistening trail of drool at the corner of your lips that Toji idles out his hot tongue to lick away, “Now now. Why don’t you- ah- use those words like a big girl, huh?”

“Hah- didn’t-” those wet gurgles bubble at your throat, dying down after each harsh clash into your most sensitive spot. He’s reaching every nook and cranny inside of you - drilling cock expanding even girthier with each heady second. “Didn’t think you’d get so-” Another pretty glob of spit onto your cunt, “-addicted!”

“Well, what can I- hah- say?” Each taunting word is pushing you further and further up the bed, Toji’s tense hips hammering into you with no rhythm and rhyme now. Just lingering, mindless grinds chasing that painfully good smack! of his heavy, cum-filled balls at your ass, “When- ngh- when life gives you a wife this cute-”

You think he’s cumming - you think you’re cumming. But you can’t even be fully sure at this point, your own high nothing more than a few white-hot tingles, Toji’s overwhelmed cock straining to squeeze out a few more wispy strings of his milky seed. Until you were drenched in a silky coating down your inner thighs, beading pearly drops of his seed and your sweet sweet juices. To stuff you full even more.“-fuck her at least five times.”

“At- at least?”

Toji grins, “At least.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - As many as you can take (and a lil’ more!)

“My love.” Two soft pads of Nanami’s long fingers tap gently on your cheek, lingering when he lovingly cups your glossy pout. “My love.”

Biting your lip, you whine at his heated intrusion at your pretty cunt. Free hand thumbing open your soppingly wet slit to spread even wider around his thick hilt, scratching up so rawly against those neat tufts of blond at his sharp pelvis. “N’nothing, s’just that- hahh–” cocking your head to nuzzle his large palm, “You’re not- not tired, Ken?”

“Doesn’t matter.” he breathes, minty hot breath fanning your face when he leans in. And you think he’s going to kiss you - to maybe mouth away those big fat, overstimulated tears rolling down your face - but instead, Nanami’s stern lips wrap around your lolling tongue. Sucking. Moaning so depravedly. “All that matters is that- hngh- that–” Splaying out all five fingers on your stomach, pressing down hard where he can feel the divot of his very head, “-the mother of my future kids s’doing alright.”

He can feel that rotund clenching of your snug channel, the way your pussy grows increasingly more soaked with every stuttering nudge at your g-spot.

When the heady bedroom air is only punctuated with a few sticky squelches from your cunt Nanami has to grit out - to force himself to speak. “Please-” hissing at the velvety silk or his seed swirling around your hole, it makes his toes curl, overworked balls squeeze achingly. Shit. “Give me an answer- please, darling, your cunt s’driving me insane. Fuck- I’ve- I’ve lost count at this point how many times I-”

At this, you can’t help but giggle. Reaching up to lick at the stray, glistening tear falling down his sharp cheekbone, “Are- are you crying, Ken?” The heels of your trembly feet curl tightly against the sinful dimples at the end of his spine, plunging him even deeper into the gloopy bottom of your pussy. “Can’t take any more?”

“No!” Nanami’s usually steady voice just cracks pitifully at the end. “No no no- just- hngh! I can take it- can give y’more. Anything for you, ma.”

Each of his hammering thrusts are slowly getting meaner. Slowly losing control. They’re haphazardly alternating between long, thorough slams of his entirely swollen length to mere jutting, half-thrusts - as if it just pained him to part with your clingy pussy more than that.

And, shit, he’s so thick - so jaw-slackingly hefty when he twitches animalistically against all your sensitive spots. Gliding in solid, wet smears of his leaky tip against your cervix reminding you of the sheer strength he held. Fucking you so mean, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it - tired, fatigued body moving on animal instinct.

“Darling–” Nanami’s wet croon has you blinking away the lusty haze in your pupils, locking them with his own blown-out ones. “Eyes on me- have to make sure you can- ngh-” You can hear his jaw click with strain when you’re giving an experimental squeeze of your velvety cunt, “-m-me. Hafta make sure you can take it- you can take it, right?”

You’re gasping out brokenly, nodding in response to his question - thighs jittery and you don’t know whether you want to run or fuck yourself back down for more more more-

“Then why are you running, ma?”

Just as those billowing words leave his mouth, Nanami’s falling back onto his thick thighs, grabbing your body right along to seat you prettily down his brutal dick. It was devastating. It was sloppy how silky, stringy ropes of cum were rushing down in a glossy coat. Smacking so sluggishly down below.

“Wh-what?” you’re batting your teary lashes, jaw hanging open at just how much this didn’t sound like your usually gentle husband. Deep voice jagged, gutturally dangerous - he was talking to you in a steady, hard tone as if you were some prey. Setting his lewd sights on you to mash up even harder into your pretty cunt.

He’s breathing out shakily in a way that told you he was getting close, thighs aching, red tip so angry and flinching in such a dizzy way. “Why- are- you-” The metal band of his gold wedding ring burns into your heated skin, digging possessively when he hauls you close. “-running away? Don’t- don’t think you can escape, darling.”

Those drenched silk sheets bunch up messily behind you at just how firmly he was halting your escape. “S’jus’-” you’re whining, in that syrupy sweet tone that makes him only grow painfully harder. Stiffening his back to drill copious inches, he’s tracing his fingertips back across your stomach. “-you’re in so deep. Think m’- hah, think m’getting close.”

“A-ah– of course you are.” he whimpers, tone lilting upwards at the end. It was just so stimulating how you were taking him so well despite being stuffed to the brim, overflowing in a creamy sheen. “Gotta- gotta get my pretty lady to cum- ngh! Breed her pussy full.” And oh, despite how composed Nanami seemed on the outside you could sense the waver in his words, the way his ruthless pace was evening out to something more messy. Untamed. “Make her the most beautiful momma.”

Brows knitting deeper and deeper every, it hurt - fuck, but it hurt more to not stuff you full until you were round and glowing. To leave even the tiniest chance of you being carried out of this bedroom without carrying his future kid.

“You can do it- cum f’me.” It’s almost like he’s whispering to himself at this point, stamina withering. One hand of his guides your other own down from your searing grip on his unkept strands, down past his tear-slicked cheeks, down past his wobbly plump lips. Wrapping your fingers tightly around Nanami’s pale neck, forcing your nails to dig into the sweat-beaded skin. “Cum f’me- jus this once, because after this time m’not gonna be playing nice, my love.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 7 rounds

“Shhh, gorgeous.” Geto’s hushed, smooth voice in your ear would almost be soothing, his large thumb gliding against the very peak of your puffed-up clit almost distracting- “S’all part of your special initiation.”

If it wasn’t for the rest of the cult standing behind those semi-sheer watching all of this happen to you, that is.

Ah, you didn’t know whether that syrupy sweet idea of a special initiation - a rite of passage “just for you” - had you joining Geto’s religious association even sooner.

Because here you were - your thighs burning with the relentless stretch of Geto’s forearms hooked underneath them, spreading you so fucking shamelessly towards where the countless others in the group were stood behind the covering around the creaky bed. A barely-there sense of privacy while he just ravaged you into the meanest full nelson possible.

“Oh- fuuuck–” Geto’s groaning at your drunken little squirms on his cock, mouth salivating at the wet squelches being wrenched out with each pressurized thrust. “Just one more round now- come on, seven’s my lucky number. And y’wanna hngh- finish the initiation- right, pretty girl?”

His two strong legs plant even more vice-like on the absolutely drenched sheets, seeping into the creamy puddle of cum and honeyed slick spreading further and further each obscene second.

That lolling nod of your delirious head has him crashing his sensitive, throbbing tip against your spongy g-spot, already so branded with the bruises of his divot. Holding back each whine after whine threatening to drag out from his throat when your swollen lips meet his in a sloppy graze of a kiss.

Shit, you were so cute - no wonder he had the fucking brilliant idea of fucking you like this. Even if it hurt - even if his achy cock was rubbing raw, over and over and-

“Aww, my pretty baby wants a kiss?” Geto’s leering grin only grows when he glides a dripping coat of wispy precum right across the back of your cervix, it’s so hot inside you - and you feel drunk off of every ooze of his cum from before, sloshing down in a milky white sheen. “Well not until you hngh-” He’s moving to bite down onto your earlobe, pussydrunk mind wondering whether your gummy walls were shaping around every ridge and vein of his shaft by now. “-cum f’me once more.”

“S-Sugu–” your eyes are rolling to the back of your head at the warm, wet cascade of his juices down your thighs, slipping and sliding you easily down his girthy length. “Don’t know if I- if I can cum- hah-” That admonishing smack! on your achy clit is taken in stride, gaping your gummy entrance even wider to swallow his every fucking inch greedily. “But- but I wanna. Wanna cum f’you so badly.”

There’s a muted shuffling from behind the curtains that have Geto’s darkened eyes narrowing in hostility, and he’s possessively turning his head to take in that sinful view of you down below.

Shit- he could’ve almost came from just the sheer sight. The sight of your glisteningly puffy folds stretched to their limits around the creamy translucent ring around his thick hilt. Velvety walls contorting to massage his attritioning veins, grinding in thorough, purposeful gyrations against his heavily twitching balls.

You were taking him so good.

And Geto’s never been more happy you couldn’t see the full plane of his face. Eyes rolling to the back of his head at the mere sight, teeth biting down on his plump lower lip as if to draw blood.

“Then do it.” Geto’s biceps just bulge against the small of your waist when they dig into a restraining loop around your body, pinning you down so helplessly to his sculpted front. “Cum f’me like a good girl then. Show me, show them-” The hand not rolling over your sensitive clit dips upwards to angle your face towards the still-watching crowd. His lips are drag so slowly at your heated ear, “-show them what a good girl you are f’me.”

Your cute, wobbly lips cry out in a broken little whine - and then your slutty cunt is just gushing down the entirety of Geto’s furious front. Slobbering a glossy, glossy sheen that coats his milky skin, syrupy and sticking - meshing your bodies so close together he doesn’t know where you begin and where he ends.

”Good girl- good- hah- good girl.” Geto’s gritting out, trying for all the world to not sound as wrecked as he feels right now. Fuck, ignoring the spiking sensitivity, the stars behind his eyes to chase every little suck of your sopping wet walls, thighs trembly, eyes crinkling with such pathetically big tears. Shit, he’s pussydrunk. Only babbling out, “Ohhh- so perfect f’me, right? Even squirting- too generous f’me, gorgeous.”

It only takes a few more gasps from his ragged chest - heaves even. Delicately pink tip stuffing you so wholly full it’s like you’re about to explode, and Geto’s not too far behind.

Not at all, in fact, with the way a final, harsh nudge against your springy cervix has him spurting out ribbons of creamy white cum. Oozing out in a thick, viscous polish that drools out of your bulging slit. Leaving a lewd trail of evidence where Geto’s fat cock was rummaging your poor insides. Over and over until he’s shooting nothing but blanks.

And it’s so hot, that you can almost feel it in your lungs. Limbs twitching mindlessly, he’s finding it easy to pull out - to display the gloopy filling lazily trickling out of you. Those slender fingers of his on your clit dance just downwards to circle the ring of your sloppy hole, swirling around that messy gloss. He coats his fingers until they just gleam in the dim lighting. Around and around.

With a look of pure, unfiltered pride Geto clears his throat authoritatively. Jolting, you realize he’s not addressing you this time, “Everyone, say hello to your new second-in-command.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 6 rounds

Choso thinks he’s cumming - Choso thinks he’s crying, begging out such broken little pleas in your open mouth. He’s wrapping five pale, jittery fingers of his around the furiously red base of his cock, angling the bulbous head of his fat tip just right to press deeply into your greedy entrance.

“Oh!” you’re smirking down at your best friend, biting back a wrecked moan at just how much he was stretching you, barely even reeling back at the brief resistance. His shredded patience can only wait a beat - two - more watching the snug channel of your cunt gush down in thick, hot streams of his seed from earlier, before bucking his hips up, up up- “Even five times wasn’t enough for you? What did I hah- tell ya about th-the-”

“I know I know, m’sorry, baby–” Choso cries, dark lashes batting at his cheeks when his eyes scrunch up into a pathetic bawl. “M’sorry I accidentally ate your- your ‘special chocolate’ but I fuck- it feels like m’burning all over. Like m’gonna die if I don’t fuck your cute cunt.”

And yet his bruising grip on your hips don’t waver, he’s still prying down your sticky body onto his, strong arms wrenching open your thighs to straddle him even wider. Still so needy - so hot all over with the itching greed to fuck you until one of you breaks.

Truly, it was a surprise to come home and find out your sweet best friend had raided that joke stash of aphrodisiac chocolate gifted by your coworkers last week - a welcome surprise.

Because here he was - splayed out on your drenched silken sheets, big fat tears glistening across his cheekbones, toned body jolting so harshly at each one of your touches. So pussydrunk that you almost wondered whether it hurt, how his poor, overworked cock wasn’t fucking seizing at this point.

And even if it did, Choso wouldn’t complain - not one bit.

“Please-” his breath comes out in a feverish puff, as wild as the fingers now toying with your swollen clit. Smearing the creamy dredges of his seed all over your puffed-up folds in tight little circles over and over and-

Slam!

In a split-second, Choso’s hands are being pinned above his head. It would’ve looked almost comical - your much smaller ones restraining his own, fingers twitching animalistically with every sloppy drag down his pulsingly needy length - but oh, was Choso letting you. Letting himself be used like your favorite toy.

“You’re being real greedy, Cho–” your teasing voice sends shivers wracking down his entire body. Powerful thighs bucking up in pressurized ruts up into your squelching cunt. “First you ate my- hah- secret stash, n’ now you’re being so hasty makin’ me cum.”

Each one of your words are punctuated by a sticky slam down onto his slowly-reddening pelvis, the fat of your ass being smacked with his sharp hipbones. You were riding him to insanity.

“Yes!” Choso’s jaw hangs deliriously open, rosy red lips forming around your name again and again like a mantra. “M’so greedy- so greedy for your pretty pussy.” He whines, and just the feeling of your velvety walls milking his fat length for so long has his syrupy mess of a mind thrown into such a primal frenzy. “Can’t help it when you’re so heavenly, baby– K-keep wantin’ to fuck this cunt forever.”

The painful pull of your fingers weaving into his dark strands have him keening, latching onto the very tips of your sensitive nipples bouncing temptingly onto his face. “Can’t help it.” he echoes, swirling his hot tongue around your sweet areola, looking up at you with his gorgeously glassy, dark eyes. “Really can’t help it.”

There’s such a sickly, syrupy sweet staccato of Choso’s probing tip pressing deep into the drippingly wet g-spot inside you. And slowly - but steadily - your deft fingers find themselves dancing a path down to wrap around Choso’s heavily gulping throat. Breath hitching when they squeeze-

“Cum f’me, Cho-” he raises his lolling head up to meet yours, meshing back into a messy excuse of a kiss. Your teeth sink down to tug on his pouty bottom lip, fingers tightening, “Cum f’me- s’all to cure you of this chocolate after a-all, right?”

At the reminder of that, his wrists try to wrench useless in your other hand’s vice-like hold. And honestly, Choso doesn’t know if he wants to cum again - he doesn’t know if he can. But the soft clingy feeling of your walls against his girthy shaft have him gasping, poor, overworked balls so raw. Tight and clenching painfully with every crashing push into your g-spot. He’s absolutely ruined.

And both of you know it.

Oh, his head was so light now - your fingers vice-like around his pale throat. The only thing that Choso can seem to urgently choke out right about now is a honeyed, dragged-out drawl of, “Spit-” His wild cock leaking hot precum in another drippingly saturated wave everywhere, “Spit in my mouth, baby–”

And you do - that translucent wad of saliva barely hitting right in the middle of Choso’s lolling-out tongue before he cums. That ravaged divot on the very tip of his fat head stuttering out only one, two tiny beads of milky seed before he’s riding out such an addictively dry orgasm.

Dewy eyes rolling to the back of his head, body sweat-slicked and clinging onto yours with creamy strings of cum and spit. So desperate when he’s fucking into you so filthy, pummelling you along the curve of his length like he was trying to drag out another milky stream of seed. Again and again and-

It takes only a split-second to break out of your hold - of course, it does - and you’re barely even registering it when Choso pins you back onto the sloppy mess of your soaked sheets. Hips still relentless, voice still ragged- “Think we’re gonna hafta hah- skip the dating n’ go straight to marriage after this, baby.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 8 (and a half) rounds

If there was ever a time that the infamous king of curses would let out raspy little whimpers of his baritone voice - muscled just heaving deep gasps, looking at you all four eyes glistening with wet tears, hearts in his gaze - it would be right now.

When the day sitting around his throne had been too long, when there’d been just a few too many scum curses groveling at his feet.

When you were sprawled all prettily on his muscular, manspread thighs, your expensive robes pulled up just enough for that gummy cunt of yours to stretch open gapingly around his two matchingly rock-hard cocks. The plush of your ass on full, obscene display for him, limbs twitching with each swallowed-up inch down his fat, throbbing lengths.

“Fuuck- take it easy, woman.” he’s hissing, powerful hip rutting upwards to skim his sensitive tip over the ends of your slobbering pussy.

That has you pouty tearily, huffing out a low, “W-well- jus’ want you to hngh- be right-” Skittish fingers fluttering over to where you could feel him coating every hidden spot of your insides in his potent seed, angry cockhead bruising your taut channel more and more open around him. It was such a delicious stretch. And you’re pressing down where you can feel the divot of his head knock feverishly on your womb, splattering around milky dredges inside you, “-here.”

Sukuna’s hips just surge forwards, like he didn’t even realize what he was doing.

“Kuna- wh-wha-” you’re barely able to get out, whirling your head half-lucidly over your shoulder. But you don’t get very far - because one domineering palm hastily turns your face right back. “What are you-”

“No.” he’s letting out a strangled moan, leaving neat little indentations of his black, sharpened fingernails on your skin. “No you don’t get to- oh–” In a flash, sharp canines are digging menacingly right above the pulsepoint on your throat, and his hot breath fans over your ear. “Ah- y’don’t get to see me hngh- like this- fuckin’ embarrassing. I can’t even-”

Sukuna’s cutting himself off by getting up onto two unsteady feet, holding you plastered so close onto his bowed body. The position is so precarious that for a second you’re worried, wondering how the hell the two of you haven’t broken any bones these past eight rounds.

It’s his reversed curse technique, you later learn - but for now all you can do is gasp at your legs dangling in midair, spine arched back against his bulging pecs in a perfect arch, raising your head up, up, up and oh-

His eyes are aflame, glowing through the hypnotically dim lighting. Teeth bared into such a vicious grin one which only curls wider when you ask, “C-can’t even what, Kuna?”

He hisses down at the absolutely sultry look on your face - kiss-bitten lips falling slack into a soft oh! eyes half-lidded and miles away, your moans ringing through his ears like his favorite melody. “Heh- the fuckin- ah-” Another staggering push past your clingy sopping walls have him spitting out little swears, vision blurring dangerously at the corners. “-the fuckin’ audacity t-to ask me that, knowing what yer doing to me. S’pposed to help me relax but you’re hngh- driving me insane.”

You swear, you could feel his bulbous heads grow even thicker, expanding their way into contorting your gripping walls around his very shape. The even deeper intrusion has him throwing his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing with a dragged out moan of your name.

A limp hand of yours dares to thread its way into Sukuna’s, tugging - pulling, “Look at me, please–?” And when he finally does - though, not before punishing the curve of your ass with such a stinging smack - you smirk, “Look so- ngh! pretty when you’re ruined like this, Kuna.”

That makes him falter - it makes his eyes grow just a bit wider, the insides of your elastic cunt being inflated open with another fresh wave of his furiously leaking precum.

“Don’t-” Sukuna clears his throat of any traitorous dredges of a whimper, “Don’t push your- your luck, brat.”

But he couldn’t hide the fondness in his tone, that tiny little drawl of a whimper in his words. Heavy, pink lashes clumping up together with his overstimulating tears. It only takes a few more solid rams into your sweet hole - milking the bloated ends of his lengths for something delicious - a few more sharp, branding slams of his curving balls against your cunt. So large and aching for release that when they do, the sheer volume of Sukuna’s cum makes you dizzy.

Double the amount. It overspills, splattering half the thick, silky contents onto the decadent throne room floor. Soiling a sinful little puddle that he just can’t help but smile at, tutting mockingly, “Now now, look what you’ve done- making things even- hngh! even more stressful f’me now with this to clean up.”

Out of his four beefy arms, two of them pin your own easily behind your back, the other dipping down to roll your puffed-up clit between his thick index and thumb. And the last one- fuck, the last one was pooling all the milky white ribbons of cum slobbering out of your stretched-out entrance. Velvety spurts dousing your walls once more - and he’s having so much fun, molding out your gummy cunt around to squeeze his fingers right in-between his two cocks.

Still rutting into you - still cumming from both heads - every jackhammering thrust sparks stars behind his eyes. Back muscles curving deeper and deeper into you when he replaces every dredge of cum oozing down your saturated slit with a new one. The thrumming hum of his jujutsu making you keen-

“So messy. Such a filthy cunt my woman has-” he sighs, in a dark little way you knew meant he was just seconds away from tearing you apart. “Hmmm…wonder if it’ll be more relaxing. if I cum dry?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - RIP.

The strongest looks up at you with big, teary blue eyes, long lashes twinkling his pretty cheekbones every time he’s batting them. “Please. Just the tip-”

“Toru-”

“Please.” Gojo whimpers out, two of his massive hands laying at rest on the curving globes of your ass. Squeezing. Kneading you desperately in shallow, lazy grinds up and down his furiously leaky cock, “Please, sweetheart, don’t think I can handle cockwarming.” His abds are aching when they flex upwards towards you, “Haven’t had my hngh- fill just yet.”

You’re gasping when he has the audacity to give your plump clit a sharp smack! the pressurized buzz of his jujutsu from earlier sending white-hot electricity running down your arched spine. Splaying your cunt so deliciously to massage against your bulging g-spot. “N-nice try.” you grit out, legs trembling at the feeling of his thick, potent cum sliding out of your surprised entrance. “But I don’t think you’re ready- you’ve already set the lights off with your jujutsu being overstimulated, Toru.”

“Jus’ the tip- m’kay? Just the tip, I swear-” If you were of a clearer state of mind maybe you’d have pointed out that Gojo was well past the tip at this point. Feeling his fat head curve at your womb, knocking in a merciless, methodical pace. “Just missed you so much today- hah- gotta make up for lost time.”

He flashes you a devilish grin - one you’re somewhat ashamed to admit has your sopping cunt drip down a fresh sheen of your sweet sweet juices down his curvaceous length. Pooling at his frantically, painfully squeezing balls.

And Gojo notices - of course, he does - even with his six eyes getting a bit too bleary right about the eighth? ninth? round. Ah, fuck, it didn’t matter anyway-

“Then- then that’s good, isn’t it? Lights out- across all of hah- Tokyo, I bet.” His wretchedly strained tone is so different from the incessant pace of his bullying cock. Bludgeoning deep into your most secure spots, he’s nudging apart every velvety crevice of your walls, making such a mess of the creamy white seed of his dripping from the inside. Gliding his nose up the sweat-slicked column of your throat, “So really- we have nothing better to do. How about you- hngh- let me paint this pretty pussy white all over again?”

Of course, you wanted him to - but it was so fun how your barest tease makes Gojo fall apart. Pouty lips running a mile a minute.

His words are almost sleepy, and both of you aren’t even lucid enough to do anything about the ever-spreading puddle of cum and slick right below you. Meshing your lips drunkenly in an intoxicatingly sloppy kiss, “Come onnnn–” he’s babbling at your pointed silence. “One more? M’begging- begging, sweetheart. You got the strongest on his ah- knees n’ unable to use his powers.”

You knew so many people - so many curses - would kill to have Satoru Gojo all helpless like this. His lips moving faster than his overstimulated mind right now, drool dripping down the side of his rosy red mouth. So sensitive right now - unable to fight back. The only show of his previous prowess of strength being a stray flicker of blue lightning at his eyes when you’re cushioning his fat length with your clingy walls just a bit too hard,

He’s heaving now - gasping deep, lungfuls of air every time his bruising grip is just bouncing your pliant body erratically down onto his. Wreckless, lunging slams that have your knees weak, stars flickering behind your lids.

“Come on- come onnn–” He spits so syrupy sweetly into your panting, open mouth. Slender fingers wrapping around your clit, and it just throbs with the steady hum of his reversed curse technique. Stopping the two of you from breaking bones - because shit, how the hell is Gojo going to fuck up into you like an animal. Desperate little pleas of yes! yes! yes! wrenching from you at the stimulation. “Give it t’me, missed so much when you were gone out today. Please-”

“Hngh! S’too- too-” you’re drawling out incoherent sentences to match his. “Yeah- fuck yes- jus’ like that, Toru–”

It’s only because of Gojo’s ungodly stamina that he was even able to last this long - the fact that he hadn’t fucked himself into a stupor at this point. And that’s the only thing, along with a few fumes of his reversed curse technique that have him careening smacking away your pathetic attempts to meet his thrusts.

The sensitivity too much, that he’s bawling - unable to handle the saturated drags of your slobbering pussy down his raw shaft. Mouth lolling open when you feel two big arms circle around your waist, mumbling tearily, “Wait- fuck hold that- think m’-” Like something snaps in the air.

Because then he’s cumming - at least, Gojo can feel himself cumming. This time, there’s no shattering of lightbulbs, no gleaming power in his pupils, because his poor body was too fucked-out for this. Too tired to do anything but have his heavy, strained-out balls just clench, shooting up wispy blanks into your readily swallowing pussy.

“Oh!” he’s throwing his head back at the sheer overwhelming pleasure, beading out only a few, pearly little beads of sticky seed. But fuck, was Gojo riding out his high - riding out yours. Fucking you through each convulsing little clench of your silky cum-slicked walls, a high you’ve barely even registered still. “I don’t- I don’t know if I-”

“Don’t, Toru.” you warn, but it’s too late - only one, fleeting glance at your prettily stuffed pussy, the creamy little outer ring on your entrance, the way your puffy folds are just quivering like you’re in need of more - has Gojo intaking a sharp gasp.

His wrecked eyes widen, looking almost afraid. Breath hitching, his words are shrill - barely audible, “Think- think we haven’t made up for lost time yet, sweetheart.”

“Toru, I was gone for five hours.”

“And?”

A/N. Gojo nation will we get a comeback today plsplspls?!

Plagiarism not authorized.

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heavenbarnes · 1 year ago

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this has actually driven me insane, thank you so much @abcdbleh 🫶🏼

as difficult as it was to believe, your older bf!simon was only human after all.

he was only a man.

and he wasn’t a young man- well, as young as he used to be. he moved a little slower and his back ached if he sat too long and half the music on the radio pissed him off.

he could keep up with the youngest of ‘em, he could probably still run rings around them. somehow, he managed to keep up with you- his pretty young thing.

it was you that was begging “no more!” when you’d already cum five times and he’s gearing you up for the next.

it was you that was complaining your thighs were sore cause you’d been riding him the better part of an hour, he’d cum twice and was expecting another before calling mercy.

it was you that was falling asleep whilst he was hip deep in you and mumbling a quiet “keep going, si” because he could go all night.

but there were just some things that’d never change.

when he was laid back on the couch, you were straddling his lap and your chest pressed to his as his tongue drove straight into your mouth.

your hands were running through his cropped hair as your hips rolled firmly against his with a pathetic little whine. simon’s hands moving from your waist to grip your ass and pull you harder into him.

making out like you were back in school, like an adult might catch you, like this was all you were going to get. he could feel the heat rising all over his body and he hadn’t even got your trousers off.

“so fuckin’ good for me, m’sweet”

you moaned into his mouth as his words got muffled on your tongue. your hands coming to cup his jaw as you felt the strong lines of it under your hand.

hips rolling messily, grinding yourself down on his hard cock that was barely confined in his trackies. you could feel his hands moving up your back, spreading across your shoulders and keeping you close.

you whimpered for him as your hips bucked into him.

“yours, simon- always yours”

there goes the floodgates.

simon tensed rock solid beneath you, his head tipping back against the arm of the couch as his jaw hung open. you could feel his hips spasming beneath you as you watched the look on his face.

fuck, you could watch this all day.

feeling a warmth spreading beneath you, hips still stuttering as your hands dropped to feel his abs clench beneath his hoodie.

“thats it, si- y’look so good”

against all odds, simon let out a desperate moan as his back arched and you felt another shot of warmth beneath you. your eyes felt hazy and your blood was rushing in your ears as you watched him come back down.

as if he hadn’t just cum in his pants like a fucking schoolboy, he lifted you back until you were pressed to the other end of the couch. pushing between your thighs, you could feel his breath through your clothes.

“si, please”

he chuckled, dark and right back in control- however, it wasn’t lost on you how he shuddered when his crotch brushed against the couch cushions.

“don’t think you’ve any idea just what you do t’me”

#if i keep speaking they’ll have to put me down #i could talk about this guy cumming in his daks till the end of days #older bf!simon #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley drabble #simon ghost riley drabble #simon riley blurb #simon ghost riley blurb

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cbeargyu · 2 months ago

Text

what you want

summary: you and taeyong have been best friends since college, sharing your adult lives side by side—your flower shop, his branding firm, countless shared memories. but as you near your 30s, the yearning to become a mother grows unbearable. during a reunion trip to jeju island, a tipsy conversation turns into something tender, raw, and irreversible. what begins as comfort and shared vulnerability becomes something deeper—intimate confessions, unspoken love, and the beginning of a quiet forever.

pairing: bestfriend taeyong x fem!reader

genre: slow-burn, friends to lovers, emotional smut, soft romance, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, eventual pregnancy.

warnings: breeding kink, unprotected sex (consensual, emotional context), impregnatio, pregnancy mention, emotional vulnerability, suggestive adult themes (18+), heavy romantic tension with soft resolution.

wc: 4,5K

notes: hi hiiii, okay so i've been dying to read smutty taeyong fics lately and it's been ALMOST impossible to find 😭 like 90% are mxm and there's barely any tae x reader content out there... if anyone has recs pls drop them in the comments ily. alsooo it's probably painfully obvious by now that i'm obsessed with the whole breeding kink + domestic fluff combo BYE that's literally my favorite thing ever 😩🫠💗

you’ve always been close to taeyong.

since college, really—when you met in that ridiculously stuffy marketing class during your second year. he was late that day, hair still damp from a rushed shower, a printed branding portfolio tucked under one arm, and somehow, he still managed to slide into the seat beside you with an easy smile and that soft voice.

you became inseparable after that. group projects, late-night convenience store runs, silent study sessions that turned into hours of talking about everything and nothing. you built a quiet rhythm with him, one that never required a label or explanation.

you opened your flower shop right after graduation. taeyong built his own creative agency, specializing in branding and design—sleek, intentional, always poetic in its aesthetic. you sent him flowers for his launch day; he designed the logo for your storefront for free. "it’s a gift," he said when you tried to pay him, his voice warm over the phone. "besides, i owe you for all the coffee you bought me during thesis week."

now in your late twenties, things feel stable. solid. your dreams are real. you run a blooming business. taeyong’s agency is doing well. life, on the surface, is soft and good. but there’s one thing that sits heavily in your chest.

you want a baby.

you’ve wanted one for years. even when you were young, you imagined yourself as a mother before anything else—before being a florist, a business owner, a woman navigating city streets with earbuds in and a tote bag full of errands. you crave that connection, the physicality of pregnancy, the quiet intimacy of raising someone who came from you.

but dating? nonexistent. your schedule is tight, your circle small, and the men you do meet are more interested in weekend flings than parenting plans. you’ve been obsessively reading about IVF, sperm donors, even traditional remedies your grandmother used to whisper about. you bring it up to taeyong one night, half-laughing as you scroll through forums.

“i don’t know what to do,” you admit, looking over the rim of your mug at him. “i’m not seeing anyone. i don’t want to wait until i’m forty. and i want to carry them. i want to feel them growing inside me.”

taeyong goes quiet.

he doesn’t have the answers, but he listens. tells you that you’d make an amazing mother. suggests maybe you could consider adoption, but you shake your head gently.

“i want to be pregnant,” you whisper. “i want them to be mine from the start.”

he nods.

he doesn’t push.

a few days later, he messages you.

taeyonggie👺 [11:13am]: remember our old classmates? they’re planning a reunion trip to jeju. want to go? they said you’re welcome too.

you hesitate, then say yes. maybe a change of scenery is what you need. something about the sea and the quiet and the way jeju always smells like citrus and wind.

you don’t expect to feel so at ease.

you arrive together, him beside you on the plane, headphones shared between you as you both doze off mid-flight. you’re staying at a cozy hotel not far from the beach—modern but warm, all wood accents and soft lighting.

there’s a mix-up at check-in.

“two rooms for y/n and taeyong?” the clerk asks.

“no, just one,” taeyong corrects, glancing at you. “two beds, please.”

you nod. it’s nothing new. you’ve stayed over at each other’s apartments before. this is the same. right?

your room has two full-size beds, a window view of the ocean, and barely enough space for both your suitcases. you joke about how you’ll end up tripping over each other, and taeyong just grins, tossing his duffel onto the bed by the wall.

the first two days are calm.

nakamoto yuta—now a travel content creator, all sun-kissed skin and open laughter—is the life of the group. seulgi, working as a creative director for a fashion label, is effortlessly elegant, always with a camera around her neck. also in the group: kwon eunbi, a vocal coach; hwang minhyun, managing a production company; kim seolhyun, running a podcast on pop culture; and kim hanbin, now a choreographer.

you spend your days exploring the island.

taeyong helps you pick tangerines from the orchard. you braid small wildflowers into your hair, and he snaps a photo when you’re not looking. he buys you honey ice cream and insists on carrying your bag when your shoulder starts to ache.

it feels like nothing’s changed.

but there’s a moment.

you’re inside the hotel lounge, grabbing drinks. yuta and taeyong sit near the back, shoulders low, conversation soft between them.

“you still in love with her?” yuta asks, voice easy but not teasing.

taeyong chokes on his drink. coughs. blushes.

“no,” he says, eyes flickering. “i mean, not anymore. that was...college. i’m over it.”

yuta raises a brow. “you sure?”

taeyong doesn’t answer right away. his fingers tap against the glass, slow. thoughtful.

“she wants a baby,” he says eventually. “that’s all she talks about now.”

“so give her one,” yuta shrugs.

taeyong laughs quietly. like it’s ridiculous. like it’s tempting.

he doesn’t bring it up again.

but something shifts.

you notice him watching you a little longer than usual when you laugh. his gaze lingers on the curve of your jaw, the line of your collarbone, the way you absentmindedly rest a hand over your stomach when you’re lost in thought.

you don’t say anything either.

you’re still just friends.

sharing a room.

sharing a life.

almost.

dinner that night is golden.

the kind that stretches out with laughter, grilled seafood, tangerine wine, and flickering lanterns strung up between pine trees. the restaurant is open-air, tucked near the cliffside with a view of the ocean glowing beneath the full moon.

everyone's a little tipsy by the time dessert comes around. yuta’s telling stories about backpacking in morocco and the time he accidentally ended up at a wedding. seulgi keeps taking pictures of everyone's reactions, cheeks flushed from wine. hanbin and seolhyun are arguing about the best era of k-pop choreography. eunbi sings a soft verse of something nostalgic, and minhyun smiles so softly you wonder if he's thinking of someone he left behind.

taeyong is beside you. always beside you. refilling your glass with something citrusy. resting his arm along the back of your chair. letting his knee bump into yours and not pulling away. the heat from him is steady. familiar. almost too much.

later, the drinks keep flowing back at the hotel. minhyun brings out a bottle of plum soju he brought from seoul, and that’s when it really starts. shots. dares. flushed cheeks and slurred memories.

you’re warm. glowing. a little too honest.

“i mean it,” you say, your voice low, shoulders loose as you sit with taeyong on the floor by the balcony door, away from the noise. “i think about it every night. sometimes i dream about it.”

he looks at you, gentle. “dream about what?”

you lean your head against the windowpane, watching the wind rustle the curtain.

“having a baby,” you murmur. “being pregnant. the little kicks. the soft cries. the weight of them on my chest. it’s so clear in my mind. like… i can almost feel it already.”

taeyong swallows.

you’re drunk. not sloppy, just vulnerable in a way you rarely let yourself be.

“i’ve tried not to obsess over it,” you continue, voice quieter now. “but it’s hard. i want it so much. and i know it’s selfish to want the whole experience—the belly, the pain, the birth. i just… i don’t want to feel like i missed it, like i missed the chance to be the kind of mother i’ve always seen myself becoming.”

taeyong doesn’t know what to say. you can feel it in the silence. his fingers curl slightly, brushing the edge of your sweater.

“you’d be such a good dad, you know,” you say suddenly, eyes half-lidded, smiling gently now as the alcohol softens your words. “like… annoyingly good.”

taeyong blinks.

“you’d be the kind that warms up the milk just right. that kisses tiny foreheads. that always carries extra snacks. that reads the bedtime story even when he’s tired. you'd probably cry when they take their first step.”

he laughs under his breath, a little shaky. your words are melting something in him.

“and your baby would have your eyes,” you add, like it’s nothing. “those pretty lashes. and maybe your laugh. and you’d panic the first time they got sick. and hold them all night until they stopped crying.”

he’s staring at you now. full-on. wide-eyed, a little undone.

“you’d be so gentle,” you whisper. “you already are.”

taeyong shifts. swallows again. his voice is rough when he finally speaks. “don’t say that.”

you tilt your head, confused. “why not? it’s true.”

“because,” he breathes, gaze flicking down to your lips for half a second before pulling back to the ceiling. “you’re drunk. and i’m trying really hard not to do something i’ll regret.”

you blink slowly, the alcohol making everything feel suspended.

you’re suddenly aware of how close you are. how intimate this has always been. not the words. not the night. just you and him.

taeyong stands. runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“i’m gonna get some water,” he mumbles, stepping away from the room.

you stay behind, heartbeat thudding, his warmth still lingering beside you.

you meant every word.

but you don’t know if he’ll ever believe that.

taeyong returns to the table with your glass of water clutched between his fingers like it’s something to hold himself together. his pulse is still uneven, the weight of your words clinging to him like sea salt in the air—soft but undeniable.

you’re laughing at something when he returns. yuta’s grinning, telling a story about a disastrous photoshoot in cambodia that involved a monkey, a drone, and his own foolish confidence. your cheeks are still flushed, but your expression dims a little when your eyes catch his, like you can feel the shift. like you remember what you said.

taeyong sets the glass in front of you gently, and you whisper a quiet “thanks” without looking up.

he doesn’t sit down again. instead, he hovers, letting the chatter of the group wash over him, standing on the edge of it all. seulgi pulls hanbin into a debate about concept staging in idol tours, seolhyun’s already half-asleep on the couch, and minhyun is texting someone with a small smile. the night has thinned out. the fire outside has died, leaving only the dim golden lights strung overhead and the soft hum of a playlist playing someone’s nostalgic mix of late 2010s ballads.

by the time the clock hits nearly two in the morning, someone mumbles about calling it a night.

you blink blearily, your words slurring just a bit now, your weight leaning more and more toward the backrest of the couch. taeyong’s already there before anyone else moves, slipping a hand beneath your elbow and helping you to your feet like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“come on,” he says quietly, warm breath by your temple. “let’s get you to bed.”

you nod sleepily, your body soft, trusting. your fingers find the edge of his jacket sleeve as he steadies you, and he doesn’t pull away. the walk to the room is silent, the hallways dim and muffled. your steps are clumsy, and he catches you more than once, his hand curling around your waist like second nature.

inside the room, it’s dim and warm. the faint scent of saltwater and clean cotton lingers in the air from earlier. you collapse on the edge of the bed you claimed the night before, one of two queen mattresses sitting side by side with a single nightstand in between. the tension returns with the silence, thick and cloying. he walks to the dresser and grabs a bottle of water, offering it to you.

you drink half of it. then sit there. watching him.

he avoids your gaze at first. fiddles with the hem of his shirt. looks out the window like he might say something—then stops himself.

but you’re still drunk. and honest. and maybe a little bold in the way you never let yourself be.

“you know,” you start, voice quiet, “i wasn’t drunk when i said you’d make a good dad.”

taeyong turns slowly. you meet his eyes.

you swallow thickly, fingers wringing the edge of your pajama top. “i’ve thought about it before.”

he blinks, lips parting like he wants to ask but isn’t sure if he should.

you continue.

"not just in the abstract. not just... you as someone’s dad. but you as my—" you stop, heat blooming up your neck. you exhale. “sometimes, i think about what it’d be like if you were the one.”

he says nothing, but his expression crumbles—something tender and wounded flickering behind his eyes.

“i mean, we’ve been in each other’s lives forever,” you say, softer now. “we grew up together in every way that matters. you’ve seen me fail and get back up and fall apart again. you’ve never walked away. not once. not even when i was unbearable. i trust you with everything. i always have.”

taeyong doesn’t breathe.

you keep going.

“so yeah. i think about it sometimes. about what it’d be like to have your kid. to raise them with you. to wake up to you and a messy little human with sleepy eyes and your stupid laugh. and maybe i’m insane, maybe it’s just my hormones or my loneliness or whatever—but the thought doesn’t scare me. it grounds me.”

you laugh, a little bitterly, wiping at the corner of your eye. “and that’s the worst part. because i know you don’t see me that way. or if you did once, it’s long gone. and i shouldn’t be saying this—i know that. but there’s something about tonight that makes me feel like i’ll burst if i don’t.”

taeyong moves before you can finish.

quiet. careful.

he kneels in front of you. not touching you. not yet. just there, looking up at you like he’s memorizing every curve of your face.

his voice is raw.

“don’t say i don’t see you.”

you meet his eyes.

“i’ve always seen you.”

your breath hitches.

taeyong lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. “you talk about me being a dad like i wouldn’t spend every second wondering how the hell i got so lucky to build a life with you. like i haven’t already imagined it too. maybe not with words. maybe not out loud. but… i have.”

you whisper, “you have?”

he nods.

“every time you smile like that. every time you bring me coffee with your name scribbled next to mine. every time you hug me like home. yes. i have.”

you don’t move.

he reaches for your hand—slow, reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“but i never let myself say it,” he murmurs. “because i didn’t want to mess this up. not with us. not with you. and definitely not like this. but if i’m being honest… the thought of you carrying my child?” he swallows. “that doesn’t scare me either.”

the room is silent.

you stare at him, your fingers trembling in his grip.

you whisper, “then kiss me.”

he does.

not rushed. not heated.

just true.

the kind of kiss that feels like coming home after years of wandering.

like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t crazy after all.

the kiss deepens slowly.

taeyong’s hands are warm on your cheeks, cradling you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. you melt under his touch, your fingers sliding up his neck, into his hair, pulling him closer, closer still—like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

he’s the one who gasps first when your lips part just enough to whisper his name. it falls from your mouth like a secret you’ve kept buried for too long, and he swallows it whole.

he pulls back slightly, forehead resting against yours, his thumbs brushing over your flushed skin. you can feel his heart racing beneath his shirt.

“y/n…” his voice is hoarse. “are you sure?”

you nod, soft and breathless. “i’ve never been more sure.”

and there’s something in your voice—something so certain, so full of quiet longing—that makes taeyong inhale like he’s taking you in for the first time.

his lips find yours again, slower now, more deliberate. his touch trails from your face to your waist, pulling you gently into his lap, like he needs you close enough to feel everything—the way your body trembles against his, the way your thighs tighten around his hips, the way your breath stutters when his mouth moves down your neck.

he tastes your skin like a prayer, like something he’s dreamt about in the quiet hours of the night when your voice was the only thing that could calm him down.

you whisper into the space between kisses, into the curve of his jaw, “i want it to be you.”

his breath hitches.

“i want your baby,” you murmur, your hand pressing over his chest, right where his heart is pounding. “i want to carry your child. someone small and perfect and warm, someone who has your eyes… your smile.”

taeyong lets out the softest sound, almost like a whimper, and you feel his fingers tighten on your hips, his body tensing like he’s trying to hold himself back.

you lean into his ear and say it again—this time slower, your voice shaking. “i want your baby inside me, tae.”

his hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, reverent and gentle. “god,” he breathes. “you have no idea what that does to me.”

“tell me.”

he leans back just enough to look at you—really look at you. his pupils are blown wide, his cheeks flushed, lips swollen and parted.

“i think about it all the time,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “what you’d look like with my baby growing inside you. your belly round and soft, your body glowing. coming home to you with your shirt stretched over the bump, your hands cradling it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

he presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another, lower. “i want to see you like that. i want to wake up and run my hands over your belly, feel it kick. talk to it. kiss it.”

you whimper, your fingers knotting in his hair. “tae…”

his hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, thumbs brushing over your hipbones like they belong there. “i want to fill you up,” he murmurs, voice thick and trembling. “not just for tonight. not just for the fantasy. i want this to meansomething. it does mean something.”

you nod, cupping his face. “i know. it does to me too.”

he kisses you again, deeper now, one hand at the small of your back, guiding you down onto the mattress. the room is quiet, lit only by the moonlight spilling through the window, and everything feels soft. intimate. warm.

he undresses you slowly, carefully, as if every piece of clothing he removes reveals another piece of your heart. your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer until there’s no space between you, nothing but breath and bare skin and whispered names.

when he enters you, it’s slow and deep, like he’s savoring every inch, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel wrapped around him. your back arches, and he moans into your neck, your name a broken sound on his lips.

you’re both trembling—emotion thick in your chests, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. because it’s not just sex. not just lust. it’s home. it’s years of friendship and quiet yearning finally coming undone in the safest way possible.

taeyong presses a kiss to your temple and whispers, “you’re perfect. you’re mine.”

you cradle his face in your hands, smiling through the tears. “give me everything, tae. i want to feel you. all of you. i want to feel you stay.”

his rhythm falters, just for a second, overcome by the weight of it all. “i’ll give you everything. i’ll give you a family.”

you tighten around him at the words, gasping.

“i want to make you a mom,” he whispers. “tonight.”

you nod frantically, lips parting, “do it. please. i want to feel it—i want to feel you—when you fill me.”

taeyong groans, hips stuttering, burying his face in your neck. “fuck. y/n…”

you whisper, “put a baby in me, tae.”

he thrusts deeper, harder now, the restraint beginning to crumble. your bodies are slick with sweat, moving together with a kind of desperation that feels like both a beginning and a promise.

when he finishes—inside, just like you wanted—it’s with a gasp, his arms locked around you tight, like he’s scared to let go. and for a long moment, neither of you move.

“i want you full of me,” he says against your mouth, already hardening again. “i want to make sure.”

you nod, dazed. open. warm.

“don’t stop,” you whisper. “please don’t stop.”

and he doesn’t.

he makes love to you over and over again, slow and focused, like each time is another chance to seal your wish into reality. sometimes he holds your hips, watching your face as you fall apart for him. other times he lays you on your side, kissing your shoulder while whispering how beautiful you are, how perfect you’d be with his child inside you.

when dawn breaks, you’re tangled together in silence. your body aches, sweet and sated. your thighs sticky, your heart full. his hand rests on your stomach again, like he’s already waiting.

he is groaning your name, whispering over and over, “mine. you’re mine. our baby. our future.”

you’re crying. he is too.

and when the trembling stops and the world is still again, he kisses your lips, then your cheeks, then your stomach.

“i can’t wait to see you grow,” he whispers, resting his head just below your ribs.

you run your fingers through his hair, heart pounding.

you whisper back, “i hope it has your eyes.”

the sunlight pours through the thin curtains like a slow, golden confession. the air smells like salt and lemon shampoo. taeyong wakes up first this time, his arm heavy over your waist, your back pressed flush against his chest. sunlight filters through the cream-colored curtains, warming the bare skin of your shoulder.

it kisses your bare shoulder first, then the soft curve of your waist, then the scattered marks taeyong left across your chest like constellations only he could read.

you’re the first to stir, eyelids fluttering open to the unfamiliar ceiling of the hotel room. for a second, you forget where you are. but then you shift slightly and feel the weight of an arm draped across your stomach, the steady rise and fall of a chest pressed into your back, and the unmistakable warmth of taeyong’s body, still wrapped around you like a second skin.

his breath ghosts against your nape, slow and deep, and you realize he hasn’t let go of you all night. not once.

you smile.

when you turn your head just enough to see his face, it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. he’s peaceful like this—softer, younger somehow. his lashes rest against his cheeks, and his mouth is parted slightly, lips still swollen from all the kisses you gave him. his hand, large and warm, is splayed gently across your lower belly, protective and possessive in the same breath.

you reach down and lace your fingers with his.

as if he feels it, he stirs, humming sleepily against your skin. his nose nuzzles into your shoulder. “mmm… morning,” he mumbles, voice thick and low, still soaked in sleep.

you twist around slowly in his hold so you’re facing him. he blinks a few times, eyes still heavy, but when they focus on you, they soften in that way they always have—like you’re the center of his world and he’s been waiting all night just to see you again.

“you stayed,” you whisper, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

he smiles lazily, eyes fluttering shut again. “of course i did. where else would i go?”

you tuck yourself into his chest, your nose against his collarbone. “you feel so warm…”

his arms tighten around you instantly, drawing you closer until there’s no space between you. “you kept me warm first,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “i didn’t want to let go.”

you stay like that for a while. breathing together. existing.

and then you feel him shift, one hand still resting over your belly, thumb drawing lazy, absent-minded circles over the skin there. he hums, low in his throat. “do you think… do you think it worked?”

your breath catches.

you look up at him, searching his face. he’s watching you carefully now, no longer groggy, eyes wide open and impossibly tender.

“i don’t know,” you whisper. “maybe.”

he leans in, kisses your forehead. then your temple. then the spot just below your eye. “i kind of hope it did.”

you feel your throat tighten with emotion.

“you do?”

“mmhm,” he nods, nudging his nose against yours. “i kept thinking about it last night… the way you’d look months from now. the way i’d get to take care of you. rub your back. cook for you. kiss your belly every morning.”

you let out a small laugh, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“i’d be so annoying,” you murmur. “always crying. craving weird stuff. complaining about everything.”

he smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you’d be perfect. i’d love you more every day. and our baby… our baby would be lucky.”

you bury your face in his chest, overwhelmed by the sweetness of it. the certainty.

he strokes your back gently. “and if it didn’t happen this time… we try again,” he says softly. “no rush. no pressure. just us. just love.”

you pull back, tearful and smiling all at once. “you want to try again already?”

he grins, lips brushing your cheek. “i want to make love to you every morning for the rest of my life. but yes… also for the baby.”

you laugh, breathless, and he kisses the sound right out of you.

his hands start to wander again—slow, exploring, remembering. he murmurs against your lips, “can i stay inside you today too? just like this… all day?”

you nod, whispering, “don’t leave me empty.”

and he doesn’t.

he makes love to you again—this time slow and languid, under the weight of sunlight and morning warmth. he kisses your face like you’re already glowing. like you’re already carrying a part of him.

when he comes again, deep inside you, he doesn’t look away. he holds you through it. kisses your tears. whispers your name like a promise.

afterward, he pulls the blanket over your bodies, still tangled. still joined. he keeps his hand on your belly, and you both stay quiet, smiling softly.

as if the future is already there.

736 notes · View notes

snail-day · 4 months ago

Text

Haze

Sum: Epilogue to Hysteria

Yan!SatoSugu x Reader

WC: 13k (I deeply apologize)

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Reader Dies, Suicide, Improper use of medication, Medical AU, Noncon, Infantalization, Miscarriage, Narcotics, Captivity, Forced Relationship, Reader is going through it, MDNI, ANGST. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

A/n: thank you @pink-cakes-and-treats for listening to me ramble about my thoughts about this so much, also for the rest of you that asked for a good ending...here it is.

The world felt too big. The lights, too bright. The bed beneath you, too vast, swallowing you whole. Falling down a well—like Alice tumbling into the unknown—yet instead of cold air slicing past, warmth enveloped every inch, layers of soft blankets cocooned you in a thick comfort that verged on suffocation. Yet, beneath it all, something in your mind felt irrevocably wrong.

As if your mind was drowning in an ocean of disorientated static.

The kind that crinkles and crackles like an old television screen, sizzling along the edges of your skull, humming against your bones in waves of distant white noise. Thoughts tried to rise, tried to form, but they slipped too easily through the curves of your mind - dripping down, vanishing into the untethered abyss of memories that refused to take shape.

Nothing was sticking. It hadn’t for the past few days. Nothing made sense. Blinking felt laborious, each movement sluggish, your lashes weighed down as sterile overhead lights glared harshly, searing your retinas with their artificial glow. You tried to focus, but the world refused to stay still—softening, sharpening, then blurring again—flickering in and out like the remnants of a half-forgotten dream.

Something was wrong.

Your limbs refused to obey, heavy and unresponsive, as if they no longer belonged to you. A dull, insistent pressure pressed into your temples, pulsing in time with the faint, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of a nearby monitor.

Where… are you?

Your mind scrambled, clawing through the fog, reaching for something—anything—solid. But all it found was emptiness. A hollow absence where something important should be.

A scream echoed in the distance.

No, not a sound. Not a noise.

A feeling.

A desperate, clawing, silent terror digging its fingers into your ribs, shaking you, demanding that you -

Wake up.

Nothing answered.

The panic, slow and insidious, seeped in, curling its fingers around your throat. Your pulse quickened, your breath hitched - your body recognized the fear before your mind could. You knew something was wrong. Something inside you knew.

You tried to shift, but your muscles refused to cooperate. A dull ripple of discomfort ran through you, a sluggish protest of aching limbs and numb skin - Fingers tightened around your hand.

The sensation shot through you like an electric shock, sharp and immediate. Heat pressed against your palm, the unmistakable warmth of lips brushing over your skin in something gentle - something aching.

You forced your head to turn, each movement sluggish, uncoordinated - like swimming through molasses. The world lagged behind, colors smearing at the edges of your vision until, finally, your gaze settled on— White hair. Snow-bright. Almost glowing beneath the sterile fluorescent lights, like some ethereal specter - an angel poised between salvation and sorrow.

Were you dead?

For a moment, the thought lingered. A part of you almost wished it were true. Anything to quiet the thing inside you - the thing that clawed at your ribs, wove its fingers through your veins, coiling tighter with every shallow breath. A restless, insatiable presence, scratching against your heartstrings, whispering in a voice you couldn’t quite decipher.

Anxious. Begging.

Something was trying to break free.

And then - blue. Eyes like a summer sky far too brilliant, too sharp, slicing through the haze searching your face for answers, longing.

Satoru.

Your best friend.

But something was wrong.

His eyes, why were they red? Had he been crying?

A flicker of confusion stirred in your chest, Satoru didn’t cry. Satoru would grin, laugh, and tease. Satoru was the playful, loveable one, yet he was watching you, unmoving, the grip on your hand tight. His long, pale fingers trembled. Soft pink lips moved, forming words too soft to reach you, soundless incantations spilling from his mouth - A prayer or perhaps even a curse. Just barely, like a breath stolen by the wind, a name fell from his lips.

"Suguru."

The name slipped through the air, familiar yet somehow distant.

Suguru?

Ah, your husband. Warmth unfurled in your chest, small and fragile, like the dying embers of a long-burning fire. Satoru and Suguru - best friends since forever. If Satoru was here, then Suguru must be too. Right?

Suguru. Your Suguru. Sweet, kindhearted, safe.

But something inside you—that thing, that restless, clawing monster curled deep beneath your ribs—shrieked. A wrongness slithered through your thoughts. A dissonance, like a note played off-key, as if looking at a picture you knew should be whole but seeing only fractures. Your mind reached for him, for the feeling of him, the strength in those steady hands of his. A memory struggled to surface, rising through the fog breaching the suffice as the drowning thing it was grasping for air.

Documents. A trembling hand. Ink smudged against paper. Fingers curled too tightly around a pen.

The monster inside you thrashed.

Then…softness.

A smile, small and instinctual, formed before you even understood why.

Oh. Right.

Your marriage license.

So why did something in you still scream?

You had been so nervous that day. Your hands had trembled so badly that Suguru had to cover them with his own, guiding your fingers across the paper. Helping you sign because you couldn’t stop shaking. So why did the memory feel like it was slipping through your grasp like something was missing or wrong?

"Hey, princess"

Satoru’s voice rang as it pulled you back to the present, light and teasing, laced with an unsteady waver in each trembling word. His grin—boyish, familiar—was wobbly at the edges as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead.

Why wouldn’t this feeling go away?

This dread. This creature inside you burning so brightly.

"Sa-toru," your voice rasped. The syllables felt wrong in your mouth, tongue sluggish as it rolled through the vowels, throat too dry choking on every sound. Words weren’t coming out the way they should.

Why weren’t things working?

Why did everything feel wrong?

Satoru clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he rested his chin in his palm.

"Y’know, princess, you had me worried there. I was this close to calling it - figured you were done for, gonna leave me stuck with him for the rest of my life."

An exaggerated pout lined his lips that did little to mask the way his fingers twitched. You blinked at him, the words slow to process. The fog in your mind hadn’t lifted, not really, but something about his presence felt safe, reliable, a lighthouse in this haze.

"Sa-toru," you rasped again, the name tasting foreign in your mouth. His teasing grin twitched, faltered for just a second before he leaned in closer, his bright blue eyes flickering over your face like he was mapping out every change, every shift in your expression.

"That’s me, sweetheart," he said smoothly, flashing you a grin as if he wasn’t completely unraveling inside. "Figured you’d miss me first - ‘course you would, I’m your favorite, right?"

Something about that didn’t feel right. Not wrong, exactly, but something tugged at you, something missing, something empty.

Wake up. That voice, those claws continued deep inside you. Scratching, crawling to the surface just to plummet back down to the abyss. You frowned, trying to focus, the ache in your skull pulsed harder, pushing your thoughts back down before you could grasp them. Satoru exhaled, watching you struggle, and his smile softened just slightly.

"Okay, let’s run some tests, yeah?" he murmured, voice dropping into something more careful, more measured. But then, like a switch, his teasing lilt returned, masking that fear rescinding inside himself. "Don’t worry, princess, this is just to make sure your brain didn’t completely short-circuit. Wouldn’t want you drooling on yourself just yet."

You scowled, the reaction automatic, and Satoru’s grin widened like he’d just won something.

"Oh? Look at that! Someone’s still got some bite in ‘em," he mused, his thumb lazily stroking the back of your hand. "Maybe you didn’t fry up there after all."

Your scowl deepened, and the corners of his mouth twitched. His bedside manners truly needed some work.

"Alright, first test, nice and easy," he said, holding up two fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

You stared. It should’ve been simple. Easy.

But the answer didn’t come.

Your head throbbed, thoughts slipping like water through your fingers, the shape of numbers nothing but static in your mind. The more you tried to force the answer, the further it slipped, like trying to remember a dream the second you wake up.

Your breathing hitched. Your stomach turned.

"I—" The syllable barely escaped, weak, unsure.

Satoru didn’t move, didn’t rush you, just hummed under his breath, as if he had already expected this.

"No biggie, don’t stress it," he said, waving his fingers dismissively. "It’s not like I needed you to count anyway. I can do that all by myself."

The teasing should’ve been annoying. Instead, it kept the panic from swallowing you whole. Kept that beast inside you from crawling through your throat. Kept the tears at bay.

"Let’s try something else," he continued smoothly. He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to think, then pointed at you with a smirk. "What’s your name?"

A simple question. The simplest of all.

But nothing came.

The realization hit you like ice water, a slow, creeping horror climbing up your spine.

Your mouth parted, but no words formed.

You knew you had a name—you should know it—but it was like trying to grasp smoke. It slipped through your fingers and refused to stick. Your lips trembled, breath catching in your throat.

Satoru saw it.

And for the first time, his expression truly faltered.

The smirk faded.

The playful gleam in his eyes dulled, just slightly. His long, pale fingers tightened ever so slightly around yours before he clicked his tongue, releasing your hand, and leaned back, stretching his arms over his head as none of this bothered him in the slightest.

"Wow. You really did a number on yourself, huh? Forgetting your name? Tsk, tsk, princess." He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Guess I’ll have to give you a new one."

You stared at him, heart still hammering, but his words pulled you just enough from the sinking pit of panic.

"Ooooh, how about ‘Dumpling’? No, wait—Sunshine—nah, too generic." He tapped his chin in mock thought. "Oh! I know - ‘Satoru’s Favorite Person in the Whole Wide World.’ Bit of a mouthful, but you’ll get used to it."

Despite the terror twisting in your chest, something about his voice -ridiculous, insufferable voice - kept you from spiraling completely.

"What about Suguru?"

The question was quieter. Measured. Satoru’s teasing lilt softened, but his gaze didn’t leave your face. The name struck something inside you, something distant, something deep. Suguru. Your husband. Your sweet, kindhearted husband. And like a memory from another lifetime, you saw him—Suguru’s hands over yours. Suguru whispering against your temple. Suguru’s voice, warm and fond, calling you—

"Of course," you murmured, a small smile ghosting your lips. "Suguru… he’s my husband."

For a second, the room felt too still.

Satoru didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then, with a slow exhale, he slumped forward, forehead pressing against the blankets beside your hand.

"Shit," he whispered, voice muffled.

You blinked at him, confused.

"What’s wrong?"

He shook his head against the various plush blankets, a groan escaping his lips as he burrowed his face deeper into the sheets.

"Nothing," he muttered. "You remembered Suguru. That’s… good."

His fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly, his shoulders stiff. Then, just as quickly, he snapped back up, plastering a lopsided grin on his face like he wasn’t just falling apart a second ago.

"Well, that settles it. You’re half-broken, but we’ll work with what we’ve got." He reached over and flicked your forehead - lightly, but enough to make your brow furrow. "I’ll go get Suguru. Pretty sure he’ll be happy you didn’t wake up hating his guts."

Something about the way he said it felt wrong.

But you didn’t get the chance to ask, because Satoru was already standing, stretching dramatically before turning toward the door. Before he stepped out, his voice dropped to something almost too soft to hear.

"Suguru better be right about this."

And then he was gone. The room felt different without him. Too still, too empty. The kind of silence that settled under your skin, stretched itself thin over your ribs, pressing into your lungs. Satoru was gone for what felt like forever. Time moved strangely, warping at the edges as you lay there, staring at the IV in your arm, the slow drip of liquid pooling into your veins. The steady tick of the clock anchored you, but barely. Each second bled into the next, a sluggish, drawn-out eternity. You tried closing your eyes, hoping that would at least calm the unease curling in your chest. Instead, the moment your lids shut, scorches of bright light flashed behind them, too sharp, too sudden, forcing you to snap them open again.

A headache threatened to bloom, but something else lingered beneath it.

A feeling.

The faintest echo of something soft - a kiss pressed to your forehead, warm, familiar. Muscle memory, perhaps. A habit long-engrained, something your body recognized even when your mind couldn’t.

You turned your head slightly, catching sight of the mirror on the far side of the room.

That was… you.

Your reflection blinked back at you, dazed and uncertain. Recognition flickered, though it felt distant, like staring at a childhood home you hadn't visited in years.

At least you knew yourself. That had to mean something.

A soft exhale escaped your lips, burrowing deeper into the blankets, allowing the warmth to cocoon you. Suguru would be here soon. He would make everything better. He always did. And Satoru…

Satoru was a good friend.

You let your gaze drift to the ceiling, counting the tiny, glowing stars plastered there. Numbers didn’t come easily, slipping from your grasp the same way your name had earlier, but you kept looking anyway, following each little dot of light like it might steady the tremor beneath your ribs.

Outside, voices broke the stillness.

Muffled, tense.

The walls weren’t thick enough to block them out completely, though the words slipped in and out, only fragments reaching you.

"You said - "

"—not how it was supposed to go—"

"Things aren’t okay - "

Something about the tone sent a shiver crawling up your spine. That monster deep inside you sank into the abyss once more. As if the conversation, it recognized, recognized more things than you did.

The door creaked open, and there stood Suguru.

Another wave of warmth spread through your chest, comforting and safe, even as something deep inside you—a creature you couldn't name—trembled in fear. You could almost hear it, a faint, howling whisper buried beneath the haze of your thoughts, clawing at your ribs as if warning you of something you couldn’t remember.

But Suguru’s presence made you feel safe.

Suguru had always been your safe place.

Hadn’t he? Still, something was… off. Not because of the quiet, caged thing inside you, not because of some nameless fear pressing against the back of your mind.

No—Suguru.

He stood there, unmoving, his violet eyes flickering between something unreadable and something that looked dangerously close to relief. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, like he had been holding it in for years.

Like he hadn’t seen you in years.

But… you had seen him.

Hadn’t you?

When was the last time?

The question fluttered through your thoughts, weightless and empty, and yet, before you could grasp it, it was gone, slipping through your fingers like water.

After what felt like an eternity—though time had started to feel strange, stretched and warped—his shoulders dropped. The tension in his frame melted away, his entire body sagging, the rigid set of his jaw loosening just slightly.

And then he moved.

Slow steps carried him to your bedside, where you lay wrapped in layers of soft, warm blankets.

"Angel," he breathed.

His voice cracked.

Something in your chest lurched at the sound.

You shifted, instinctively trying to sit up, but the IV in your arm tugged, the discomfort sharp enough to make your breath stutter.

And suddenly—he was there.

Fast. Too fast. One hand curled around your arm, firm but careful, the other settling on your back, steadying you before you could even sway. His grip was secure, protective, possessive a cocktail of something you couldn’t place in that haze of your mind as the abyss swirled with his touch- his touch that sent something warm and sweet through you, like a childhood memory of being tucked into bed on a stormy night, soft whispers and gentle reassurances lulling you to sleep.

"Take it easy," he soothed, his voice dipped in honey, smooth and low. Suguru’s hands adjusted, shifting just slightly but never letting go, steadying you in a way that felt like he would never let you fall. He was close now, too close, his body angled toward yours in a way that blocked out the rest of the room. Like nothing beyond this—beyond you—mattered.

Had it ever? Your eyes flickered up, searching his face, your gaze tracing over the deep bags beneath his eyes, the tight line of his jaw, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets.

How long had he been here?

"How are you feeling?" His voice— gentle, tender—but there was something in it, something that made your heart stumble. You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to sort through your scattered thoughts, sluggish and slow-moving.

"Weird."

Suguru let out a soft exhale—something dangerously close to a laugh—but it was shaky, unsteady, as if the sound was unraveling at the edges. Like he was barely keeping himself together. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow and rhythmic, back and forth, back and forth, as if memorizing the shape of it.

"That’s okay," he murmured, voice like silk, voice like love. His eyes, impossibly soft, and devoted, never once strayed from yours.

"You’re still waking up. Just take your time, angel. I’m right here."

His patience felt endless.

Hadn’t he always been like this?

Always patient, always yours?

Suguru's hand tightened around your wrist, his grip not bruising, but firm, like he needed the contact like he needed to feel you to believe you were still here. His voice was barely more than a whisper, trembling at the edges.

"I was so scared," he breathed.

You blinked up at him, caught in the sheer weight of his words.

"Scared?"

Suguru exhaled slowly, shakily. His fingers loosened just enough to lift your hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed there was soft, lingering, his breath ghosting over your skin like a prayer, like he was worshipping you like he was pleading.

"God, angel," he murmured, his eyes fluttering shut, "you don’t know how close I was to losing you."

Your heart stumbled.

"Losing me?" The words felt foreign on your tongue, heavy with confusion.

Suguru nodded, his grip tightening again as his violet eyes flickered open, searching yours, as if he was willing you to remember, to understand.

"You don’t remember, do you?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You did your best to remember - tried to grasp at the scattered pieces in your mind, but they slipped away, crumbling to dust before you could hold onto anything solid. There was something there, something lingering at the edges of your consciousness, but no matter how hard you reached, it refused to take shape.

Suguru saw it—the way you struggled, the way you faltered—and something in his face broke. His lips parted, his expression shattering into something raw and aching.

"You tried to leave me."

A chill slithered down your spine.

"W-what?"

Suguru swallowed hard. His hands trembled. "The pills," he whispered, voice thick, pained. Those thick large fingers of his curled around yours, holding tighter, like if he let go, you’d slip away again. "You, angel, you tried to overdose. We almost lost you."

Your body went still.

The words didn’t fit.

They didn’t belong.

Would you…?

Could you…?

Suguru let out another slow, shaky exhale, his forehead dipping forward until it rested against your temple. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him, his warmth engulfing you completely.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting so much?" he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of it.

He sounded wrecked.

Like you had broken him.

His breath was warm against your skin, his arms unmovable, his body curled around yours as if he could shield you from something neither of you could name. Your lips parted, but no words came.

Nothing.

Just blank spaces where memories should be. You felt empty, a hollow shell carved out by something you didn’t remember.

"I—" You tried, but the words dissolved before they could form.

Suguru didn’t let go.

For what felt like an eternity, he just held you, his breath slow, measured, as if forcing himself to stay calm. As if keeping himself from falling apart completely. When he finally pulled back, his hands cradled your face, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones in slow, gentle motions. His violet eyes burned with something deep, something fierce, something terrifyingly devoted. "But it’s okay now," he whispered, "because I’m here. I’m always going to be here." His voice was steady, "You’re safe, angel. I won’t let anything happen to you ever again."

His gaze bore into you, worshipped you.

"You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of everything, just like I always have."

And hadn’t he?

Hadn’t Suguru always taken care of you?

Hadn’t he always put you first?

Hadn’t he always loved you more than anything?

an ache in your chest arose as your mind filled with a foggy, static mess, but Suguru’s hands were warm, his lips soft as he pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in.

"I love you so much," he whispered, the words breaking against your skin.

A few weeks passed before your release. There had been a lot of physical therapy, a lot of sessions where doctors asked you questions that felt like puzzles you couldn’t quite piece together. A lot of memories blurred at the edges, details slipping into the haze that seemed to return at odd moments, as if your mind was deliberately keeping things just out of reach.

But you weren’t worried.

Because you had Suguru.

And Suguru always took care of you.

It helped that the hospital belonged to him—or at least, that’s what you gathered. Suguru worked here, of course he did, and with Satoru’s family organization owning and operating the place, it meant you were given special treatment.

For being his favorite girl.

For being their favorite girl.

You spent most of your days with Satoru. He liked to keep you company in the common room, always finding ways to make you laugh, always draping himself over you as if the weight of his presence alone could keep you somewhat sane.

It was never crowded here.

In fact…

There weren’t any other patients. It was something you had noticed a while ago but had never questioned.

Maybe you should have.

But why would you?

Suguru said the quiet was good for your recovery - Suguru always knew best.

So, instead, you sat cross-legged at the small table in the sunlit common room, a coloring book open in front of you, half-finished pages of soft, delicate flowers filling the space. Satoru sat beside you, elbow resting on the table as he lazily twirled a crayon between his fingers, the light from the window casting a golden hue over his white hair. You looked up at him, a bright smile tugging at your lips. The words came out soft, still feeling a little foreign on your tongue.

"I drew purple flowers. What color did you do?"

Satoru’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second. It was quick, so quick you almost didn’t notice. A small inhale, barely audible, his fingers tightening slightly around the half-yellow crayon in his hand.

"Mmm," he hummed after a pause, looking down at his page, "I was gonna make you daisies." His voice was light, casual, that boyish grin sliding back into place, but something about it felt off.

His eyes - that same sparkling blue that had always been so bright, so mischievous, looked just a little duller than before. And then, before you could dwell on it, Satoru shifted, draping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close like he always did, like it was easy.

"I was thinking about making some stars or cranes for Suguru," you mused, flipping the crayon between your fingers. "He’s been asking for stuff! You know, when we were together, I used to handmake him things. Guess he misses it!"

You laughed, soft, cheerful, letting the warmth of nostalgia curl around your words like a fond memory.

Satoru didn’t laugh.

You caught the way his expression twitched. His bright eyes dimmed again, the usual teasing remark he would have had on his tongue never coming. Instead, his grip around you tightened just slightly, fingers curling where they rested on your arm.

That quiet thing inside you—the one that had been utterly still these past few weeks—shifted.

Like déjà vu.

Like something on the edge of remembrance.

Like something that wasn’t right.

Satoru was too quiet.

And deep inside you—somewhere distant, somewhere buried—the monster inside you howled.

At first, you had been confused.

You don’t remember falling asleep. One moment, you were coloring—soft petals filling the page, Satoru’s voice teasing at your ear. Then, darkness. Not sleep, not quite, but a gap, a missing frame between memories. And now - movement. The slow, rolling sensation beneath you. The low hum of tires against pavement. The world around you felt wrong, stretched and distorted at the edges, like waking

You weren’t sure if you were moving or if the world itself was folding around you.

No, think.

You had to think - you can’t lose your marbles yet. Something felt off, but your thoughts were molasses-thick, sluggish, slipping away before you could catch them. You forced your eyes open. The brightness stung. The world blurred and wavered, swimming between sharpness and distortion, colors smearing together like wet paint. Everything felt slow, too slow, like time itself was stretched thin. Shapes surrounded you, unfamiliar, shifting. Your mind reached for something familiar, something solid, but the haze wrapped around you like a noose, muffling every sensation. Choking out every sensation.

Something pressed against your cheek—warmth. A body beside you.

It was familiar.

Reassuring, perhaps. A slow, curling unease rippled through you, too faint to grasp, too distant to matter. You blinked, the action feeling thick and heavy, like your eyelids had been weighted down. A figure hovered above you—dark hair, neatly tied. Lips moving, speaking, but the words were empty, soundless, lost in the static humming at the edges of your consciousness.

You could hear them.

But you couldn’t understand them.

The words dissolved before they could take shape, vanishing into the white noise fizzing along the surface of your thoughts.

Something was wrong.

The realization wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a sudden spike of awareness, but a dull, sinking weight settling in your stomach, curling through your limbs. Like a shadow stretching across the floor, creeping slowly, methodically, until it swallowed everything. Your gaze drifted sideways, slow, disconnected. There was another presence beside you, a hand resting on your thigh. Your vision wavered, struggling to focus. White hair. A shape, a figure—Satoru?

That wasn’t right.

His touch felt off.

It didn’t belong there. It wasn’t familiar.

If it were Suguru’s, that would be familiar. Suguru is your—

Your what? The word was there, just for a second. Bright and fleeting, flickering at the edges of your mind, a puzzle piece slipping into place—and then it was gone. A void swallowed it whole. Your mind reached for it, frantic and desperate, but it was missing, ripped away, replaced with nothing but static.

The car rumbled on, steady, unwavering.

Right.

You were in a car.

Going… where?

You tried to part your lips, force the sound from your throat, but nothing came. Not silence—something worse—deep, dragging inability, like your voice had been stolen, like your body was no longer yours to command.

You felt wrong.

Heavy. Detached. Like your limbs weren’t really connected to you, as the space between thought and action had stretched too far. Every movement, even the simple act of breathing, felt slow, distant, and delayed. Something sharp flashed behind your eyes—white light, searing, electric. A crackling hum, a sharp sting like a wire had been pressed too deep beneath your skin. The darkness inside you curled inward, folding in on itself. It whimpered now, weak, small, drowning beneath the weight of something you didn’t understand.

Something was wrong.

You felt it pressing at the back of your skull, something deep and instinctive, something your body recognized even if your mind couldn’t. The fabric against your skin was soft. Loose. Suguru’s sweatpants. That much, at least, felt real. Your eyes dragged toward Satoru again. It took forever, like pushing through water, like forcing yourself to move through a world that didn’t want to stay still.

He was angled toward the window, head tilted white hair in his eyes, chin propped against his palm. The dim glow of passing streetlights flickered over his features, illuminating sharp edges, smooth planes. His mouth was pressed into a thin line. The slight downturn at the corners. The tension in his jaw.

A part of you recognized that expression.

Satoru didn’t look like that.

Satoru never looked like that.

You tried again—tried to speak, tried to force sound past the heavy, sluggish frog clogging your throat. But it was like pushing through a swamp, murky, like something thick and invisible was holding you down, keeping you tethered to this slow, sinking feeling.

A shallow breath. A shudder. Nothing else.

Satoru shifted beside you.

The warmth that had been resting on your thigh vanished, leaving behind a stark absence that made your skin prickle. Then, a new sensation—a whisper of contact against your wrist. Soft at first, an idle graze, barely there. Then firmer, more pressing, the measuring. Counting the beats beneath his fingertips.

Checking your pulse.

Your gaze dragged to his, sluggish but instinctual. Bright against the fog in your head, slicing through the murk with a clarity that made you recoil. Those eyes—striking, endless, impossibly blue—brought something with them, a pull deep in your brain, in your bones. Flashes of something disjointed. Overhead lighting, stark and sterile. A buzz—constant, droning, mechanical. His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did. A flicker in his gaze, a fraction of a second where his mask slipped—searching, analyzing, calculating. A slow inhale. A barely-there pause.

The realization sank, you weren’t supposed to be awake. Satoru exhaled, his fingers tapped against your wrist, a rhythm so light, so absentminded, it felt like an old habit. The soft tap, tap, tap sent a ripple through your thoughts, a whisper of familiarity threading through the fog. Then—static. A flare, sharp and electric, ripping through the void inside you. White light. A hum, low and droning. Something pressing into your skull, sinking too deep.

Your breath hitched.

Satoru’s lips parted. A breath of sound escaped, “…Shit.”

Suguru heard it. “Oh, angel.” a voice that had wrapped around you like silk, warm and syrup-sweet, sinking into your skin. A hand, cupped your cheek, his thumb gliding over your skin in slow, coaxing strokes. Guiding. Directing. You barely registered the way he tilted your face up, drawing your gaze away from Satoru, steering you toward him with gentle reverence. Like something fragile. Something breakable. Something his or perhaps theirs.

“You should be asleep,” he murmured, “We gave you some pain meds. You’ve been having a lot of nightmares lately.”

We. The word landed strangely in your mind. Heavy. Foreign. Wrong. Something about it didn’t fit. But your thoughts—sluggish, slippery—melted away before you could pin them down. Questions clawed at your throat, stacking one on top of the other, pressing against the hollowness where memories should be. But when you tried to speak, when you forced your lips to move—nothing.

No sound. No words.

Just a thin, reedy whisper of breath.

Your tongue felt thick, your mouth unfamiliar—like the very mechanics of speech had become foreign to you. You tried again—lips parting, searching for something solid, something tangible, something that made sense. You weren’t losing your mind. You weren’t insane.

You were just lost. It’s key to remind yourself of that.

“…House?” A whisper. Soft and unfamiliar, a voice that slipped past your lips, fragile and meek, and yet—not yours. You weren’t this. No, you weren’t small, you weren’t delicate, you weren’t some flower that needed to be tended.

So how dare this weak, trembling voice speak for you? That wasn’t right. That wasn’t you.

The abyss inside you shuddered—howled—and then, it shrunk.

You wished you understood it. Wished you could unravel the creature clawing inside you, tearing at your ribs, gnawing at your insides. What did it want? What did it fear?

And why—why did it shrink before the two most familiar men in your life? It curled in on itself, retreating like a wounded animal. Pulling away, pressing deep into the spaces between your ribs, folding into the fog thickening in your mind.

Suguru’s thumb swept over your cheek again. Pulling you away from the insanity that was unraveling in your mind, What happened to you? Yet his calloused thumb pulled you away from that question as it swept against your bottom lip, those adoring violet eyes of his gazed down on you with so much devotion. The motion melted into your skin, seeping through the haze in your head, sinking deep, spreading warmth like honey through your veins.

You knew these hands.

You trusted them.

You had always trusted them.

Had always belonged to them.

“There’s nothing to worry about, angel,” Suguru murmured, his voice velvet-lined and laced with something deeper—something patient, something final. It settled over you like a lullaby, thick and saccharine, wrapping around your ribs, lulling the resistance in your chest to stillness.

He sounded like home.

“Just relax.”

A pause.

“You’re safe now.”

His fingers curled just slightly against your cheek, “We’re almost home.” There it was again. That word.

We. His voice curled around it so easily, so naturally, as if it had always belonged. But it hadn’t, had it? Your thoughts tripped over themselves, scattered, slipping before they could form something solid. You felt like you had forgotten something crucial. Your head swayed slightly under his touch, too heavy, too slow. The warmth of his palm pressed into your cheek, spreading down your neck, keeping you there, still, held in place by nothing but gentle weight.

Suguru’s presence filled the space beside you. Even in the dim lighting of the car, even with the blur distorting your vision, you could still make out his dark, wavy hair, loosely tied at the nape of his neck, some strands falling over his face. Sharp features softened in shadow. Long lashes, lowered as he looked at you, the faint crease between his brows, the slow parting of his lips, his violet eyes—not as sharp as Satoru’s, but deep, unreadable.

His gaze held you.

His touch kept you from drifting too far.

However your brain had other ideas, other ideas of unraveling your mind, from stopping the buzzing of nerves, a name filtered into your mind.

Satoru.

Satoru had his own apartment.

Didn’t he?

Yes. He did. He had his own space. He didn’t live with you. So why did the word we feel so wrong? Your breath came uneven, something shallow curling at the edges of your ribs.

A flicker of something.

Pills.

A hand.

Scattered.

The haze thickened. Your stomach twisted. A cold knowing pried its way through the murk.

You tried to kill yourself. Suguru’s voice echoed through the thick fog of your thoughts, from before. His words, his tone, the steady warmth of his arms around you. That conversation happened. You spoke fine before.

Why couldn’t you now?

Why did your voice feel different—smaller, softer? Why did you find yourself leaning into Suguru’s touch, chasing the warmth, seeking comfort in something you didn’t understand?

Because he was familiar.

Because in this fog, in this shapeless world where everything felt wrong, Suguru felt right.

No. Back on track.

Would you?

Could you?

Would you really—kill yourself?

That didn’t feel right.

That wasn’t you.

Was it?

Is that why Satoru…

You tried to speak. It took effort. A deep pull, like dredging words from the bottom of a thick, dark sea. Your lips trembled as they formed something weak, breathless.

“S-toru…”

Your mind lagged, struggling to find the words, the question tangling itself up inside you.

“…why?”

Suguru stilled for a moment. You felt the hesitation in him—the smallest shift in the way his thumb stopped moving, the subtle inhale, the pause in the space between you. His expression flickered—something uncertain ghosting across his face, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. Suguru was never uncertain. His violet eyes softened, the storm behind them calming, gentling, then, a slow, patient smile. His thumb resumed its path, tracing slow circles over your cheek, then down, grazing your bottom lip. A touch so tender it felt practiced.

“You gave him a fright,” Suguru murmured, his voice deep, warm, careful. A deliberate gentleness, like he was tending to a delicate flower—cultivating it, shaping it, waiting for the perfect moment to pluck it. To prepare it for the right occasion. Somehow, you knew that flower was you.

Except—you weren’t something sweet.

That wasn’t who you were.

Your voice, soft and honeyed, might have painted that illusion, but inside—inside, you were full of thorns. Sharp, unruly, aching to tear free, to dig into flesh, to remind the world that you were not meant to be handled.

Every slow stroke of his thumb against your skin unraveled them. One by one, the thorns dulled, softened, melted into something pliant. “He hasn’t been able to sleep in his apartment since you tried to…” A pause. His voice dipped lower, quieter as if saying the words aloud might wound him. You barely heard him anymore. Your thoughts had grown too loud.

Screaming.

Clawing against the buzz of burnt nerves—burnt? Why were they burnt?

Would you?

Would you kill yourself?

No.

That wasn’t you.

…Was it?

Suguru’s hand cradled your face, the pad of his thumb brushing over your temple.. His warmth sank into your skin, deeper than it should have—branding itself into you. Pressing. Holding. Binding. Safe.

Safe, safe, safe.

That’s what his touch said— what it promised.

And you let yourself sink.

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep.

Was it the warmth of Suguru’s hands, the soothing rhythm of his thumb against your cheek? Or was it the slight prick in your arm, so small, so fleeting, you barely noticed?

A needle.

That was… strange. What a weird thing to feel in a car. The thought barely had time to take shape before it melted away, lost to the pull of sleep—no, not sleep, something deeper, something heavier. Just before the darkness swallowed you whole, your gaze caught on a faint glimmer—a vial. The name surfaced immediately — a sedative. How would someone who could barely think straight know that?

But the thought was fleeting, slipping between your fingers as the world around you dissolved, your body weightless, your mind drifting— another memory.

Or perhaps a fraction of one.

A pink room. Soft pastels, warm light filtering through gauzy curtains. A large white box against the wall, waiting—empty. Something should be inside it, however the poor lonely white box was empty. On the floor, Suguru. A flashlight between his teeth, hands assembling something small, something delicate. Cubes of softwood, pastel-painted pieces are arranged in careful, meticulous stacks. His smile was easy, boyish, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked up at you.

Love. Devotion. Excitement.

"You think she’ll like it?" his voice was muffled around the flashlight, words laced with tender amusement. You stood in the doorway, watching him. Something inside you felt full, heavy.

You glanced at the mirror beside you—rounder. Softer.

Heavier.

Ah… what’s the word?

The thought came slow, sluggish, dragging its way up from the depths of your mind, a word, you were ████████. The word couldn't come. It slipped just as the memory was. The warmth of the memory curled around you, a bittersweet thing, familiar but distant as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

The image shattered.

Pale blue tiles, slick beneath your feet. The air was cold, curling against your bare skin like a whisper, like breath on the back of your neck, haunting. The bathroom felt vast and empty, yet suffocating all at once, a space that stretched and closed in at the same time. The walls pulsed, the floor swayed. Something dripped.

Red flowers.

They bloomed in the cracks, unfurling across the tile, soaking into the grout, staining your fingers, smeared against your thighs. A deep ache coiled in your stomach, right where the flowers grew, sharp and pulling and wrong. You pressed your hand there, fingers slick, warm- your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, a frantic, uneven staccato as if your body was trying to tell you something your mind refused to grasp.

Oh.

Not flowers.

Your breath hitched, sharp and jagged, the sound barely registering over the heavy buzzing in your skull. Your chest ached, pulled tight like something was being wound inside you, twisting until it was about to snap. Your hands trembled, grasping at fabric—your dress, the sink, the air itself—nothing felt solid. Nothing felt real.

Light flickered. A glow in the corner of your eye.

Your phone - the screen pulsed, humming with an unfamiliar urgency, illuminating the dark edges of the room. A name. Suguru. It pulsed with every ring, like a heartbeat, like something alive, something waiting.

You needed to answer it.

You tried—your fingers barely moved, sluggish and detached, like they weren’t yours, like your body had forgotten how to listen. The world shifted. The tiles rippled. The walls breathed.

You didn’t like this.

You didn’t like this at all.

But the dream had other plans.

It dragged you deeper, a hand at your back, pushing you forward, forcing you to see, forcing you to remember. The bathroom dissolved, bled into something else, colors warping, space stretching, folding, cracking apart.

The red flowers—gone.

In their place, stacks of paper.

Crisp, white sheets, stretching endlessly before you, swallowing the room whole, consuming every surface. The ink bled through, black lines shifting, warping as you tried to read them, twisting into something unreadable, something suffocating.

Not just any paper.

Divorce papers.

Your name.

Suguru’s name.

Your signature, ink smudged, edges curling, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like a vice. A pen—shaking between your fingers, clutched so tightly it might snap in half.

You wanted to—

Didn’t you?

You wanted to leave.

Didn’t you?

The ink ran. The pages blurred, the edges curling inward, folding like wilting petals, like burning paper, like something being erased. Water dripped down the sheets, or was it blood? A soft rustle—pages turning on their own, shifting, morphing, dissolving into something else entirely.

The crib.

The bathroom.

The blood.

The papers.

Everything tangled together, warped, spliced, replaying in fragments, flickering like an old film reel skipping frames. The images overlapped, twisting and unraveling before you could grab hold, slipping through your fingers like silk soaked in something dark.

Your body burned. Boiled. Feverish heat rolled through your veins, spreading, thick and searing, like something was crawling beneath your skin, like you were being rewritten from the inside out.

You tried to wake up.

You needed to wake up.

Your mind screamed against the weight pressing down on it, against the lie suffocating it, against the warmth wrapped around you, the warmth you didn’t trust, the warmth you had once loved.

You gasped.

The darkness shattered—splintering into a million aching shards as your body jolted, wrenching itself toward consciousness.

A voice.

Soft, distant, pulling at the edges of wakefulness.

It wasn’t unusual for Suguru to curl up beside you at night, his arms, his body warm and familiar. That was normal. That made sense. But Satoru? Satoru had never slept beside you before, had he? At least, you didn’t think so.

Then again, you didn’t trust your memories these days.

The first night he slipped beneath the covers with you and Suguru, you blinked up at him, confusion knitting your brows together. "Satoru?" His name had left your lips softly, almost hesitant. You remembered Suguru pulling you closer before Satoru could even answer, his grip tightening as if the question itself was something you shouldn’t be asking.

"Mmm?" Satoru’s grin had been lazy, his eyes tired, but there was something about the way he spoke, something forced, light. He ruffled your hair like he always did, fingers lingering against your scalp before he sighed. "Just keeping an eye on you, princess. You know I can’t let you out of my sight for too long—what if you run off on us again?"

Something in your chest twisted at his words, a faint unease curling around your ribs, but before you could ask what he meant, Suguru had hushed you with a slow, tender stroke of his fingers down your arm. His voice had been soft. "Shhh, angel. Just rest. You need sleep."

You hadn’t fought it, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was because Suguru’s voice had always been something that soothed you, something that made you feel safe even when you weren’t sure why you needed to feel safe. Or maybe it was because Satoru had sighed dramatically, pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head, and settled himself on the other side of you, like it was all so casual.

"Guess I’ll have to hold you extra close, then," he had teased, slinging an arm over both you and Suguru, his grip loose. "Can’t have you slipping through my fingers again, huh?"

You had felt the slow, easy circles of his fingers tracing along your arm, the weight of Suguru’s breath against your hair, the warmth of their bodies on either side of you. Something had whispered in the back of your mind that this was wrong, that this wasn’t how things were supposed to be. But Suguru had kissed your temple, whispered a quiet "Sleep, angel," and Satoru had only chuckled, pressing his face into your shoulder with a sigh, and soon the heaviness had settled into your limbs, pulling you under before you could think too hard about it.

And that had been the routine, night after night, until it became something normal, something expected. Until it stopped feeling strange. Until you stopped questioning it altogether. Some nights however, when they had opposite shifts, when the nightmares of yours persisted, perhaps from all the medication you were taking much to your demise:

Satoru’s voice.

Faint, familiar, a low murmur in your ears, wrapping around your disoriented mind like a lulling tide. Sheets. Soft beneath you, cradling you in their embrace. The scent of home.

Something was wrong.

You forced your eyelids open, sluggish and heavy, the weight of sleep, drugs, memories dragging you back down. Satoru’s body against yours, too solid, too warm. He was pressed into you, caging you against him, his bare chest rising and falling, his breath heavy as he buried his face into your hair.

Fevered kisses—

One. Two. Three.

Tears. Your tears. You hadn’t realized you were crying or perhaps weren’t sure that was something you could do anymore. A lot of things left you uneasy these days, especially as Satoru’s lips trailed across your damp skin, pressing against your temple, your cheek, your eyelids. Something frantic in the way he held you.

What a desperate man he was, those soft pink lips seemed to continue on their conquest for the salt of your tears, as his arms curled tighter, embrace crushing, as if he was ensuring you could never slip away from him, not like you had the strength to do such a thing.

However you didn’t like the way his lips trailed to your pulse, causing a panic inside you to rise, to claw at your ribs, to force yourself to speak, to ask, to plead - nothing but a meek, broken whimper escaped. Your voice was gone, hidden away as Satoru’s hands traveled to your nightgown hitching the lace lining upwards. The only sound was the slow, shaky breath Satoru let out against your skin.

“Oh, princess,” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with something heavy, something raw. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You tried again, and again, and -

Because something inside you was screaming, clawing at the back of your mind, a voice—not yours, yet somehow still yours—wailing in recognition, shrieking a warning, weaving a song of something terrible, something unspeakable.

Oh, what did they do to you? The abyss curled around your thoughts, purring, seething.

That’s a new thought.

Not one you liked.

Not one you asked for.

But you couldn’t choose your thoughts, could you?

Satoru’s breath was warm against your cheek, his lips brushing against your damp skin, murmuring something—a confession, an apology, a plea. “I’m sorry.” The warmth of his bare chest pressed against you, the firm, steady weight of him sinking into you, grounding you, keeping you trapped.

Satoru wasn’t your husband.

So why was he acting like one?

“I’m so fucking sorry.” You heard a crack. The sound of something breaking. Not glass. Something inside him. Your thoughts moved sluggishly, bouncing like light trapped in mirrors, scattering, refracting, unable to land. Satoru wasn’t emotional. Satoru would laugh things off, he would tease, he would never cry.

Satoru would understand the word no.

Wouldn’t he?

Satoru—who teased you for being a crybaby, who ruffled your hair, who leaned too close just to watch you roll your eyes.

That Satoru.

But this one—

This one held you like you were something fragile, something broken, something that had already slipped through his fingers once before. Something beloved, something like a lover. This one pressed desperate kisses to your face, each one filled with words you couldn’t quite grasp.

"I love you."

A whisper.

"Suguru had to go back for his shift."

A ghost of sound against your skin. The sound of clothing being removed.

"I love you."

Again. Over and over and over.

"I’m sorry."

"I didn’t know—"

Didn’t know what?

Your body shuddered. Something coiled at the edges of your mind—the abyss, the thing inside you, the part of you that knew more than you did. It wrapped itself around your thoughts, dragging them down, down, down, pushing you beneath the water, forcing you to see—

A hospital.

The mental hospital.

Not white, not sterile, but painted in colors that didn’t belong.

Satoru.

He was there.

You could see him.

Why could you see him? Your vision flickered, disjointed, showing you glimpses of something you didn��t want to remember—

No, no, no—

A field of flowers.

Purple.

Vivid and endless, blooming in the quiet of your mind.

You focused on that.

You latched onto it. Ignoring the fingers that had trailed to your heat, the broke whimpers escaping your throat, the sound of I love yous being called out.

Purple was better. Purple was better than the flowers from your dream. Better than the ones that filled the bathroom. Better than the ones that bloomed too red, too much, too violently.

No.

No, you had to focus. You had to free yourself from this danger, from this man who claimed he loved you, yet he was claiming your body as if it were already his. Your nerves buzzed, crackled, burned inside you, bouncing like photons, shooting in all directions, searching for something solid, something real.

But nothing would land.

Nothing would stick.

Not the words slipping from Satoru’s lips, not the weight of his body pressing into yours, not the dull ache threading through your bones. Not the pressure building up inside your core, not the sickening sounds of wet flesh bouncing in the room. Not the defilement of your marriage bed.

Everything felt like it was happening somewhere else.

But Satoru was still holding you.

His voice wove into your skin, breath hot, shaky, frantic, lips moving over your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids—kissing away your tears, swallowing them like they were his own.

He wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to tease you, laugh things off, flick your forehead when you pouted, ruffle your hair like you were something small and irritating yet adored.

But this wasn’t playful. This wasn’t harmless.

"I’m sorry," Satoru mumbled into your skin, voice breaking at the edges, dragging you closer, pulling you deeper into the heat of his bare chest, caging you in his arms. His heartbeat was uneven, erratic, pounding too hard beneath his ribs, pressed up against you like he needed you to feel it, like he needed to prove it to you.

"I’m so fucking sorry."

There was something wrong.

Something breaking.

Not just inside you.

Inside him.

His grip was too tight, too possessive, fingers digging into your hips, holding you still, locked against him.

Satoru doesn’t get emotional.

Satoru is loud, carefree, reckless.

Satoru is supposed to understand boundaries.

Satoru is supposed to stop.

Then why wasn’t he stopping?

Why was his breath coming in fevered gasps, why were his lips tracing the trembling curve of your jaw, pressing kisses along the pulse point at your throat, why was his voice pleading, broken, desperate?

Why did he sound like he was losing you?

"You don’t get it," he whispered between each kiss, mumbling, unraveling, his voice trembling against your skin. "You don’t—you don’t get it, princess. You almost left us. I—I didn’t want to hold you down that night."

The realization slithered through your mind, slow and suffocating. The abyss stirred, uncoiling inside you, thrashing against the haze, against the warmth of Satoru’s hands, against the way his fingers trailed against your soft skin, leaving marks in their wake, gripping the soft flesh of your thighs like he had every right to touch you.

His lips trembled against yours—fevered, insatiable.

"I love you," he whispered, the words dissolving into the heat of his mouth against yours. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

The words felt frantic, possessive, more an oath than a confession.

Your wrists—pinned above your head, trapped in his grasp.

His fingers curled around them, pressing them into the mattress, his body flush against yours, holding you in place.

The weight of him was suffocating.

This was Satoru.

This was your best friend.

You weren’t supposed to react.

Your body betrayed you. The sharp, shallow rise and fall of your chest, the heat prickling beneath your skin, the helpless, breathless little sounds slipping past your lips—all of it responding to his touch.

Even though you knew this wasn’t right.

Even though you knew this wasn’t love.

Ache.

His hips rolled against yours, slow, drawing a gasp from your throat—not a protest, not a plea, just a sound. That was all the permission he needed. His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your nightgown higher, exposing more of you to him, letting his fingers map out your skin, burning the shape of you into his memory.

"You were gonna leave us," he murmured against your lips, breathless, aching, his voice raw with something you couldn’t name. "You don’t get to do that. Not when we love you so much."

We?

The word barely registered, barely even formed in your head before his lips claimed yours again, hungry, desperate, overwhelming.

Satoru devoured you like you belonged to him.

Like this was his right.

Like he could love you enough to erase everything that came before this.

Like he could rewrite everything.

Like he could keep you.

The abyss inside you howled.

But Satoru didn’t stop. His weight pressed into you, his touch fevered, his lips brushing against your skin between each ragged breath, between each mumbled I love you.

You found it easier to look up.

Easier to focus on the ceiling than on the way his body moved against yours.

Easier to count the little glowing stars above you, the ones you begged Suguru for one night, one, two, three…Easier to slip into numbers than acknowledge the heat sinking deep inside you, curling through your veins, stealing what little control you had left.

Your lashes fluttered. Tears pooled, slipped down your temples, soaked into the pillow.

Satoru felt them.

His lips followed them, kissed them away, his voice breaking between each trembling press of his mouth against your cheek, against your jaw. "You don’t know," he whispered, a soft, pleading murmur. "You don’t know how much we love you."

We.

The word stung, but you didn’t know why. You felt it, somewhere in the thick, dizzying fog of your mind, a wrongness, a fracture.

Not just Satoru. Suguru.

A memory curled at the edges of your mind—not one you wanted, but one that came anyway. Another horror in this dreadful night, you wished for those purple flowers not the red flowers that haunted you. Blooming against the pale blue tile, staining your palms, seeping between your fingers. Their warmth, how they stick to your skin in the unforgiving wake. That warmth inside you twisted and pulled, it wasn’t Satoru’s hands anymore, wasn’t the heat of his body, the stretch and ache of him deep inside you as he whispered I love you against your skin like worship.

Instead, it was Suguru’s hands, hands that had touched you thousands of times before. Gentle hands, hands that treated you like you were meant for devotion, for you were his purity. A memory forced itself to the surface, unbidden. Suguru, standing behind you, his arms circling your waist, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck as you got ready for bed. A whisper, low, warm, laced with something soft, "You’re beautiful, angel." A gentle careful kiss but you had uttered the words, pushing him away once more, pushing away those red flowers that haunted you.

"Not tonight, Suguru."

The way his breath caught.

The way his hands stilled for just a second — his lips lingered against your shoulder before he exhaled, slow, measured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Okay," he had murmured. Like any devoted husband. Like any man who respected the word no.

But no devoted husband uses electric shock treatment to keep his wife.

The ceiling blurred. The glowing stars bled into one another, bright spots against the dark haze swallowing your thoughts. Satoru’s touch dragged you back to the present, his lips pressing against your cheek, his body molding into yours, his voice muffled against your skin.

You continued to count the stars, this would all be over soon, wouldn’t it?

One.

Two.

Three.

And let them swallow you whole

Weeks bled into months. Months of learning to exist beneath them. Months of waking in tangled sheets, caged between their bodies, pressed into the heat of their skin, the weight of them a presence. Months of breathing them in, their scent embedding itself into your very cells, threading through your ribs, settling deep inside you like an infection.

Months of becoming—

Becoming the perfect little thing they wanted.

Because that’s what this was all for, wasn’t it?

A family.

One big, happy family. Satoru whispered it against your skin, his lips trailing slow, lazy paths down your throat, his breath warm, saccharine, curling into your bones. He murmured it between kisses, between soft chuckles, between hands that never strayed far, hands that claimed, that took, that demanded. Suguru was gentler, slower, patient in the way a sculptor was patient when chiseling something out of stone. His voice was warm, his touch deliberate as he pressed you into his chest, his arms curling around you like a cage that pretended to be soft. He spoke of love, of devotion, of how hard it was sometimes, of how you had lost your way, how they had simply helped you find it again.

They loved you.

They loved you so much.

You were theirs.

They were yours.

A perfect trinity.

The family you were always meant to have.

Satoru would hum against your skin, tracing the curve of your hip with absentminded fingers, pressing smug, drowsy kisses to your temple as he whispered about how long they had waited for this, how long they had fought for you, how long they had planned for you to be here, with them, forever. Suguru would sigh against your hair, pressing his lips to your forehead, fingers threading through yours, telling you that love is difficult, that sometimes you break apart, that sometimes you lose yourself, but that they had found you again, that they had brought you home.

You wished you could tell them they were wrong.

You wished you could scream it, shatter the illusion they had so carefully wrapped around you, rip it open at the seams and show them—show them that you had never been theirs, that they had stolen you, reshaped you, carved you into something pliable, breakable, compliant.

Instead, you smiled.

Instead, you nodded.

Instead, you whispered soft thanks, spoke gentle words, let yourself melt into them like a perfect little doll. Because that was the role they had given you.

And if you played it long enough.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

You could be free.

But freedom was slow.

Freedom had conditions.

Gold stickers meant you were good, meant you let Suguru kiss you deeply without hesitation. Meant you didn’t flinch when his calloused, thick fingers gripped your chin, tilting your face up, when his lips claimed yours with slow, deliberate intent, when his tongue pushed past your parted lips, sweeping into your mouth, taking.

Because breathing was a freedom he granted you.

His kiss was slow, practiced, indulgent, meant to be savored, to be felt. His tongue tangled with yours, rolling, curling, teasing, until it became a battle you were never meant to win. Until all you could do was let him have it, let him claim the heat of your mouth, let him drown you in the wet, insistent slide of saliva and submission.

Gold stickers meant you pressed into Satoru’s touch when he pulled you into his lap, when he grabbed at you, hands too big, too possessive, sliding beneath your sweet frilly dresses like they belonged there. Meant you let his fingers explore, tease, stroke, meant you didn’t tense when they skimmed along your thighs, when they traced the soft curve of your waist, when they inched higher, higher, a slow ascent meant to make you tremble. Meant you didn’t fight when he leaned in, breath warm, voice sticky sweet, whispering how perfect you were.

How much he loved you.

How he wanted all of you, always.

Because Satoru loved you, didn’t he?

Suguru cherished you, didn’t he?

And good girls. Good girls got gold stickers. Gold stickers meant you let them have you.

Together.

Gold stickers meant you didn’t cry, didn’t tremble, didn’t fight when they showed you what it meant to be theirs.

They called it making love. When they claimed you, when they took turns molding you, reshaping you, guiding your body into what they wanted it to be. When Satoru would hum small tuts of don’t bite, don’t cry as you struggled to take him, as his grip tightened just enough to remind you that breath was a privilege he could take away, each time he shoved his length down your throat that refused to take the full length. When Suguru’s voice was patient, coaxing, as he filled you, his thick cock filling your entirety, as he waited for your body to surrender, to accept, to welcome. When they weren’t feeling so generous, when they both took you at once, you found comfort in counting the stars on the ceiling.

One, two, three, four.

A methodical ritual, a place to go when there was nowhere else to escape to, a set of bright constellations to disappear into until your body was no longer your own. Until the weight of them left you aching, until Suguru pressed a small, bitter pill to your lips. Not the soft, fuzzy ones. Not the ones that made everything feel distant, hazy, almost bearable.

No.

This one was different - ensured you would always be theirs.

Forever.

You didn’t call it making love. You refused to give it a name. Names have meaning because calling it something makes it real.

And you had already learned that fighting back only earned red stickers.

Suguru would sigh, take your chin in his hand, tilt your face up, his thumb smoothing over your lips as he murmured, “You’re not trying hard enough, angel.” Sinking himself further into you as you wailed that this was too much, however, words still refused to leave your lips when they gave you the fuzzy pill. Satoru would smile—too easy, too light—before pressing you down, before kissing you so deeply you couldn’t breathe, before whispering, “We love you, princess. Let us show you.”

Suguru’s hands would hold you still.

Satoru’s lips would silence your words.

And you would let them.

Because fighting meant nothing.

Because the times you fought were worse.

You had already learned that fighting back only earned red stickers.

And red stickers weren’t just reprimands.

They were punishments.

Punishments that stripped you down, peeled you apart layer by layer, until you no longer knew where the pain ended and where you began.

Because love is difficult, isn’t it?

That’s what Suguru always told you. Love took patience, love took sacrifice, love took understanding. You had lost yourself for a little while, but they found you again.

And love was about keeping what belonged to you.

Red stickers meant the dark.

Suguru never yelled. He never needed to. He didn’t believe in harsh words, didn’t believe in cruelty, only correction.

"You just need time to think, angel," he would say, voice so warm, so understanding, as he shut the door. And you would sit in the darkness, alone, the air around you thick, pressing, suffocating, your own heartbeat the only sound in the void. You would listen to it, the heavy thump, thump, thump of it against your ribs, a reminder that you were here, that time still moved, even if you couldn’t see it.

But hours could stretch into eternities in the dark.

Your mind would start playing tricks on you.

You would hear the floor creak even when no one was there.

You would see things—shadows shifting in the corners of your vision, shapes that moved just when you blinked. The wallsm breathing, growing, closing in. You would scratch at your arms just to feel something real, press your nails into your palms, try to hold onto yourself. But eventually, the dark would become your only companion. And when the door finally opened, spilling in the golden glow of the hallway, illuminating Suguru’s familiar, patient face, you would thank him. You would cry into his chest as he murmured soft reassurances, stroked your hair, shushed you like a parent soothing a child, whispering, “It’s okay, angel. You’re home now.”

Red stickers meant silence.

You were allowed to speak—until you weren’t, or at least the words you were able to speak despite all the speech therapy that Satoru engages in with you. Giving you a gold star for every time you mention the words I love you.

Suguru would take away your voice.

Satoru would take away your body.

And both of them, together, would take away your mind.

Suguru believed words had weight. And your words needed to be earned.

"You talk too much sometimes, angel," he would murmur, cupping your cheek, thumb smoothing over your lips in a way that almost felt loving. "I think it’s best if you take some time to listen instead."

And then, the silence would begin.

For hours.

For days.

No one would speak to you. Not when you greeted them in the morning, not when you reached for them in the kitchen, not when you curled into Satoru’s lap at night, searching for warmth, for comfort, for something. You would try to apologize, try to whisper, try to fix whatever you did wrong—but silence was the only thing that answered you.

The absence of their voices would drive you mad.

Because they were the only voices you had left.

And you wouldn’t even realize it until you were begging for them to speak to you. Until you were crying, pleading, promising you’d be better, that you’d be good, that you wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Until Suguru finally sighed, finally smiled, finally opened his arms for you to crawl into.

"See? I knew you’d understand."

And you would nod.

And you would thank him.

Because you had learned.

Because love had to be felt.

Red stickers meant pain.

But not pain in the ways you expected. Not bruises or broken skin. No, that would be too easy. Suguru didn’t believe in hurting you. Satoru didn’t believe in making you suffer.

"We would never, ever hurt you, princess," Satoru would murmur, pressing feather-light kisses to your knuckles.

"We love you too much for that," Suguru would promise, smoothing your hair, lips against your temple.

Instead— they let you hurt yourself.

The isolation and silence. The punishments were made to be felt—so that you would be so grateful when they stopped.

So that when Suguru finally pulled you into his arms, when Satoru finally buried his fingers into your hair, when their voices finally filled the quiet, you would cling to them.

You would melt into them. You would thank them for loving you enough to teach you the right way to love them back.

Because red stickers weren’t punishments.

Not really. They were lessons. They were reconstruction.

They were breaking you down and putting you back together.

Until there was nothing left to fix. Until you weren’t just theirs. Until you were nothing else— nothing but the howling abyss that had consumed you, devoured you, and made a home inside your ribs where love was supposed to be. You had been reshaped, rewritten, reduced to something that fit neatly into their hands. A perfect little thing. A cherished possession. A beloved doll. And yet—beneath it all, beneath the softness, the compliance, the pretty, painted-over ruin.

Something inside you still whispered.

Something inside you still knew.

You were not whole. You were not safe. You were not theirs.

But maybe that was the cruelest part. Maybe you had never been yours, either. Maybe you had always belonged to something else. Something lurking in the shadows of your mind. Something clawing beneath your skin. Maybe it had always been waiting, for the right moment. Waiting for them to break you just enough that you no longer cared about surviving.

Because that’s how madness works, isn’t it? It doesn’t come all at once. It seeps in like a slow drip. It whispers before it howls. It curls around your ribs, waiting, waiting, waiting—until you went insane.

Or maybe you had always been insane.

Maybe it had never been a matter of breaking. Maybe it had only been a matter of time.

It was poetic, really.

The game had always been theirs, Suguru with his patience, Satoru with his affection. Two halves of the same vice, pressing, tightening, shaping you into something that belonged to them.

And yet—they never expected you to playback. Never expected that after all these months, all this time, after all the gold stickers and red stickers and quiet, compliant submission—you would take something from them.

They thought they had won.

They thought you had finally learned to love them.

Because you had let them in.

Because you had stopped fighting.

Because you had smiled.

And maybe that was the cruelest part.

You had smiled.

You had whispered, I love you too.

You had given them everything, just long enough to make them believe it. Because love was trust, wasn’t it? And they trusted you. They trusted you enough to leave you alone. To step out into the world believing you would wait for them, believing you would always be right where they left you, believing that you had finally accepted what they had been trying to give you all along.

That you had accepted them.

Accepted their love.

Their home.

Their family.

But love had never been a choice for you.

And now, it wasn’t a choice for them either.

When the door creaked open, when Suguru stepped inside first, smiling, slipping off his coat, Satoru trailing behind him, laughing at some joke that no longer mattered, It took only seconds for them to see it. The pill cabinet was half-open. The empty bottles were carelessly discarded. And then - you. Sitting there, waiting, smiling. Like you always did. Like a perfect little doll. But your skin was too pale, your eyes, too bright, too fevered, too glassy.

The first stumble. Your body swayed, the room tilting on an unseen axis, the distant, detached feeling of your limbs no longer being yours, your stomach turning inside out, nausea curling in waves.

Suguru’s smile faltered.

Satoru’s laughter died.

And when Suguru’s sharp eyes narrowed, when he took one step forward—you laughed. High. Light. Almost musical.

Suguru froze.

Satoru stilled.

Like a moment caught in time, stretched too thin, seconds passing that felt like centuries. Then, realization. The widening of Suguru’s pupils, the way his breath hitched, the way his hand shot out to steady you, to touch you, as if that could stop what was happening.

As if he could still save you.

As if he had ever saved you.

And Satoru—well. Satoru looked like he had been shot. His lips parted, no breath, no sound, body locked into place, unblinking, unbreathing, his hands twitching, fingers flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them. As if his mind was refusing to understand what his eyes were seeing, because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were theirs.

You were supposed to be safe.

"No," Suguru murmured, and for the first time in your life, his voice was something other than that calm vice.

And for the first time since you have been met with Suguru—you felt powerful. A tilt of your head, lips stretching wider into something not quite a smile, not quite anything at all.

"I hope in another timeline, I never meet either of you." The words tumbled out easy like they had been waiting to escape for months since they did this to you. Words you had to practice in a mirror. Words that shouldn't have taken so much effort but all the drugs and treatments they put you on...had ruined who you really are.

Suguru’s grip tightened around your arms, his nails digging in too hard as if he could keep you here, keep you alive, keep you his. Satoru still hadn’t moved. His breath was shallow, his eyes darting everywhere—the empty bottles, the pale of your skin, the sweat glistening along your forehead.

The first cough.

And with it, the first bloom of red, something your mind changed to flowers but you knew what this truly was. The way the petals splattered against your palm, hot and thick, dripping between your fingers, staining your lips. Satoru jerked forward, his hands shaking as he reached for you, so, so gently, like he was afraid to break you even more.

But you were already breaking.

You had already broken.

The second cough came harder.

Then the third.

And suddenly, the room was shaking, or maybe it was you that was shaking, or maybe it was them, or maybe it was everything falling apart all at once.

Suguru was begging now. "No, no, no, angel, look at me - don’t do this, don’t fucking do this." Those large warm hands you once loved were cradling your face, cupping your cheeks, trying to hold you together even as more red spilled from your lips, and dripped onto his fingers, onto his wrists.

And Satoru was fumbling through his phone for 911, an ambulance, two doctors who were beyond saving their beloved patient now. However, you had never seen him quite like this, never seen his chest rise and fall in uneven, erratic bursts, never seen his fingers tremble, never seen his lips shake around a choked, gasping “Princess, please.”

Please?

Like you owed him something.

Like you owed them anything.

"This isn’t love." The words gurgled up past the wet heat in your throat, burning, raw, torn from somewhere deep inside you that they had never been able to touch. "You never loved me."

Maybe that was what broke them.

Not the blood.

Not the pale blue of your skin.

Not the way your body sagged against Suguru’s chest as you slipped further, further away.

But that.

That you had never believed them.

That even in their twisted devotion, their patience, their desperate, all-consuming love—you had never truly been theirs.

Even after everything.

Even now.

Suguru let out a sound, something strangled, something inhuman, as he pressed his forehead against yours, as he rocked you, shook you, pleaded with you, his words breaking apart before they could even form.

Satoru just kept whispering your name as he waited for the ambulance to arrive. Over and over and over. Like if he said it enough, maybe you would answer him. Like if he said it enough, maybe you would stay.

Like if he said it enough, maybe this wouldn’t be real. It was though, this was a fact. The same fact that they did this to you, drove you this far into the abyss letting that monster finally be released to pay them the dues they so much deserved. And as the darkness finally took you, as your body finally gave in, as the last shreds of yourself finally slipped through their fingers—you smiled. For the first time in this life, you had finally broken through the haze.

You had won.

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