#getting fingered by him right now would not only fix me

[headkiss]

Clark x shy! reader was soo freaking cuteeeeee babe i need more. Maybe their first date or first time staying the night with each other, where reader is flustered and clark remedies it

Love your writing queen

thank u so much lovely!! (part 2 of this request, but can be read as standalone!) | 0.9k, fluff, word girl used in reference to reader <3

Clark Kent is in your shower.

A month ago, you never would have believed it. It was the kind of thing that really only happened in your dreams. Now, though, you can hear the sound of the water running. The sound of something falling and a muffled curse, too.

So yes, he is actually in your shower and he is also sort of your boyfriend. Almost.

You’ve only been on a handful of dates, but you’ve known Clark long enough — have had feelings for him long enough — to know that this is the kind of thing that just feels good and easy and right.

Clark had already been planning on asking you out when Lois told him to “please put that poor girl out of her misery” and that was the final push. Not that he needed it.

He’s different outside of work, you’ve learned. Somehow even sweeter and sometimes you have to pinch yourself when he isn’t looking just to make sure that this is real.

Tonight is one of those times, because he’s spending the night for the first time. Because you’re waiting on your bed, straightening pillows and fixing the sheets while he’s showering feet away.

Especially because he walks out of your bathroom with sweatpants hanging low on his waist and his t-shirt stuck halfway over his head.

And you’re not blind. So of course your eyes flick down to his chest and his stomach, still a little damp. Of course you can’t bring yourself to look away or move until he clears his throat “A little help?”

“Oh!”

You walk over to him and find the hem of his shirt. It’s all rolled and twisted against his back, and he has to bend his knees a little to help you reach it properly. Your fingers brush against his skin as you tug it down into place, and it feels like touching a piece of art.

Clark’s hair is a wet mess when he gets his head through the neckline, and you smile as you fix that, too. He straightens when you’re done, takes your wrist into one hand and kisses your palm.

“Thanks. Got stuck on my glasses.”

“Mm, I think you did that on purpose. Ulterior motives and all.”

Clark doesn’t tell you that he did not in fact get stuck in his shirt on purpose — he really is that awkward. He knows you’re not the type to initiate things very often, and he relishes the feeling of your hands on him, of you near him in any way.

He simply smiles, a little guilty, something close to smug but not so conceited. “Uh huh. And thanks for the shower.”

You feel like you should be thanking him. It’s a surreal kind of intimacy to see him this way, to have him in your apartment, smelling like your soap.

“The water pressure’s not the best. And I got you a toothbrush.” You pick a piece of lint from his shoulder, “Do you need anything else?”

Clark has yet to stop grinning. “I’m perfect, stop worrying about me.”

“I always worry,” you shrug, shoulder to your cheek.

It’s then that he notices that you’re still in your work clothes, too focused on your face and your hands on him before. “Aren’t you gonna get comfy? I mean, I love those pants, but surely you don’t wanna hit the hay in them.”

“‘Hit the hay,’” you repeat. Such a dork.

A dork that still makes you nervous. Not as bad as you had been before, but there are still moments when you’re not sure how to act around him.

He levels you with a kind, pleading look. Be honest, he’s asking you.

You sigh, face turned away to mumble “My pajamas aren’t sexy.”

Clark gently nudges you to face him again with a knuckle to your chin. “Honey, clothes don’t make you sexy, it’s the other way around. If you’re worried about what I’ll think, don’t. I think you’re beautiful in anything because you’re you.”

He says it like it’s simple. A fact.

Then he’s slapping his hands over his glasses and turning around. “I won’t look, promise.”

It’s so sweet you could cry. There isn’t a judgemental bone in his body when it comes to you, and each time you’re reminded of that you fall for him a little more.

So, you get up and go to your dresser and change. Clark listens to the sound of your feet against the floors, the drawers being pulled open. When he hears you slipping your clothes off, he thinks he could come undone from the sound alone.

Once you’re changed into a pair of boxer shorts and a baggy shirt with a neckline so stretched it nearly hangs off your shoulder, you’re climbing onto your bed and tapping Clark’s shoulder. “Okay. Done.”

He turns around, smiles that dimpled smile again and gets you both settled under the covers.

He’s facing you, glasses still on, cheek pressed into your floral pillowcase, hand pushing the hair from your face. “Told you you’d look pretty.”

“Don’t be fooled. There’s a hole in the armpit of this shirt.”

He shifts to his back, both hands finding the armpit seam of his own tee, and rips it. “There, now we match.”

“Clark! I’m sewing that up tomorrow,” you say. A pause, then: “Do you need another pillow? Sorry my bed’s kinda small.”

He tugs you close and pulls your face to his chest, effectively silencing your worries with the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

[lo-vearchive]

Cronkite

Pairing: Clark Kent x female reader, Superman x female reader

Summary: You meet Clark Kent for the first time when he spills coffee on your dress 15 minutes before your interview with Perry White. Sometime after that you can't stop thinking about him. Except for the fact that he becomes Metropolis' #1 asshole who disappears and leaves you hanging. Then there is that other guy Superman who is there to keep you company when the disappointment hits. What's the deal with that?

Word Count: 5,662

Content: Clark Kent being awkward, arguments (angst, smoooooch), misunderstanding, swearing, alcohol consumption, love triangle (idk if that counts cause its the same guy?), reader wears a dress, kissing, allusion to violence, implied sexism, fuckk the hammer of boravia

Note: I love a good fight, I legit transcribed some of their script for you party people. I started writing this at 1 AM, its 8:30 AM now and I have physio in 5 hours. It's my first time writing in 1 year, be nice to me.

You meet Clark Kent on your first time at the Daily Planet.

Moving to Metropolis without securing a job first would prove to be disastrous if you weren’t hired by Perry White today. You had high hopes anyway— you were going to nail that interview right down. It's like that quote Superman gave to the Daily Planet, you thought, ‘It’s about what you do… It’s about action’.

The elevator door binged open, and you took a deep breath and surged outside. Except that the outside felt like a wall of steel, followed by an immediate warmth sliding down the front of your dress.

“Ah!” you yelped, stumbling back and peeling the wet fabric away from your skin.

You looked up to see a tall, standing slightly hunched, clutching a crumpled paper coffee cup in his hand. You both stared at each other for a moment, his icy blue eyes wide open to yours. Then your own eyes began to water, and you didn’t know whether it was because the coffee had burned you or because your white dress was now stained fifteen minutes before your interview.

“Oh, gosh!” the man exclaimed, arms flailing. “I am so sorry!”

Fat tears exploded out of your eyes. The man reached for you, but you angled your torso out of his reach, crying harder. Curious eyes began turning towards you both.

“Classic Kent,” one whistled.

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, hoping that the ground would open and swallow you up.

“Let me help you,” the man pleaded, interlocking his fingers and shaking them in your face. “The washroom is this way.”

Refusing to look up at the pitiful gazes watching him take you down a hallway, you let him guide you to the bathroom. He waited outside as you yanked cheap paper towel out of the dispenser through sobs.

“Are you okay?” he asked from the other side.

You nodded, and then realized he couldn’t see you through the door.

“Yes!” you hiccuped.

“I didn't see you. That's my fault! I should have been careful,” he called out. “I am so sorry.”

You turned the tap on, but no water flowed out. You stared at it, utterly defeated. First your favourite interview dress gets ruined and now the universe wont even grant you water to attempt to fix the disaster.

“Try the left tap,” he called out. “The middle one doesn’t work.”

You followed, wetting the paper towel and furiously wiping the front of your dress.

“You must be here for an interview, right?” he inquired, nervously. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

The stain only got bigger. You were totally screwed. There was no way in hell you could do the biggest interview of your life in this state. Crying louder, you replied, “Yes!”

You cupped your face into your palms and took in a laboured breath. Maybe you’ll find another job before your savings run out. Maybe you’ll find work online helping students plagiarize by writing their psychology papers. Maybe you’ll live out of an empty refrigerator box under the freeway until a meta-villain throws a car at you.

You turned around and walked to the bathroom door. Cracking it back an inch, you peeked at the dark-haired man and asked meekly. “You work here?”

He nodded animatedly. "Yes!"

“What’s your name?”

“Clark Kent,” he answered, tugging at his hair.

You raised an eyebrow. You recognized that name. “Like Superman’s Clark Kent?”

“Uhhhhhh,” he blinked rapidly. “If by that you mean that I’m the guy who interviews him, then yeah. I am him.”

You bit your lip, looking down at his large shoes. Geez, you thought. How big is this man?

“Does Perry White like you?” you asked, chewing on your lip.

“On most days,” he shrugged. "Whenever I'm not running late or spilling coffee on strangers"

“Can you please tell him that I can’t interview today?” you begged. “Tell him that I cracked my head open on the stairs and had to be rushed to the hospital. He'll believe it if it comes from.”

He scratched the back of his head. “We have cameras at the office. I'm sure he already saw.”

Tears began welling up in your eyes. “Please!” he cried out. “Don’t cry! I will fix this. Here, take this!”

He shrugged his coat off and offered it to you. You eyed it through the sliver of space for a moment and then pulled the door open. Clark's eyes fell to your dress, and he gulped. You inched your head down and noticed that your bra was visible through the wet fabric.

You yanked the coat out of his hand and clutched it to your chest.

“I swear I wasn’t looking! I mean, I was—b-but not intentionally. Although I did intend for my eyes to look down, but not like that. Just please take my coat, miss!”

You put his coat on and offered him your name. It was so huge that it brushed your kneecaps. You felt like a big baby in it. Something was better than nothing. Maybe you could pass it off as an intense fashion choice. Maybe Perry would laugh you out of his office. But you wouldn’t know for sure until you tried.

“Thank you, Clark Kent.”

He offered you a sheepish smile that was followed by two deep dimples. “You got this, Cronkite.”

************************************************************************

Clark Kent still hadn’t gotten over the coffee incident a month into you working at the Daily Planet.

Every morning, like clockwork, he brings you a cup of coffee that is half-full, so there is no way that he could spill it on you. It became a joke around the office. Anytime Jimmy Olsen saw Clark carrying any beverage, he would tell you to watch out. Clark would roll his eyes, and you’d blush in response.

“Hey, Cronkite,” Clark greeted, sitting at the edge of your desk with a cup in hand. “Whatcha’ working on you?”

“Oh, the usual,” you replied, looking up from your computer. “ ‘Superman helps an elderly woman cross a road,’ and ‘Superman flies citizens to work after bus breaks down,’ and the latest, ‘Superman saves squirrel from being runover' .”

“Wow,” he whistled. “That’s some real hard-hitting journalism.”

You scoffed and took the cup from his hand, fingers brushing. “You’re lucky that he likes you enough to give you actual interviews. I have been trying for weeks to get his attention.”

He smiled widely. “Must be my good looks.”

Your face fell. “Are you calling me ugly, Clark Kent?”

He stood erect immediately. “N-no, absolutely not,” he stammered, visibly flustered. “You’re beautiful— I mean, no. No, I mean yes, b-but in a professional way! Not a workplace harassment way.”

You tipped your head back and laughed. “I’m just messing with you,” you giggle, running a hand through your hair. “But seriously, how do you do it?”

His shoulders relaxed, but uneasiness ran through his body. “Just happened to be at the right place at the right time,” he stated. “Superman is more talkative after taking down the meta-villains.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he confirmed, sitting down again. “I think he likes having company after. Helps him decompress.”

“I think Superman likes doing charity,” Jimmy called out from his desk. Kent’s a total charity case.”

“Ha-ha,” Clark deadpanned and .

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Don’t listen to him,” you told Clark. “You’re a good journalist. Jimmy’s just jealous.”

Jimmy howled loudly at the assumption.

“Thanks, Cronkite,” he replied, with a sweet smile and moved towards his chair. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

You nodded and spoke to yourself as you rearranged some papers on your desk, “In the meantime, I will pray that Superman comes to save me before Perry can ask for new headlines.”

Clark paused behind your desk and looked over his shoulder. “I hope you’re never in a situation where Superman needs to come save you.”

You pause at his tone. He has never sounded so serious about anything. You turn around to reply, but Clark’s already walked away with a frown on his face.

************************************************************************

A month after that, the Hammer of Boravia attacked Metropolis.

You run out of the Daily Planet with a camerawoman in tow. Chaos erupted all around you both as people fled from that ugly trash-can robot wreaking havoc on the city. Sirens blared and concrete rained down from the sky.

The camerawoman raised the camera to her shoulder as you begin speaking with Superman and the Hammer go at each other in the background. You turned just in time to see the tin-foil villain grab Superman by the throat and punch him in the face. Superman went reeling to the side, and then the garbage robot took hold of his cape to yank him back before choking him out. Superman flew away only to have the meta-villain grab his leg. You scream out in surprise as he is spun around in circles and then slammed to the ground.

You curse and begin running towards where he landed. Your camerawoman struggled to keep up as you sprinted down the street where a crowd had gathered in a small circle.

The camerawoman crashed into you from the back and aimed the lens at him.

In the centre lay Superman in a concave hole in the concrete with his hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed, and eyes struggling to focus on the faces staring down at him.

You looked at the hero defeated in front of you, and something shifted inside. You reached for the camera and aimed it down at your feet. She shot you a questioning look, and you shook your head. “The world shouldn’t see him like this.”

You stepped toward him and bent down, hovering over his torso. “Grab on to me,” you said, gently. “Let’s get you out of here, Superman.”

He wheezed out a response, and his arms reached for you. It took all your strength to peel him off the ground. You brought his hefty left arm over your shoulder and moved some of his weight onto yourself. The crowd parted around you as you led him away. The people’s shocked, fearful faces watching you both disappear stay with you for a long time.

The yellow sun set behind the razed city skyline, casting an ominous shadow all around. You felt a pit in your stomach.

Superman was defeated, and Metropolis was no longer safe.

************************************************************************

A few minutes after Superman was defeated for the first time in his life, you brought him to a park at the edge of Metropolis.

His laboured breathing echoed through the empty park as he sat on a wooden bench with his head hanging back. You ran a hand over your bare arms to keep yourself warm. Superman eyed you in silence before raising a shaking arm to offer you his cape. You cocked your head to the side in confusion. Was he really concerned about you being cold after being manhandled by the Hammer of Boravia?

“I think you need that more than me,” you tell him, gently pushing his arm down to the bench.

He started to chuckle and then let out an abrupt wince. “Don’t make me laugh, miss.”

“Sorry,” you grimaced, gingerly taking a seat next to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was just slammed into a building,” he groaned, shifting uncomfortably.

Duh! You scream in your head.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” you pursed your lips, embarrassed. “Um, can I do anything for you? Maybe some medication? Although I’m not sure if Tylenol will help in this case.”

“Human medication won’t do me any good,” he said, shaking his head, sitting up. “I just need a minute to calibrate, and then I can go heal in solitude.”

“Go where?”

Superman turned his bright blue eyes to your face and reached for the Daily Planet name tag hanging around your head. He mouthed your name and then asked, “You interviewing me right now?”

He jerked the card out of his big hand. “I was just being curious,” you defended and then whispered under your breath, “besides, I know I am not Clark Kent.”

Superman’s ears perk up at the comment. He nodded to himself and then quietly said, “He mentions you, you know?”

You watched as the sun disappeared completely behind him. “Really?” you asked, cheeks warming up.

He nodded and leaned forward, interlocking his fingers over his thighs. You noticed that they looked broad, thick, and strong— you shook your head and sneer at him. “He never mentions you, you know?”

Superman laughed and stretched his neck from side to side. He stood up and with a grunt. “Thank you for your help today, Cronkite.”

“Anytime, Superman.”

He stepped away from the bench where you sat and turned to look back at you. “I think I owe you an interview,” he grinned.

Before you could respond, he shot up into the sky, leaving you along with the chirping crickets.

************************************************************************

The week after your encounter with Superman, Clark Kent didn’t come into the Daily Planet.

That sucked for two reasons. First, you missed him and his morning coffee. He was Pavlov, and you were the one waiting for the bell to ring. You were surprised by how much space his absence was occupying in your head. Every time the elevator bell rang, your head would shoot up from behind your computer, only to be disappointed.

Jimmy picked up on it. “You okay, Cronkite?”

You frowned at the nickname. Only Clark called you that. And now Superman. Which reminded you of the second reason. Superman had offered you an interview, and you had no way of reaching him. It also didn’t help when Perry pulled you into the office and told you that, “Kent will be present for your interview with Superman. I can’t have inexperience ruining this opportunity.”

Inexperience. Inexperience? INEXPERIENCE?

You were fuming when Clark walked in on Thursday. You shot up out of your chair and charged at him.

“Hey— oof,” he grunted when you lunged at him with a hug.

“I missed you!” you exclaimed, pulling back but still holding his arms. “Where have you been?”

“Covid,” he answered automatically as if it were rehearsed. “Lost my sense of smell and everything.”

You rubbed his arm sympathetically. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

His face reddened, and he smiled back politely. Realizing that you were still holding him, you stepped back abruptly. “You heard the good news?”

“About you getting an interview with Superman?” he asked, fixing his glasses and walking to his desk. “Of course I did. Perry has emailed me seven times since Monday. Jimmy told me to look for another job.”

You waved him off. “It is nothing special,” you shrugged. “I think Superman is just being courteous after I helped him out.”

“Helped him?” he questioned, sitting down in his chair with a soft groan.

“Yeah,” you said, returning to your own. “He just needed a breather after the whole Hammer of Boravia mess.”

You both worked in silence until Clark broke it. “So what’s he like with you?”

“Hot,” you blurted, accidently.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Clark freeze. You closed your eyes in regret. Maybe think before you run your mouth? you tell yourself.

“Objectively, you know,” you continued in hopes of saving face. “And really tall. Like, at least a foot taller than me. He was also funny. I’m sure you already know that, though.”

“Sure.”

************************************************************************

Later that night you discover that Clark Kent was an asshole.

You wished you had known that before you had started crushing on him. He promised you that he would get you in touch with Superman. He had promised that he would go over your game plan for the upcoming. Most of all, he had promised you that he would text you for dinner on Friday night.

Saturday night was coming to an end, and you still hadn’t heard from him. Now you had no game plan, no interview, and no dinner date. Perry White was going to chew you out on Monday morning, but now, before you chew and spit out Clark Kent for breakfast. Jimmy Olsen would never do that to you.

You reached for your phone and read the texts that you had sent to Clark.

You: Hey, just got home. Let me know what time for tonight and I’ll get ready.[05:30PM] You: I’m just gonna hop in the shower. Call me if I don’t answer texts.[06:27PM] You: Are we still on for tonight?[06:43PM] You: Are you ok? Still sick??[11:03PM] You: Hey Clark, can you get in touch with Superman for my interview? Perry is expecting it in his inbox by Wednesday.[04:04AM] You: Its gonna take me a while to get it ready since its my first time.[09:07AM] You: Are you seriously ok??[01:11PM] You: This is a big opportunity for me. Please understand.[03:27PM] You: Let me know if I should be emailing you instead. Thanks.[07:59PM]

“You are a bitch, Kent,” you sang to your phone, hoping he could hear. “Are you being a sore loser because I get to interview Superman too? Are you afraid a girl's gonna' replace you?”

Your eyes welled with tears, and then you got mad for crying over a man. Not a man, but a boy. A mean boy. A boy who did a million sweet things for you. A boy who made you feel safe and taken care of. A boy who you thought was a good person. A boy you thought you could trust.

“Oh, fuck off,” you cursed, throwing your phone away.

It bounced off the bed and landed on the hardwood floor with a thud. That was the final nail in the coffin. You let the tears flow as you crawled across your bed on all fours. You hung your torso over the edge as your hand searched blindly for the phone through the tears. Your hand wrapped around the thick case, and you swung yourself up. A blur of red and blue floating outside your eight-story apartment window caught your attention. You let out a scream and threw the first thing you found at it. Your phone collided with the window and left a crack before dropping down. Behind the fissure stood Superman, offering you an awkward wave.

************************************************************************

Your heart was thundering minutes later when you let Superman into your loft apartment through your cracked window.

You watched in awe as he floated with superhuman agility inside. He picked up your phone off the ground and held it up to you. “Strong phone case,” he remarked, shaking it. “Sorry for scaring you.”

You took the phone for him and slipped it into the back pocket of your shorts. Superman watched you carefully as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. Suddenly, you were very aware of the hot-and-sour soup stain left behind from the Chinese take-out you had earlier, while you cursed Clark Kent out in every language possible.

“I just wasn’t expecting you,” you told him, curling a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I owe you an interview, don’t I?”

Your eyes widened. “Wait— right now?”

He nodded, lips curling into a smile.

“This isn’t professional,” you insisted. “I am in my pyjamas.”

“And I am in my suit,” he shrugged, taking a seat on your sofa. “I guess we are pretty even.”

“What do you normally wear ?” you inquired, rushing to sit across him.

“Has the interview started already?” he commented, playfully. “Am I on the record?”

You held up a finger as you scrolled through your phone to find the voice recorder. You mimed a countdown and then pressed ‘record’.

You cleared your throat. “Ready, Superman?”

“Let’s go, Cronkite,” he answered, crossing one leg over his thigh.

“Recently, you have gotten a lot of heat for your actions in the Boravian-Jarhanpur conflict. To what extent would you say your choices impacted the situation between the two nations?”

“Well, Boravia invaded Jarhanpur,” he began, leaning forward, “and I showed up and told them that wasn’t right.”

“And?”

“And,” he continued, “ . . . smashed some tanks and things and um, a couple of planes and some other stuff. There were no casualties and no significant injuries.”

“Did you interact at all with the president of Boravia?”

“A very small amount,” he answered immediately.

“What’s a very small amount?”

Superman reached and took the phone out of your hands. “What are you trying to get at?”

“The truth,” you replied. “Or as much of it as you’re willing to share.”

He pursed his lips into a thin line. “What made you think that I spoke to their president?” he pressed, coming up on his feet.

“It’s what I would have done,” you responded, standing up too.

“So you think I did the right thing?”

“No,” you shook your head, reaching for the phone. “You illegally entered a country and inserted yourself in the middle of—”

“No, no, no,” he cut you off, holding the phone out of your reach. “Hold on a minute! Hold on a second!”

“Don’t you think foreign interference and supposed well-intention are what caused this conflict in the first place?” you insisted, getting on your tiptoes to inch higher. “Give me my phone back!”

“You are being dishonest,” he rebutted, moving your phone behind his head. “You know, as well as I do, that the Boravian government is not well-intentional.”

You moved into him as his chest flushed against you. “I think that is most certainly the case, but do I think that one individual has the right to make decisions of such calibre on behalf of an entire nation?”

“PEOPLE WERE GOING TO DIE!” he bellowed in your face.

You freeze. You were extremely aware of two contradictory things in that moment. First, you were standing way too close to Superman. Close enough to leap up and feel what his lips felt like against yours. Second, he had just yelled at you, and he hadn’t even done that to Lex Luthor after the man had revealed that he had sold arms to Boravia. Almost like he could read your mind, Superman wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you in place.

He closed his eyes and exhaled. “I am sorry for raising my voice,” he said, much gentler now. “That was disrespectful and impolite.”

“It’s okay,” you told him, moving out of his grasp and to the couch. “I shouldn’t have— this isn’t how it was supposed to be. I was unprepared, and I am dealing with some things right now. It was unfair to have that impact on our interview.. I shouldn't have pushed you like that”

He walked over and sat beside you, his knee touching the side of your thigh. You spoke again before he could inquire further. “I was supposed to have a game plan, you know? I have never done this before. I had a whole list of questions that my partner was supposed to review. This is awful timing, and now I have ruined it—”

He reached out and placed his hand on your knee. “You haven’t ruined anything,” he reassured, patting me gently. “We can redo this when we are both feeling better.”

Your jaw slacked. “Really?” you beamed. “You’ll give me another chance?”

His lips widened into a smile. “As many as you’d like, Cronkite.”

He stood up and walked towards the open window. You followed him as he drifted smoothly out, hovering just outside.

“Wait!” you called out, reaching for his cape.

You tugged him closer through the opening, stuck your torso out, and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. “See you later, Superman.”

************************************************************************

The next morning, Clark Kent beelined straight to you as you entered the Daily Planet later than usual.

You had a hard time sleeping last night. In fact, you had barely slept at all. You had been up replaying your encounter with Superman and then your interactions with Clark. And then Superman again, and then Clark right after. Superman and Clark. Then Superman. Then Clark. By the time your mind had stopped running, the sun was already out, flooding your apartment with light.

“Hey, Cronk—”

You brushed past him and went straight to your desk. You set your workbag down and turned your laptop on to email Perry about the delay in the exclusive Superman interview. From the corner of your eye, you saw Clark fidgeting by the side of your desk. You looked up from your screen and asked, “Can I help you?”

He awkwardly smiled and held up a cup of coffee. “Got you a cup.”

You stared at him with a black face. “I already had some on the way.”

He set the cup down anyway. You returned to your email and had gotten a full sentence down before he interrupted again. “I wanted to say sorry about Friday . . . and Saturday . . . and Sunday also. Just the whole weekend in general.”

“Okay.”

“I had an emergency,” he continued once he realized that you weren’t going to say anything else. “Had to go back home, my ma’ and pa’ needed some help—”

“Do they not have cell reception in your hometown?” you asked, curtly.

He sighed and looked down at his feet. “They do. I just . . . I just didn’t get the opportunity to reach out. I’m truly sorry.”

“Sure,” you scoffed, pushing his coffee up away to the edge of your desk.

“Maybe we can grab some dinner today?” he tried again, red in the face behind his glasses.

You liked seeing him uncomfortable. “I’m good,” you replied, “ since I don’t need help with the interview anymore. Superman reached out, and I feel confident enough to interview him on my own.”

“Oh.”

Jimmy wheeled his chair across the tiles and bumped into my table, making the coffee slosh around in the cup. “You met Superman again?”

You turned to him with a grin. “Yeah.”

“You know your boy is evil now?” Jimmy asked, raising an eyebrow. “They’re saying he was sent down from Kryptonite to rule over us all like a god. He has a harem and everything.”

You barked out a laugh. “Oh, please,” you scoffed. “He is not some evil Overlord. Plus, even if he has a harem, I would be the first in line to join.”

You didn’t miss the way Clark’s jaw clenched at your words.

************************************************************************

By the time Superman showed up at your apartment again, five days had gone by.

The first thing he had said to you was, “I do not have a harem.”

You held your laugh back and stared at him, devoid of all emotion. “Did I ask?”

His face flushed in response. “No,” he admitted, “you didn’t. I thought I would clarify anyway. For the record, of course.”

“For the record, of course” you smirked. “If you say so.”

You walked further into your apartment, and he followed behind. “And because we are friends,” he added.

You entered your kitchen and opened a cabinet. A half-drunk bottle of tequila awaited you on the top shelf. “We are not friends, though,” you stated, reaching for it.

He moved behind you, picked up the bottle by the base and set it down on the counter beside you. “We aren’t friends?” he asked, his warm breath making the hair at the back of your neck stand up.

You shook your head. “I hardly know you,” you answered, turning around.

You were trapped between his arm and the counter. He licked his lips but didn’t move away. “Fair,” he nodded. “What do you want to know about me?”

You pretended to ponder for a moment. “How big is your harem?”

He groaned and pushed himself away. “I just told you that wasn’t true.”

You picked up the tequila bottle and two glasses and made your way to the sofa where he sat, giggling. “What about the part where you take over Earth and keep us humans as pets?” you inquired, setting everything down. “And before you ask, this is all off-the-record.”

“I have never heard that half of the message before,” he explained as you unscrewed the bottle cap and poured into the glasses evenly. “The recording was damaged in transport. I heard it for the first time, same as everyone else on the news.”

“I believe you,” you expressed, softly bumping my knee to his. “It must have been tough. How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know what to do,” he sighed, slumping down. “All I have ever wanted to be was human. I know that I am not. I am not stupid. But I am not too different. I love and get hurt and feel afraid just the same as everyone else.”

Your chest felt tight. You realized that this man in front of you, this Superman, was, in this moment, terrified. The whole world hated him based on something he had no control over. You couldn't imagine how that felt. You had moved through life being relatively liked by most people. Hell, that was why you were in a profession where you interacted with people every day. You never thought that the man you liked the most in the world, Metropolis's beloved, would be shunned so harshly by the people he had been serving for years.

Superman shouldn’t have to be responsible for the actions of his parents any more than a human should be for their own. You reached out and touched his inky hair. When he didn’t shy away from you, you slipped your fingers in his hair locks and gently began running your fingers through them. He leaned into your touch as you untangled his hair.

“Your actions speak louder than what anyone— least of all Lex Luthor, has to say about you,” you told him, firmly. “He’s a bastard. I know you are a good man, and with time, people will believe that again. But before any of that, you need to believe that. Do you believe that?”

You turned his face towards yourself, and Superman watched you for a long moment with hooded eyes. “I try to,” he croaked, “but it's hard. I thought if I made all the right choices, kept everyone safe, people would love me. Why does it feel so impossible now?”

“Oh,” you cooed, cradling his face. “Everything will be all right. I will help you. Give it time, and give me a laptop with an internet connection. I will launch Lex Luthor straight into hell.”

You pulled him close to you and wrapped your arms around his wide shoulders. Superman buried his face in the crook of your neck. His warm breath made your stomach tighten. His hand reached between where you touched and pulled your caught hair free. He moved his face back into place, only this time his plump lips were pressed right over your thundering pulse. You let out a gasp, and your fingernails dug into the blue of his suit and the red of his cape.

He inched back momentarily and then pressed his lips down again. His mouth opened, and he sucked the skin on his mouth and bit down. Your body seized at the sensation, and he leaned away to search your face. “I got carried away,” he exhaled, breathing just as hard as you. "I didn't mean to . . ."

You shook your head and got up on your knees to waddle to him. His hands found the side of your hips and pulled you into his lap. You hovered above him briefly before he pulled you down on him. He tipped your head back with his nose and slid his lips across the expanse of your throat.

You bit down to prevent the sounds of pleasure from escaping your throat, but his hand moved up to your mouth to tug your lips free. Your chest rose and fell harshly as his lips sucked away at a new place every time he paused to breathe. He moved his mouth and found a spot that made your legs become jelly. If you weren’t already sitting down, you would have collapsed.

You don’t know when things shifted, but one moment you were in his lap and the next your back was being pressed down into the sofa by Superman.

Leaning over you, he gulped. “I-I have been waiting for this for so long.”

You smiled. “Ever since I rescued you?”

“Long before that.”

Before I could ask him what that meant, his mouth was on yours. You crane your head back to meet him again and again. You didn’t even let yourself fantasize about him, didn’t even think it could have been a possibility that he wanted you as much as you wanted him.

You run the pads of your thumb gently across the slopes of his cheeks as his tongue brushes against yours. You smile into his lips. Maybe this is what Icarus felt when he flew too close to the sun, you thought.

It amazed you that his skin was so soft. You thought the years of defending Metropolis would leave behind a hardened, rough man. But here you were, in his embrace, and it was the safest place you’d ever been in.

You cupped his face and brought him impossibly closer. His scent evaded your senses. He smelled like coffee and rain and paper. With his hands buried in your hair, your legs seemed to have a mind of their own with the way they wrapped around his waist. He deepened the kiss, and the movement made you rock against his crotch. You could feel him through the thin fabric of your shorts. You arched away, and an unheard sound escaped your lips.

He pulled away, mouth glistening and slightly agape. He moved his hand away from your hair and to the armrest above you. He held himself up, staring into your eyes with a distraught expression.

“I have to tell you something,” he heaved, licking his lips.

Pt. 2? Maybe we'll see.

[idk-karla]

The Neighbor, pt. 7

Pairing: bucky barnes x single!mom!reader (Post Thunderbolts)

Summary: A nightmare triggers Bucky and he lets his insecurities get the best of him

Part 6

Masterlist

It was nearly 2AM. I couldn’t sleep.

The world had settled into that strange, echoing stillness that only comes after midnight. No sirens. No distant cars. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards beneath my feet as I padded through the apartment. I peeked in on Ellie but she was out like a light, one arm flung off the bed. I grabbed the baby monitor, wrapped myself in a blanket, and stepped outside with a cup of tea in hand.

I barely made it out the door before I saw him. He stood at the top of the stairs between our apartments, completely still, barefoot and shirtless, staring out into the dark like it was staring back.

Bucky. But not my Bucky. Not the man who fixed our porch light or left sidewalk chalk beside Ellie’s drawings. Not the one who handed her cookies with his calloused hands and smiled just a little when she giggled.

This version of him was carved from stone. The Winter Soldier.

His jaw was clenched. His chest rose and fell in slow, regulated breaths. His eyes weren’t here, they weren’t anywhere. He looked like he’d been dropped right back into a Hydra bunker. It chilled me.

“Hey,” I called softly, stepping out and closing the door behind me with care.

No response.

“Bucky.” I set my tea down slowly.

His eyes slid toward me slowly, accessing, empty. Not angry. Not wild. Just… hollow.

I made my way towards him slowly, like stepping toward an active land mine.  “James.” I grabbed his arm and he pulled it away like I had burned him.

“Go away.” The words were pained. 

“No,” I said gently, but firmly. “Talk to me. Did you have a nightmare?”

Nothing. His features locked into his face like stone. I waited. One beat. Two. Then slowly, I lifted my hand to his face and brushed my fingers along the edge of his jaw. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

His eyes met mine, hard, distant, glassy. Panic gripped me but not for the reasons it should’ve. I wasn’t afraid of him. Never of him. I knew, deep in my bones, Bucky would never harm me. But Bucky, my Bucky, was lost somewhere in the shell of this man and I was afraid he wouldn’t come back.

I needed to find a way to get him back. 

So I did the only thing I could do. I talked. Maybe out of nerves. Maybe out of hope my voice, the thought of Ellie, our memories would bring him back. 

I took another careful step forward and brought my other hand to his face. I stroked my thumbs across the hollow of his cheeks, comforting, grounding. “Ellie and I planted the seeds you got for us at the farmers market the other day. She’s excited to see how many purple flower one’s she gets.” He looked away like he didn’t want to listen to me anymore. He took a step back but I took a step forward, anchored to him. He didn’t make any further attempt to push me off him.

“She said she’ll bring you any blue one she gets because she thinks it’s your favorite color.” His jaw tightened under my hand and I stepped closer, my chest pressed to his now, hands still on his face. “But it’s not,” I kept going. “Blue reminds you of that place.” His eyes cut back to me in an instant. I continued to stroke his cheeks, his short stubble irritating my fingers in a delicious way. 

“Your favorite color is green. Olive green specifically. Nature is the only place you find peace.” Fire sparked in his eyes like I had ignited it myself. Yes. Good. 

“I know you had one of your teammates call me and lie about that fake service promotion for my car. You did the service to my car. But you knew I was going to fuss about it. So you created a whole ruse.” 

His eyebrow twitched. “I see you, Bucky.”

His eyes were shimmering now. Not a single tear fell, but they were there. And he was there, just beneath the surface.

“Come back to me, James,” I whispered, lowering my hands to his neck, pressing my forehead against his chest. “I know you’re in there. Please.”

Rough hands suddenly grabbed my waist, lifting me with ease and setting me several feet away. He looked at me like I was dangerous. Like he was.

“Leave.” The command was non-negotiable. “Not. Safe.” 

“Not true,” I countered simply. “I know you’re not my bucky right now, but,” I took a step back, and his eyes followed my steps with precision. “You would never hurt me.” I took another step back, the corner of my slipper catching the air. “You would never let me get hurt.” 

My slipper went past the edge of the concrete and I let myself tip backward off the stairs. Vibranium arm locked around my waist before my feet were completely off the ground, the other bracing us against the railing. He growled, a deep, primal sound like he was reprimanding me.

I pressed a hand to his chest. “See,” I whispered. I didn’t even know if I said that for him or for me. He let go.

“Let’s go inside.” I suggested.

He shook his head, gaze flicking back toward the perimeter.

“What are we waiting for?” I asked, standing beside him, trying to see what he saw. All I could focus on was our little world; the sidewalk, our chalk drawings half-washed away, his bike leaning against the rail, my car beside it. He didn’t reply right away but the corner of his eye crinkled. 

After a few minutes of standing in silence, he finally repeated. “Not safe.” 

“Yes, we are.” I countered. I slipped the blanket off my shoulders and across his bare ones. This time he did flinch like I had actually hurt him. My heart shattered in my chest. “We are safe, Bucky.”

He looked at me like he wanted to believe me so bad, he just couldn’t

I pressed strong hands to his back, pushing him toward his door. He went with minimal coaxing. I had been inside his apartment countless times at this point and the barennes still caught me off guard. I knew he was a simple guy, but the first time I had ever walked in here the apartment had been completely empty, save for a thick blanket on the floor and a single pillow. Now that he’d been here for some time, he had actually bought a couch, a coffee table, and a mattress. I was still trying to convince him he needed a bedroom set and a dining table like a normal person.

From what I can tell he had forgone the lone mattress in his bedroom and gone back to the floor blanket and pillow. My heart squeezed in my chest threatening to burst. I made a mental note to talk to him about it another time.

He didn’t protest when I guided him to said blanket, or when I brought him a glass of water or when I pressed his shoulders, forcing him to lay down. 

I laid beside him, now face to face. His eyes were slightly more clear but still dazed, tired.

“Don’t want to go back to sleep” he murmured. ”Had a bad dream.”

“Okay, you don't have to.” I reached out a hand, brushing a strand of hair from his face. His fingers locked around my wrist softly, this time holding my hand in place like he was using my touch as an anchor.  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked quietly even though I knew the answer. I didn’t argue when he shook his head. “That’s okay, we can just hang out for a bit.” I whispered.

We sat for what felt like hours but was probably not more than 10 minutes. I looked away to check on Ellie's monitor and his eyes followed mine. 

“Ellie.” he said. His voice broke on her name.

“She’s okay,” I offered him a soft smile. “She’s been asking to go to the farmer’s market with you, Soldier Sugardaddy. You spoil her too much.”

He shook his head, something close to a smile ghosting across his lips. His features relaxed. “You’re very good with her,” I added. “She cares about you so much.”

His eyes closed. 

“So do I,” I whispered. I brought the hand he was still using to hold my wrist to my lips pressing a good kiss to the back of his hand. “I care about you a lot, Buck. You’re not alone, I’m here.” 

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. I lay beside him for two hours, hand resting between us for him to reach if he needed it.

Time passed in quiet, alternating between watching him and watching Ellie’s monitor. Eventually, his breathing slowed, his shoulders relaxed, and drifted. And when he finally fell asleep, I stayed right there beside him. Just in case.

***

I woke with a jolt.

My hand darted out instinctively, searching the floor beside me. Empty. My chest clenched. Panic surged before reason could catch up. I sat up too fast, blinking the haze from my eyes and fumbling for the baby monitor. The soft rise and fall of Ellie’s breathing filled the speaker. Still asleep. Safe.

7:37 a.m. I’d only been asleep for maybe thirty minutes.

I turned my head and find Bucky hunched against the wall like he was trying to disappear into it. Blue eyes locked on me from the corner of the room. They were clearer now. Haunted, yes. Exhausted. But present.

“Hi,” I said gently.

“Hi.” His voice came instantly, like he'd been waiting for permission to speak. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Are you okay?” I stretched, my muscles aching, joints popping as I sat upright on the floor.

“I’m not sure,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to his hands. He turned them over like they didn’t belong to him.

My heart cracked. He looked like he’d barely survived a battle. his hair a mess, his shoulders bowed under invisible weight. Wrecked.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” I asked quietly. He gave a small nod. I waited a beat before asking again, “What did happen?”

His jaw worked before he replied, “I had a nightmare. It must’ve… triggered me.” He rubbed both hands down his face. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” I reached out slowly, trying to touch his arm but he flinched. Like I’d burned him.

I stopped short, pulling back gently and giving him the space he seemed to need. The sting settled in my throat, but I didn’t let it show.

“I can go home if you need time,” I offered. “You can come by later? We’ll have dinner. Talk after Ellie’s asleep.”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. He doubled over, elbows on his knees, dragging his hands through his hair like it physically hurt him to hear me. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow.

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done this.”

“Done what?” My voice barely made it out.

“This.” He waved vaguely between us. “Gotten involved. Let you in. Put you in danger.”

“You didn’t put me in danger, Bucky,” I said, stepping toward him again, more carefully this time. “You’ve only ever taken care of me.” My fingers found the ones still tangled in his hair, and I gently pried them free. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t look at me either.

“Let me take care of you,” I said softly.

He sagged forward into my chest, a man unraveling thread by thread. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close even though his own arms stayed limp at his sides. It felt like trying to embrace a shadow.

I didn’t speak. Just held him while I brushed my fingers through his hair, soothing him like I’d done for Ellie during sleepless nights. The tears crept up, uninvited. Because I knew. Deep in my gut, I knew. It felt like a goodbye. Like this was the winter soldier letting Bucky say goodbye to me. I blinked the heavy tears back, refusing to let myself break like this in front of him,

“Do you want me to stay?” I asked, voice hopeful. Please say yes.

His silence was an answer. So was the way his eyes didn’t meet mine when I looked down at him. They were full of sorrow. Full of guilt. Empty of hope.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I nodded and tried to smile. It felt wrong on my face.

“I’ll see you for dinner?” I asked, just barely above a whisper.

Still nothing. But as I turned away, he leaned forward and pressed a ghost of a kiss to my forehead. I held on to that single act like it might mean something.

The sliver of hope died pretty quickly when I realized he was not coming over for dinner. I tried not to be disappointed when he missed outside play time with Ellie. By the time dinner was over I was done trying not to feel it and more pretending I didn’t for Ellie’s sake. I lied and told her he got called into work. I didn't tell her I’d spent the entire afternoon checking my phone like a teenager. That I’d called twice and texted four times and got nothing back. That I sat at the dinner table staring at his empty plate like it might give me an answer.

He was just gone.

Taglist: @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes, @imrandomstuffsblog, @delectablyvaliantmentality, @mistalli, @iminyourceiling, @vicmc624 @ell0ra-br3kk3r

[killerblueeyesxprettybluedude]

wolf watch au. in which stiles vanishes a few feet from derek, and that would definitely be the first and only thing on derek’s mind if a child wasn’t suddenly staring at him from stiles’ exact spot, knuckling at his eyes.

“did someone—” derek says, and stops. he tries to look around for a mom, or something. like this child didn’t just pop into existence in front of him.

but—he smells familiar. he smells, he smells like…

and then the kid is running at him. grabbing his legs, and shuddering against him. derek tenses, for a second. hesitates, and slowly lowers a hand to the kid’s shaking shoulder.

“you’re okay,” he says. “you’re gonna be…”

but it’s impossible. everything he knows is screaming that this is impossible.

because this child is a hale. and that’s impossible enough, but that’s still only half of it.

because he’s also a stilinski.

it’s a trap. obviously. it’s a ploy, it’s a game. the last thing derek should be doing in this situation is giving in to what whoever is doing this obviously wants him to do. like getting so distracted by this child-shaped mirage that he lets whatever just took stiles get away with him free and clear.

but the kid smells real. he feels real.

warm, and relieved.

“my papa,” he says, and derek goes still.

but the kid’s already found something new to distract him. he stares at the bloodstain on derek’s shirt, eyes widening.

“they hurted you?”

shocked tears fill his eyes, and derek shakes his head.

“no, no, that’s not mine.”

it’s a lie. but he won’t know that.

probably.

“laura said,” the kid says, and his face screws up with new tears, “laura said they locked you…”

he’s too overcome to even go on, shaking with sobs.

and normally? derek wouldn’t even begin to buy this. normally, he’d just get angry. even hunters wouldn’t go so low that they’d send him a fake kid to get attached to.

because they couldn’t. this isn’t something you can just fake.

it can’t be.

he crouches down, gingerly. the kid sniffles. swipes at his eye just the way stiles does.

and then there’s no choice anymore. if there ever was one at all.

it’s decided, it’s done.

“you’re okay,” derek says. “you’re… it’s gonna be okay.”

“daddy said it’s a story,” the kid says. still sniffling, dipping his head against derek’s chest. it’s too warm. “but he cried. and laura’s banned.”

derek can’t really make sense of that. but it doesn’t matter.

“where’s your dad?” he says, and the kid goes horrified again.

“daddy’s losted now?”

“no,” derek says. “no, no.”

shaking his head, too quickly.

“no one’s lost,” he says. even though he doesn’t know that, or anything. he could believe anything right now. “everything’s gonna be okay.”

stiles would be able to say something immediately distracting. or hug him, or something, fix all of this.

understand him in a second.

“you know stiles, right?” he says. that feels like a safe topic, but the kid’s eyes widen again.

“daddy,” he says. “you forgot?”

maybe. maybe he did.

his whole other life, where this makes sense to him.

“remind me,” he says, and the kid’s eyes go huge.

but he nods. very seriously, and he’s never looked like stiles more.

“you’re my papa,” he says. “and you, and daddy…”

but he stares at derek’s hand, crestfallen.

“you just losted it,” he says. his voice is too quiet. “right?”

derek looks down at his hand. there’s nothing different about it.

of course, of course not.

but he can almost see it. the kid is staring at his ring finger.

and this is starting to feel a little too real.

“i’m your papa,” derek says, or asks. he’s not sure anymore. “and stiles…”

“daddy,” the kid says. “he was crying ‘cause of you?”

“i don’t know,” derek says. his heart sinking, and sinking. “no. no.” he shakes his head again.

no, that was all some other him.

some other him, some other world. there’s no other explanation.

he can feel how real this kid is.

it’s more than an instinct. it’s his job to herd him in close, and make sure he’s protected. and at the same time, to get him back to where he’s supposed to be as soon as possible.

even if it’s gonna hurt, that’s the only thing that matters right now. that, and not upsetting this kid any more than derek absolutely has to.

“i have the ring,” derek says. “don’t worry. i’m, um, getting it resized.”

the kid looks massively relieved by this.

he can’t keep calling the kid the kid. but as soon as he realizes that, he already knows the right name.

“bear,” he says, and bear looks at him. “and… you’re named after me.”

bear nods.

“i remember,” derek says, and bear sniffles. derek wraps him up under his jacket.

this close, he’s all derek can breathe anymore. that smell, family, and baby, and stiles.

but he has to be from only one of them. even if… surely.

even magic can’t be that advanced.

but that would be just like stiles, wouldn’t it? finding out about that kind of thing by accident. being the first one in hundreds of years to benefit from that.

stumbling into the luckiest curse in the world.

with bear this close, the rage is too hot in derek’s throat. he doesn’t need to understand what bear’s been saying to him to know what he’s been going through.

kids don’t get this kind of anxious this young. not unless they’ve already been traumatized.

they hurted you?

murder. derek’s going to murder someone.

if anyone’s the reason.

his bear. it already feels too normal.

monitoring bear’s breathing, his heartbeat.

just a little fast. settling, now.

derek’s hand steadying on his shoulder.

[andrasaurus]

sunshine & apple pies

ch. 2 ( prev )

pairings: tommy x reader, joel x reader | pre outbreak

warnings: (chapter specific) MDNI, 18+, fingering, yearning, joel being deadly, tommy can’t take it, teasing, dirty talk, emotional turmoil, SMUT (finally), age gap

summary: (chap specific) tommy doesn’t wanna cross that line, you’re the first girl he’s ever really wanted to keep around. and he fucks everything up when he sleeps with someone. but joel? joel can’t make any promises. not when you look at him like that. or when you show up wearing his new favorite piece of clothing. or when you talk to him like he doesnt intimidate you.

word count: 4.9k

a/n: finally… something dirty… i have such a hard time writing smut so hopefully i did it some justice??? i can’t choose between the brothers, yall should know this soooo yeah, finally gonna open the joel can of worms. baby boy tommy is just too soft for us right now, he’ll get his turn. i PROMISE.

Chapter Two: Denim & Booze

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · · · · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · · · · ─

It had been five weeks and a half since Tommy Miller waltzed into your half-unpacked life and stayed there like he belonged. You’d see him nearly every day — him stopping by with iced tea or bringing over borrowed tools he insisted you’d “need eventually,” even if you clearly didn’t.

The flirting hadn’t stopped.

Not once.

Not when he found you trying to fix your stubborn window and offered to “get his hands dirty if you got your knees dirty first,” earning a cushion thrown square at his chest. Not when he offered you a ride to the hardware store, and leaned across the console to buckle your seatbelt — slow, deliberate, warm breath grazing your cheek. Not when he lingered in your kitchen late one night after helping fix a leaky faucet, the two of you laughing over cheap wine, legs touching beneath the table, a pause in the conversation that nearly turned into a kiss.

Nearly.

But Tommy had pulled back. Every time. Subtle, but deliberate. Always with that crooked, apologetic smile, and a look in his eyes like he wanted to cross that line more than anything — but liked you too damn much to mess it up.

So, when he showed up this afternoon, knocking with two fingers against your doorframe and with that damn smile of his, you grinned instantly.

“Got somethin’ to tell me I don’t know about,” you ask, moving aside to let him in.

He stepped in with a shrug. “Sorta. But depends if you want your mood to go to shit.”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

Tommy’s smile stretched, nervous and warm. “Figured it’s about time you met Joel.”

That made you blink. “Your brother?”

“The one and only.”

You’d seen Joel around town, when you’d get some pizza, pass by the hardware store window, glancing in to see his tall brooding figure, brows knitted, too focused on nails to notice you staring. Would smile at him when Tommy would spot you and run over to you and wave that he’s with his brother.

You leaned back against the counter, trying to play it cool. “Big deal, huh?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “A little. He’s… important to me. And you’re—well—you’re kinda stuck with me now.”

You looked at him for a beat. Something soft passed between you. “Alright,” you said finally. “I’ll meet your big scary brother.”

He grinned, something proud flickering behind his eyes. “He ain’t that scary. Just grumpy.”

Hours pass, as you’re getting dressed you start to feel unnervingly nervous. Joel was so intimidating each time you’d catch a glimpse of him while you both were leaving home at the same time. And now you’re gonna be face to face with him? You round the corner into Joel’s backyard, six-pack swinging at your side, sun kissing your bare legs. Your shirt clings thin and soft to your skin, and you’ve got that innocent-accidental-sexy thing going — not on purpose, but Tommy feels it like a sucker punch to the chest.

He sees you and damn near drops his beer.

“Goddamn,” he mutters to himself.

You grin, rolling your shoulders back a little at the unintentional added confidence, “That for me or the beer?”

He tosses you a look, all mischief and smiles. “Guess you’ll never know.” He steps forward, already reaching for the six-pack with a smirk. “You even old enough to buy this?”

You shove a hand right into his chest — not hard, but enough to make him stumble half a step, grinning like he lives for your sass. “I’m twenty-three, not sixteen, Tommy.”

“Might wanna let your wardrobe know,” he teases, eyes flicking down to the denim hugging your thighs. “Looks like that skirt is a little too small for you.”

You swat at him again, laughing. “You’re such an ass.”

“And you,” he says, cracking open a beer, “are gonna give my poor brother a heart attack walkin’ in lookin’ like that. Poor old bastards not gonna know what him ‘em.”

You glance toward Joel, who’s watching from the grill with quiet interest. That unreadable Miller stare.

“Me?,” you ask. “Just tryna make a good first impression, Tommy.”

Tommy shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he follows you across the lawn, but you hear it anyway:

“Lord help me, you’re gonna ruin us both.”

Tommy had been restless all evening.

You caught him looking one too many times. At your legs draped over the arm of the patio chair. At the way your skirt had hiked up just a bit too high when you reached for another beer. At the way your laughter rolled soft and slow under the pink haze of sunset.

By the time his phone buzzed — screen lighting up with some name he didn’t bother to hide — he stood too quickly.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, brushing his palms on his jeans like he needed a reason to leave. “That’s my cue.”

Joel looked up from where he was stoking the fire pit, eyebrows raised. “Leavin’ so soon.”

Tommy shrugged, doing his best to look casual. “Old friend in town. Gonna catch up. Nothin’ major.”

You just smiled into your drink. You weren’t blind. You knew what “catching up” meant. And the look Tommy gave you before walking out — jaw clenched, eyes low, not quite meeting yours — said everything he wouldn’t say. Tommy didn’t want you, that was loud and clear. And did you even want him? No, right? You were just his best friend, the girl he can confide in. The girl who sat here waiting to hear all about how good his lay was. And you were absolutely fine with that, except on some nights where you wanted just a little bit more. Maybe it’s cause he was just always there, available. Only guy you’d talk to since moving here.

But you couldn’t be so far off from the truth. Not with Tommy.

He couldn’t handle it tonight.

Couldn’t handle you tonight.

Once the gate clinked shut behind him, the silence settled like a warm pressure in the air. The sun dipped lower. Joel tossed the last of the paper plates into the trash.

He stood a few feet away now, nursing the final beer, watching you without watching you. Joel was handling tonight so well, despite wanting to rip off that small fucking shirt and short skirt. He can’t lie, every time he’d see you in town- acting like you weren’t even there, it would fucking kill him. He couldn’t help but watch you while you talked to his brother across the street from the hardware store. Couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on your body, watch you from his rear view mirror in his driveway as you climb into your truck, all legs and soft hair he wants to pull so badly.

“Well…” he muttered, gaze lingering on the empty cooler, “ain’t no more beer left. Ate all the food. Gettin’ late.”

It was an out. A polite escape.

But you weren’t ready to take it.

You tilted your head, lips curling as you uncrossed your legs and stood — slowly, letting the movement stretch, letting the moment breathe.

“Can always get another six pack,” you said, brushing your hands on your skirt, smoothing the denim. “Gas station’s just down the street, right?” You said in that sweet voice of yours.

Joel’s eyes met yours, and you saw it. That flicker. That shift. The tight nod he gave wasn’t casual. It was calculated.

You grabbed your bag off the patio chair, already walking toward the gate. “You comin’, old man?”

Joel didn’t move at first. He just watched you — watched the way your hips swayed, watched the way you didn’t wait for him, the way you knew he’d follow.

And when you reached the sidewalk and looked back over your shoulder, the corner of your mouth lifting into that devilish little smirk?

He was already grabbing his keys.

The walk to his truck is quiet, save for the sound of your boots clicking against the sidewalk and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears.

The sun’s dipped low enough now that the streetlights are flickering to life. Fireflies blink lazily near the fence line. It’s that in-between time—where anything could happen, and you wouldn’t be able to say whether it was night or day that made you do it.

Joel walks beside you, hands in his pockets, stealing glances when he thinks you aren’t noticing. You are.

When you reach his truck, he rounds the front ahead of you, and without a word, he opens the passenger door.

It surprises you, just a little.

You blink up at him, fingers brushing his as you grab the door frame to climb in. “Well damn,” you murmur, settling into the seat. “Didn’t peg you for the gentleman type.”

Joel lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, but there’s something playful in his eyes. Something warm. “Don’t mean I’m not.”

You let out a small laugh, tilting your head at him as he closes the door. And when he circles around to the driver’s side and slides in beside you, you swear there’s something new hanging in the air.

“Was that a smile?” you tease, your voice light, just this side of dangerous.

Joel starts the engine, his hand gripping the wheel, jaw ticking like he’s trying not to give you anything more.

But then… he glances over. Briefly. And damn if that isn’t a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. That same mouth you’d seen so tight all evening. Pressed and unreadable.

“I don’t smile,” he mutters.

You lean back in your seat, crossing your legs slowly, knowing damn well what you’re doing.

“Could’ve fooled me, old man.”

Joel shakes his head once and pulls onto the street. “You’re trouble,” he says.

You grin out the window, letting the wind kiss your cheek. “And you’re drivin’ me to more beer. So what does that make you?”

He doesn’t answer. Just lets the silence stretch, but it’s not empty—it’s full. Charged. Like a wire pulled tight between you both, humming and hot and dangerous.

At the red light, his hand drops from the wheel and lands—heavy, casual—on the center console. Close. Real close to your bare thigh.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The truck rumbles to a stop under the harsh glow of the corner store lights. The gas station is quiet—just one other car parked out front, some country ballad playing low from the speakers overhead. Inside, it’s all stale air, neon buzz, and the faint scent of motor oil and bubblegum.

Joel cuts the engine and doesn’t move right away. His hand stays on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead like he needs one more second to gather himself.

You don’t wait.

You push open the door and step out into the heat that’s clinging to the pavement, that little denim skirt hugging your hips like it was sewn on, and when he hears the door close shut, he finally follows.

Inside, it’s cooler. Too quiet.

You walk straight for the coolers in the back, hips swaying with intention—not too much. Just enough to let him feel it. You hear the door shut behind him and the jingle of the little bell overhead, but you don’t turn around. He watches you smile at a stranger, looking so innocent that, God, no man knows how to handle that. No man knows how to not fall into that honey soaked bear trap.

You crouch, pretending to examine the shelves. “What’s the move, Miller? More Lone Star?”

Joel’s voice is lower now, rougher. “Whatever you’re in the mood for.”

You hum as you open the fridge door, reaching in for a six-pack. And that’s when you feel him.

Standing behind you.

Close.

So close his chest almost brushes your back when you straighten. So close you feel his breath at the nape of your neck as he leans in just enough to speak low into your ear.

“You always dress like that for beer runs?” he asks, voice gravel and warmth, soaked in something else now.

You don’t look at him. Not yet. Just close the fridge and turn slowly, the six-pack balanced in your hands between you.

“I didn’t dress for beer,” you say, voice soft, eyes up at him.

Joel’s gaze drops to your mouth. Then lower.

You can see the war playing out behind his eyes. The way his jaw tightens. The way his hand flexes at his side like he’s picturing it—gripping the back of your neck, pulling you in, pressing you up against the freezer door and kissing the attitude right out of your mouth.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets out a breath like it hurts.You’re Tommy’s friend. Tommy’s girl.

“You’re trouble,” he says again. And this time, it’s not playful.

It’s a warning.

A plea.

And still—he doesn’t back up.

You tilt your head, standing your ground. “And yet here you are.”

He looks at you for a long, stretched second. Then takes the six-pack from your hands, his fingers brushing yours. Hot. Firm.

“I’ll get this,” he says roughly, voice not quite steady. “Go wait in the truck.”

You hesitate—just a second longer, enough to keep the air thick between you—and then you turn, the sway of your walk leaving a trail of tension behind you all the way back to the parking lot.

You slide into the passenger seat, heart pounding, the ghost of his breath still on your skin.

And when Joel walks out with that bag in one hand, jaw tight, eyes unreadable?

You know.

He felt it too.

The ride back is quiet.

Not awkward—just… coiled.

Like something held in the fist of the night, waiting to snap.

Joel’s hand is back on the wheel, knuckles pale. His other rests on the center console, fingers drumming slow and tight against the leather.

You sit beside him, legs crossed toward the window, skirt riding higher than it ever should, your head tilted just enough that your perfume keeps drifting over. Sweet. Soft. Dangerous.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

Because Joel’s thoughts are loud. Louder than the road. Louder than the cicadas humming in the summer heat.

He’s thinking about how you looked crouched in front of that cooler. How close you were. How easy it would’ve been to give in. And he’s thinking about your mouth—your voice—how everything about you says innocent until those damn eyes meet his and there’s something else under the surface.

You don’t even know what you’re doing to him.

And that might be the worst part.

He pulls up in front of his house, engine rumbling low as the porch light flickers on—soft and yellow, catching the edges of your face like a painting.

You go to open the passenger door, but his voice stops you.

“We don’t gotta keep the night goin’.. if you’re tired,” Joel says. Another out. Another notch in the belt coming loose.

“But you went through all that trouble to grab a six pack. I’m game if you are,” you say. That sly look on your face, giving him that look that says come on, old man. you want me.

He huffs. He’s still and so fucking quiet.

That pulls a laugh from you. Soft. Breathless.

And your eyes—those eyes—look right into him, steady and warm and wild, and he feels it.

Feels himself slipping.

“Joel,” you murmur, one hand on the door, “you’re starin’.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. I am.”

Your pulse jumps. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans back in his seat, gaze flicking over you, jaw tight like he’s choking on the truth. Then he admits..,

“I think if I got any closer, I won’t be able to stop myself from doin-.”

You swallow.

The air is thick now. Sticky with something unsaid. You blink at him, lips parted, a thousand thoughts catching in your throat.

“I wouldn’t stop you,” you admit in a whisper, cutting him off.

Joel groans under his breath, leans forward like he’s gonna grip the steering wheel tighter or punch the dash or pull you into his lap—you don’t know which.

He turns his face. Looks out the windshield. Breathing heavy.

The bottles sweating at the bottom where you let Joel put them between your feet.

The sun is low, orange spilling over his hands on the wheel. Your skirt rides higher than it did when you left— your legs are bare, crossed, smooth, the kind of sight that makes his jaw clench.

He hasn’t looked at you much since you got in the truck. Not really. Not until now.

He clears his throat. Quiet. Then, gruff:

“Goddamn, you in that skirt.”

Your brows lift, playful. “Hm?”

Joel glances at you, “you always show that much skin?”

You tilt your head. Voice like sugar.

“What? This little thing?”

You run your hand up your thigh, slow. He watches every inch of it like it’s a threat. “Would it be better if I change into something a little more modest?”

He doesn’t speak. Just stares. His eyes are dark, jaw set. Then a slow, tight shake of his head.

“Prefer less.”

You shift toward him, the leather seat creaking. You hold his gaze, your voice quieter this time—sincere, but soaked in intent..

“You can touch me if you want.”

Joel stills. That old heartbeat of his stumbling once, twice.

He doesn’t answer with words.

His hand reaches out, slow, like he’s in a dream. Like this isn’t real. Like it can’t be. But when his calloused palm cups your thigh, he breathes a quiet, near-pained sound. His thumb rubs a lazy circle against the inside, and he mutters:

“Fuckin’ soft.”

Your breath hitches.

His hand slides higher. The hem of your skirt moves with him. His knuckles brush lace and his eyes flash. That muscle in his jaw ticks again.

“You ‘n my brother..” His fingers toy at the edge of your underwear. “Ain’t no way you and Tommy aren’t a thing.”

“We’re not,” you whisper, “just friends. I mean it.”

Joel’s eyes search yours. Something raw. Need. Guilt. Hunger.

And then—

His fingers slide under the lace.

One slow, reverent stroke through your folds.

“Shit, baby.”

Another.

“So wet already. That f’me?”

You whimper. Nod. Don’t even try to hide it.

“Tell me,” he grits. His voice is low, nearly so fucking ruined. “Tell me this ain’t just me wantin’ this.”

You grab his wrist. Push his hand deeper into you.

“I miss when you didn’t talk so much,” you tease. He breathlessly exhales, almost a sort of laugh.

“Gonna wish you didn’t say that, baby girl.”

And then he gives it to you.

One finger. Then another. Thick and curling just right. Your hips buck into him and he groans—actually groans—like it physically hurts to touch you this good. To watch your brows furrow together in pure ecstasy. To watch you bite back a moan.

“Jesus Christ, this sweet little cunt,” he mutters. “Bet you taste like heaven. Been thinking about this every night since I saw you. Thinkin’ about it since you walked through those gates, wearing this little fucking skirt. Like you want it.”

Your skirt’s around your hips now, your back pressed against the window, his fingers fucking you in slow, desperate pumps. His mouth is against your ear, hot, ragged.

“Tommy don’t know what he’s missin’.”

“He doesn’t want me,” you say through short breaths.

“Fuckin’ tool. Always been. But always had the prettiest little things ‘round him.”

You cry out as he presses deeper, thumb circling your clit.

You’re trembling.

Not from cold.

Not from fear.

But from the feel of him. From the way Joel’s fingers curve so perfectly, fucking up into you slow and steady, like he’s trying to memorize every ridge inside you. Like he wants to ruin you gently.

Your thighs are spread wide across the bench seat. His other hand keeps your knee held open, firm grip, thumb brushing tender circles as he watches you.

And god, he watches you.

Eyes glued to your face, to the way your breath stutters, to the way your head tips back and your lips part around his name—

“J-Joel..”

He hushes you softly, leaning in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“I know darlin’. I know. Feels good, don’t it?”

Your hips buck and he smirks—slow and sinful—fingers still stroking inside you, his thumb now working slow, relentless circles against your clit. Wet sounds filling the truck. His eyes dark. You’re so fucking wet. Too wet.

“You been holdin’ this in, huh?” he murmurs, mouth trailing kisses along your jaw, voice low and thick with heat. “Walkin’ ‘round town in your little skirts, those tight jeans. You wear those for me?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

So his fingers fuck it out of you.

Harder now. Deeper. Curling just right, right there—

“Tell me,” he growls. “You wear those for me, sweet girl? Just for this old man?”

You whimper, nod frantically, hand clutching at his arm. His muscles flex under your touch—strong, rough, real.

He bites at your neck, not hard, just enough.

“Fuckin’ knew it. Got my brother walkin’ on cloud 9. Tellin’ me how sweet you are, but you aren’t. Are you? Only thing sweet about you is this pussy, huh?”

You moan again, writhing on his fingers. A breathless fuck escaping your mouth.

“Told myself to stay away from you. That you’re Tommy’s, but now? Look at you…”

You sigh, throwing your head back, “‘m not Tommy’s. Just. Friends.”

His voice drops. Filthy. Reverent. Worshipping, gawking.

“Letting’ me touch this sweet little pussy… lettin’ me fuck you with my fingers like you’re already mine.”

You pant, back arching as your orgasm creeps higher—closer.

And Joel knows it. He feels it. Smirks again, low and breathless.

“That’s it,” he mutters, lips pressed against your cheek, fingers fucking that soft spot inside you that feels so damn good, “c’mon baby girl. Wanna feel you cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”

“Show me how bad you need me,” he continues. His words tugging at your insides. You swear you could probably cum from his words alone.

And you do.

You cry out his name—over and overs—tightening around his fingers, body jerking as your orgasm rips through you like wildfire.

He groans, low and deep, like the sound hurts.

“Fuckin’ Christ.”

You ride it out on his fingers, hips stuttering as you fall forward into him, whimpering and gasping, flushed and wrecked.

Joel strokes your thigh, still buried in you, not pulling away yet. His nose brushes your temple, a kiss placed so sweet, it contradicts every filthy thing he just did.

And then he finally pulls his fingers from you—slow, deliberate. You watch him.

He brings them to his mouth.

Sucks them clean.

And moans. “So fuckin’ sweet. Like honey.”

You’re still panting. Still trembling. Eyes glazed.

“Joel-,” you start to say.

“Don’t say my name like that,” his voice low, barely above a whisper, raspy, rough. He shifts back in his seat, fingers still glistening. “Ain’t got the strength to not fuck you stupid if you do.”

Then you see it. His cock so fucking hard, so taut in his jeans, it probably hurts. Wanting so badly to be buried inside you.

You laugh. Breathless. Bashful. But his eyes darken again.

“I mean it,” voice rough. “I’ll throw that little skirt to the backseat and keep you here all night. Make you cum so many times you forget how to stand.”

Your thighs clench.

And he notices.

Smirks again.

Then—like it never happened—he grabs the six-pack from the passenger seat floor and opens his door.

“Go inside, sweetheart,” he says. Quiet. Shaky. “While you still can.”

You hesitate—heart aching to stay—but then you nod. Slip out of the truck and let the night swallow you.

He watches you walk all the way to the gate you had came out of earlier. Watches your legs slightly shake, your hair catching the patio light, the soft swing of your hips like a curse.

His keys jingle as he unlocks the back door, and when you step inside, it’s warmer than you expected. Lived-in. Smelling like old books and cedar and a hint of cologne you want to press into your skin.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, voice thick and a little too soft, a little too far gone.

He drops the beer on the counter, already opening one, already grinning when he leans his hip against the counter beside you, handing you one too. He watches you. Always watching.

Two beers later, you’re both sitting out back again—on his porch steps now, closer than before. Shoulders brushing. The kind of distance that only exists so you can feel it burn.

You’re giggling over some story from your teenage years, legs bare and stretched across the wooden step below, toes pointed, fingers curled around the neck of your bottle. Joel’s laughing too—really laughing. That warm, gruff, genuine kind that seems like it hasn’t had reason to come out in years. Like he wasn’t just growling filthy things in your ear an hour ago.

“You were a little menace,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You look over, all sweetness and sin. “Still am.”

He hums, eyes flicking to your mouth and then away again.

You lean in just a touch. Just enough that your thigh brushes his jeans. You knew what you were doing. His eyes follow yours, something like miss me already behind them. “Bet you were somethin’ else back then, too. I can picture it. All broody and cocky. Bet you broke hearts.”

Joel scoffs, cheeks flushed, eyes dark. “I wasn’t exactly… smooth.”

You tilt your head, lashes fluttering. “You’re kinda smooth now.”

That earns a chuckle—low and a little breathless. He tips his beer toward you in mock salute. “Must be the alcohol talkin’.”

You reach over and fix the collar of his flannel, slow and unhurried, fingers brushing the skin at his neck. “Or maybe I like the way you look when you’re soft.”

He stills.

Everything stills.

His eyes search yours—so close now you could count every crease, every scar. The stark contrast from how ruined you two were in his truck to now makes your head spin. You could reach out and trace the edge of that dark beard, feel how rough it was against your skin. Your breath catches, and his jaw clenches, and for one terrifying, beautiful second—

He leans in.

Almost.

And then—

Keys jingle. Door creaks.

“Dad?”

You both jerk back like struck matches. Joel scrubs a hand over his face, muttering something you don’t catch as he stands just a little too fast, beer bottle forgotten beside his chair.

Sarah steps onto the back porch, backpack slung over one shoulder, frozen mid-step when she sees you.

You recover quicker than Joel. “Hi,” you say, smile warm. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to invade. Your dad was just feeding me beer and embarrassing himself.”

Sarah raises a brow. “Sounds like him.”

Joel clears his throat. “This is ..uh.. she’s the one Tommy’s been helpin’ move in. Across the street.”

“Ah. The one Tommy can’t shut up about.” Sarah nods slowly. Her eyes flick to her dad, then back to you. “Nice to meet you. Heard you make a mean banana muffin.”

You laugh, standing to brush your hands on your skirt. “Guilty.”

Joel avoids your gaze completely.

You know that look. That pull back. Like the moment cracked something open in him and he’s now desperate to shove it shut. The look his brother gives you every day. Only it stings more from Joel because his fingers were just inside you.

“Well it was nice to meet you, Sarah. Gonna let this old man catch some z’s.” You start to walk back towards the gate.

“I’ll walk you home,” Joel says.

He walks you to the sidewalk anyway.

Silent for a while. Hands in his pockets. Breathing tight.

At your gate, he finally speaks.

“You’re good company,” he says, eyes fixed on the horizon. “It was… a nice change of scenery. Havin’ you next to me.”

You smile, gentle. “Felt nice. Being there. Your fingers felt nice too.”

His eyes meet yours then. Dark. Lust filled. And something lingers in the space between you—sweet and heavy, wanting and wrong, right and too much.

“You should get some sleep,” he murmurs.

You nod. “Night, Joel.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

You step inside your house, and he doesn’t move until your porch light flicks on.

And back in his kitchen, when Sarah asks what that was all about?

Joel just shakes his head, pours a glass of water, and says, “…trouble.”

“She seems nice. Definitely Uncle Tommy’s type.”

Joel purses his lips, “everybody’s your uncles type.”

Sarah mumbles a ‘true’ and then says, “so are they like a thing? She’s hangin’ out with you now, tryna work you up so you can tell her all Tommy’s secrets huh.”

“Nah, said they’re just friends,” Joel says as he begins to turn off all the lights in the kitchen.

��Uncle Tommy know that,” Sarah ask. Shrugging then walking away leaving Joel in the dark. And he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what it is. You said you’re just friends, Tommy never mentioned you in a romantic sense… why the hell does Joel feel so damn guilty?

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · · · · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · · · · ─

[sherlocked-hunter-in-the-tardis]

*Runs around like an excited chihuahua* EEEEE I'd love to see a fic where Dick goes baby infront of the family for the first time!!! maybe even make it angsty, like everyone was too busy or Bruce just snaps at Dick >:)

*gasps dramatically* Why, why LOOK AT YOU with all the fantastic ideas!!

I would like to write that very much... in fact, HERE IT IS!!! 🍼💔 Have some angst, darling!!

Prepare for tiny baby Dick Grayson's emotions, Batfam chaos, and Bruce having to fix it real fast before his baby bird flies away 😭💥

Let me know what you think!!

🕊️ Where You Don’t Belong

Tiny!Dick Grayson | Daddy!Bruce | Age regression | Angst

It started in the Cave. Of course it did.

They’d just gotten back. Everyone, for once, bruised and battered but breathing. The tension had been simmering the entire patrol, and it finally boiled over as they stripped off their armor. Clayface had ambushed a GCPD convoy, and things had spiraled into chaos. Bruce hadn’t liked the way Dick had taken charge, hadn’t liked the call he’d made that got Stephanie hurt, and definitely didn’t like that the rest of the family had listened to him instead of Batman.

Bruce peeled off his cowl with a jerk, voice already steel. “We’ll debrief in twenty.”

Dick winced. “Bruce, I didn’t mean for her to get hurt. I thought Clayface was—”

“You thought wrong,” Bruce snapped, not even turning around. “That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? You never stop and think. You act like this is a game. Like you’re still the circus kid playing hero.”

Tim, standing behind the computer, froze. Damian’s nostrils flared. Jason, shirt halfway over his head, paused mid-yank.

Dick’s voice dropped. “I wasn’t playing.”

Bruce turned. He looked tired. Unforgiving. “And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe this whole thing — the cave, the mantle — me — maybe it was never meant to be yours.”

The silence was immediate and suffocating.

Dick blinked, lips parting. “What?”

“You’re not—” Bruce exhaled sharply. “You’re not my son. Not really. I raised you like one, but that doesn’t mean I owe you the cowl. Or this family.”

The words dropped like a guillotine.

Jason made a choked noise. “What the fuck, Bruce.”

Tim dropped the datapad. It hit the ground with a clatter. Damian looked stunned, his mouth hanging open like he'd been slapped.

And Dick?

Dick stood in the middle of the room, gloves dangling from his limp fingers, face pale and hollow. A deep, shuddering breath trembled through his chest, but he didn’t speak. He just stared at Bruce like he'd been shot through the heart.

Bruce finally looked up.

And saw it.

Dick’s bottom lip was wobbling. His pupils were huge. His body had started to shake, not in rage. In some horrible internal unraveling. His voice didn’t come back.

He let out one shaky breath… then another… then dropped to the floor, hard, like his legs gave out.

And then he sobbed.

Not loud, not angry. Just tiny, heart-wrenching, helpless sobs. The kind that couldn’t come from someone who was big.

The kind that only came from a child who’d just lost everything.

Bruce took one step forward. “Dick—”

But Jason was faster.

“No!” Jason barked. “Don’t you dare. You don’t get to touch him right now.”

Damian was already crouched at Dick’s side, gently easing the gloves from his brother’s hands. “Grayson?” His voice was soft. He looked scared. “You… you need to look at me, please.”

Dick just curled tighter. Thumb popped into his mouth. A soft, wet suckle sound followed, almost reflexive. His sobs grew smaller, tighter, more desperate.

Tim had already grabbed a blanket from the medbay storage. “He’s little,” he whispered. “He dropped. Oh my god, he dropped.”

Bruce paled. “I didn’t know—”

“Because you never ask,” Jason snarled. “Because you never listen! Jesus, Bruce, you told him he wasn’t your son.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Do you ever mean what you say?” Damian snapped, clutching Dick tighter. “Because your words hurt. Every single time.”

Dick hiccuped, tiny and trembling, curled in on himself like a child hiding from a monster.

Jason didn’t care how calm Bruce was trying to be. “You broke him,” he said coldly. “You fucking broke him, and he was the only reason any of us survived this goddamn house growing up.”

“Enough,” Bruce growled, low and guttural. “Enough. You can kill me later. He needs us now.”

---

Dick was placed gently on the couch, wrapped in soft fleece, thumb still in his mouth, tears soaking his cheeks. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at any of them. Just cried. Silent, pitiful, heartbreaking little sobs that came from somewhere deep and young.

Bruce approached slowly.

“Baby bird,” he murmured, low, almost a whisper. “I know I messed up. I know I said something really bad.”

Dick whimpered and turned his face to the back cushions.

Bruce knelt beside the couch. “You are my son,” he said firmly. “Always. From the moment I held you in my arms. I’ve made every mistake, but that? That’s never changed. Not for a second.”

A tiny sniffle.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said again. No tears. No panic. Just steady, quiet, real. “I love you. I’m sorry I hurt you. Can I hold you, baby bird?”

Dick didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away when Bruce gently reached out and picked him up like a baby.

Curled up in Bruce’s arms, head tucked under his chin, Dick shook and sobbed. So very, very tiny.

Bruce rocked him gently. “It’s okay to cry. I’ve got you. You can be as little as you want.”

Jason, standing by the wall, arms crossed and eyes burning, muttered, “We are gonna kill you later.”

Bruce didn’t argue.

He just kept rocking, kept whispering… and Dick’s hand curled into Bruce’s shirt.

---

The family room was filled with the sound of quiet, careful breathing, except for one heartbreaking voice.

Dick couldn’t stop sobbing.

He was curled in Bruce’s lap, cradled tightly in his father’s arms, rocking steadily back and forth. His face was blotchy and flushed, hiccuping so hard his chest shook. Bruce held him close and steady, rubbing soft circles into his back, trying not to falter even as guilt chewed through every nerve in his body.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, chum,” Bruce murmured again, voice low and steady like a heartbeat. “I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t thinking. You’re my son. You’ll always be my son.”

The words didn’t help. They made it worse.

With every gentle, loving whisper, Dick wailed harder. Raw, babyish cries that cracked in his throat. His fingers clung to Bruce’s shirt, then shoved him away, then clung again with desperate panic. He was trying to escape and burrow closer at the same time. Tiny. Confused. Shattered.

Jason stood frozen in the doorway, fists clenched. “He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to love you anymore,” he hissed, voice sharp and shaking. “You told him he was never your son.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Bruce said, more to himself than anyone else. He didn't look up. His entire focus was on Dick, his baby boy, who was shivering and soaked in tears and still too little to form words. “I wasn’t thinking. I was angry and I—”

“Too late,” Damian snapped. He was kneeling beside Bruce now, hand hovering over Dick’s blanketed knee. “You broke him. Do you see that? Look what you did.”

Tim sat in silence, face pale. He was kneeling too, watching Dick like he might crumble if anyone touched him too suddenly. “He’s really little. I've never seen him like this. Has anyone?”

“No,” Cass whispered. “Never.”

“None of us have,” Jason muttered. “Because he always had to be big.”

“I didn’t know,” Bruce said quietly. It wasn’t an excuse. “I didn’t know he needed to be this little.”

Dick cried harder.

The more Bruce rocked him, the more shattered he became. The more comfort Bruce offered, the more Dick trembled like he couldn’t believe it, like it hurt worse, to be held by the same man who’d shoved a knife in his heart not an hour before. Bruce’s arms tightened, cradling him close but never forcing it, whispering soft reassurances into his hair:

“You’re my son. My boy. My baby bird. I’m sorry. I’ll say it as many times as you need, Dickie, okay? I’m sorry. I love you. You can be little, you can be anything. I’ll never push you away again. You’re mine.”

Dick choked on a sob so violent it sent him into hiccups again. His thumb wobbled in his mouth, but never stayed there. Too overwhelmed, too lost. His little body curled tighter, trying to disappear in Bruce’s chest.

Jason dropped onto the floor, back against the couch, wiping at his face angrily. “Let me know when I can beat the hell out of you,” he muttered.

Damian was sitting beside him, breathing in tight huffs. “Not yet. Baby bird comes first.”

Cass didn’t speak. She just rested a hand on Dick’s ankle, still and warm.

There was the soft sound of footsteps.

Alfred stepped in with a warm bottle in one hand and a folded, worn blankie in the other. He didn’t say a word as he placed them in Bruce’s waiting hands.

Bruce adjusted Dick gently, supporting his head, curling his arm under his legs. “Here we go, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Daddy’s got you.”

Dick made a broken little sound in the back of his throat. The bottle touched his lips.

He didn’t latch right away. He was too upset, hiccuping, gasping, tears still running freely. But Bruce was patient. He stayed steady. Kept rocking. Kept whispering.

“It’s okay. You can be little. You’re safe. You’re safe with me. I love you.”

Finally, Dick latched.

He suckled in shaky little bursts between hiccups and quiet sobs. His fists curled in Bruce’s shirt. He still trembled like he expected to be dropped.

“You can say it, baby,” Bruce murmured. “You can still call me that. Always. Nothing’s changed. Say it if you want to, okay? Dada’s right here. Dada loves you so, so much.”

Dick’s lips wobbled around the bottle.

Tears poured down again, silent now. Devastated.

Bruce’s eyes closed, pain flickering across his face.

“I’m here, little bird. Always.”

And he kept rocking.

---

Dick nursed slowly, hiccuping through his sobs as the warm milk soothed his throat, but not the ache in his chest. His fists were clenched in Bruce’s shirt, fingers trembling with every breath he dragged in. Bruce had one hand cupped protectively around the back of Dick’s head, the other supporting the bottle as he rocked gently in place on the couch, murmuring softly the entire time.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re my boy. You’ll always be my boy, Dickie. I’m so, so sorry.”

Dick whimpered, curling in tighter, but his sobs didn’t stop. If anything, they got worse, muffled around the nipple of the bottle as he tried to breathe and drink and cry all at once.

He wanted to call him Dada. The word trembled on the edge of his lips, clung to the back of his throat. But he was scared. What if he wasn't allowed anymore? What if Bruce didn’t want to be that, not really, not after what he said earlier?

What if he wasn't allowed to be Bruce’s baby anymore?

“Shhh, baby. Shhh,” Bruce whispered as he felt the tiny body in his arms shudder again. He gently rubbed Dick’s back in circles, slow and rhythmic. “You don’t have to be scared. I didn’t mean any of it. You’re my son, no matter what. You’ll always be my son. My baby boy. My first.”

Dick let out a tiny whimper that ended in a fresh sob, louder than before.

Tim sat crouched at the side of the couch, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “He’s really not calming down…”

“He’s trying,” Cass said softly, her eyes locked on Dick. “He wants to. But he’s scared.”

Carefully, he stood with Dick cradled in his arms, the bottle still held to Dick’s lips. Dick whined faintly as they moved, but didn’t protest beyond curling tighter into Bruce’s chest.

Jason stood with arms folded across his chest, jaw tight, a storm behind his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly eager to let him take Dick upstairs alone right now,” he muttered, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Not when he’s the reason he’s like this in the first place.”

Damian scoffed beside him, but didn’t argue. “Grayson is clearly distressed,” he said instead, looking like he was trying to suppress his own panic. “If Father had the decency not to traumatize him—”

“Enough.” Bruce’s voice was quiet but firm, still rocking, still feeding. “I deserve every bit of your anger. And we can talk about it later. But right now, he needs me. You know he does.”

Dick let out a broken squeak, curling impossibly closer.

“He needs all of us,” Jason hissed.

Bruce nodded. “He does. But right now, he’s hanging on by a thread. And I’m the only one he’s holding.”

Tim hesitated, voice unsure. “He… might fall apart more if we take him from Bruce.”

Jason looked like he’d rather throw a batarang into the wall. “He already fell apart.”

“And pulling him away from what he’s clinging to won’t put him back together any faster,” Tim said.

Silence. Dick sucked weakly at the bottle, tears still tracking down his cheeks, breath still hitching every few seconds. His eyes fluttered closed, but his arms wouldn’t stop clinging to Bruce’s shirt.

After a long beat, Jason sighed like it physically hurt him. “Fine. But if you screw this up again, Bruce—if you hurt him again—I will make you regret it.”

“Understood.” Bruce nodded once. “We’re going upstairs; he needs sleep. And quiet.”

“I’m coming with you,” Damian declared, but Bruce shook his head.

“No. I’ll call if I need you.” He looked at each of them. “I won’t leave him alone. I won’t fail him again.”

Jason muttered something under his breath that sounded like “Too late,” but didn’t stop him.

As Bruce carried Dick up the stairs, he kept whispering to him, over and over, like a mantra. Like a lullaby.

“I love you. I love you so much. You’re my little Robin. You’re my son. You’re my baby.”

And though Dick still didn’t speak, not even a mumble, not even Dada, he buried his tear-streaked face in Bruce’s shoulder and held on like he never wanted to let go.

---

Bruce nudged the door open with his foot, arms full of his broken baby bird. His bedroom was dark, quiet, cavernous, just like he preferred it. But tonight, it felt cold. Hollow. Like it had swallowed all of Dick’s warmth and light along with his laughter.

He didn’t even turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp beside the bed. Enough to cast a soft golden glow across the room.

“I’ve got you, chum,” Bruce murmured, voice low and endlessly gentle. “Dada’s got you now. Gonna take care of you.”

Dick whimpered around the bottle, lips still locked around the nipple, though his throat worked with hiccupping sobs. His eyes were wide and red, overflowing even now. He hadn't stopped crying, not once, and he was holding on so tightly that Bruce could feel the tiny tremors in his fists, the way he clung like a drowning boy.

Bruce moved through the room and into the adjoining bathroom, one arm supporting Dick, the other flicking on the smaller lights above the vanity. It bathed the tiled space in soft white and silver. Steam began to rise as he turned on the tap in the sunken tub, testing the temperature with his wrist before twisting the bubble solution into the stream.

Suds foamed up fast.

All the while, Dick kept his death grip on Bruce’s shirt.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bruce whispered, kissing the top of his hair as he gently sat down on the edge of the tub, baby still in his lap. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Just getting you cleaned up, alright? You’ve had a big day. You’ve been so brave.”

Dick let out a hiccuping squeak, sucking harder on the bottle like it might muffle his sobs. His tears just kept falling.

Slowly, slowly, Bruce worked his way through Dick’s suit. His shirt was rumpled, clinging with cold sweat and tears. His pants were twisted from how tightly he’d curled up in Bruce’s lap. He eased them all off carefully, whispering soft apologies each time Dick whimpered or flinched.

“S’okay,” Bruce soothed. “Just me, baby. Just Dada. Not gonna let go. Never ever.”

Dick finally let go of the bottle only when Bruce cupped both his cheeks to kiss his damp forehead. “Stay,” he rasped, voice raw. “Staystaystay—”

“I’m staying,” Bruce whispered instantly. “Right here. The whole time.”

Bruce lifted him into the water, but even then, Dick wouldn’t release his hands. The water sloshed gently as Bruce knelt by the tub, sleeves rolled, never letting go. He lathered up the sponge and cleaned Dick’s arms and chest and legs with such care, such reverence, as if he could wash away the heartbreak, too.

Usually, bathtime with Dick was all splashing and giggles. A war zone of floating ducks and Bruce pretending to get soap in his eyes. But tonight…

The bubbles felt too bright. The water too still. The only sound was the wet sniffle of a broken boy, and the constant soft murmur of a father’s reassurances:

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’re my son, always.”

“You can cry, baby. I’ve got you.”

“You’re allowed to call me Dada. Forever and always, baby boy.”

By the time Bruce lifted him out, Dick was practically boneless in his arms. Still sniffling, still sobbing, but exhausted. Bruce wrapped him up in the softest towel he could find, sky blue and plush, and kissed his damp hair again.

“You did so good, little bird. Dada’s so proud of you.”

Back in the bedroom, Bruce sat Dick down on the center of the bed just long enough to fetch the emergency little kit from the tall wardrobe. It had a section for every one of his kids, timed pacifiers, soft onesies, soothing creams, and calming drops, each with a tiny label in Alfred’s handwriting.

He laid Dick gently back on the bed. The boy's eyes fluttered in confusion and panic as soon as Bruce’s arms left him, but Bruce was back instantly, hands on his thighs, voice like a balm.

“Just putting your jammies on, baby. I’m right here. Right here.”

He worked quietly and quickly, murmuring to Dick with every motion. A dusting of powder. A soft wipe of lotion. The fluffy blue diaper was pulled snug and secured with tapes that had tiny little stars on them. Then came the snap-crotch onesie, frilly at the collar and wrists, pale as a robin’s egg. Bruce snapped the buttons gently, rubbing his knuckles across Dick’s belly afterward.

Then, at last, he picked him up again and returned to his place at the head of the bed, where he leaned back against the pillows and resumed rocking.

Dick was still crying.

Still.

His whole body trembled with it, and his fists kept curling into Bruce’s shirt, his sobs half-muffled against Bruce’s chest.

“I love you,” Bruce whispered, brushing his lips against Dick’s temple. “I love you so much, baby bird. You’ll always be mine. Always.”

He felt the stuttering breath, the way Dick clutched harder, and then the softest, tiniest whisper yet:

“D-d… Dada…”

Bruce didn’t cry. But his chest ached like it might.

“Yes,” he whispered, cradling Dick tighter. “Yes, baby. That’s right. I’m your Dada.”

And Dick, still crying, finally started to nurse again from the bottle Bruce offered, his sobs hitching between every few swallows, but the tension in his spine eased just a fraction as he rocked, wrapped in safety, tucked into the arms of the man who never should’ve let him fall in the first place.

---

The bottle emptied with a soft gurgle.

Bruce gently shifted it aside onto the nightstand, never moving from his place at the head of the bed. Dick lay limp against his chest, hiccuping softly between sobs, face sticky with tears and flushed from exhaustion. The tiniest bit of formula clung to the corner of his mouth. Bruce wiped it away with his thumb, slow and careful.

He kept rocking.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The room was dim, warm with the low hum of the bedside lamp casting a golden glow. Bruce murmured soft nothings, just sounds of comfort now, nothing coherent. “Shhh… shhh, love you so much, baby boy… Daddy’s here, Daddy’s here…”

Dick’s hands were still balled in Bruce’s shirt. He hadn’t let go the whole time.

Even after finishing the bottle, even as Bruce’s arms curled tight around him and kept moving, Dick hadn’t stopped crying. He wasn’t sobbing hard anymore, just those helpless, endless whimpers of someone who had nothing left. It was like he didn’t trust the silence, like he didn’t believe this peace would last.

Bruce rocked until he felt Dick’s weight grow heavier, his breath finally evening out, not calm, never quite calm, but tired enough that sleep slipped in. His little face, flushed and damp, pressed under Bruce’s chin.

Only then did Bruce lie back against the pillows, curling on his side with Dick cradled against him. He didn’t bother pulling the blanket up. He just held him close, two arms wrapped securely around Dick’s little form in his frilly blue onesie, the soft padding of the diaper rustling slightly as he moved. Bruce’s legs curled protectively around him. He kissed the top of his head, over and over, whispering promises like prayers:

“You’re my son. My baby. You’re everything to me, Dickie. I'm not going anywhere. Never again.”

Eventually, sleep took him, too.

---

Sometime deep into the night, Bruce stirred with a jolt.

“...Dada?”

It was a whisper. Barely a breath. A whimper at first, like Dick was afraid to say it too loud.

Bruce blinked the sleep from his eyes, only to find Dick already halfway awake beside him, curled tightly against him like he never wanted to move again.

“Dada…” Dick whimpered again, like testing the word, as if he was afraid it would get taken from him.

“I’m here,” Bruce said instantly, voice soft, steady. His hand curled around Dick’s back and pulled him even closer, a hand carding gently through his sleep-wild hair. “Right here, baby. Daddy’s got you.”

Dick sniffled. “M’sorry…”

“No,” Bruce whispered, voice immediately breaking. “No, sweetheart, no. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Dick shook his head. “I’m sorry you had to raise me. I know—I know I was hard. You didn’t… I wasn’t supposed to be yours. Not really. You shouldn’t have had to—”

“Baby, no—”

“I’ll stop,” Dick mumbled, blinking hard. “I’ll stop being Nightwing. I’ll stop pretending to be your son. You said you didn’t owe me the cowl, and you were right. I—I shouldn’t have acted like you owed me anything either. I’ll stop. I’ll stop everything. I promise.”

Bruce made a sound like he’d been punched in the stomach.

His arms wrapped tight around Dick’s smaller body, pulling him up against his chest so close it almost hurt. “No. No, baby, don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

Dick just cried harder. “But it’s true—”

“No,” Bruce said again, louder this time. His voice trembled, but he forced it out. “I was wrong. I was so wrong, Dickie. I didn’t mean what I said. I was scared. You were out there, getting hurt, and I—I lashed out, and I didn’t think. I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean it, baby.”

Dick clung to him like he might disappear. He buried his face in Bruce’s chest and sobbed, little broken hiccups wracking his body, muffled against Bruce’s shirt.

“You are my son,” Bruce whispered fiercely. “You’ve always been my son. My first. My baby boy. Nothing can change that. Not Nightwing. Not the cowl. Not anything.”

Bruce could feel the tears sliding down his own cheeks. A few of them dropped onto Dick’s hair and cheek, but Bruce didn’t wipe them away. He didn’t say anything about them. He just held on, rocking slightly again even while lying down.

Dick’s sobs didn’t stop, but they softened slowly into sleepy sounds. Whimpers and small, shuddery breaths. Bruce stayed there, curled protectively around him, breathing in the scent of baby lotion and formula and tears. Watching the way Dick’s fingers curled tightly around the front of his shirt.

Even as Dick drifted, exhausted, into sleep again, he didn’t let go.

Bruce watched his flushed cheeks, the way his lips trembled in his sleep, the leftover tears on his lashes. His chest ached with the weight of guilt and love both, unbearable and endless.

“I love you, baby,” Bruce whispered into the dark. “So, so much.”

He kissed Dick’s forehead, then finally let his eyes close.

He didn’t sleep deeply. He just stayed there, heartbeat pressed to his son’s chest, listening to the little sleepy sobs as they slowly, slowly faded into the night.

---

The golden slant of early morning sun slipped through the heavy curtains, lighting the edges of the room in soft warmth. Bruce stirred first, slowly blinking awake, arms still wrapped around the warm weight of his son. Dick was curled against him, small and limp in sleep, breath puffing gently against Bruce’s chest. Tear tracks still stained his cheeks, but his brow had smoothed out sometime during the night.

Bruce didn’t move, not at first. He just stayed there, one hand moving gently through Dick’s dark hair, fingers brushing through the strands in a slow, careful rhythm.

He had said you’re not my son. He had meant it in fear, in anger, in the heat of something deep and wounded in himself, but hearing those words in Dick’s broken, whispered apology, watching his son curl up into himself with shame and grief—

It was unforgivable.

He pulled Dick a little closer, as if he could shield him even from the memory of it. His heart ached in a way he hadn’t let it ache in years, decades even. And yet, even with the guilt gnawing at his chest, he was filled with something else, something he didn’t often give himself the grace to feel.

Love. Gratitude. The weight of being lucky enough to hold his son like this.

He brushed Dick’s hair back from his forehead, watching him in the golden light. Eventually, Dick stirred. A small twitch of fingers. A shifting of weight. Bruce could tell the second his son started to surface, not from the way his eyes blinked open, but from the tension building in his shoulders. From the quiet way he clutched Bruce’s shirt like he didn’t know if he was still allowed to.

Bruce laid a warm hand on Dick’s back, rubbing gently.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You're okay.”

Dick blinked up at him slowly. His eyes were clearer than last night, but still red-rimmed and uncertain. Bruce could feel it, the hesitation, the vulnerability. Dick was right on the cusp. A single breath would tip him either way.

“Hey,” Bruce said softly. “Before anything else... we need to talk. You and me. As adults.”

Dick flinched slightly at that, but Bruce cupped the back of his head gently.

“Just for a little while,” Bruce added. “And after, if you want... if you trust me... I’d like to take care of you again. Baby you a little. You don’t have to say yes. But I want you to know that I want to.”

Dick’s throat bobbed as he nodded, still quiet. His breathing started to change, more controlled, sharper. More grown.

Bruce helped them both sit up, pillows behind their backs, the comforter pooling in their laps. Dick looked down at his hands, picking at the fabric. Bruce took a breath, steadying himself.

“I need to say something,” he began. “And I need you to let me finish before you say anything. Okay?”

Dick nodded silently.

Bruce reached out, took one of his hands, and held it.

“I meant what I said last night,” Bruce told him, voice trembling with the effort of truth. “You are my son. You've always been my son. You’ll always be. I was scared when I said otherwise. I was scared of losing you again. But that doesn’t excuse it. It doesn’t make it okay.”

Dick’s lips parted, but Bruce squeezed his hand.

“Let me finish,” he whispered. “Please.”

A beat. Then Dick nodded again.

“The day I got custody of you... that was the happiest day of my life. I hated how it happened, what was taken from you, but being your dad? That’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was young, and scared, and angry at the world. But you—Dick, you made me a father. I didn’t know I could love someone like that until you came into my life.”

His voice cracked, but he pressed on.

“I loved raising you. Watching you grow. Every moment. And when you moved out, when we drifted apart—I tried to understand, I did—but it broke my heart. And when you let me back in, little by little... when we started to talk again... it meant more than I can say.”

Dick’s eyes were glassy again, but he didn’t look away.

“When I found out you regress,” Bruce continued, “I won’t lie—I was relieved. I was happy. Because I got the chance to hold my little boy again. To take care of you. And it’s not about control, or wanting you to stay small. It’s because... Dick, when you call me ‘Daddy,’ it’s the happiest I ever feel. You give me something I thought I’d lost forever.”

Bruce swallowed hard.

“So, no matter what I said before... I need you to know that those words will never come out of my mouth again. Not ever. Not even in fear. You’re my son. My first son. My baby. And it would mean everything to me if you’d let me keep being your dad. Your daddy. Because in my heart, I never stopped being.”

Silence.

Dick sat still, tears sliding down his face silently, his breath coming in small, hitching gasps. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again.

“...Can I still call you that?” he asked, voice impossibly soft. “Call you Daddy?”

Bruce let out a breath like he’d been underwater for hours.

“Of course, sweetheart. Of course you can. I’m Daddy forever. Don’t forget that.”

Dick didn’t answer, not with words.

He climbed into Bruce’s lap and clung, fingers gripping his shirt as his frame began to shrink, fold inward, soften. His face crumpled as he melted back into regression, and Bruce held him close, rocking him gently back and forth.

“You can be tiny now,” Bruce whispered into his hair. “I’ve got you. Daddy’s got you.”

Dick whimpered once, then buried his face in Bruce’s chest.

He was safe now. In Daddy’s arms.

And Daddy loved him.

---

HOLY MACARONI, DUDE!!! THAT WAS SO HARD TO WRITE!!!!

I wrote 3 different versions before I was somewhat okay with it. And I still don't love how it ended up being, but I just lost over 40 fanfics I hadn't saved, so now I'm too sad to care. Ops.

Anyways, I hope this was at least okay...

@shortsquatch3, @queertrashcrow, please help me out here. Is this passable at least??

PLEASE, let me know what you guys think about his one. I'm really not a fan, but I DID try.

Okay, that's it. Talk to me, my lovelies!

[scorpioriesling]

Could you do like a part 3 of Family Reunion but like months have passed Xaden is cured and not venin anymore and Brennan with reader have a daughter and she gets to meet both her mom’s and father’s dragons,and then reader’s dragon parents (Sgaeyl and Tairn)

I really love your writing and I hope you do that!❤️

A Family Expansion

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

Pairing(s): Brennan x reader

Warning(s): none

Summary: After giving birth to your daughter, you realize you've brought more to the world than just another human -- an extension of you, a brave future leader, and a baby girl that is loved and accepted by the entirety of your family.

SR’s Note: This was so cuteeee I hope the wait was worth it (: Please read My Tears Ricochet before reading this installment, and I hope you enjoy! xo

Tags: @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @whyucloudingmymind @bookofriverr @kitsunetori @velarisdusk @nctsawrus @lreadsstuff @paintedbyshadows @woollybread786 @invisiblepixies @freakishfandomfiend @littleemissperfecttt @luvly-writer @fiahtheteaaddict @loveofmychips @w1ngsofwax @bodhidurrans @notnowkittenwhisker (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

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

You sighed softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face as you studied your work. The wooden frame before you was now erect, sturdy and embued with magic as to keep it's owner safe throughout the night. You'd thank the stars everyday for Brennan's knowledge in magic weaving; especially now, with the extra weight you carried.

And with that extra weight making an appearance in one, short week.

The heavy door squeaked on its hinges as it swung open, a red-cheeked Brennan staggering through. He carried various objects, too many to carry all at once; but, the man was nothing short of tactical. He'd dropped the few items after crossing the room's threshold, a various rugs, blankets, and supplies clattering to the floor.

You fixed him with a frown.

"Honey, I said I'd come help in-"

He rises, crossing to you in two short strides before cutting you off with a kiss. You couldn't help the slow spreading grin etching across your lips, or the way his fingers still sent a shiver up your spine as he held you close to him.

He grinned as he pulled away, his half-lidded stare gazing right down at you.

"You've already outdone yourself, my love." He insisted, his fingers idly brushing up and down your back. "I let you do the crib yourself, but you really should allow me to do more to help. Stress and strain is not good for-"

"I'm not stressed," you promised, giving him a reassuring smile. His autumn brown eyes gazed down at you, his head shaking slowly.

"You'd never let anything overcome you, I know that." He said in awe, glancing toward the perfectly assembled bedframe. "And, my Gods the bed looks perfect!"

You blushed, happy to see your husband so proud of you. His brow furrowed, his lips twisting as he considered.

"It's just missing one thing."

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It'd been two years. Two years since your dragon had reunited with his parents. Two years since you reunited with yours.

And, now? It would only be two minutes until you'd see them again.

Though your pregnancy had gone wonderfully, all things considered -- you were itching to get atop Azar once more. The midnight scaled dragon was becoming rather restless himself, the lack of flying in the past nine months leaving him rather bored each day; though, he genuinely seemed excited to meet the baby as well.

Two years ago, your brother had finally come home, right where he'd left you before journeying off to Basgiath to attend its War College; and boy, was the family reunion anything but ordinary. It'd come out that you'd bonded a dragon, one that was the offspring of both him and his girlfriend's dragons. To say that was received well would be... false.

Not to mention that his girlfriend was Violet Sorrengail, esteemed sister to your then-boyfriend, Brennan Aseraigh.

In those two years, a lot had happened.

Once everyone was properly reaquainted, you'd all come to face the biggest challenge yet; the Venin. It was a heart-wrenching, near death experience as you'd fought to cure your brother of the wretched curse; but in the end, it was Violet who was able to save him, restoring him back to his full health and potential.

It wasn't long after that that you'd married Brennan, everything in the world seeming to align then.

And, after that? You found out you were carrying his child.

Now, nine whole months later, you lie in a cushioned cot within the healer's subterrainean section in your childhood home, Riorson House -- your husband anxiously clenching your hand. In one arm, the most precious being lie sleeping, the newborn's lips barely parted as she drew in little breath after breath.

"I'm so proud of you," Brennan whispered tenderly, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your head. Smiling up at him, you registered the tears still lining his eyes; he'd cried from the moment you'd birthed the fragile little thing, and seemingly hadn't stopped as he continued gazing down at her.

You leaned up to kiss his cheek, giving his fingers a squeeze back.

"I could've never done this without you."

The shared moment was quiet for only a moment longer before voices sounded in the hallway beyond. The door to your mending room opened quietly, a pair of gray-green eyes peering around the wooden slab. Upon seeing the baby swaddled in your grasp, Violet quickly entered the room, her hand pressed to her mouth.

"Oh my Gods," she mused, her voice cracking as she too began to tear up. "She's beautiful, Y/N!"

Like brother like sister, you supposed.

Xaden entered behind her, his eyes widening more than you'd seen before as he beheld his newly born neice. A soft, unbelieving smile stretched across his mouth, barely registering the sight before him to be real.

Violet embraced her brother then, her tears of joy falling onto the soft knit of his henley. Xaden slowly stalked forward, a warm, calloused hand reaching out toward your daughter.

"Xaden, you can hold her if you'd like-"

His hand went past the baby, instead sliding around your shoulders as he pulled you into a warm embrace. Your eyes grew wet as you held tight to him -- the only family you had left, save for the one you married in to. A soft breath loosed from him, and you smiled as you clung tight to your big brother.

It wasn't long, though, before he was nearly begging to hold the little girl in his arms. And watching Xaden, a lethally-trained rider, cadet, and Wingleader... well, it was a sight to behold.

"You're surprisingly good at this," Brennan teased, both him and his sister chuckling as they too could barely believe the sight before them. "It's like you're a natural."

Xaden only smiled, his gaze not lifting from where it'd settled down onto the babe's face. He held her close to him, a hand wrapped around her tiny head to ensure her safety. Violet soon flanked his side, rising to her tiptoes to press a kiss to her forehead. She grinned as she too was enraptured by the little thing; not even turning when she asked the question out into the open.

"What's her name?"

Brennan side-eyed you, and you simply shrugged.

"Athena," he responded, rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "Her name is Athena."

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Athena was surely living up to her name -- not even three years later, she was weilding her play-pretend swords and delighting in "slaying" daddy when they "battled". With her ambitious personality, her strength and grace at just three... you and Brennan had decided it was finally time.

Azar approached slowly, his head low as he studied the little one. She grinned, excited by the way the afternoon sunlight glinted on the massive beast's scales.

She's... small.

You giggled aloud, Brennan giving you a weird look. Mentally, you spoke with Azar.

She's three, Azar.

The dragon chuffed, a low breathy sound as he stalked closer. Athena was anything but afraid; in fact, she threw her arms wide, your grip around her nearly slipping as she jumped and wriggled in your arms. The sudden action had Azar flinching backward, as though the tiny girl had startled him.

Oh, come on Azar, you teased mentally. Don't tell me you'll be bested by a three year old girl.

Azar huffed, his snout near inches from the three of you. In the distance, you caught sight of your brother, approaching with the hulking blue mass that made up Sgael. Behind them, Violet led Tarin, the largest dragon you'd seen as they made their way closer to the house.

Athena squealed, reaching out her palms and splaying them flat on Azar's nose. The dragon merely blinked, holding deathly still as her short fingers worked, stroking over each of his individual scales.

Brennan, smiling beside you, wrapped a hand around your waist. Athena cooed and babbled, looking right into the dragon's eyes as though she were speaking right to him.

She's... intelligent.

You laughed again, relaying the message to your husband. Brennan snorted, shaking his head at the baby.

"She's intelligent, all right," he agreed, and you refocused as Xaden flanked your other side.

"She's doing well, then?" your brother asked, looking to Athena with concern. You gave him a knowing look, and he shook his head slowly.

"She really is your daughter," he mused, watching as the little one's eyes refocused on Sgael. She reached for her, petting her nose with excitement as she examined the dragon's blue scales. "Not afraid of anything."

When your daughter fretted over not being able to see Tairn even closer, you knew your brother was right. With your husband, you'd truly created the most precious and fearless being yet -- and with your help, she'd grow up to be just as brave and intelligent as her parents.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

[nogoodmoony]

"she's clearly a gryffindor, Lupin."

these four boys, you thought, were the kindest thing God had made, they were all so different yet so similar.

James was kind and soft and warm in a way you had only ever heard about in books and movies but never believed was possible to be true, he knew that, hence sometimes he'd make cocky remarks.

Sirius was bold and loud and dramatic, he'd scoff and use such fancy words that you were sure even the dictionary would fail to understand, but his eyes were always the mirror of his true thoughts.

Remus was quiet and calm and probably the one who kept the former two's ego anchored. you noticed his book, the one he is trying to read for so long but fails to because of all the chaos the other two are making.

then there's Peter, the one whom you trusted in the beginning, these 3 boys, for some reason are too good, too perfect, but Peter looks...normal, Peter with his missing tooth and fidgety fingers, Peter who talks about chess and plants and laughs with James when Sirius dramatically scoffs and mutters something in what you assume to be french.

but one thing was common in all of them, even though it had only been a few hours since you entered this cabin, it was clear to you, that no matter how different they are from one another, their love for each other is exactly the same.

"hey", you are pulled out of your thoughts and find James looking at you, "we will reach in sometime, why dont you go and change into your robes, yeah?". you nod and hurry out of the cabin.

once the door closes behind you, the air shifts a little, "who do you think those boys were?", Peter asks.

"i bet they were those Slytherins, no other house would treat a literal 11 year old that way.", Sirius answers with a hard expression.

"there's no point bringing this up now, we can't do anything about it, lets just hope they leave her alone now onwards.", Remus says, clearly wiser among the lot.

"and if they dare disturb her again, i would fight them, since she's definitely going to be a Gryffindor, i will know where she is and if she's in trouble."

" we dont know for sure if she would be sorted into Gryffindor, Black. Given the way she was fixing Pete's band-aids and sharing her "special sweets", seems like a Hufflepuff to me."

"she's clearly a Gryffindor, Lupin." , Sirius says back like its obvious. " she got bullied, she got hurt, and yet dragged that gigantic suitcase all the way here, didn't cry, not even while telling us what had happened, that's the kind of bravery and strength you can only see in a Gryffindor."

remus just shakes his head and smiles, knowing there's no end to this conversation, right then you enter and Sirius chuckles.

"aww look at you, didn't understand how to wear the robe? " ,its true, you didn't know how to properly wear it, you had never seen any clothes like this, forget about wearing.

" wait, let me fix it." Sirius says while getting up and then starts fixing your robes.

"there, all better now isn't it- hey, Regulus!”,you look back to see a boy, looking extremely similar to sirius, standing at the cabin door, in robes just like yours.

"hey, what happened? you need something? " Sirius asks the boy while fixing his hair.

"no."

" well i am glad you came here either way, want you to meet someone.", Sirius says while gesturing towards you.

"she's a first year like you."

you smile, finally meeting someone your age, you step forward, hold out your hand and introduce yourself, "hello, you must be Sirius' younger brother!”

" get away from me!" Regulus says, his tone harsh and you somehow keep yourself from flinching, your smile falls as you watch him walk away.

"Regulus, come back what's wrong?” Sirius yells behind him, but the younger boy doesn't look back.

"dont mind him, sweetheart. he's not the exactly the friendliest person, its not your fault okay?”

"what if i dont get sorted in Gryffindor, will i not see you all then?”,you ask in a small voice, already imagining what would happen if this were to be true.

you mutter a hmm and return to your seat, waiting for the castle to arrive, thinking about what would your life be if you get sorted into those boys' house, or even in the same with Regulus.

"oh honey." James coos, "no matter what house you get in, we will still see you, everyday okay, and you will tell us all about your day and your new friends, hm?, you see, we aren't easy to get rid off, even if you want to." he ends with a wink and the same grin he gave you when he called you the first time.

and just like that, the castle comes into view, and for once in this long long train ride, you feel calm.

[n0heart]

.

[fushitoru]

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.” 

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly. 

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him. 

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid. 

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet. 

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?” 

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name. 

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles. 

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left. 

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

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[tonycries]

STRONGEST - G.S.

Synopsis. The strongest. The most feraI. Gojo Satoru’s powers aren’t the only thing that goes out of control after a battle.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, fix-it, Shinjuku showdown, Gojo wins, established relationship, FÉRAL Gojo, Gojo’s powers, ínnapropriate use of jujutsu, oraI (fem. rec), fíngering, limitless, pússydrúnk Gojo, máting presses, overstím, rough s, he’s a little bit ínsane, brief male mast., size kínk, tummy buIges, squírting, cervíx kíssing, p sIapping, making him whíne, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 8.2k

A/N. I’m Gege I say this is canon mhm.

BIoody. Broken. Breathing.

Only that last one came from Gojo Satoru— the sole person in the entirety of Shinjuku’s ravaged battleground that was. 

Twitching, he could sense sorcerers rushing out of their hiding spots to inspect the disintegrating, blob-like form of the former King of Curses before they even moved. Others sprinting medical instruments towards Fushiguro’s sprawled-out - alive, Gojo made sure to keep his boy alive - figure.

Not many dared to step towards the strongest, who towered in the midst of the chaos. 

After all, it was only Itadori who could grit his teeth and force himself to walk through the waves upon waves of magnetic cursed energy radiating off of his teacher. Bulldozing, gasping- “G-Gojo-sensei!”

And all at once, the power ceases. 

For the first time since the showdown started, everyone could finally breathe without the pressure of over a thousand sorcerers emanating from the body of one man.

That is, until Gojo snaps his eyes behind and mankind flinches. “I need my wife.”

Oh.

By destroying one monster, they might just have created another. 

.

.

.

You didn’t want to be here - you couldn’t.

Planted prettily like some prized porcelain doll behind the countless wards of the Gojo Estate, its location so classified that it wasn’t disclosed to even you.

You knew why you were here; your husband may be the strongest, but that didn’t stop Ryomen Sukuna from being the most treacherous. And in the unfortunate fate where he might’ve - heavens forbid - won, it was obvious that one of his next targets would be you.

A war prize for a war-bringer.

Your chest tightens at the notion, and you’re struggling to manually lug in smoggy pants- no, that couldn’t happen. Fingers seconds away from shattering the dainty ceramic bowl of tea that you’d made out of pure nerves, it couldn’t.

“Damn higher-ups.” You’re hissing into the now-frigid drink, and yet it still blisters down your tastebuds. Almost as much as the memory of those orders to stay put lest you wanted something to happen to Gojo’s precious students. A warning. A threat. “Leaving me here to rot- fuck, when I get out I’m going to kill those ol’ toads- oh!”

Your sip of tea was a tightened ball of lead that simply refused to go past your larynx– and your brows furrow as the pale glass slips like water flowing between your fingers.

Tumbling. Shattering a puddling splash on the tatami-covered floor below.

And yet, you don’t even remember weakening your grasp - almost as if the cup was magnetized towards the edge of your decadent bedroom. 

“I must be going mad.” You’re muttering to yourself, feeling even more so as you do. Shaking your head to some semblance of clearance, you crouch down with a sigh to pick up the chipped shards-

Only to find that the ground was trembling. 

What…the fuck? Urgently smoothing the mountains of your palm flat on the firm mats below, it felt like something was thundering. Rampaging. 

Something was happening. 

You should run, you should surrender. 

But you stay rooted to where you are, feeling the tips of your ears tingle with a whirrrr of energy clashing against energy, a monstrous sort of crackling power in the air. Tummy tensing as the ancient protective jujutsu of the estate bends and bends and bends - generations of power that snaps!

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

Right in time with three sharp, repeated raps from behind the paper-thin sliding doors to your chamber. 

Impatient. 

It certainly couldn’t be one of the elders, they’d no sooner left you here to brace the impact of Sukuna’s looming victory and die rather than keep you company. Perhaps one of Gojo’s students? Shoko?

The King of Curses himself? 

Squinting at the yolky outline of shadows drawn by the setting sun, your heart soars at the shape of those familiar broad shoulders and unruly hair.

Ones you could never mistake.

“Sa…Satoru.” You’re breathing, voice strangled as if not even your own words believed you. 

Your calves sting with the impact of your running before you even register it- Satoru. Satoru was behind this door. Satoru won. 

Almost out of breath once you reach the entrance, it’s all you can do to startle out a happy chuckle as your finger knot on the lattice handle and draaaag it open– “Sato- oh.”

Except…the man behind the door wasn’t your husband at all.

At least, not a version of your husband that you knew.

Because the Gojo rampant at the door was slouching, heaving.

Loooong, rasping breaths that made the mahogany doorframe clutched underneath his tense white knuckles crack into the tiniest of splinters. Every second wheeze fills the air up with so many charged atoms of cursed energy until you could barely even move. 

Skin-tight black compression shirt torn in a jagged scratch right down the middle, billowing white pants tattered and sagging until you could almost see a few curls of creamy white. Could see allll of his washboard abs. 

It looked like he’d clawed through hell himself just to take you there with him.

As your mouth opens and gapes wordlessly, your husband takes - well, more like stumbles - a singular step towards you that makes the expensive mats underneath break into a crater. 

You’re catching the way his meaty thighs tremble through the cracks of his trousers, a singular dewdropped bead of sweat trickling down the side of Gojo’s flushed temples - almost as if he’d…run the entire way here instead of his usual teleportation.

Breath bated, your eyes cross over the lines of his sculptured deltoids to look at the destroyed mess of the hallway leading up to your room. Only your door was left untouched. 

So he did run.

“Oh- Satoru.” Your voice drops into a sweetened tone unknowingly, and that makes Gojo stiffen with a hoarse breath. 

With every pretty sound falling from your mouth, the sweltering hot atmosphere sizzled so many temperate degrees higher, until your skin was humid with power and want and power. 

Instantly fighting against the rigid air to close the distance, all you wanted to do was hold him. “Are you- are you okay- what happened-”

And then Gojo lurches- as if he’d just been struck with your presence and it had electrocuted him, until he’s raising his eyes up to meet yours and-

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Never in your life had Gojo Satoru looked at you like that.

Heavy lids only half-open, the semi-crescents of his pupils so dilated that they shone Stygian black, tendrils of miniscule blue lightning shoot from the corners of his gaze as Gojo fights to keep his long lashes from fluttering shut. 

He looked ravaged.

The very instant you’re thinking of inching yourself closer to wrap his bruised body in a long-overdue embrace, he’s flinching. 

Like he’d read your very mind. 

And maybe he did, because in mere nanoseconds, Gojo’s kissing you and kissing you until you’re tasting everything iron and him- 

Fuck, you couldn’t even stickily part your lips from his plush, puckered ones to breathe without him letting off a pained grunt. He’s so engulfing. “My wife.”

You’re gasping at the pressurized layer of power that sticks to him like a second skin - and it fights, yearns until you’re being pressed flesh-to-bloodied flesh. Drinking in the scent of candy and something metallically sharp, “Satoru.”

A few calloused fingers tighten ‘round your tender throat so that Gojo could drink all those cute wailing whimpers of yours. 

Crushing you to his toned front, you weren’t sure if your fingerpads were digging into his chiseled shoulders out of his magnetism or pure greed. Still reminding yourself to be careful of his injuries-

“You-” Words warbling like never before, the crowned edges of your digits skim his undercut. Struggling through loudly snogging crashes of his lips, “Wh-what happened? Can you stand? Does it hurt somewhere? Do you need me to-”

“My wife.”

Oh… 

“My wife.” His parched throat slackens to suck on your pinkish tongue like his favorite candy, “My wife-” Ivory lashes trickle your cheeks, and suddenly his honed canines nip your wobbly lower lip. Tugging sensually, “My wife.”

He couldn’t get enough.

“T-Toooru–” Your maw slicks with a thick gloss of spittle, and Gojo immediately catches the dangling strands on the flat of his lecherous tongue to laaaap it up like he was a man who’d been dying of thirst for eons. 

“Need you.” 

And it was the way he said it - so low, strained. A guttural groan that sounded almost like a growl, spat right through Gojo’s clenched pearly whites. 

Devotion and power overflowing so much that he simply had to have you. He had to.

Silky locks of ivory brush your sweat-simmered forehead, “My wife- you- need you.” He’s snarling against your tightly smeared lips, almost as if stringing together coherent sentences had wrenched out whatever was left of his control, too. 

In only two flaps of your shocked lashes, Gojo’s trailing his hotly opened maw down your neck. Fangs dipping right near your throat to feel the way your pulse pounds. Power thrumming underneath his touch, air stifling– “Need you always.”

Your lips buzz at the sheer cursed energy flowing through him, vocal cords too smoky to produce a proper noise, “Need- Toru–” 

But the strongest didn’t need you to struggle out your words right now.

He’s widening his blazing sapphire peripherals once your weakened legs squeeze almost unnoticeably together. Nostrils flaring slightly and-

Ah. There.

Gojo Satoru knows the exact moment that particularly gummy droplet of slick escapes from the crevice of your throbbing pussy - because he can smell it. 

Oh, that heady, hypnotic aroma that has your husband collapsing onto his knees in front of you with a resounding CRASH! 

So hard, so rough that you’re wincing at the way his very own limitless flickers and falters to make Gojo’s capped knees bruise against the floorboards. Ground now shattered underneath his inhumanly strength- “Fuck- Toru- you just came back from-” 

But any and all shrilling words evaporate on your tastebuds, replaced with the tangy excitement of having him loll his head drunkenly between your jittery legs to sniiiiff–!

“Neeeed you-” He’s croaking out, oh-so-raw. Your spine works as a runway for your goosebumps as he’s letting his cherry-pink lips twitch up into a sleazy grin. “-my wife.”

Perhaps it’s your melty brain trying to make sense of things, perhaps it’s Gojo’s teleportation working in overdrive - because one split-second you’re slouching your weight on his sturdy figure to hold yourself standing, and the next you’re being splayed out on the cool tatami floors like such a slut.

Gasping, head swimming. 

The moment your legs fall open with a slurping pop! already talking from your oversaturated pussylips, you huff. “Did- did you just teleport us onto the floor, Satoru?”

“Teleport?” He’s barely removing his glassy pupils from the adorably damp spot peeking from between your legs. Gojo’s eyes flicker with faint recognition as he airily looks around like he wasn’t even sure how he got here.

All pinning you to the mat with one massive palm clung onto your hips, shuffled downwards so that the scorched breezes of his breaths hover over your clothed cunt in muggy lil’ gusts. 

It takes your squirming buck for Gojo to finally, finally realize his position and startles out a shocked chuckle, like he himself didn’t even realize whether he teleported. 

“Are- are you okay, Toru–?” You’re breathing out, concern rippling the rational part of your brain.

Jostling back your satiny skirt to bare your slick-sheened inner thighs to the chill air, Gojo only halts his laughter to answer - airy, about five octaves higher than you were used to. 

“Do I look okay, sweetheart?”

Fuck. 

You didn’t doubt that he wasn’t.

You were fucked. 

Because the very second Gojo tugs down your skirt, “Fuck- fuck.”

“Toru, do you need h-” And riiiips it straight off of your hips to take a good - good - long look at the sodden, see-through underwear flimsily bunched at your quivering pussy, his half-opened eyes quiver shut. 

You can’t even complain about your skirt being limited edition because Gojo just looked so ruined. And you were addicted. 

Icy brows furrowed, jaw ticking, you’re watching speechlessly once he’s taking another deeeeep inhale. Pecs constricting, the curvaceous edges of his smirk dapples with a slight geyser of drool at the sweet, sweet smell of your cunt.

“Fuuuck, my sweetheart- my wife.” The flesh of your inner thighs clam with a thin layer of perspiration at Gojo’s reverent whisper. Taking in yet another deep breath- “All mine.”

And there’s something so primal in the way the edges of his sharpened teeth come snagging down on the thin layer hiding your pussy. The very slimy tip of his tongue grazes that slight moistness of your panties and the man finds himself snickering. 

Gnawing down on the fabric– you don’t know if he realizes, you don’t know if he even cares that he’s teasingly nibbling on one of your plump labia. 

“Missed you- missed this- fuck.” He’s only making his mouth grow more waterlogged, his teeth toyin’ and grinding near your aching hot pussy– Gojo slurps up another taste of you and his hips come humping down on the firm ground. “Missed her.”

Before you know it, Gojo’s superhuman reflexes have hooked a slender finger underneath your panties and he’s tearing them. Biting them. Clean off.

“T-Toru!” You’re squealing, your dripping hole slopping out yet another splosh! of sap at the act. Your heat races as your husband lazily trawls that translucent skimp of fabric up, up, up over to give it another drunken gnaw–

Groaning, “Oh, my wife-” His darkly predatory gaze snatches back open at the cloying dredges of syrup that tack onto his tastebuds, wide. Wild. “My wife- my wife.”

There it is again, and you’re just about opening your mouth to ask about his sultry little mantra- before Gojo’s bullying out every syllable in the back of your throat with a sudden, firm push of his tongue - flopped out right where your folds were leaking the utmost.

“O-oh my ngh- god!” Your dewy lashes moisten because his probin’ muscle was just so big. And he was never this urgent before, this hurried. 

Never this filthy.

Gojo only nuzzles your flinching thighs further to give you such a sinful view, gawking at the way his bubblegum-pink buds spread wiiide open to act like a lil’ road for all your ribbony wires of slick. Every puddling bead slipping from where his tongue was plunged inside you n’ down to the target of his throat, “O-oh.”

Oh?

And Gojo was stuttering, just one taste of your soaking wet pussy and he’s letting his high cheekbones burn a bright blossoming red. Hips bludgeoning forwards to press his aching, heavy bulge into the floor. 

He was a man gone.

“So sweet. Wet- s-so wet.” He’s sucking in a few breaths before veering up a single hand to plant a rude spank right on your soaked lips. 

And imagine the strongest’s raw, carnal delight when that only makes your saccharine cunt even wetter. So drenched that your globs of slick were gathering on the point of his chin and formulating a slick puddle. 

Voice wavering, stuttering. Almost like he couldn’t even believe it even though the evidence was clinging and dripping from his very maw, “So…wet. Like a waterpark- dessert- oh…So wet- f-fuuuck s’she drooling f’me? F’me?”

“For you- o-only for you.” You’re whimpering as his hand comes slamming down again. 

Slap after slap after slap, until you swear his fingertips were starting to buzz with power. Speckles of pearly sheen flying from the knobs of his fingers and straight into his parched mouth.

“Ohhh don’t say that- don’t you say that.” He’s warning, “S’gonna make me- make me…” Prolonging the crown of his tongue to take more of you and stretch and stretch inside your elastic cunt. “Oh- fuck, m’fucking you-” Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing with a gasp– he’s tasting you. He’s really, really tasting you now. “-I’m h-haaaa…fucking you.”

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck, Satoru you’re being so…”

Insatiable? Depraved? 

“Can’t stop-” Comes out his ragged gulps, wanting to coo at your cutely twisting expressions and yet unable to even bear the thought of breaking his lewd French kiss with your cunt. “Can’t stop, sweetheart- fuck!”

He really couldn’t. Swabbing ridges of his tastebuds just keeping on swirlin’ into the tenderest spots of your gummy walls, and Gojo’s tongue is so long that every thrusting push past your snug hole leaves you feeling so dizzy.

You’re sucking in a sharp inhale, “T-Toru-”

Faring worse off, he couldn’t even speak. 

Instead of an actual answer, the only sign that shows he even heard is one of his visceral flinches, as if just the way you said his name was enough to drive him crazy.

The scratchy tip of his tongue scours in a welcoming heart right where your hole was and playfully back - no hesitation, no shyness.

“Puh-please, Satoru–” He was fucking into you now. A great big helping of saliva slobbers down the side of your mouth, your foggy pupils starting to circle at just the exact tempo of his dipping tongue. 

The only thing you’re able to let off is the wetly glistening gush of another clingy wave of sap. Swashing Gojo’s swollen lips until they’re soaking wet, your fingers scrape their way through his sweat-matted strands. Babbling, “M-more.”

And there you said. There. 

You knew the instant that those strained syllables ripped from your throat that it would not bode well for your poor pussy. 

Because Gojo’s Herculean shoulder muscles tense, lengthy lashes flapping, and you wonder if he’d stopped fucking breathing. 

Not even the slightest gust of air leaves him as he’s wafting his eyes to your teary ones in shock– “M-more?”

You can’t even tease your dear husband for the way his husky bass was cracking at the very ends, because simply repeating the words makes his cerulean irises spark with bolted lightning. Staring dead-on as he keeps muttering away to himself—

“More?”

You’re mewling as soon as his fat wad of spittle strikes your heated core, slimily slithering straight down your puffed-up lips. 

Just the sight of your glistening entrance so vulgar that, without even a second thought, Gojo’s once more surging his lips against your other pair until his pointed chin. So hard that he’s slapping the base of your treacly pussy until his skin’s all delicate n’ raw.

The curved ends of his jaw slipping n’ glissading up and down while his tongue sliiiides in.

“More-” He’s half-giggling to himself, the straight line of his nosebridge crushing your perked clit and sending your spine sparking. “More more more more- my wife- hah!” You swear you feel the cute crater of his dimples press against the skin of your thighs. Drooling, he’s crooning– “My wife wants more.”

And it’s the last thing said before your eyes blotch pure white with a sheer rummaging stretch. Wider n’ wider - not only was Gojo snaggling your leaking hole open with his tongue, he was adding in his long fingers, too.

The nearly six-inch length of his middle finger tucking between your slick-stained folds with a thundering squeeeelch–! 

“Want more- gonna get it-” You can make him uttering in a gravelly tone against your swollen lips, grunting. Repeatedly swervin’ his padded digits back n’ forth, “-gonna- gonna get it.”

“Toru- Toru oh my god- fuck, s’too good-” Your knees tremor weakly as they bend in the air, head tumbling backwards as your eyes roll to the dark depths of your skull.

“Raise.” 

It’s all you hear before a scouring tendril of cursed energy curls around your neck and your head is being forced to tilt upwards and stare deeply into Gojo’s dimly-lit eyes. Ravenous. 

You didn’t even think that he had the ability to do that, but with the way he was ruining your cunt from the very inside out you wouldn’t be surprised. 

And you think this might be the dopiest you’ve seen Gojo’s pretty smile. Something that would be so completely endearing if it wasn’t for the way that his azure eyes were flickering with cursed energy. “N’  let me ruin you, my wife.”

It wasn’t a promise - he was already doing it.

Barreling the tippy-tops of his two slippery digits so far deeply into your g-spot that you’re drooling. A wave of spitballing drool flapping from your gluey lips, “Are you- Toru are you- using Six Eyes?”

Fuck, that’s what it was.

That had to be it - he’s treating the treasure trove of your sweet spots so meanly. Like a lil’ dartboard that he’s carving out the exact spheroid circumferences of his fingertips, again. And again. And again.

Until his manicured fingernails were leaving that lil’ bundle so overstimulated that even the merest, slightest graze had you weeping out in slicked drool.

You’re crying out by the time that Gojo’s tucking the edges of his tongue inside your gaping entrance with three girthy fingertips - sweat-sleek brows knitting as he pushes and pushes against the resistance. 

Doubly filling you up, and it was such a stretch that it left your hip restless.

“M’n-not gonna hck! last, Satoru.” Your lips pucker into such a cute sob, the melody of it going straight to the plump, aching tip filling up his pants.

He’s rasping, mouth barely giving the time of day for anything other than making out with your creamy pussy. “Cum.” Urgent, rapid strokes of his fingers like he was dragging that stormy high from you. The faster his sloppy movements were becoming, the more crazed his eyes were becoming. “Cum.”

And even though you were too dumbstruck to notice it now, Gojo was so feral for your leaking pussy that loose pieces of furniture in the room had begun to clatter. 

Torrents of cursed energy zipping down to his fingers and concentrating there, “All f’me.” Breaths hoarse with belated pants, he’s groaning when the bzzzz–! of power on your battered g-spot makes your back arch prettily. 

Like a perfect bullet vibrator that was precisely and never-endingly whacking your favorite area, faster. Sloppier. 

So, so filthy.

Gojo was already widening his eyes and letting his spit-adhesive lips crack into a wild smile by the time you’re trilling about your orgasm - because he knew. Oh, he knew.

His Six Eyes could see it coming from a mile away; the way your heart was racing in a pitter-patter that matches the flicks of his narrowed tongue. Every sopping slap! making you clench your scalding insides ‘round him instinctively until it was almost difficult for him to press back against the mushy recoil of your g-spot.

But the strongest always got what he wanted.

And what he wanted was you cumming right now, your nails clawing adorable crimson rainbows all down his shoulders, his neck. “T-Toru- cu-cumming- ngh! M’c-cumming, fuck fuck fuck–”

Gojo would throw his head back and moan if it didn’t mean moving his rovering lips away from your pretty pussy.

“No- c’mon c’mon c’mon- wanna taste. Need to taste-” He’s letting you ride your peaks of euphoria out on slobbering drags of your hips. Face crinkling, his free hand darting up to cushion your tempo with reverse cursed energy so you won’t get too tired n’ stop.

He wouldn’t have been able to handle it if you did.

Wouldn’t have been able to bare- “Again. Again-” Slapping down a hand on the slick-shined inners you’re crying out once the energy-capped crowns of his fingers inch dangerously towards your clit. “Taste- on my face. All over my face, alright?”

He didn’t just want you to cum - he wanted you to squirt. 

“O-oh my god, Tooooru!” Your mouth clogs up with both spit and sultry whines, heels starting to dig into the dimples on Gojo’s sexily flexing back. “M’so sensitive, dunno if I can-”

“No.” He’s cutting you off, and you almost startle. A dull thud! emanating from where his v-line angrily hits the floor in a grindin’ push, another sparking spank punishes your sobbing slope. “No no no no- have to. Wanna taste- think m’gonna die without it.” 

Practically begging on his knees right now. And if you thought that the vibrating sensation of his fingerpads were bad, then you surely weren’t ready for the way that Gojo’s lacquering his sizzling tastebuds over with a flimsy layer of energy.

“C’mon- c’mon c’mon c’mon–” His reverse cursed energy bolts mindlessly from the left hand attached possessively to your waist, and you’re tearing up all over again with a fresh batch of salty tears when that thrumming tongue of his flops over your driveling hole. 

The textured vibrations just felt so good that it was making your mouth flap sappily open, you’re sure that the only reason you could even think right now was because of his reverse cursed energy.

Circlin’ your fleshy folds, where your plugged-up hole was being thrashed with all his pummeling fingers, then up, up, up to your twitchy clit. 

Gojo’s nimble muscle was drawing circles- no, hearts. No, a cursive T-O-R-U ♡ 

He wasn’t even trying - didn’t even have to - to let buzzing bursts of power flicker at your cunt. So teasing on purposeful, those shockwaves were making your thighs twitch with bliss each n’ every time. Every part of him.

“What does that saaay?”

“Toru- Toru” Right before you throw your head back and get steamrolled by your high like never before, such a crashing, blissful wave. “I-I’m…” 

You don’t even have to finish your soft gasping moan because your squelching pussy does so for you. In the loudest, rawest sluuuurp that Gojo laps up gratefully- a drink made especially for his dry throat. 

Ears popping, skin all tingly - you can only slouch your legs further open and take it.

Stringy, wadded splashes of syrupy sap that escape out of you even if you tried to stop. “Gonna fuck-” He’s grunting, throatily. Ruminating growls locked away in his chest, he spits into your fluttery cunt. “-gonna fuck you- fuck you so good.”

You’re so wet that Gojo’s finding himself soaked-through all the way from the tips of those creamy white curls by the shell of his ear down to his chin. A round goblet of slick glues to the sharp line of his jaw and makes a slithering trailway doooown his bobbing throat.

“S’here-” Letting go of your hips, he’s pointing to the mouthfuls of you that fill up his sloppy maw. “Down, down–” The very tip of Gojo’s lecherous finger points a pathway doooown his pale, handsome neck, “-down. All inside. Finally got ta t-taste ya, sweetheart.”

You’re still blinking back the full vignette of your vision by the time that your husband’s pulling his dexterous digits out with a noisy squelch! 

Letting the proud layer of juicy slick smear all over your pussylips once he’s giving your cute, quivering clit a lil’ piiiinch. “And m’s-still thirsty.” He’s grumbling, grinning. Watching as your mouth falls into an awe-struck ‘o’ when you feel his buzzing cursed energy flowing through him again. 

“Toru- fuck fuck fuck–!” It takes every ounce of strength in your body to lift yourself up onto your elbows. “Want…” You wanted him - namely that aching hot bulge you could peek at if you angled your head just right.

And even pushing your trembling thighs together doesn’t do anything to falter Gojo, because he’s simply pushing himself deeper between your gooey legs and gasping. Not for air, not for a breath, but for another taste of you.

Poking down the mushed tip of his tongue until he was pressing on your buttony clit. Hard. He’s seriously happy to die a death suffocated between your pretty thighs, “But why–?” 

Walls clenching needily, you shoot your hand to clutch the strongest’s angelic hair and pull–

“Fuh-fuck–!” Gojo’s dizzy head falls back, breaking off from your syrupy pussy with such a sinfully wet pop! Through your tears you see his right hand shake, quiver down between his trousers. 

And it makes your mouth water greedily to watch the schwf! of tattered fabric motioning back n’ forth as he’s grabbing his rock-hard bulge and thrusting. Angrily. Furiously. “Look what- look what you did- what you- ngh!”

Before you know it, Gojo’s clawing his free hand somewhere in the air hovering above you - all that it takes for him to snap his jujutsu powers and help draaaaag you down like some glorified doll. 

Charred breaths labored, his meaty knees clatter on either side of your body. So urgent that you wonder whether it doesn’t hurt him to scramble up your figure this way, alllll up until you’re finding your face straddled by a heaving Gojo Satoru.

“S’your fault.” He’s grouching out in a gruff tone, and you’re taking the moment to just fully admire him in all his sinful glory.

Skin-tight clothes still hanging off of him in tatters, back oh-so-arched, and his expression– oh, his expression almost made you regret pulling him away from your cunt. 

With a rosy blush flooded all the way from the tips of his ears to the back of his perspiration-glossed neck, heady gaze practically shuttered, lips dripping wet with all your essence still. A few glittery spatters of it slobber down from his cheeks to hit your own face once Gojo lets his lips fall into a soft oh!

Wheezing, “S’your…” You can only gape as he’s tugging down the ivory hem of his pants just enough to let his swollen, heavy cock free. “-fault.”

He was throbbing and big, flinching from the very tip of his lollipop-red cockhead just as soon as he’s feeling the cold breeze of your bedroom. Gojo’s biceps flex sexily as he nudges the moist skin of his tender shaft against your left cheek and pumps.

Sloppy.

“Didn’t have to be s’fuckin’ sweet-” Gojo hisses through gleaming clenched teeth, your blinking expression too gorgeous. “Didn’t have to be- so- ohhhh– m’gonna marry you. M’gonna marry you m’gonna marry you.” 

“Toruuu–” You’re cooing out, gazing as he’s biting back into a snarl. Drooling strawberry orifice sprinkling a wispy jetstream of white, vulgar. “-we’re already married, baby.”

Fuck- and then he’s cumming.

He’s cumming and cumming so much that Gojo’s overworked brain half-wonders when he might stop. The rounded curve of his ballsack squeezing with every elongated ribbon of seed that he’s letting out- more once he catches sight of the way it glissades in a sheeny polish down your features. 

Steaming hot and aching, just as much as he was. 

“Th-there’s so much, Toru-” You’re whining when the salted caramel flavor edges near your tongue, every fat goblet of sap positioned exactly to drool down your face. “-Toru?”

Gojo was on cloud nine, and you didn’t even know he was even listening to you.

Only letting out a dreamy sigh, the knobbly curve of his thumb comes brushing down that pooling slick mess he was making on you. 

Giggling - giggling, “Whoops.” He’s prodding over those webs of seed past your poutily puckered maw, purposefully gliding his fingerpad alllll the way down your wobbly bottom lip. “-missed a spot.”

You’re ogling with an ajar mouth once he glistens it over like some sultry lipgloss, you just looked so beautiful like this that Gojo feels his heart race. He feels his breath hitch, his wide length throbbing-

“Oh.” He hiccups, still sensitive with the shivering wracks of his high. And Gojo’s gaze hastily flickers behind him - to his second favorite pair of lips, after your mouth, of course. “Missed a spot there, too.”

Whatever shred of practicality left in him promises he’ll make it up to you later, he’ll take it slow and make mind-numbing love to you later. Much, much later, but for now: you’re being pushed against the bouncy mattress of your bed. 

You gasp, “A-again? Toru you-” Faltering weakly for just the slightest second when Gojo corners you on the bedcoils and rids of his shirt. All pale, chiseled muscles and power for daaaays. Fuck, he was so hot. “-do you even hck! realize you teleported us?”

The only answer he gives you is a savage grin, voice dipping into just deepest territory as he muses. “No.”

He didn’t. He really, really didn’t even register it when his powers were thrusting you into the bed and making the bedroom lights flicker once he all but tears off those damn overlarge pants. 

And then he gets closer.

Cornering you, a soft pant of shock lets off from you at the faint scars and cuts decorating those familiar muscles of his toned front. “W-wait, Satoru, are you feeling-”

“What? This?” With the click of his fingers, most of those bloodied injuries fade into obscurity. Leaving only a few scars and the remnants of reverse cursed tingling in the air. “Now ruin me, my wife.”

“Fuck…”

“Can’t think.” Gojo’s rasping voice wafts over your lips, making sure to draw out a wet sluuuurp when he suckles on your white-topped maw. Tasting you, tasting himself. His eyes flare madly wide, “-don’t want a-anything but you…”

You’re squirming sluttily at the faint bolts of lightning that decorate his creamy skin, flickering down from his eyes- down to where his ravaging cock was hanging low between his thighs. Slapping a wad of drooling precum on your inner thighs. 

Gojo was so big and hard that you could count every ba-dump–! his ruby crown was thumping against your poor bloated folds. Squelch after squelch, you got the feeling that he was repeatedly rubbing his chubby tip just to drive you mad.

“Don’t have- condoms.” And Gojo could merely lift himself off to grab those familiar foil packets in that bedside drawer - hell, he could even teleport himself there. 

But doing so meant that he had to be away from you and this cutely drooling cunt of yours. And though you didn’t mind if he went in purely raw, Gojo had another idea in mind. 

Whimpering, “Then give it-” Gojo’s breath catches when you buck your hips impatiently, “Need you, Sato- fuck!”

He was never one to disappoint, of course.

Your eyelashes flap tearily at the sudden snagging streeeeeetch being pressured between your glued pussylips. Gasping, struggling to take a look and-

“S’gonna work.” 

“I-it’s not.”

“It will.”

“Won’t- mmpf–!”

Pushing and pushing to try and fit the limitless-capped ends of his length into your tight hole. “Gonna-” He’s poking the reddish tip of his tongue between his teeth in a way that sends shivers down your spine, “-gonna work. Trust me- hck! Trust me, sweetheart.”

If you thought you’d ever gotten used to the maddening girth of your husband before, then you sure weren’t ready for right now. 

For when he’s coating his near-ten inches, thick inches with a layer of crackling limitless. Forcin’ your poor entrance even more full, the pointed corner of his head slips once more between your sandwiching lips and Gojo growls. 

“Fuck- fuck!” In both your carnally muddled minds, you’re barely registering the way something in the bedroom shatters. Sounding halfway through tears, “Not even the tip- Gotta fit- s’gotta. I have to.”

You’re whining with every rutting push, “Wh-why the hell are you so big, Satoru–?”

“Shhh m’gonna make it fit- gonna hah- make it.” He’s urgently soothing you with a big hand on your forehead - not just to caress your forehead, no. Gojo’s clawing your sweaty crown and pushing you down onto where his bulky length was pulsating. Desperate. 

And the smooch of his boiling hot length was so wiiide that your vision is shattering into something bleary. 

Pupils rolling until your eyes were only pure white, you almost don’t catch the rippling forearm being planted right in the middle of your line of sight. “Bite.” Gojo grits out, tension ticking. “Bite.”

So you do - hard enough to draw blood, and that’s exactly the way he wanted it. 

“Yeah- yeahhh jus’ like that.” He’s groaning underneath his breath once you’re gnawing, letting off the prettiest noises when Gojo keeps pulling his hips back and forth. Like some animal, he’s dolloping out a slimy topping of pre on top of your cunt and rutting– “Take it.” Somehow easing in his ridiculous length, “All of it, like my g-good wife now. All-”

And he meant it. 

Slamming his toned hips so hard into yours that sparks - literal, powerful sparks - are sent flying from his body. Pants raspy, maw slackening, “Where is it?” Roaming his eyes rapidly down your body, your skin prickles with atoms stood on edge. “Where- fuck! Where am I…ah. H-here.”

“Here?”

“Here.” A trembling, vibrating finger of Gojo’s comes drifting absent-mindedly up from the start to your folds. And the deeper this fat, vein-covered cock was bludgeoning in - the further his digit was drawing. “Here- m’riiiight here, sweetheart.”

It’s only then that your saccharine brain thinks to understand that he was using his Six Eyes, targeting the sight where his swollen cock was probin’ around your sweet insides.

“Watch me- watch me get deeper.”

You’re watching with an unfastened jaw as Gojo precisely draws where his bulbous tip was smearing out your walls to their maximum. Subconscious, short jabs back and forth back and forth baaack and forth.

Just to fit inside.

“S-shoooo deeeep–” 

“Not deep enough.” 

Stupidly prattling with every knock of his size. Gojo was so damn big that you didn’t even need his outlining digit, your goopy innards were already bulging with his size. A bumpy cylindrical outline that only went deeper, deeper-

“-deeper.” Gojo rests his woozy forehead on top of yours, just as ruined as you. So close now that his chiseled abs gliiiide down your front, “F-feels good, huh? My cock so ngh- deep- my limitless. So, so…deep.”

And it’s at that very second that once your husband bottoms out, that he breaks. 

SLAM!

His sanity, his palm collapsing down to splinter the headboard, and limitless. All at the same time.

Hours and hours later, you’ll both be told that there was a suspicious spike of cursed energy in this area during this exact time. One so strong that it alerted almost every sorcerer in the territory.

But right now you’re too focused on the way that Gojo’s mushy, furiously leaking tip was crashing head-first into your sponged cervix. And suddenly it’s not just the airy feeling of his limitless, it’s the feeling of you. 

Warm and wet. So so wet.

It’s then that Gojo gnaws down on his rosy, trembling lower lip and stalls. It’s then that he’s scrunching his eyes to stop the outpour of power. It’s then that he gasps–

“Didn’t work.”

Letting out a high, wild bout of laughter that makes you wonder just how high the kill count would be.

Confused, “Wh-what?”

Gojo only removes his hand from the bedframe to reveal a scalding handprint exactly in the shape of his, a few shards of wood falling onto the floor. 

“Didn’t…work.” His voice was hard, rough. And there was a jagged tone to them that you hadn’t ever heard before- “It didn’t- work- fuck fuck fuck- didn’t work. Didn’t work didn’t work.” All that he could even think to bellow out in moans every time that Gojo rocked his hips thoroughly. “And I…you…”

Running out of the fucking syllables, he’s letting go of your scalp to fully throw both of your legs over his shoulder and buck. So soft.

“S-soft-?” You’re making out through your pressured eardrums, clinging onto Gojo’s broad shoulders for dear life. You almost - almost - miss the way that his mouth drops, shit- he said that out loud?

Well, now that he started - Gojo couldn’t stop.

Spitting out nonsense between every jackhammer- “Y’feel s-so…soft.” He’s continuing on in an airy tone, gripping a good handful of either side of your hips. So strong that it barely take even a fraction of his strength to jostle you hip n’ down to meet every thrust, “So…sweet- fuck! Even sw-sweeter without a ngh- condom.”

So fucking looooong that every jackhammer from the tip of his geysering divot to his hefty hilt felt like it took ages. Your toes curled helplessly every time he was stirrin’ your insides right up to your cervix, crazed. 

“M’really hitting her-” His breath fans your face in steamy gusts that humidify your skin, “-really, really can feel her.” Peking you once, twice, thrice. “Kissing you- kissing her-” A slam to your cervix, “-there, too.”

You’re letting off mumbled whines of something that sounds like “yes!” and “Toru!” as Gojo slows his craving pace down just a tad to splash out a stringy drawing of a heart right at the bottom of your pussy. 

Long, thorough digging drills that bruise his exact circumference size, “N’ m’seeing her- seeing her take me so welllll, oh…deserves a lil’ treat.”

Too nervous to think about what he would consider a ‘treat’, you’re shoving your face into the clammy crook of Gojo’s neck and biting. Leaving him just as rawly red and stinging as his cock was, the action was enough to make him nibble his bottom lip.

Babbling, “Yeah- yeah, a t-treat. A treat for my good girl- my wife.” You’re feeling it before you register it, that stickily sweet buzzzz–! of cursed energy coating Gojo’s fingertips. 

He unabashedly drags it all the way across your hardened nipples - giving just a lil’ pinch - down your tummy, that bulging outline he was fucking into you, down.

Until Gojo had his sparking fingerpads locked around your throbbing fat clit and refused to let go- “You like that? Yeahh fuh-fucking like that-” Hiccuping, every new roll of his hips plapping against yours made him twist your perked nub just the way you liked. “-like seeing me like this? Th-the strongest fucking you like this?”

“Yes-” You’re sobbing out, your hip gyrating lewdly upwards in tandem with his. And it makes both you and the ancient bedsprings sing in unison when Gojo reaches so deep, “-like it, like it- ngh! Love it.”

Oh.

Oh. 

If you thought that Gojo had nothing left to lose at this point then you were wrong, because with a rummaging spank of skin-on-skin, he’s probin’ a kiss so deep into your g-spot that you can almost taste Gojo’s candied caramel flavor. 

Swiveling his hips just right to maze his lustrously crowned head into that filthy, filthy target. Thumping veins bloated enough to circle your elastic walls and make you remember each lightning bolt pattern. 

Pulse leaping through your mouth, your head bangs backwards into the plush pillows, “There- there, Toruu–!”

“I already know.” Fuck, did he know - and he almost wished you could see the way he could with his Six Eyes. Just how lecherously you glutinous walls were bending to gulp him up straight into your plush g-spot. Every whack thrashing dead-on into that bullseye, “There- there. M’right there- fucking you right there.”

He was pounding into you like he was crazed at this point, and with every white-hot star of pleasure bursting behind your eyes, you could feel yourself sinking further into the cushy bed.

“-the bed, huh?” If you were in any better state of mind, you’d have been wondering about the fact that your husband seemingly had the ability to read minds.

But even Gojo doesn’t seem to realize.

A simpering smile falling over his features as he hoists your boneless legs further up his shoulders - locking them with a simple curl of his cursed energy. Before bending down, down, down until you’re all folded in half like a lawnchair and helpless. 

Completely at the mercy of his sloppy, spanking cadence, “S’what I k-kept thinking about- ngh- a-allll today.” At just the mere mention, Gojo’s throwing his head back with another wave of excess power.

“R-really?” You’re questioning cutely, and he’s forced to concentrate on a lil’ patch of limitless on top of his weepy crownhead to stop himself from fucking cumming right then, right there. 

“Thought about you- ngh- your lips. Your smile.” That explained why he was so ravenous, biting back grunting whimpers at the throbbing clench of your melty walls - molding ‘round his barreling girth. “And your…pussy.”

“S-so filthy, Satoru.”

Your features crinkle with a tiny, blissful twitch - so faint that you almost don’t even register it. 

But Gojo does.

Fuck- of course, he does. He’s slouching forwards until the drenched tufts of his stark white happy trail scratch your already-buzzing clit. Until his superhuman senses can distinctly make out every slurring mwah-! being pulled out from your soppy folds, nodding along as if in conversation. 

“Yeah- mhmmm–” He’s tittering at your starstruck expression, kissing away the clumps of dumbfounded drool splattering from your lips. Gojo squeezes the bullet vibrators of his fingers harder ‘round your clit and lets his eyes glow once you squeal, “-knew it. You’re close, my sweetheart.”

“I-I am?”

“Mhmm—”

And his Six Eyes was never incorrect.

Within only a few more vulgar, touching strokes you could feel that familiar tightness at the bottom of your tummy. Gojo’s giving your cunt another good spank to keep your legs twitching, “C-close.”

“Yeah? Yeah?” Taking on that maddened tinge, “Gonna cum- gonna cum f’me.” He’s giggling into your open mouth, letting a few oodles of spit let slip. “Can tell- so close so lose that- ooooone—”

Your hips jiggle hysterically up into his feverish pace, chasing your high with every uncontrolled thrust. Every spark of power– “Two- two.”

“Twoooo–” He’s calling out after a confirming glance downwards with his Six Eyes, manhandling your restless body pliably. Spattered specks of sweat hit your chest when he’s aligning his tip for once last crash into your tenderest spots. One. last- “Thr- fuck–!”

Right on time. And it wasn’t just you crashing into your high, it was Gojo, too.

Every bedroom light shattering, loose furniture hovering copious inches. 

Gojo was like a monster, his skin decorating with sparks of blue lightning after every long, aching bout of overstimulated euphoria that make the strongest’s famed eyes blur with big, fat goblets of tears. 

Whimpering - whimpering - in muffled noises as he fucks you full with a roped, creamy sap. It knocks around your deepest insides and pushes up in fat wads against your cervix, that little puddle swashing around to and fro with every pump. “Milk me- yeah yeah milk me.”

He’s fucking and fucking you until his rock-hard cock rubs red n’ raw.

Your own high simply zapping tingles by now from the arched curls of your toes up to your sweltering head, Gojo slides his puffy veins just past your g-spot and your legs go weak.

“P-pleeeease–” You’re mumbling through streaky cries of your own, the feeling so filthy that you didn’t know whether you wanted more or to crawl away.

Before a splat! of something wet and viscid on your shoulder jolts you out of you reverie - and only then do you realize that Gojo fucking Satoru was drooling. 

“Don’t you fucking run.” Before you know it, both Gojo’s handless cursed energy and his own right hand curl around your throat to draaaag you back into his ruthless hips. 

His shivering thighs against yours, the stony ridge of his v-line grinding into your stinging ass cheeks just so. Gojo’s pounding you so full of his seed that you feel oh-so-sluggish, “But- but Tooooruuuu–” You could already feel every ounce of blood in his body rush to make his cock twitch, dangerously. Oh. “-a-again? More?”

It’s like the very word is enough to make him jolt. “More?”

“Will it even ngh- fit?” Your lower lip juts out into a pout, feeling the gluey mess of syrup sticking your thighs together. A few gumdrops of pearly cum already pouring out of your sheened hole and dripping right down onto his base. 

“Well…” Gojo’s peripherals were so very hazy now, and they take their languid time falling to the cumflated bulge he’d jackhammered into you. Chuckling - pitched high, he’s plugging those escaping ribbons back into your milky pussy and licking off the excess. “-how many?”

“Wh-what?” You’re gasping as he leverages the hold at your throat to spit the mess right back onto your tongue. 

“How many kids d’you want, hmmm-?” Gojo purrs right back, nuzzling the sweat-stuck side of your face. He’s whispering into your ear, “Because my Six Eyes tells me it h-hasn’t taken-” One thrust, and just about millions of angels and stars flashing behind your lids. “-yet.”

Reversed curse technique was just seeping out of Gojo, and for a second you wonder what time it was. What day- sore arms wrapping around his neck, you’re muttering your answer.

And he only chuckles– “B-because- limitless void, my wife.” And there’s a soft breeze of cracking energy washing over you - soft, loving, and so Gojo. Twinkling eyes drifting meaningfully to your humming cunt, “-m’gonna make you my ngh- cum…dump.”

He…did he just- your eyes widen, he did. Abusing that limitless void on your bawling pussy…oh, how it made you clench with need. 

Power having him crazed.

The bedroom air prickles with a gush of energy so thick it makes your skin burn slightly, and makes Gojo throw his head back with a whine. A whine. 

Eyes ablaze until only its faint bolts and the dusky sun were your sources of light right now - yet, little did you know that none of Tokyo had power, either. None of its wards. None of Japan.

The surge of power so ridiculously high that your comfy bed was sagging on one end, furniture unruly, the flowers of the estate’s gardens blooming. 

He’s letting go of your skin with a faintly steaming handprint, breath catching at the mark- Gojo similarly guides his own zapping fingers to brand your own steaming initials on his v-line. Electric. Twitching. 

“N’ who knows…” Giving you a probin’ dig of his swollen, ravaged cock, your husband grins. “-maybe I'll summon my haaaa- clones for this next round.”

A/N. Also I know most of y’all probably don’t celebrate but happy Sinhala and Tamil new year! Smooching all you lovelies <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[suksatoru]

"if you can hear me, chosen one, give me your strongest kick."

you lift your gaze from the book page pinched between your fingers and offer satoru an unimpressed glare. as scolding as you try to appear, there's a hint of a smile tugging your lips upward at his ridiculously adorable antics.

"i think our princess might be napping," he hums, pressing a flurry of kisses over the swell of your stomach as you squirm under his touch, wiggling your toes.

"you're going to be late, satoru! weren't you supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago?"

"hahh?"

he drops his face back onto your stomach gently, sighing happily as his hand glides over the soft bump. you decide to let him lie with you for a little while longer—the soft smile etched onto his face was far too precious to disturb.

"i'll text nanami and let him know you'll be a bit late to the mission, okay?" you say softly, carding a hand through his platinum locks as he hums softly, lashes fluttering close.

satoru talked to the baby in your belly quite often—even going as far as having full-on conversations with her. there had been countless nights where you stirred awake only to hear his silky sweet voice muffled against your stomach, all while he gazed starry eyed at the gentle curve of your stomach in front of him.

satoru's dearest dream had always been to have a family. it was a quiet truth he wouldn't ever dare to speak into existence because it didn't seem possible in any universe—but somehow, he stumbled upon a way. and now he gets to spend his evenings like this with you.

satoru's boundless affection during your pregnancy will forever be something you would be grateful for. the fondest thing you would look back on would have to be the endless amount of baby clothes he got—satoru had even purchased a matching set of onesies for all three of you to wear. typical satoru. he was adamant about making sure the three of you would have a bunch of pictures together as a family so he'd be able to send everyone he knew those corny holiday cards he always saw on tv—the only reason you remember that moment from so long ago right now is because of the phone call you received.

"hello?" you speak in a hushed tone, rocking the ivory haired baby in the crib next to you gently as you hold your phone between your cheek and shoulder.

"hello! is this mrs. gojo? i'm calling to confirm your family photoshoot scheduled for next week. it's the two hour session. it looks like you scheduled it a little over a year ago?" her voice comes to life through the phone, and your rocking slows to a stop.

"oh," is all you can manage at first.

you hear the sound of her typing come to a slow stop as she waits for your response. you resume rocking your daughter's crib before answering.

"i'm sorry, but it seems like my husband forgot to cancel the appointment."

she goes on a bit of a tangent, gently scolding you because the company was extremely busy with numerous photoshoots and you had canceled so last minute—but she promised to get it fixed and have the money refunded as soon as possible.

the line beeps quietly when you drop the call, and your hand feels perpetually numb as you drop your phone into your lap.

you rub at the sting that blinds your eyes a second later before rising on wobbly legs, not checking if your baby is asleep as you stumble towards your bedroom's balcony door and slide it open. you tuck your knees under you on the ground and rest your head against the railing, allowing the cool metal to be pressed against your cheek as you take a steadying breath.

you were nearing the one year anniversary of satoru's death and, quite stupidly at that, thought you'd be in a better condition by now. but his presence was irreplaceable—and it was moments like this where you were reminded how painful it was to lose your soulmate in the blink of an eye.

the night air kisses your cheek, whipping your hair around gently as it falls over your eyes—and the sensation is uncannily familiar to the way satoru's slender fingers would play with your hair and tickle your cheek whenever he was in a particularly playful mood.

the night traffic flowing beneath you fades to nothing as the wind whirls around you—but, it felt like if you closed your eyes hard enough, strained your ears as much as possible—then maybe you could make yourself believe that the whistling wind whizzing past your ear was satoru's voice lulling the ache in your chest away instead.

[freaktoru]

DO WHAT YOU WANT WITH ME BABY!

✰ pairing: nanami kento x fem!reader ✰ summary: after several sexless months of a very vanilla marriage, nanami kento learns how his slutty wife actually likes to be fucked. wc; 4.1k ✰ warnings: food play, a tiny bit of ass play, dirty talk, unprotected sex, praise, fingering, pet names, very light bondage, hair pulling, some very sweet after care, nanami is soo addicted to his wife, honestly just pure filth. 18+ MDNI

your sex life with your husband was basically dead—buried so deep, it felt like it might never come back.

i mean, you shouldn't be surprised right? when you got married, everyone warned you it would be this way. “just wait until the honeymoon phase is over”, “wait until work gets in the way”, “wait until you start sleeping in separate beds” they told you. although you thankfully hadn’t made it to the third phase yet, you didn't believe them—at least not at first.

the first few months of your marriage felt purely euphoric—like a drug you just couldn't get enough of. you were bathing in the seemingly never ending marital bliss, convinced that nothing could have come between you and your husband— at least not when the two of you were fucking like animals in heat, absolutely devouring each other no matter where the pair of you were. well, it seems life has a way of being deceiving, doesn't it?

so here you were, only one year into your marriage and somehow, sex had completely fallen off your marriage itinerary. you don’t even know how it happened. your work lives took over, and the honeymoon rush had slowly but surely died out. your daily orgasms slowly turned into weekly orgasms which eventually turned into none. the number of times you and your husband have had sex in the last few months has been a big, fat, zero. your revised daily routine now looked a little like this: wake up, breakfast, work, dinner, sleep. exciting right?

kento was a very busy man—you couldn't blame him. he was always working overtime, always being pushed past his limits by his boss and always coming home completely and utterly exhausted. but that didn't change the stark reality—your marriage had become painfully sexless, and severely depressing. and you’d endured months of this silent, dry torture before you finally stepped up and decided you had had enough.

you and nanami were a picture perfect couple—that much was obvious from just looking at the two of you. you had the perfect wedding, the perfect house and perfect vanilla sex. though, despite its initial merits, clearly it hadn't gotten you very far—not if you found yourself so sexless this early into your marriage.

you couldn't let your marriage go down like this, you simply wouldn't. something had to change; you both knew that. the only question was, who would be the one to fix it first? so, you finally mustered up the courage to tell your husband you were sick and tired of the drought, and you were more than ready to break this invisible wall which had stood between you two for months.

when you told nanami that you wanted him to fuck you nasty, whenever and however he pleased without so much as a warning— naturally, his cock hardened, and nanami had displayed the rarest of his facial expressions: shock. though, despite his obvious shock, he was just as desperate to bridge the painful distance between the two of you.

so, of course he agreed— because nanami kento was not one to deny his beautiful wife.

and then it began—the waiting game. a semblance of hope finally returned as a light in your plain, boring days and the thrill of the unknown had you going absolutely feral. not knowing when and if he was going to fuck you had you living through your day to day life in a constant state of need and arousal. you finally felt yourself getting closer and closer to the light at the end of the tunnel where a long, loving marriage awaited you.

it had only been two days since your conversation when he walked into your shared apartment after work, and saw you standing behind the kitchen island in the tiniest, sluttiest white dress, preparing his favorite after dinner dessert—apple pie. what a perfect, thoughtful wife you were.

you looked up from the recipe book to see him standing in the doorway, looking exhausted and overworked as usual but, also looking remarkably handsome in his clean suit. gosh. he had just walked through the door and already your warm and wet arousal was settling comfortably in your panties.

“hi kento, how was work?” you asked softly, your lips pulled into a light smile.

“tiring” he replied, his voice an octave deeper than normal. he must have worked very hard if he sounded this exhausted, you thought. his bag dropped to the ground with a thud and he took his shoes off followed by his blazer, leaving just his dress shirt and pants on. you watched him intently as he walked over to where you stood behind the kitchen island, rolling up his sleeves and throwing his tie on the marble surface.

you flinched as he wrapped his big arms around your waist, welcoming the warm yet unexpected touch. he nuzzled his stubbly face in the crook of your neck, placing feather light kisses along its delicate skin. you let out small, pathetic whimpers, feeling another rush of heat settle in your core. your slick would start dripping through your panties and onto the floor if you didn't fix this soon.

“my dear wife, i didn’t know you were so dirty” he mumbled into the sensitive flesh of your neck, lightly nibbling at it, and leaving a trail of wet kisses down it’s stretch. fuck. why had the two of you ever stopped doing this in the first place?

“w-what do you mean?” you asked breathlessly, already feeling worked up from his minor act of intimacy. he inhaled your sweet vanilla scent—relishing in it, before he spoke up.

“yes kento, i want to be fucked” he started, while slowly snaking his fingers down the side of your dress. “whenever you want, however you want” he finished, mocking you sweetly with your own filthy words from just days ago. he was playing with you, baiting you—and you were falling right into his waiting hands.

his fingers met with your soaked panties as you leaned your head back onto his shoulder, feeling him rub slow, lazy, teasing circles on your clothed clit, leaving you wishing you skipped the panties entirely when you got dressed this morning.

“is that not what you told me just a few days ago, my dear?” he whispered against the shell of your ear, watching you in amusement as you squirmed under his light touch. he’d barely given you anything yet your head was already clouded with arousal, making you literally tremble with need. dirty, dirty girl. “mhmmm” you hummed in response, not bothering to utter any words. not when you were so busy relishing in your husbands sweet proximity—a proximity you hadn’t felt for months.

“if i had known my wife was such a slut—” he said, slowly moving your wet panties aside with two long fingers “maybe we would’ve never had this issue in the first place” he finished, his deep, velvety voice sending little shivers racing across your skin. you closed your eyes, letting out sweet little mewls and whimpers while he toyed with your drenched pussy.

“k-kento” you moaned, desperate for more. it just wasn't enough. after so many celibate months, you were brimming with need, ready to burst at any given moment.

“yes baby? what is it?” his coo was sweet and honeyed. he toyed with you like a doll, teasingly pushing his fingers in and out of you, slowly pushing each and every coherent thought out of your mind, leaving you in a hazy, blur of need.

“ah— i n-need more” you whined pathetically in response, reaching a trembling hand up to the nape of his neck while your knuckles turned white on the other from your desperate grip on the edge of the kitchen counter.

“more what sweetheart? use your words for me” he practically purred in your ear, his voice a soft caress. the bastard knew exactly what he was doing, teasing you like this.

he pressed himself closer against you, removing your dress strap from your shoulder to give himself easier access to your tits. you bit your lip, desperately stifling your moans as he seized a handful of your breast, kneading and teasing the supple flesh, his fingers rolling your nipple with a torturous precision. fuck him.

"p-please kento, want you t-to make me feel g-good" you let out, voice shallow and breathy. your whines and moans were music to his ears, and he vowed they would be the only sound he ever craved to hear again.

you let yourself surrender to the waves of pleasure that coursed through your body as nanami pumped two of his thick, long fingers in and out of you. god, what a sight you were for him—eyes squeezed shut, rosy-cheeked and completely breathless. until this moment, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed in these last few sexless, stressful months he had lived through.

you whimpered a desperate plea as your husband pulled his fingers out, leaving you teetering on the edge of release. no, he was not going to give it to you that easy— especially not after this long of a wait. he turned you around to face him, and in one swift motion, lifted you onto the kitchen counter, the cold marble cooling the burning, aroused skin of your thighs. you felt a strong, big hand grab your waist while the other rest on the soft skin of your cheek. he looked at you through lust filled, hazel eyes—admiring his irresistible wife.

growing impatient, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his face closer to yours. "kento" you breathed against his lips, desperate for more of his attention. no matter how much he gave you, you felt it would never be enough to make up for all the time you missed with your husband.

he kissed you softly, mapping every inch of your mouth with his wet tongue. you flinched, as he caught your lip between his teeth, teasingly biting down and nibbling on it before pulling away and leaving you whining and aching all over again. removing his hand from your cheek, he reached his arm around you and picked up the bottle of whipped cream that stood with the rest of the pie ingredients.

"my dear wife, when was the last time you made me this pie? the day after our wedding?" he chuckled deeply, studying the can in his hands.

"thought you'd like it" you mumbled, embarrassed by his mocking tone. you'd never seen him like this. his expression was one—in all your years of dating and one year of marriage—you've never seen him display. he looked hungry. a hunger that went beyond satisfying his human needs—this hunger looked feral, almost primal and he looked ready to do whatever it took to satisfy it.

nanami took a step back, opening your legs further apart to give him a better view of all your sweetest parts. you watched him flick the cap off the whipped cream can, buzzing with impatience as you waited for his next move. a strong hand pushed the fabric of your skimpy linen dress up to your waist, and you almost jumped when he sprayed some on your leg.

"ah- kento, what are you doing?" you gasped, looking down at your bare thigh, where a cute little heart of whipped cream was now drawn.

"apologizing to my sweet wife" he muttered, placing the can back down on the counter. he leaned his head down to your thigh, one of your hands instantly tangling itself in his hair. that's right. this is how nanami kento would apologize for all your missed orgasms—for unknowingly denying his wife.

his tongue met with your leg and he began slowly dragging it up and down the skin of your thigh, licking up all the cream that sat in the shape of a heart. a soft moan escaped your parted lips, and you tugged on his hair to pull his head up despite him not being finished.

"dear husband, when did you become so dirty?" you echoed his earlier words right back at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you locked eyes with his ravenous gaze. there it was, that hunger— that pure look of desire which you hoped would never disappear from his eyes. marriage was hard but in this moment you were both convinced that doing this every night, would make it feel effortless. nanami only smirked lightly before diving his head back down to meet your trembling thigh. that's right, he had you trembling with need—that's how desperate you were for his touch.

strong hands held your thigh down as he finished licking the heart of whipped cream on your leg. this was an interesting way to apologize to say the least. he lifted himself up, locking eyes with you as he slowly licked the last traces of cream from his lips. holy fuck, you almost came from the sight alone.

moving his hands, he pulled your dress over your head, leaving you in just your skimpy, soaked, panties. "so beautiful" he rasped, drinking you in with just his gaze while grabbing the can and getting to work on your tits. you giggled, watching him spray two hearts of whipped cream, one around each of your nipples.

"baby you- ah" the words died on your lips as he began licking the cream, finishing off with a light nibble that had your toes curling from pleasure. with a groan, he worked his way to the other one, sending chills down your spine and whimpers past your lips. one thing was for sure—nanami knew exactly what he was doing. and he wasn't going to stop.

"please" you whined desperately— impatiently. nanami was holding you on the brink of release, dangling your orgasm right in front of you before ripping it right back when you were about to finish. it was fucking frustrating.

so many nights, while nanami stayed late at work, you lay in your shared bed, desperate and aching, your fingers working tirelessly—trying, and failing, to replicate the feeling of his. little did you know that your dear husband spent his time in similar ways. in the late hours of the night while you were soundly asleep, he stood in the giant two person shower of your shared bathroom, hand wrapped around his veiny cock, warm water streaming down his body, pumping himself endlessly. he tried, he really tried. but nothing—nothing could compare to the addictive pleasure that came from your warm, tight walls clenching around his cock or the heavenly feeling of your soft, wet lips wrapping him so sweetly. yes, it was safe to say you were both very desperate and very frustrated.

"you wanted it nasty baby, that's exactly how i'll give it to you" he groaned in your ear moments before you were flipped face down onto the counter, toes barely touching the floor. you had awakened something inside him, and now that you'd gotten a taste of this nanami, you never wanted to go back.

you craned your neck to look back at him, watching him unbutton his now crumpled white dress shirt. he met your gaze, smiling at you while he reached beside you to grab his tie. you had never reacted to your husband this viscerally before. just the mere sight of him was intoxicating, leaving your head light and hazy, as if you were drunk on his presence alone.

he moved your hands behind your back, crossing them over each other before binding them together with his tie. a light moan escaped you, and you wiggled your hands, getting a feel for the restraint.

"spread your legs" he ordered, his suddenly stern and commanding voice only fueling the desperate throb between your thighs. you obeyed, stepping your toes further apart to allow him to stand between your legs.

you'd never thought you'd be this pliable, this eager to please. but here you were, pushed against the marble counter, wrists tied and ready to fulfill any of his wishes and demands—no matter how filthy. nanami held a dangerous level of control over you and your body, and the thought of wanting it any other way terrified you. surely this is what addiction felt like.

you flipped your head over to the other side, enjoying the cooling feeling of the marble against your burning cheek while you watched him pick up his handy whipped cream once again. guess he wasn't done with that huh.

"kento" you whined, indulging in the slow, sweet pleasure but impatiently needing more than just the teasing he was giving you. it wasn't fair. you had waited long enough.

"ah ah, so impatient, my dear wife" he clicked his tongue, grabbing hold of your wrists. you shuddered slightly when you felt the cold whipped cream meet with your tight holes. oh. he placed the can down, and got on his knees, still holding your bound wrists tightly with one hand and squishing the flesh of your soft thighs with the other. he dragged his tongue up all the way from your clit to your ass, licking up the string of cream he had drawn on you just moments before.

god, this man was filthy. his tongue lingered around your rear entrance, licking playful circles around it and prodding it with his tongue. the initially foreign feeling slowly grew on you, shooting warm pulses of pleasure through every vein in your body and deep into your aching core.

he dragged his tongue away from your tight ring, lapping up the last bits of cream left around your drenched cunt. you clenched your fists, desperate to hold something—anything to help you cope with the overwhelming pleasure you felt.

"kento— e-enough, i need you inside me" you uttered, unable to contain your restless, writhing need for him any longer.

"fine, if my beautiful wife so desires" he replied lazily, letting out a low laugh. you heard him unbuckle his belt, dropping it to the ground while he unzipped his pants. finally.

"my dirty, filthy wife" he muttered, idly pumping his hard, veiny cock with one hand. before you could protest, his fat, leaking tip found itself at your seeping entrance, prodding the wet flesh around it. you heard him suck in a sharp breath, a low hiss slipping from his lips as he pushed into you slowly, stretching you so wide that your eyes fluttered to the back of your head.

"nngh- ah" you moaned at the feeling of his tip reaching your cervix. he was sheathed inside you, waiting for your quivering body to adjust to his thick length. nanami was huge—there was no denying it. no matter how many times you had taken his cock, it was always an adjustment for you.

wiggling your hips, you tried to get as comfortable as you could on the hard, white marble countertop while he started slowly moving his cock in and out of you. "i-i haven't ah-adjusted" you whined, needing more time to get used to him. after all, the months of fucking yourself with your small fingers were nothing compared to your husbands cock.

but nanami only said, "you can take it" whilst speeding up to an almost frantic pace. you felt like you were going to fucking break. but don't say you didn't ask for this. you exposed your most vulnerable self to your husband just days before, begging to be treated like this. so yeah, you asked for it. and he was only doing what his wife desired.

nanami began to question his sanity. he never cracked under pressure, no matter the circumstance, but he felt his once strong grasp on his self control now slipping through his fingers. yup. this felt almost too good to be real—like he was either high on the most potent drug or finally losing his damn mind. he couldn't recall the last time he'd ever felt like this—not even during all the other times you had sex. you just felt that good in this moment.

each thrust had you crying out and clenching around him tighter and tighter—reassuring you that this marriage could be saved, that your sex life was not dead forever. your mind was swimming in pleasure and pain, the head of his cock kissed your cervix so roughly yet so sweetly. you silently said your final goodbyes to the sweet, innocent, vanilla versions of yourselves, and welcomed this new beginning for your marriage. you wanted this version of nanami for the rest of your life.

he fisted a handful of your hair, quite literally pulling you out of your lustful haze. nanami wrapped the strands around his hand once, securing you in place—not that you had any intention of being anywhere else anyway.

"fuck- baby you feel so fucking good" he growled from behind you, his breaths slowing into heavier, raspier ones. push. pull. push. that's what this fucking felt like. your scalp ached from the strong pull on your hair and your pussy throbbed from how hard he fucked you. your bodies fused together, connecting with each of his slams inside of you.

"nngh k-kento gonna c-cum" you stuttered out. he had you so fucked out on his cock you were barely able to even think, let alone form a sentence. it was fucking pathetic.

"yeah- f-fuck come for me" his voice came out in a ragged breath and his erratic pace began to slow into a more languid, agonizing one. he couldn't help himself—he wanted, no— needed to feel every single muscle along your tight walls clench around his cock. nothing felt better than this.

a desperate cry ripped from your throat as your entire body tensed, the long built up pressure in your core finally snapping free. your breath hitched, and you surrendered completely to the overwhelming sensation, finally unraveling around him. your walls clenched and throbbed, milking his cock with every pulsating wave of pleasure that coursed through your body.

"that's it, good girl" nanami purred behind you, feeling his cock throb deep inside you— the unmistakable sign of his climax finally reaching him. he went still, letting his cum spill out inside of you as he came down from his high. he gently untangled his hand from your hair letting your head drop back down onto the counter top.

your eyes were shut and your body was limp. there was no way that you’d be able to get up and walk around— at least not for a while. you felt your husband finally pull out of you, hearing him buckle his pants back up. warm hands met with your still trembling body, and he gently flipped you over, scooping your body up into his arms. not a single word would come out of you. you were fucking spent.

“my love” he whispered softly, placing you onto the plush bed of your shared bedroom. you looked up at him through half lidded, blurry eyes. “hm?” you hummed out, hoping that was enough of an answer for him.

“let’s take a bath” he said simply and you nodded in response. you could use a warm soothing bath right about now. he stalked into the bathroom and you heard the water turn on. he came out naked moments later, and picked you up off the bed, carrying your limp, exhausted body to the bathroom.

he lowered himself in, and you followed, sitting in between his thighs, his huge frame towering over you from behind. he pushed you lightly to sit up and you obeyed, tilting your head backwards to give him easier access to your hair. he began running his long fingers through the strands, untangling the little knots that resulted from his pulling earlier. you hummed lightly at the feeling, enjoying this small, sweet act of intimacy.

he moved his hands down to your shoulders momentarily, placing light, wet kisses on each one, and a few down the length of your back. “you did so good for me” he whispered sweetly, his gentle praise sending a rush of warmth through you.

god. you loved your husband. he was so caring and so tender, and moments like these made sure to remind you of that. you hoped you’d never have to experience another drought in your marriage like that again and you would do anything to make sure it stayed the way it was in this very moment.

“kento?” you spoke up softly, eyes still closed and head thrown back as he began to lather your hair with your vanilla scented shampoo. “yes my love?” he asked in response, waiting to hear what you mustered up all your remaining strength to say.

“i didn't finish baking the pie" you said, letting out a soft laugh. so much for being thoughtful.

he let out a deeply chuckle in return, recalling how adorable you looked, baking in a cute little white dress. he'd never eat his favorite pie again if it meant sex like that for the rest of his life.

he lowered his mouth to your ear and whispered "it's okay, i already had my favorite dessert"

a/n: holy shit if u made it this far thank you so much for reading. this ended up being wayyyyyy longer than i planned it to be but i had such a good time with this <3

[tojisteddy]

Acknowledge Me

or: Simon finally gives you attention after you piss him off.

“The power it takes, to make me cry that way. Baby, I hate me when you get under my skin.”

cw: 3.6k words (lord), 18+ MDNI, Toxic!Simon/Meanie!Simon, smut with plot, daddy kink (daddy, pa), dubcon, p in v, dacryphilia, degradation (like hell), water park amusement, pvssy slapping, creampie, marathon!, intoxicated sex, pet names (lovie, doll, pup), overstim, orgasm denial, straight debauchery, after care, y/n visuals.

a/n: acknowledge me by doja cat was the big inspo.

Were you a fucking stupid brat?

Or were you simply itching for attention that you deserved?

If you told your friends, they wouldn’t call you a fucking brat. Stupid? Yeah.

For being with a man who didn’t hesitate to curse you out when you annoyed him. Simon Riley didn’t even flinch when you started hearing those hiccups over the phone, he could already picture your trembling bottom lip, huffed out cheeks and tears forming at your water line. If anything it pissed him off further.

“Don’t fuckin try it with those tears [+]. I fuckin told you, you tell me where the fuck you’re goin. Why the fuck did I have see you move to five different bars in three fuckin hours and you didn’t say a word to me about it till now!?” Simon yelled through the phone.

“You and your dumb ass friends are too fuckin reckless—“

“—Don’t call them that-“ you chided.

“-Oh, I promise you lovie, I don’t give a shit.” his voice with venom.

For fucks sake, it was supposed to be a fun night out and if you were one of your friends, it would’ve been. You and your friends loved bar hopping, enjoying the vibe wherever you went and free alcohol that men and women would order for you. You don’t remember how many bars ago, but your phone died somewhere in the middle and you did spend about five minutes at the last 6 bars trying to find an outlet before your friends dragged you away to the dance floor. That had to count for something, right? You did try to get some form of life on your phone for thirty minutes!

You’d finally gotten to an outlet, right next to the fucking bathroom. ‘15 missed called 4 new messages.’ A string of curses leaving your mouth once you dialed that memorized phone number. And there Simon was, talking to you out the ass while the music was booming in the distance, you had your phone in one hand and a finger in the other trying to hear him properly, the smell of only-god-knows from god-knows-what filling your poor nose all so you could attempt to fix your accidental boo-boo :( — but that bastard had to have you crying in the club.

Like you were thirsty for his attention. you were.

No, none of this was your fault. You didn’t need to update the 6’4, blonde, hunk of a damn brat, when he hadn’t even bothered to contact you in a month.

Yup, the ghost was actually known for ghosting you.

Purposely declining your calls, leaving your texts on read or worse: replying with a ‘k’ when you tried to meet up when you knew (least for the most part) he kept to himself. When he was stationed near by, he was at his own fucking house minding his own business. He was the worst. And the cherry on top?

The fucker had your location on.

You swore he did this to get a rise out of you, to see you teetering off the brink of sanity— and you had to attempt to reel yourself back in every. fucking. time. You weren’t his little plaything, you didn’t need him.

“Don’t fuck with me.” you mumbled, salty tears hitting your mouth. Those would be the last for the night, you swore it. It was like the liquor finally left your heart and went to your brain. Liquid courage.

“What’dyou just say t’me?”

Louder, “I said, don’t fuck with me! I’m sick of your shit Simon!” You snapped. You weren’t an angry person, you’d just hit an annoying wall you needed to get though. The annoying wall called Ghost Riley.

“You always- always come out of the fucking blue ‘nd think you tell me what to do! I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what the fuck I’m doin! Don’t be bitchy at me cause I like to have a little fuckin fun with my friends even when you’ve been ignoring me. Fuckin ignoring me instead of telling me what’s up! The fuck do I gotta do to get you off my dick?!”

“You like the messy shit, Si! You like seein me pissed at you just so you’re the one who has to come and fix it! I can’t stand it. You should go find a bitch who likes that shit because I don’t! I hate how I feel right now and I hate that you can’t be one of those kind boyfriends who’ll come and fuckin hold me nice and shit! Hell, maybe I’ll go find someone to hold me realll nice like since you fuckin won’t!” You spat, nose flaring, you were trembling with rage.

“Pup,” one word. Cut throat. Yanking you right back down to reality. “You take your pretty ass home, ‘nd I’ll go easy on you, yeah?”

You felt your chest rising and falling rapidly, you were frustrated that he clearly didn’t listen to your little rant but you felt your panties get damp. Just a bit. Just like always when you saw a punishment coming. You couldn’t help yourself.

“I-“

“—She’s busy right now please leave a message after the beep. Beeeeeeep.” Your friend, Sharon, has snactched your phone out of you hand, quickly interjecting your conversation with the man and hanging up. She hiccuped, nodding her head in satisfaction.

“You can’t spend the whoooole night by this stinky ass bathroom. Let’s go daaaaance, or-or drink.” She giggled, taking your hands. “Or both!” She squealed at her own words.

Fuck it.

You went out with your friends so you could have a good time, and that’s exactly what you were going to do.

Simon had such a nice way of breaking you down to your knees, so you were the one sobbing and begging then bringing you back up. He didn’t do it often, he wasn’t that fucking mean, but he did it when you really pissed him off. Simon needed you to understand— you weren’t in charge. He was. The man doesn’t remember exactly what you did to piss him anymore, it had been a long and grueling month for him anyway. But he had to follow through with something because he’d be damned if he had to actually apologize, you being with your idiot friends didn’t help your case. So he threw it in the melting pot of why he had a right to bully you.

The motherfucker couldn’t help himself.

When he entered your empty and annoyingly small studio apartment, he added another mark to his ‘reasons to fuck babygirl up’ list. He told you to take your sweet ass home, didn’t he? And where were you?

He’d make sure the neighbors knew exactly who the fuck he was.

It should’ve been easy for you to check in, no? He worried about your safety above all else, but it always seemed to fly out the window when you were with your friends who were notorious and extreme party girls while you just went with the flow. He didn’t not like them sober, it’s when you went clubbing you, for some reason, would get hard headed, defiant. It pissed him off, which would always lead to an argument. Usually he’d come snatch you up while you were tipsy, you’d have a cry in the car, mumbling something about how you just knew the man didn’t like you or take you serious.

And partially, Ghost didn’t. He brushed your insecurities away at first, thinking nothing of it as you went about your life. But you kept being on edge drunk or sober. So he would be right there, finger fucking you otherwise while the car was still in motion. And maybe you were right, maybe he wasn’t the sweet and soft boyfriend you wanted who’d hold your cute little hand when you made him angry. He wasn’t the type to coddle you, chicken peck your face with kisses when you felt down. Simon Riley was the gruff and overbearing man you needed to set you straight, keep you grounded when the world went to shit.

That’s what your cute little tantrum was about, least part of it was. Simon knew he was distant, you just needed a reminder he was yours and you were his. And only his. You craved him like you needed food, it was obvious to anyone who saw you two together. He chuckled, couldn’t believe you even suggested fucking some other man. As if they could handle you, as if they knew what you needed.

He’d set that attitude straight.

The shower was running when the front door of your flat closed behind you. There’s no way you left it on this whole time, did you? You didn’t remember. The night turned into a long one.

No, you didn’t get black out drunk like your friends suggested. You had another shot or two, deciding to stay on the sober side with your DD. You two did smoke a fat blunt before hitting another club though, that made you feel like you were starting to lose your hearing. But it mellowed you out completely. The anger you felt, all that angst and sadness? Gone like a snap of your fingers. The person who was yelling and crying earlier? Technically it wasn’t you, you just needed a little peace. A little medicinal help.

After singing and dancing as hard as you could, your drunk friends taking blurry photos and videos of you that you’d probably post later, you persuaded them it’d be best to get something to eat and head home around two am. It took thirty minutes to find a convenience store that was open so you could chow down on something, and fifteen to get home. With a basically empty bag of chips in one hand, purse slung over your shoulder like a duffle, a bag of junk food in your other hand, low red eyes and a small smile— you finally got home.

You’d deal with that asshole tomorrow. Or next week— maybe next month if you gave enough of a fuck like he did.

Who knows.

You sat the bag of food on the coffee table, right now the priority was your skin care routine, then eat, then zonk out till 2 pm. You still can’t believe you left the shower and the bathroom light on that was now blinding your eyes but whatever. You’d turn it off as soon as you were done since it was warm due to the slight steam.

Routine, routine, routin— you stumbled over a pile of clothes. Large male clothes— okay, maybe you were in the wrong apartment.

Not your first rodeo.

You’d just slowly back out and try looking for your apartment. No big deal.

But the shower curtain swung open and you tripped over the clothes, falling right on your ass with a yelp.

“Ya can’t be that fuckin drunk, can ya?”

Your eyes darted open, right at the familiar deep cockney accent— Simon Riley was right there in the flesh, water dripping down his scarred and large body, making him dazzle like a God in that fucked up bathroom light.

Now that was blinding.

“Hello? Are ya listenin?”

Oh, he really wanted an answer.

“ ‘M not drunk.” You said breathlessly. Intoxicated? Yes. But not drunk. The shots had worn off ages ago. Hell, maybe your high was too at the sight of this brute.

What the fuck was he doing here?

The blonde ignored the confused look on your face. Taking a towel that sat on the sink and drying his hair. No point in drying off anything else, he was about to sweat.

So were you.

Simon continued on, stepping past you and you quickly got up, following right behind him like a starved puppy. For someone who hated your apartment, he sure walked around like he owned the place. Nude, large cock swinging, and the look of annoyance written on his handsome unmasked face.

He sat on the bed, manspreading nonchalantly. Knowing you were looking at it, your eyes immediately went elsewhere.

“What do you want?” You mumbled out, shifting from foot to foot.

As if you didn’t know what was bound to happen.

The older man laughed, sarcasm dripping down his throat.

“Be good ‘nd strip, won’t repeat myself.”

“Si-Simon!” Your breath hitched once a large hand came down on your ass, once for good measure.

“Who?” He slapped his thick member on your ass, sliding it through the crevice of your cheeks.

“But- but Simon-“ another slap.

“You’re gonna make it worse for yourself, call me proper.” He smacked his cock over your glistening folds. So fucking wet.

“Daddy mmph,” You moaned.

“All this ‘b-b-but’ bullshit from ya. You’ve pissed me off more than enough. You’ll take all of it today.” Simon slipped inside your hole, filling you to the brim even with half of that girthy cock in you. You both hissed, fuck, it was always so good when he was inside your walls. Simon slowly started to rock his hips into you, slowly but surely making sure you took every inch if his manhood had to offer.

It was when he bottomed out, you knew you were in for it. Simon wasn’t talking to you, he forced your head down on the bed, forcing your back to arch further as he thrusted right at your spot. Over and over and over.

“Gonna cum pa, gonna cum.” You stuttered, feeling the pit in your stomach starting to turn.

“No you’re not.”

“—But—”

“I dare you [+]. I know you’d just looove seein how that turns out.”

You hiccuped, tears brimming as Simons pace got faster. You could feel him throbbing inside you but he wouldn’t cave. He was making the both of you suffer over a petty argument— a mistake that in any normal relationship wouldn’t be that serious.

“I- no- anngh— I need to cum—”

“-You don’t need shit you greedy. fuckin. bitch.” He grunted, swatting your ass with every thrust.

The man yanked you up by your tosseled hair, “You had your oh-so lovin Daddy fuckin worried about’cha so you can be safe then when I finally get a hold of ya ‘nd tell you to go home, you ignore me. Threatenin to go fuck some idiot, but he couldn’t fuck you like I can? Can he? Can’t keep you pretty ‘nd upright? Can he?” His hand trailed from your throat to the buldge at your stomach. He scuffed, “now you’re itching t’cum just because I have my cock right here in ya? Fuckin dumb bitch shit,”

“You a dumb bitch?” He asked, making sure you were fucking him back. Ripples forming on your ass with every thrust.

“Noooo.” You cried out, trying to get away but it only made the brute dig into you further.

“What?”

“No sir.”

“Thaaats right princess. You're my smart little girl, listen to me next time. Good on you- fuck— for tryin to salvage yourself.” He huffed.

You didn’t realize your own toes curling at that small praise, your body trembling as you reached your peak.

“Hold it, did you just fuckin cum? When I told you not to?” He growled, forcing you to look at his eyes that were practically red with anger.

“Wait, wait, wait.” You really couldn’t help yourself, you’d been holding it for how long? And you were still kinda high which made you feel the sensations ten fold, Simon was drilling into you like no tomorrow and then he gave you an inch of kindness after being so mean to you this whole fucking time.

Your body unconsciously took a mile.

“Nope.” He yanked you back to lay your back on him, the rest of his drenched length in you, and lifted your leg so it was over your head, legs parted like the red sea. The first smack on your cunt for the night had you screaming, water spraying out.

Simon gripped your chin, forcing you to look down at the mess you created while harshly rubbing your pearl, still thrusting into you from behind, “You wanna act like a greedy bitch and think with your pussy? Then you cum like a greedy fuckin bitch. Cum you dirty pup.”

And he kept smacking down on your poor cunt, unable to stop yourself from cumming and squirting. Completely creaming Simons girthy cock so that a ring of cum formed around the base of his length.

“Daddy I can’t-“ you keened.

The man scowled, “-Shut. the fuck. up. You never shut the fuck up, the only thing I wanna hear is how fucking wet that pussy is. Keep fuckin cummin like a dirty slut you are.”

And you did.

You were wetting the bed like a dog. Water flying everywhere with every thwack of Simons hand on your abused and misused clit. You didn’t even know how many times you had cum by that point. Words? What were those? You wouldn’t even be able to read a street sign or name your favorite color if asked.

You were seeing pure white, the only thing you could hear was the loud squelching of Simon pumped himself in and out of you. He pulled out for a second causing you to whine at the loss of him, but he slipped back into your tight walls, fucking you in a nice missionary.

He gave your face a few light smacks to the face, tutting “Ah, ah, ah, pup, don’t you fuckin pass out. Eyes on Daddy.”

You managed to pry those long lashes open, hooded and lower than they could ever get when you were high.

“Therrrre my pretty girl is. Look so good bein fuckin stupid on my dick doll. This is alllll my girl needed. A good lesson, yeah? Remind ‘er who’s boss, huh?” He smirked, dragging himself down to you so your legs were at your chest.

“Shit baby, feel you squeezing down on me. Wanna cum with me? Missed me given it to ya just like you always need?” Oh, you were crying again. Yeah, you did miss his mean ass.

And his mean beautifully scarred up face, the mean way his muscles flexed when he did anything, his stupid fucking mouth that had to say some stupid shit touching your full lips, his disgustingly sexy muscular yet pudgy stomach with a happy trail touching your stomach everytime he wrapped those arms around you. His massive presence when he stood next to you, mean brown eyes watching while you did your hair, your makeup, or got dressed. Heartless hands that rubbed your neck everytime he didn’t know how to comfort you because that asshole trying his hardest to understand you.

And that undeniably cruel, overly massive cock fucking you like you were the final girl getting a well deserved an award for making it out the trenches in a horror film.

Your head was full with the thought of daddy, daddy, daddy— you shook your head but you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. You hung on to whatever bullshit that man gave you. Only him. Always him.

“Wan- I wan it pa! Wan your cum in me.” you babbled through your sobs.

“Course ya fuckin do. Can’t do shit without me.” The older man crooned. He finally planted his lips on yours, you moaned at just the feel. Pink walls fluttering in ecstasy as he filled you to the brim. Slow thrusts making sure he pumped everything he had into your perfect cunt.

So much for not crying anymore.

The only sound you could be heard in that studio was you cries, like a fucking baby, bouncing off your thin walls. The headboard was finally able to rest, you knew for a fact your neighbors probably despise your being now.

“Why didn’t you- you come see me? I wanted- hicc- I wanted to see you. But- but- you wouldn’t come see me! Wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone,” You sobbed, tripping and falling through your words. “you must hate me.”

The older man rolled his eyes, “Didn’t ever say tha’. How can I hate’cha ‘nd your mine? Doesn’t make sense mama.”

“Didn’t call me though.” You were sprawled out on the bed now, fat tears escaping your eyes. The blonde was sitting on the bed, grabbing the bottled water that he kept in the nightstand, opening it and putting it to your lips to drink. You did, lifting just enough for a bit to go down your bound to be sore throat and flopping back on the bed.

“Was busy swee’art.” Half truth, half lie. Though it was habit, he was trying to keep you in the loop of his life this time. But old habits die hard. The man forgot to reply. His work schedule was fucked, and he was busy spending his free time moving house. The house he planned to give you, it just wasn’t ready yet. Simon was actually being good for you, for once.

“You’re not always busy Si, you just don’t like my annoying voice!” You whimpered.

It took everything in the older brute to not laugh, you were bein so fucking cute. Babbling nonsense but still clinging to him like a lifeline. Still wanting, still his baby girl.

“Told ya, you weren’t annoyin. Got a nice voice, so get it out silly skull.” He cooed, sitting you on your bottom to face him.

You sniffed, moaning and groaning in annoyance but choosing to accept those words. And only those though.

“Fucks sake, Stop it.”

“I caaaant.” You whined, profusely wiping your tears.

“No, dummy.” Simon pushed your hands off your own face, gently wiping the tears with his thumbs that continued to poor out, “Yer gonna throw a fuckin fit if your face ends up bein puffy cause you wipe your tears so damn rough. Take it easy.”

No one knew how to wipe your tears better than the man who created them.

“I wanna make up, you don’t want to?” That was as close to an apology you’d ever get. Always.

A proper Ghost apology was rare as is and you wouldn’t be getting that after your little tantrum tonight. So you ate up what you could get.

“I wanna- I wanna make up too Daddy.” You croaked, dragging out your words. Adorable princess.

“Pfft,” he ruffled your now messy, sweated out hair, “I gotcha.”

“Up you go.” Like a feather, Simon lifted you from the bed, walking to the bedroom you too had been at who knows how many hours ago. He gently sat you on the counter of the sink,

“Let’s get you all ready for bed, yeah?”

a/n: I really love meanie!Simon the most. Let me know what you think about him.

[symbiomancy]

scientific curiosity —frankenstein's monster

—summary: You created him. You patched him together from pieces of humans and beasts - lost your license to practice medicine and your PhD for that. He should not look at you and lust. But he does. | 1.8k | AO3 | monster masterlist

—warnings: monster x human, monsterfucking, handjob, implied mating cycle/heat, thigh fucking, rutting.

The creature has an affinity for music. That fact is not even near the most fascinating thing you’ve discovered about him, but it is a very pleasant one. He taps the keys of the piano with grace, despite his size. Mozart today, huh?

“Your motor skills are improving at an incredible rate,” you say more to yourself as you scribble furiously into your notebook. The creature voices a grunt of approval as he stares at the sheet music propped up in front of him. Mentally, you pat yourself on the back for selecting such a fine brain.

You cannot deny his improvement at everything, really. He’d graduated from picture books to children’s books within two days, to classical novels and medical books within a week. Getting him acclimated to his size had been a challenge at first but it has been leaps and bounds from those days. Writing, string instruments, key instruments, all of it, a truly incredible progress. There’s only a handful of things you’ve yet to ask.

“Any sexual desire?”

His fingers stumble on the keys.

You whip around, one arm slung over the back of the chair and push so the legs screech loudly against the wooden floor. There’s a grin on your face, pen in a death grip in your hand. “Care to elaborate?” You blindly reach for the notebook still on the table, eyes fixed on his large frame, at the way he hunches over, staring firmly at the sheet music.

“No.”

“Well, it is fall,” you muse, raise your elbow to lean it against the chair backrest, pen tapping against your bottom lip. “And I did have to supplement some parts for beast parts.”

“Hadn’t even noticed.” He thumps a foot against the ground. Griffin’s hind legs. Could’ve used the wings but taking too much from one body would’ve created too much suspicion.

“I really thought a vampire’s hand would, y’know react to warm blood — a mistake on my part, I’ll admit it. But,” your grin widens even further, “fascinating how a werewolf’s knot is still a knot even if you cut it off. Does the full moon affect it in any way?”

Your creation glares at you from across the room.

“What? Scientific curiosity.”

“You had your PhD and medical license revoked for…” he takes a deep breath and takes his hands from the piano keys to motion to himself, “me.” There’s a hint of something in his tone, something that borders on disgust. You file that away to discuss at a later time. “It’s why we’re out here. Hiding.”

“There are worse reasons to lose a doctorate for. And I was a scientist while creating you. So, scientist. Now, answer my question, please?”

The creature gently pulls down the key lid on the piano, stands, and wordlessly leaves the room.

He doesn’t come down for dinner.

You stare at the vacant seat on the other side of the dinner table with a frown. His plating is untouched, steam rising from the potato stew where he usually sits. There is no creaking in the house, nothing to signal he’s coming down. You eat alone and place his meal into the still-warm oven.

His door is closed. You stand there for a while, mulling over your words, trying to string together an apology. Should you wax something long together? An explanation? Run-on sentences to try to justify your innate curiosity at your creation’s physiological state? Nothing sounds right. Nothing sounds like enough.

“I’m sorry… for asking like that. I got carried away. It wasn’t proper of me. There’s um,” you clear your throat, “I left your plate in the oven. Heat it up if you get hungry. Good night.”

You stand at the door for another prolonged moment, trying to catch any sound on the other side of the door. It’s faint, barely there, but you can make out his breathing, slow and steady. At least he’s still here. But you decide not to test your luck any further tonight and retreat to your own room, leaving the door slightly ajar. It doesn’t fit into the frame quite correctly, anyway.

Maybe he’ll at least go downstairs for dinner later.

He stands in front of your door, staring at the small sliver of moonlight that pours into the dark hallway. There are too many loud thoughts in his head, racing and colliding. His skin feels ill-fitting, a heat simmering underneath it. You ask too many questions, he thinks — has thought since he left you in the study alone to hide away in his room with the blinds drawn and his cock in hand — too many questions that prod all the right places.

It’s in your nature. You were a scientist. And a doctor with an intricate web of knowledge about the human (and creature) body. He shouldn’t fault you for asking.

While you were downstairs eating dinner alone, he had his cock in hand — not a wholly new experience but a new-ish one — stroking it over the low bathroom sink. He’d tried, tried thinking of other things but nearly all of his experiences are tied to you and your presence. So he keeps coming back to you. Your pretty face, your smile, the light in your eyes when you ask him about his body, his psyche to scribble into your umpteenth notebook all about him.

Even now with his pants undone, cock hanging out, already (or still) hard, he thinks of you. He stares at you through the crack in the door, soundly asleep in your bed. The covers are tucked tightly over your body but legs exposed to the fall chill. It’s not right, he thinks, he should at least tuck you in before you get a cold.

He pushes the door open slowly. It creaks a short, aborted squeak and you shift in bed, pull the blanket tighter against yourself. The creature steps forward, carefully placed footfalls dancing around the one creaking floorboard right at the entrance, long slow strides taking him to the foot of your bed. You shuffle again, and for a moment he thinks this is it, you’re awake, but you turn onto your back, kick at the blanket with one foot.

You are… enticing like this, he finds. He thinks that’s what this feeling is. All he has to compare it to is the novels he’s read over and over and over again.

He grabs onto your ankles with his warm hand, touch featherlight, and gently, slowly, pulls you forward. The end of your nightgown catches against the sheets, drags further up the closer you get to him. He has the anatomical knowledge of the human body — he’s read every book in the house several times over no matter if fiction or an anatomy book, he’s effectively memorized all the illustrations, if not the texts themselves.

His fingers trace the expanse of your skin, gently knead into the flesh. He can name the muscles and the tendons, the nerves at the crook of your knee. He’s spent countless hours staring at the illustrations, even the more… explicit ones. He’s curious — you’ve rubbed off on him — but it’s dark. Instead, he stares at the gap between your thighs. It’s inviting, just perfect for him to slip his cock through. It jerks at the thought, precum dribbling from the tip.

You blink slowly. The room is dark, save for the moonlight filtering in through the window above your head. In front of you, right at the foot of the bed stands a tall figure, hand wrapped around your ankles, resting against his shoulder. Your brain jogs the existence of your creation before you startle involuntarily. He startles too, nearly dropping his grip on your ankles.

“Everything alright?” You ask. The fall chill bites at your thighs and oh.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pressing his body against the back of your legs. Something hot and heavy, wet presses between your thighs. The tip of his cock presses between your thighs, forward and backward. Slowly, like he’s testing the waters. You stare at it for a moment, then press your thighs together.

The creature groans and thrusts forward, hips assuming a sloppy pace. He’s tall and wide and big and that’s how you built him. The bed rocks with his thrusts, the headboard banging against the wall, scraping at the paint. His cock plunges between your things, smears precum onto your skin, slick and wet and loud. The sound of his cock plunging between your slick thighs is nearly deafening in the silent house. Your own arousal curls under your skin but you file it away to stare at him.

This… this is not what you had in mind when you first came up with this (quite possibly very stupid, very illegal, medically and scientifically (not to mention ethically) dubious) idea. It cost you your license and your reputation, sent you into exile. You don’t regret it on the worst of days but especially not right now.

His cold hand wraps nearly wholly around your thigh and you clench around his cock involuntarily. Your muscles jerk from the sudden chill. He groans and his hips stutter for a moment, stumble in their sloppy rhythm before he regains whatever shred of his composure is left and continues thrusting. The bulb at the bottom of his shaft is engorged, knocking against your clit with every thrust. You can’t even focus on that, just on the beads of precum dribbling from the tip of his cock, smearing against your thighs as he pulls nearly all the way back. When he thrusts towards you, pearly droplets fly, splatter against your wrinkled nightgown.

He pulls you into him, hips slamming against your thighs. The metal bed frame screeches at something, you can’t even react as he thrusts forward one last time. He cums with a guttural growl that reverberates in your own chest, thighs pressing against yours, hips jerking forward. Ropes of hot cum shoot from his cock, land on your torso. You reach out, wrap a hand around the enormous cock to jerk him off, prolong his orgasm, milk him for everything he has to offer. There’s a hiss from the back of his throat as you work him empty, splattering onto your stomach and chest, even your chin. It’s warm and sticky and it sinks into your cotton nightgown, clings to your skin.

His breathing is erratic once his large frame stops shaking. His chest expands and constricts against your legs, nails digging small crescents into your ankles. Your toes are cold from the forced position.

You reach down to the puddle of cum pooling on your stomach and draw a heart into it with a small giggle.

The creature looks up from his mess tentatively, brow furrowed and lips jutted into a hopeful smile.

“You’re not mad?”

“I’ll have you know I picked out every part of you according to my personal preferences.”

banners/dividers by @/cafekitsune

[fallenbratfiction]

your dog hates men due to his past before coming into your life. what happens now that you've started dating bucky?

a/n: slowly getting back into writing? I’ve missed my man bucky barnes so I’ve got a lot in store for him. this one is one of my favourite ideas ugh!!! i hope you enjoy this!!

mentions: animal abuse in the past, abuse mentions related to the dog. fluff, trust fall

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own

minors dni with my blog or my work

You had gotten Sergeant over two years ago while you were volunteering at the local shelter, and both your life and his had changed for the better. He had suffered a life of abuse while living in the streets; other owners before you had mistreated him in ways you couldn't bear to imagine.

It had taken some time in the early stages to somewhat train him and get him used to walking on a leash, being at parks, being social with other dogs and people, but there was something that no amount of time could fix: his fear of men.

And when you began dating Bucky a few months ago, you knew that would be a big problem.

It was a rational fear; who could blame him after all he had been through, right? It had only extended to growling and barking, but you didn't know how bad things could get.

You didn't tell Bucky about your dog at first, and you avoided inviting him to your apartment, making all sorts of excuses and staying over at his place instead.

But then it came up while you were in bed. The side of your face pressed against the pillow, facing Bucky and him as well. His hand on your face gently caressing as he looked into your eyes.

"Is there a reason why you don't want me over at your place?"

It came out of nowhere and you were unprepared for the conversation.

"What? No it's not-

"Maybe it's too soon, I mean we've been at this for four months now, right? I get it if you think having me over is a lot for you or if you live with your parents, which is totally okay I wouldn't be improper at your parent's ho-

"Bucky it's none of that" you interrupt him with a smile and sit up in bed. He watches your moves and sits up as well. "It's hard to bring it up"

"Hey, you can tell me anything doll"

"I have a dog, okay?" he just stares at you and expects the details. What's so bad about having a dog, right? "His name is Sergeant."

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just sits there, legs crossed, blanket half-fallen over his lap. His expression isn’t shock or confusion. It’s something closer to tenderness — like he’s trying to piece together how to make this easier for you.

“You think I’d be scared of a dog named Sergeant?” he finally says, smiling gently.

You huff a laugh, but your fingers are already fidgeting with the edge of the comforter. “He’s not just a dog, Bucky. He’s been through more than most people. And he doesn’t trust easily. Especially not men. Ever since he was a pup living in the streets, he was abused and mistreated by them so he growls and barks and can jump up sometimes. I-I've tried to train him, but if you come over, I'm not sure what could happen, and I don't want you or Sergeant to have a bad time so uh yeah.”

“I get it,” he says. And this time, it’s heavier. Not just words — he gets it. You realize, maybe for the first time, that Bucky understands fear. He understands trauma that lingers even after the threat is gone. “I’m not trying to replace anyone or make him like me. But if he’s part of your life, I’d like to meet him. On his terms.”

You look up at him, searching his face for any sign of discomfort or doubt. But all you see is sincerity. Patience.

“You’d really be okay with that?”

“Yeah, doll. We’ll take it slow. I’ll bring treats. He can bark all he wants, I’ve had worse aimed at me.” He nudges your knee with his. “And if he decides I’m a lost cause, you can always meet me halfway. Or we can do the whole ‘dating outside with a chaperone’ thing.”

You laugh, finally. It feels like the knot in your chest starts to loosen a little.

“You’re something else, Barnes.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, leaning in to kiss your temple. “Besides… I already like the name. Sergeant and Bucky? Feels like fate.”

Eventually, the room quiets. The conversation fades into silence, but it’s not awkward — just still. Peaceful. You fall asleep wrapped up in him, warm and safe. And even though tomorrow still holds uncertainty, it doesn’t feel as scary anymore.

Not with him in it.

--------------------

“Okay, listen,” you murmur, curled up on the couch with Sergeant pressed against your side. “I need you to do something really hard for me tonight.”

Your fingers scratch gently behind his ears — the spot that always makes him huff and melt just a little. He stays still, his big eyes watching you like he knows something’s coming.

“I don’t want you to hate him,” you whisper. “Please, just… try not to hate him. For me.”

He shifts beside you, the weight of him solid and warm, but his body’s already starting to tense. He senses it — the change in your voice, the way your breath catches.

“Bucky’s a good guy,” you continue, voice softer now, your hand moving to stroke between his shoulders. “He’s not like the others. He’d never hurt you. He’s patient, and he listens, and… he makes me feel safe.”

Sergeant’s ears flick. He doesn’t look convinced.

“I’m not asking you to love him,” you say, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Just… maybe don’t bite him?”

Then the buzzer goes off — a loud electric buzz that makes Sergeant’s head snap toward the door, a sharp growl already rumbling low in his throat.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath before walking over to the intercom. You press the button with a shaky hand.

“It’s me,” Bucky’s voice crackles through. “Can I come up?”

You exhale, grounding yourself.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Come on up.”

You glance over your shoulder at Sergeant, who’s now sitting upright, alert. His ears are perked and his body tense in that familiar way that makes your stomach twist. You kneel beside him one last time, running your hand over his back.

“Okay, listen. He’s not gonna hurt you. I swear. But I need you to be brave, okay?” Your voice is gentle but trembling just slightly. “Just like we practiced. You stay here, I’ll open the door.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you, eyes dark and wary.

You unlock the front door and wait. The seconds stretch like molasses, heavy and slow. Then a soft knock.

You open the door.

Bucky stands there, not his usual confident self. He’s dressed simply — dark jeans, soft henley, sleeves pushed up — but it’s the way he holds himself that strikes you. He’s… careful. A little unsure. Like he doesn’t want to take up too much space.

“Hey,” he says quietly, holding up a brown paper bag like a peace offering. “I brought snacks. For both of you.”

Your lips twitch into a nervous smile. “He’s on the couch.”

“I figured,” Bucky says, stepping inside slowly, his movements measured, like he’s walking through someone else’s war zone.

Sergeant sees him instantly. A low growl bubbles up, not aggressive—more of a warning. A line in the sand.

Bucky stops mid-step, crouches low without looking directly at him, and sets the bag on the floor. Then he pulls out a plastic-wrapped bone and, without extending it, gently rolls it across the floor toward the couch.

“Hey, Sergeant,” he says, his voice impossibly soft. “I’m Bucky. Just here to hang out, okay? You can have that if you want. No strings.”

The bone rolls to a stop in front of Sergeant.

He doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t bark. He growls again, softer this time, but his tail twitches once. You hold your breath.

Sergeant looks at the bone. Then at Bucky.

And he doesn’t move. But he doesn’t retreat either.

Bucky stays crouched for another moment, then slowly lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the rug. Not on the couch. Not in Sergeant’s space.

“I’m not gonna touch him,” Bucky says, glancing up at you with a faint smile. “Promise.”

You sit down beside Bucky, close enough to touch, but not quite. He lets his knee brush yours, grounding you.

“I know this probably isn’t what you expected,” you whisper.

He shrugs. “I’ve dealt with tougher first impressions.” He nods toward Sergeant, who’s now sniffing the air but hasn’t made a move for the treat. “He’s a smart guy. Just cautious.”

“So you don’t hate him?”

Bucky looks over at you, really looks, eyes soft. “Of course not. He’s protecting someone he loves. I get it.”

Your throat goes tight.

Sergeant lets out a huff. Then slowly — slowly — he leans down and takes the bone between his teeth, pulling it toward him on the couch.

Bucky doesn’t react. Just smiles to himself like it’s a small victory.

You reach for Bucky’s hand, threading your fingers together.

“He took the treat,” you whisper.

“I know,” Bucky says. “We’re making progress.”

And for the first time since you met him, Sergeant lies back down — still alert, still cautious — but chewing his treat just a few feet away from the man he once would’ve seen as a threat.

You rest your head on Bucky’s shoulder. He leans into it, gently.

And even if it’s not perfect, it’s a start.

Bucky learns to move slowly in your space.

At his own apartment, he’s handsy — teasing touches at your waist while you cook, his palm on your thigh while you talk, kisses that start soft and turn into something else entirely. But here, in your home, it’s different. Not because he doesn’t want to touch you, but because he’s being watched.

By Sergeant.

The dog never barks anymore — not unless Bucky moves too quickly. He’ll let him in now, doesn’t growl when he steps over the threshold. But once Bucky gets near you, once there’s a kiss or a hug or even his hand brushing against yours, Sergeant’s ears go up. His eyes sharpen. A quiet growl hums in his chest like a warning bell.

And Bucky respects it. All of it.

He sits on the opposite side of the couch unless Sergeant’s had time to settle, and even then, he doesn’t try to pull you into his lap or hold you close like he usually would. Sometimes, he’ll rest his hand beside yours, close but not touching, and let you be the one to reach first.

You hate it, a little. Hate the way the space between you feels wider than it should. But you love Sergeant too much to rush him. And Bucky? Bucky never complains.

He brings a new kind of treat every time — liver jerky, sweet potato chews, chicken-flavored bones. He doesn’t offer them directly. He just sets them by the door, or on the edge of the coffee table, and lets Sergeant choose.

“Buying his love?” you tease once, curling against Bucky's side when Sergeant’s finally dozing across the room.

“Bribery is underrated,” he says with a crooked smile. “Besides, I get it. If some guy walked into your space and started hanging off me, I’d growl too.”

You laugh, and he kisses your temple — slow and soft, watching Sergeant’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

Sometimes, late at night, you lie in bed together. Bucky keeps the touches gentle — just his hand on your back, or your fingers loosely twined. Sergeant sleeps at the foot of the bed, one eye half-open, like he’s not ready to fully trust the man beside you yet.

But one night, when Bucky shifts slightly to kiss your shoulder, Sergeant doesn’t growl. He doesn’t move.

He just lifts his head, watches for a beat, then lays it back down.

And Bucky exhales against your skin like it means everything.

-------------

Bucky’s sitting on the couch, one arm slung over the backrest, eyes half on the TV and half on you as you move around the apartment.

He watches you tug on a hoodie, then sees you grabbing poop bags from the drawer and unclipping the leash from the wall hook.

“You heading out, doll?” he asks, voice low and easy.

“Yeah,” you say, stuffing the bags into your hoodie pocket. “Just taking him for a walk. I won’t be long.”

Bucky nods, tapping his fingers absently against the armrest. Then, after a pause: “Can I tag along?”

You turn, surprised. “You sure, Buck?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “If Sergeant doesn’t mind. Thought it might be good—some progress, y’know. If not, I’ll just hang back here.”

You glance down at Sergeant, already sitting patiently by the door, eyes locked on the leash in your hand. Then you look back at Bucky — and the quiet, steady kind of hope in his expression.

You give a small nod. “Alright. Let’s give it a shot.”

You glance at Sergeant. His gaze is locked on you — not Bucky. But he doesn’t growl. Doesn’t retreat.

You clip the leash to his harness carefully, then reach for the door. “Okay, let’s try it.”

Bucky doesn’t rush. He waits until you’re already stepping into the hallway before he moves — slow and steady, arms at his sides, shoulders loose, like he’s trying to shrink himself smaller than he is. And Sergeant watches him every step of the way.

Outside, the air is crisp and cool. The sun’s beginning to set, casting soft gold over the pavement. You keep Sergeant close to your side, walking a few paces ahead, giving him space.

Bucky walks just slightly behind, hands in his pockets, not making eye contact with Sergeant, not reaching for you. He doesn’t even try.

But Sergeant keeps glancing back. Not in fear — in curiosity.

At the corner of the block, a jogger passes close, and Sergeant shifts in front of you protectively, body tense.

Bucky reacts without thinking — takes a small step forward, just enough to shield you.

And that’s when Sergeant turns to look at him. Really look.

There’s no growl. Just a long, silent pause.

Then — to your complete disbelief — Sergeant takes one step toward Bucky. Then two. His nose lifts, sniffing the air near Bucky’s knee.

Bucky freezes, eyes wide. “I’m not moving,” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice hushed.

Sergeant’s nose bumps lightly against Bucky’s leg. He sniffs, circles behind him, then returns to your side.

“That was…” you blink. “That was new.”

Bucky’s expression softens, almost awed. “I got vetted.”

You laugh, stunned, and a little choked up. “Yeah, I think you did.”

Bucky glances down at Sergeant. “Thanks, buddy,” he murmurs.

And maybe Sergeant doesn’t wag his tail — not quite. But he doesn’t bristle, doesn’t growl.

It’s something.

It’s progress.

-------------------

It’s one of those nights where sleep slips through Bucky’s fingers like water.

He lies there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the city outside your window barely cutting through the fog in his mind. Your breathing is soft beside him, a slow rhythm he usually finds comfort in. But tonight, even that can’t quiet the buzz under his skin.

Eventually, he shifts, careful not to wake you. Your hand twitches where it rests near his ribs, but you don’t stir — just turn slightly, a soft snore catching in your throat.

He watches you for a moment longer before slipping out of bed.

The floor creaks under his weight as he pads out of the room, and Sergeant lifts his head from his spot near the foot of the bed. There’s no growl, no sound at all — just alert, curious eyes following him.

In the kitchen, Bucky pours himself a glass of water, hands steady even though his chest isn’t. He doesn’t drink right away. Just stands there, leaning against the counter, letting the coolness of the glass anchor him.

He hears soft nails clicking on the floor before he sees Sergeant.

The dog pauses at the edge of the kitchen, watching. Not close, not too near — but there. Present.

Bucky offers a small, almost sheepish smile, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to speak.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says softly. “Brain’s loud tonight.”

Sergeant doesn’t move, but his head tilts slightly.

Bucky huffs a quiet breath, more air than laugh. He walks to the couch and sinks onto it with a groan, setting the glass on the coffee table. Sergeant follows at a slow, deliberate pace, keeping his distance, but still close enough to see him.

Bucky leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. His eyes stay on the floor.

“Just a hard night,” he murmurs. “You’d get it… right?”

He glances over, and Sergeant is watching. Ears perked. Silent.

“I’m afraid of men too, Serg,” Bucky says, voice lower now. “Not all of them. Just...the kind of men that did this to me," and moves up his metal arm for him to see.

Silence.

Then the faintest shift — the quiet sound of claws against hardwood as Sergeant lies down, just a few feet away.

Not touching. Not close.

But closer than he’s ever been without you there.

Bucky doesn’t say anything else. Just leans back, breathes in the stillness, and lets the presence beside him speak louder than words.

Bucky stays quiet on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. The weight in his chest hasn’t eased, but he’s breathing through it.

Sergeant still lies a few feet away. Watching.

Then, slowly, the dog gets up.

Bucky hears the soft shift of weight, the light tap of claws on the floor, and glances over.

Sergeant is approaching.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… deliberate. His movements are cautious but steady as he walks to the edge of the couch, his head dipping low to sniff at Bucky’s bare forearm.

Bucky freezes — not in fear, but reverence. Like something sacred is happening.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Sergeant sniffs again, and then—he sits.

Right in front of Bucky. Not pressed close, but not far either. Just there. Solid. Present.

Bucky looks down at him, uncertain. His instinct is to reach out — but he doesn’t want to ruin it. Doesn’t want to misread this rare, quiet invitation.

He lifts his arm slowly, inch by inch.

Sergeant doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t growl.

Just watches.

So Bucky moves closer — slowly, gently — until his hand is hovering just over the dog’s head.

Still no growl.

He lets his fingers lower, the tips brushing against Sergeant’s fur. It’s coarse, thick. Real.

Bucky exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He rubs slowly, one soft stroke down the center of Sergeant’s head. Then another.

Sergeant blinks. Then shifts, not away, but closer. A quiet nudge under Bucky’s hand, like: go ahead.

Bucky swallows hard, eyes stinging.

“Thanks, pal,” he says quietly, voice rough with something unsaid.

And for the first time in this apartment, in this complicated triangle of trust, Bucky isn’t just the guy trying to be patient.

He’s accepted.

And neither of them says anything more.

They just sit there, in the soft hum of the night, the soldier and the dog — both still healing, both still learning to trust.

The sun is barely up when you wake, the sky outside still painted in soft gray and peach. You blink a few times, expecting to feel Bucky beside you.

But the bed’s empty. Cold.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes, and glance toward the bedroom door, cracked open just enough to catch a faint sliver of light from the living room.

Quiet footsteps carry you out into the hall, heart already tugging with concern. Maybe he had a nightmare. Maybe—

You stop.

Your brain short circuits.

Bucky is on the couch, fast asleep.

Laid out on his back, one arm dangling off the side, his mouth just slightly open, brow smoothed in rare, deep rest.

And Sergeant?

Sergeant is on top of him.

Half on his chest, half wedged along Bucky’s side, snoring lightly, his head nestled right into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder like he belongs there.

Your hand flies up to your mouth.

What the fuck.

You stand there frozen for a beat, not breathing, like moving too fast might wake them up and shatter the impossible moment in front of you.

Then, slowly, carefully, you reach for your phone.

You hold it up, biting your lip to suppress a gasp-laugh as you frame the shot. The click of the camera is muted, but your heart is pounding.

There is no way anyone would believe this without proof.

You take another photo.

And then another.

And just for good measure, a short video — the way Sergeant’s paw twitches in his sleep, the way Bucky unconsciously shifts closer like he’s anchoring the weight against him, like he wants it there.

You lean against the doorway, blinking hard.

Bucky stirs, blinking up at you with sleep-rubbed eyes. His gaze flicks down, then back up, confusion written all over his face.

“Uh… what the—”

You hold up your phone, grinning as you make your way over to the couch. “Care to explain this, Sergeant’s Majesty?”

He glances down at Sergeant, still curled on his chest like a furry little king, and then back at you.

Bucky’s lips twitch into a sleepy smile. “Guess he finally decided I’m not too bad.”

Sergeant lets out a soft snore, stretching his paws lazily.

You shake your head, still grinning. “Looks like you two made a truce. I’m just glad one of you finally got some sleep.”

Bucky reaches up, pulling you down for a slow, warm kiss.

“Best night I’ve had in a while,” he murmurs.

And as Sergeant settles in deeper, a gentle weight and steady heartbeat beneath you both, you realize this is just the beginning of a little family made of bruised hearts and soft fur.

---------------------------

Did I cry while writing this? maybe...

No, but I genuinely smiled so hard writing this that my cheeks hurt.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are all greatly appreciated!!✨🩷

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