#thing is i don’t know where they come from

[d1stalker]

Lessons in Chemistry [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: Desperate for your attention, Clark does the unthinkable—he turns to the ultimate girl magnet, Jimmy Olsen, for help.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, POV of clark being astronomically down bad, questionable advice, possible second-hand embarrassment WC: 5k - MASTERLIST

Clark has no idea what he’s doing.

Well—that’s a lie. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He just can’t believe he’s actually going through with it.

Because this? This is rock bottom.

He’s Superman, for crying out loud! He’s flown through electrical storms, wrestled alien warlords into the dirt, and stood eye-to-eye with beings who’ve reduced cities to rubble. But now? Now he’s navigating the bullpen of the Daily Planet like it’s mined territory. His shoulders drawn tight, head ducked low, and hands shoved too deep in the pockets of a button-down that suddenly feels too tight across the chest. This is not something he’s proud of. Not remotely. But desperation has a way of scraping the dignity clean off a man.

And so that’s how he ends up standing at the edge of Jimmy’s cluttered desk, where his friend is hunched over his phone, mid-scroll, and chewing on the end of a pencil. “Hey,” he hisses, barely above a whisper.

The redhead doesn’t look up. “Yo. What’s up?”

A glance over one shoulder. Then the other. His voice drops even lower. “Come here a second.”

That earns a look. “Did you break another stapler? I’m not covering for you again, man.”

The taller man exhales through his nose and scrubs a hand through his hair before jerking his chin toward the far end of the room. “I need your help.”

Jimmy follows his gaze, then grins immediately. 

There you are. Leaning against someone’s desk, your laughter rises above the general buzz of newsroom chatter. Steve from Sports is gesturing animatedly about something, but it’s the shape of your smile that stands out. You’ve been here five months—long enough to memorize everyone’s coffee orders, to have nicknames for the janitors, to be included in that horrendous Daily Planet group chat that really only consists of memes or roasts. Everyone likes you.

Everyone talks to you.

Everyone except him.

Because for five months, every time you walk into a room, he forgets how to be casual. He fumbles his greetings, he adjusts his glasses three times too many, he says things like 'yep' instead of 'yes' and then overthinks it for days afterward.

“She’s cool,” comes the easy, admiring reply beside him from the photojournalist, paired with a small nod. “Smart. Funny. A good taste in music and an even better sense of style. I like her.”

“Yeah.” The word leaves his mouth too fast, too high-pitched. “Same.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Jimmy turns to him suspiciously. “Do you have a thing for her?”

Clark winces, and one hand lifts automatically to the back of his neck, rubbing at the skin like that’ll undo the last ten seconds. “Maybe.”

The gasp that follows is dramatic enough to turn heads. He scrambles to shush the smaller guy immediately, but it’s too late; the gleam in those blue eyes is unmistakable. Gleeful. Deeply annoying.

“Oh my God,” the younger man breathes, drawing out every syllable. “It all makes sense now.”

“Please don’t—”

“No, no—shut up. I’m connecting dots. This is important.”

One finger goes up. “The time you dropped your phone down the elevator shaft. That was her, wasn’t it? When she was entering as we were heading out?”

The silence is damning.

A second finger joins the count. “The coffee incident. The one where you somehow spilled a full latte onto your shoes. I remember she laughed at a joke you made.”

Clark is done for, he realizes, as he covers his face with one hand. This was a mistake.

“And that day,” Jimmy continues, holding up three fingers and visibly thrilled now, “when she wore the Star Wars shirt? You walked into a door. A door.”

“I thought we promised to never bring that up again.”

Laughter, loud and unrestrained, echoes off the vending machines. “You’ve been in shambles, man. You’re in love, and it’s wrecked your whole nervous system. How did I not pick up on this?”

"Jimmy—"

“Now that I think about it, you stare at her like she hung the moon. It’s actually kind of sweet. Like a Victorian gentleman who’s never seen a bare ankle.”

“I’m going to walk into traffic.”

A firm thump lands against his shoulder. “No, you’re not. You’re gonna walk over there, talk to her like a normal person, and ask her out.”

 “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Oh, buddy.” Jimmy claps his hands together like he’s about to give a TED talk. “Lucky for, I do.”

—

Jimmy advice #1: “Just be confident, bro. Show her who’s boss.”

Holy, Clark’s hands are sweating. Like absolutely dripping wet. 

He wipes them down the sides of his pants as discreetly as possible while loitering by the elevators, pretending to read the framed fire safety poster for the third time. The newsroom is pretty empty now—most people have already left, and the cleaning crew is shuffling in. 

Then he hears you.

Or, more specifically, hears the clang of your locker swinging open just down the hall, followed by the low shuffle of bags being rearranged and the muffled click of a zipper. You're humming under your breath. He straightens his collar and takes in a deep breath while trying to ignore the way his palms have already started sweating again. Just walk up to her. Lean in. Be cool.

As he rounds the corner, he spots you. You’re bent over your open locker, bag slung over one shoulder, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to fit a thermos into a space that clearly does not want to accommodate it.

And before he can think twice—before reason or logic or shame can stop him—he approaches and slaps a hand against the metal just beside your head, pinning you there underneath him. You yelp and jump about a foot in the air, whipping around so fast you nearly knock the thermos straight out of your own bag, totally startled, eyes humongous. 

When you look up, you see him, standing inches from you, arm braced against the locker door, posture rigid in an attempt to look casual. And well, it's… not really working. Clark swallows once, then does his best approximation of a charming smile.

“Hey,” he tries, nonchalantly.

You blink. Then: “Oh! Uh—hey, Clark!”

A pause. Your eyes slowly travel to the side, glancing at his hand that is still planted beside your head, before looking back at his face, eyebrows slightly raised. Immediately, Clark moves his hand, hoping you did not hear the little squeak that came with the movement or see the wet handprint left behind on the metal. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh—scare you.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, giving him a friendly shrug and zipping your bag the rest of the way. “I thought you were someone else for a second.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Nope. Just me.”

Another silence creeps in.

“How—how are you?” he asks, a beat too late.

“I’m good, I’m good,” you repeat, nodding a little, like you’re reassuring yourself now. “End of the day, you know?”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out a little strangled, more comparable to a gurgle.

You're still smiling politely, but now you shift slightly—cautiously—and begin to slide sideways out from where he’s standing. Not fast. Just enough that your shoulder brushes the locker door as you edge around him. Enough for him to get the hint. He steps back to give you space, arms suddenly feeling too long, too awkward. He wants to put his hands back in his pockets, but they’re too damp. One of them curls and uncurls uselessly by his side.

“You, uh,” you start, adjusting your bag strap, “need something? Or were you just…?”

The sentence trails off. He opens his mouth, but no words arrive. Your gaze flits toward the exit, then back at him, clearly waiting for something that isn’t coming.

“Well, I gotta go,” you chirp, taking another small step back. “But, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Then you're off—practically jogging down the hallway with a little wave thrown over your shoulder. The thermos bounces awkwardly in your bag as he watches the door swing shut behind you in despair, before letting out a deep exhale and resting his forehead on the locker. 

—

Jimmy advice #2: “You gotta smell good. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

After some quick, heavy-eyed Google searches at 3:32 a.m.—best men’s cologne 2025, top fragrances women love, what scent makes a woman fall in love instantly—Clark lands on Dior Sauvage. The name alone sounds promising, he thinks to himself.

And if the internet is to be trusted (which, in this moment of absolute despair, it is), this stuff is apparently irresistible. Confidence in a bottle. The olfactory equivalent of a smouldering glance and rolled-up shirt sleeves showcasing immaculate arm veins. So obviously, he doesn’t hesitate to go to the drug store as soon as he wakes up.

And when he returns home, in the soft, blue-tinged light of his apartment bathroom, he begins what he imagines will be the subtle, sophisticated application of a new signature scent. He sprays once on his chest, then once on his neck. Then again—just to be thorough. One for each wrist, and another spritz across his collarbone, for good luck, of course. A final, sweeping spritz over his entire torso. His eyes sting a little, but that’s normal, right? That just means it’s working. The more the better, after all.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Clark gives himself a nod alongside a few finger guns, before getting ready and heading to work. 

-

On the subway, a toddler two seats down starts crying.

He doesn’t notice.

He’s standing there in the packed car, swaying slightly with the motion, briefcase in one hand, daydreaming a quiet little reel of possibility: you, stopping by his desk. Laughing at something he says, getting a whiff of his scent and asking if he wants to grab coffee later. 

Someone coughs nearby. It’s a wet, choked sound.

He doesn’t hear it.

An older woman sitting directly across from him pulls a scarf over her nose and gives him a look, a man on the other side discreetly scoots two inches closer to the door, holding his phone in front of his face, and somewhere behind him, someone mutters Jesus Christ under their breath.

He’s floating.

He can’t wait to see you.

Jimmy said girls love confidence. Jimmy said girls love cologne. And today, he’s got both in spades.

-

The elevator is quiet—thankfully. He’s alone, which gives him a minute to exhale and enjoy the lingering aura of his new and improved smell. Chrome walls reflect a slightly flushed version of his face, he runs his fingers through his hair a few times and adjusts his tie as the elevator slows, reaching one of the lower editorial floors. With a cheery ding, the doors slide open.

The man waiting takes a step forward in to the car, but then abruptly stops mid-step. It almost looks like he’s about to gag, but instead, he swallows, then without a word, he steps backward and just… lets the door close again. Confused, Clark watches as the doors shut and the floor counter ticks upward. Weird. He must’ve been intimidated.

By the time he arrives on his floor, he’s feeling good, excited for the possible newfound attention he could receive. Yet, he barely makes it three steps into the office before Perry intercepts him, clipboard in one hand, and a stack of papers in the other. “These are for you,” he states, holding out the documents. 

“Thanks,” Clark says, reaching for the paper.

Perry sniffs, recoiling just half a step. “Whew. Bit heavy on the cologne, are we?”

“Yeah, uh—wanted to try something new.”

The editor eyes him down, hard, with a look of obvious suspicion. “Okay. Whatever you say, Kent.”

At his desk, Clark is in the process of setting everything up when he hears a loud cackle behind him. “My god, it smells like the first time I had car sex. Bad times,” Lois’ voice exhoes in his ears. 

In response is a light chuckle. Well, a better description would be a devious cackle from Cat. “Right? I’m pretty sure the first time I gave head, the guy had sprayed his dick with it. I can still taste it.” The two women burst into fresh laughter, the kind that comes from shared trauma. Still, he frowns faintly. Someone must be stinky. 

-

It’s a little later when you stop by. He spots you approaching from the corner of his eye, and subconsciously, he sits straighter. His hands fly to the keyboard, typing nonsense to make it look like he’s hard at work when you come into full view with a soft smile, your Planet mug in one hand and your lanyard looped through the crook of your elbow, swaying gently. “Hey, Clark,” you say as you reach his desk. “How’s it going?”

“Hey.” He smiles back. “It’s good. You?”

“Same for m—oh my god.” A short, choked cough cuts you off. Your nose scrunches, your hand instinctively raising to hover in front of your face, fingers pressing lightly beneath your nose. “Do you smell that?”

Does he smell the insanely manly scent wafting off of him? Does he smell like a man you want to kiss? Does he—

“What do you mean?”

“It smells like…” Your face twists, searching for the right word. “Like… the boys’ locker room in high school—” you pause, squinting at the ceiling as if the scent will name itself. “—but worse? Like Axe Body Spray’s evil twin.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Oh,” you perk, recognition dawning. “Dior Sauvage. That’s what it is.”

His expression lights up. “Oh! Yeah! I heard it was good, so I bought some.”

Your lips part open, squinting your eyes as they visibly start to water. “Ah. Well. That explains it.”

You try for a smile, but it comes out pained. Nonetheless, Clark thinks you’re gorgeous.

“Wow. This is bringing up some repressed memories,” you jokingly laugh.

… What did you just say? A slow, creeping horror descends upon him. Jimmy’s voice slithers up from the depths of his psyche like a poltergeist. “You gotta smell good, bro. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

Forbidden memory.

But you just said—

His jaw slackens, his stomach drops and he suddenly feels very hot and very cold at the same time. It’s like his nostrils have only now opened and the surge of the pungent stench fills his nose. Has he really been smelling like that all day? “Oh gosh,” he whispers, barely audible.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting in confusion. “Are you okay?”

Out of nowhere, the Kryptonian shoots up out of his seat so fast it makes you stagger back a few steps in shock. “I–uh–I… I gotta go… uh, to the washroom.”

“You sure you’re good?” 

“Yep. Totally. Fine.” He just wants to get out of here. Throw his clothes into the laundry. Scrub everything off him in the shower. “I just… nature calls.”

Faster than you can respond, Clark makes a run for it. Not to the washroom, but down the emergency stairs and right out of the building. 

—

Jimmy advice #3: “Neg her a bit, show her who’s boss.”

Fricking finally. It’s the end of the week, and that only means one thing: drinks with the Daily Planet crew. Every Friday, without fail, the team migrates to their usual spot—an old, slightly grimy bar with good fries and terrible lighting. Clark usually loves it. But tonight, all he can think about is you, how horrible his week has been, and how this is finally going to be the moment where he asks you out and you say yes. 

He’s spent the last hour trying to find a moment alone with you, but you’ve been moving in and out of conversations, laughing with Lois, or getting pulled away every time he so much as drifts in your direction. However, now, you’re standing at the bar alone, fidgeting with your straw, the light above catching in your hair. You look tired but happy, and now’s his chance.

He takes a breath and walks up beside you. “Hey,” he begins, grabbing your attention as he leans lightly against the counter.

You turn toward him, a smile blooming across your face. “Hey, Clark.”

“Didn’t think I’d get a word in with you tonight,” 

“Sorry.” Your eyes roll in fake exasperation. “It’s like whack-a-mole in here. Every time I stop moving, someone shows up to tell me how I can get even more clicks on the online articles.”

“Have you tried writing about alien dating habits?”

A laugh escapes you as you choke on your drink. “God, I wish. I’d kill for a little interstellar romance. You know how many articles I’ve written about city council zoning laws?”

The Kryptonian laughs. “I’m sure you can find a way to combine the two.”

You make a show of nodding seriously. “Maybe next time I’ll be able to add in a forbidden love subplot between a bureaucrat and a tentacled rebel who just wants to build affordable housing.”

“I’d read it.”

“I bet it’d get me a Pulitzer.”

Clark laughs again—too hard, honestly, and it draws a look from someone down the bar. He clears his throat, feeling flushed, but still smiling nonetheless. Your head tilts slightly as you watch him and he might pass out just from the prolonged eye contact alone. In an attempt to steer the attention from himself, he finds his mouth moving: “I was actually gonna congratulate you on getting the front cover yesterday.”

“You earned it,” he adds, and for a second, the compliment lands. Your mouth quirks into a soft, almost-surprised grin as you stir the ice in your drink again. But then— “I mean,” he goes on, oblivious to the fact that he is beginning to dig his own grave. “I got my first front page after, what, two months? But hey, five isn’t bad.”

You go still. There’s a full second of silence. Then two.

The grin on your face freezes and slowly morphs into a tight line. 

“Ah,” you say, and take a long sip from your drink. “So I was slow. Got it.”

Uh oh. Alarm bells ring inside of Clark’s head. Isn’t this what Jimmy told him to do?! “No—no, that’s not what I—” He’s flailing internally. “I was just joking. Well, uh, sort of. But didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. I guess I still have a lot of catching up to do.”

This is bad. This is really, really bad. He feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. “That’s not— You don’t.”

“Mm.” The look you give him makes his heart drop. Then, you glance back toward the table where Lois and a few others are still seated, waving their drinks around mid-story. “Think it’s time for a refill or something.”

“Wait—”

But you don’t. You’ve already turned around, heading back to your friends.

-

“Jimmy what the f–hey man!” Clark swings the bathroom door open so fast it slams against the wall, the sudden echo bouncing off the tiles.

The redhead currently occupying a urinal jumps. “Dude! I’m literally peeing.”

“I’ve been trying to follow your advice all week,” the taller man hisses, ignoring the fact that they are, in fact, very much in a public men’s room, “and it seems like everything I do has made it worse!”

Jimmy zips up, spins, and holds up his hands in surrender as if the reporter has a gun instead of just—well, bad energy. “Whoa, okay, what happened?”

“You told me to neg her,” All Clark can do is stab an accusing finger through the air. “Neg her! I told her five months wasn’t bad for a front page story—do you realize how that sounded?!” His voice cracks at the end, and he presses both palms into his eyes. “She walked away like I said she was illiterate.”

“Okay, it’s not that bad. She probably just thinks you’re cocky.”

“I’m not cocky!” Clark snaps. Then, quieter, “I’m…I’m the opposite of cocky. I’m anti-cocky. I'm practically allergic to confidence.”

“You say that,” his friend points out, “and yet here you are, screaming in a public bathroom, because you sounded cocky.”

“Agh,” he groans, spinning in a tight, anxious circle. “What do I do? I bet she hates me now.”

A shrug. “Just ask her out, man.”

“What.”

“Ask her out,” he repeats like it’s obvious. “Coffee. This weekend. Boom. Done.”

What follows is a brief moment of nothingness as the brunette blinks slowly, trying to compute that suggestion through a haze of spiralling horror. “You have to be joking. She’s not gonna say yes to me after what I just pulled. I don’t think we’re even there yet.”

Jimmy squints. “You literally can’t get more ‘there’ than cornering her at a bar and insulting her journalism career.”

The Kryptonian flinches. “Dude. Fresh wound.”

“Look, you don’t have to make it weird. Just tell her you were gonna hang out with some friends this weekend, but they bailed.” 

Clark rubs his temples. “So… lie to her?”

“It’s not a lie. It’s more like narrative reshaping.” Not true, but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice. 

“I feel pathetic.”

“You got this,” Jimmy claps him on the back before turning to the exit. “All you gotta do is not what you did before.”

“You mean what you told me to do,” he mutters. 

“Stay strong, brotha!” 

Then he’s alone. He groans in defeat, looking at himself in the washroom mirror. His hair is tousled, his face is beet red, and there may or may not be a few beads of sweat rolling down his back. As someone wise once sang, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He needs to do this. 

-

It’s almost as if he has tunnel vision in the way his gaze is focused solely on you. He’s a man on a mission, but when he finds you, of course, you’re with a giant group of people. He hovers a moment, fingers twitching at his sides, until finally you turn just enough for his window to open.

He cuts through the crowd, stepping beside you before he can talk himself out of it. “Hey,” he breathes out. 

Your face contorts into a mix between confusion and shock. “Can we—” he pauses, peering at the others around you, who are now definitely listening. “—can we talk?” he finishes, gently placing a hand against your arm. He notices your eyes flicker briefly toward the contact. 

“Uh, sure?”

Shifting awkwardly, he gestures vaguely toward the door. “Outside?”

You nod, passing your drink off to someone nearby and follow him out of the bar. The doors swing shut behind you both with a muffled thud, and suddenly it’s too quiet. You hug your arms lightly for warmth, though the night is mild. “I—” he begins, then rubs the back of his neck, struggling for words. “I wanted to say sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to sound rude or dismissive or… I don’t know. It came out all wrong.”

“What did you mean, then?” You ask. 

“I was just—nervous,” he hates how raw the admission sounds coming from his lips. “You got the front page, and I wanted to say something smart and funny, and it ended up just sounding—well. You heard it.”

You huff a small laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t your best.”

“Ugh, I know.” He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “But I swear I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I was trying to be... charming.”

“Negging is your version of charming?” It isn’t judgmental in the way you say it, more amused if anything. 

“Apparently,” he mutters. “Look, I’ve been trying to—gah, this is going to sound dumb—but I was wondering if maybe you’d want to grab coffee with me tomorrow?”

Your expression softens. 

“I mean, I was planning to go with some friends,” he adds quickly, taking the literal one second of silence as rejection, “but everyone else bailed, so I figured, hey, maybe you’d be up for it—”

Immediately, the excitement in your eyes fizzles out. “I was your last choice, then.”

“What? No—no! That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer, alarmed. Jesus, he can’t manage to get a single thing right around you, can he? “You weren’t—God, you were the first person I thought of. I just didn’t think you’d say yes if I asked you directly, and then I messed up earlier, and then Jimmy—” He stops, breathing hard. “I’ve been following Jimmy’s advice.”

It takes a minute, but when you register his words, your mouth falls open. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “But why—”

“Why Jimmy’s advice?” he interrupts gently.

“I—well—yeah. He’s not the most… uh, charismatic. Certainly wouldn’t be my first choice.”

The taller man exhales, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. His gaze flickers to the ground, then back up to meet yours. “Because I’ve liked you since pretty much your first day.”

“I remember you dropped your ID badge three times between the elevator and your desk,” he says, a little smile playing at his lips. “You had coffee but no actual mug, just one of those little espresso cups someone gave you at the front. And then Perry introduced you, and you shook hands with the wrong person.”

A choked laugh. “You remember that? I was a disaster.”

“No,” he cuts in quickly. “You were—you are perfect.”

Your eyes dart away shyly, but he keeps going. It’s like the floodgates have opened and nothing can stop him, not even the immense beating of his heart. 

“I didn’t know how to talk to you. I figured if I played it cool, or at least like I was cool, I’d… get your attention.” His brows draw. “But then I panicked and asked Jimmy for help, which, in retrospect, was my first mistake. My second, was actually listening to him.”

“So… The random anime locker slam?

He shudders. “Yup.”

“The Dior Sauvage?”

He closes his eyes, clearly in pain. “Yeah. That too.”

You burst out laughing, head tilted back, the sound bright and unfiltered in the quiet outside the bar. He watches you helplessly, in awe. Your shoulders shake with it as you step in a little closer, your hands sliding up to rest gently on his forearms.

His brain short-circuits.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?” And of course, his voice cracks. Great timing.

Your thumbs graze softly along his sleeves. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

That sends a jolt straight through him—his posture tightens, eyes wide, lips parting like he wants to say something and physically can’t.

“I didn’t think you liked me,” you admit. “You were being so… weird this week.”

“I was being weird.” He nods eagerly, finding his voice. “I was—I am—nervous. You’re very…” He looks down to where you’re still touching him. “Distracting.”

“It’s stupid now—”

“Nothing you say is stupid—” You lift a finger and smush it against his lips. 

“Ah ah ah, I wasn’t done.” At first, he’s startled, but then he obediently goes quiet, though it is obvious he’s dying to respond. And he can’t miss the sight of you trying not to smile at the way his mouth puckers beneath the gentle pressure.

“I thought maybe you knew I liked you,” you whisper. “And you didn’t want to hurt my feelings, so you were trying to scare me off instead. You know. So you wouldn’t have to reject me.”

His eyes go even wider, and he makes a noise behind your finger—something indignant and confused and a little horrified.

You lower your hand.

“Are you kidding?” The words tumble out of him. “I would never do that. Never. I—I’ve been trying so hard to do this right.” He takes another step toward you, and without breaking eye contact, your hands rise, sliding up to press against his chest. 

“I would never want to scare you away,” he reiterates, “not in a million years.”

You’re close enough now that he can feel your breath brushing against his cheek. He wants so badly to wrap his arms around you, but still, he’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to move unless you do first. 

“Well,” you murmur, “good.”

Then you tip your chin up and kiss him. 

It’s gentle at first—so soft it almost doesn’t feel real. Finally, he finds the courage to grip your waist, and he draws you in, close enough that your chest presses against his. He doesn’t realize how badly he’s wanted this, but now that he has it, he knows he won’t be able let go. You curl into him, your fingers clasping the fabric of his shirt as your nose nudges his, and his own rubbing the slightest circle on your skin. 

Clark feels like his brain has shut down and rebooted in the span of thirty seconds.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your lips parting in the ghost of a smile, and before the space between you can settle, he leans in again, chasing your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. You giggle against his lips, warm and breathy, and your hands slide up from his shoulders to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the high curve of his cheekbones, giving him a gentle push.

He has a dazed sort of smile, eyes half-lidded and gooey with affection. 

“Maybe… we should give Jimmy some credit.”

“Absolutely not.”  And he can’t help it—he dips down to kiss you again.

---

A/N: the dior sauvage anecdotes are, in fact, based on a true story 😭 i had so much fun writing this though!

[holeforzenin]

You’re gripping the hem of his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you upright—like if you let go, the weight of everything will finally crush you. Your fingers clutch the fabric with quiet desperation, knuckles white, heart in your throat as if holding onto him—even just his coat might somehow make him stay.

“Satoru… don’t go. Please don’t go”.

Your voice cracks mid-sentence, raw with fear. You’ve never begged him for anything like this before—not like this. Not while your chest aches so badly it feels like it might split. Not while your heart races with the certainty that if he walks out that door, something terrible is going to happen.

Satoru stands still in the doorway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Blue eyes burn under the curve of his glasses, but they don’t meet yours.

You step closer, desperation rising in your chest. You’re surprised you didn’t piss yourself yet from how terrified you are. “Y-you don’t have to!—You don’t have to go! Let someone else handle it, just this once. Let them figure it out. I’m begging you—just stay. Stay here. Stay with me, baby”.

He’s quiet. Way too fucking quiet. Which makes it ache even more considering his usual silly and exuberant demeanor. The silence stretches between you like a chasm, and you can feel yourself falling through it, inch by inch.

“Satoru”. Your voice breaks—a huge lump forming in your throat. “I don’t care what everyone expects from you. You’re just one person. You’re not fucking invincible!”

That gets a reaction. He finally lifts his head, lips pulled into something like a smile, but it’s tight and strained. He glances at you for a second before his eyes flicker, like he’s trying not to let you see how much this hurts him too.

“I know I’m not,” he says quietly, almost defeatedly. “But I have to be”.

“No, you don’t!” you snap, tears welling in your eyes as you pleaded to him. “You don’t! You’re allowed to stay. You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to—”

He catches your wrist gently—not to stop you, just to feel you. His fingers rest lightly, his thumb strokes over your pulse, as if he’s trying to memorize it before lifting it up and placing a delicate kiss on the bulging veins connecting to your wrist and hand.

“I’m scared, too,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “But if I don’t go… people die. A lot of people and I can’t live with that”.

You shake your head, your vision blurred as tears slip down your cheeks. “And I can’t live without you”. You whisper, voice breaking into a cry, hands clinging to his like it might stop him from leaving.

His breath catches. For a moment—just one fragile, wavering second—he looks like he might fold. Like every reason, every duty, every weight on his shoulders is slipping through his fingers, like he might say screw the whole fucking world and stay in your arms where it’s warm and safe and heartbreakingly human.

But then he leans in, pressing his forehead gently against yours. He closes his eyes while soaking in the feeling of your body against him, like he's trying to memorize the feel of you, the closeness, the quiet. His voice trembles as he whispers, “I’ll come back to you. I swear, I’ll come back”.

You don’t believe him. Not because he’s lying. But because he doesn’t even know if he can keep that promise and that’s what breaks your heart most of all—that even he isn’t sure he’ll make it back.

And still, he presses a soft, aching kiss to your forehead—a silent apology, a silent goodbye. Then with trembling hands, he gently untangles your fingers from the fabric of his jacket, like peeling away something sacred, and turns to walk away.

You’re left in the doorway, clutching nothing but the pieces of your heart.

Shibuya is waiting.

And so are you.

[science-hoes]

Imagine you find one of Robby’s old photo albums from the late 90s/early 2000s. It’s filled with pictures of his med school, residency, and early attending years.

You’re giggling at the photos of him, clean-shaven, baby-faced, bright-eyed. None of the things that he is now.

“Robby, you were gorgeous. Holy shit.”

The words don’t sting. Not at first anyway. But you keep fawning over how pretty he was as a much younger man. And soon, Robby starts getting jealous of his younger self.

“Yeah, well, the man in that picture wouldn’t have been able to make you come like I can.” He finally huffs in annoyance.

You glance up at him, caught off guard by the escalation, before a smug grin slithers across your face. “Is that so? You sure look like a heartbreaker in these photos. I’m sure you knew what you were doing.”

Robby grunts a laugh, like he always does when he’s getting frustrated.

Your smirk lingers as you pointed at one of the photos. “I mean look at your hair. You could’ve been a 90s model. And the earring? That’s just hot.” You continue. “You look like the king of one-night stands.”

He shakes his head, arms now crossed over his chest. “I had my nose in a book for 10 years straight after college. My gross anatomy class in med school was the only reason I knew where a woman’s clit was.”

You toss the photo album on the coffee table and crawled back onto the couch, settling comfortably in his lap, straddling his hips. “I don’t believe it. You were too pretty.”

“If you want a pretty boy, the med school is only a five minute walk.” His voice isn’t angry. It’s that fake nonchalant tone that he uses when he’s getting frustrated at the residents.

You grab him by the chin, letting his beard prick your fingertips. “Michael…” You warn.

“What? I’m just saying. You’re clearly enamored by those pictures of me. When I was much younger. And-“

You cut him off with a kiss. A sweet but deep kiss that gets him to shut the fuck up. Robby makes a sound of surprise and delight, and you know you’re reeling him back down to earth.

“I don’t want a younger man. I want you.” You mumble against his lips.

He lets out that unamused grunt again. “Then why are you obsessed with those pictures?”

You pull away to roll your eyes, smacking him across his broad chest. “Because they’re pictures of you, dumbass.”

A beat of silence passes. Then he smiles slowly, and his eyes crinkle with love. In that moment, he actually does look just like the boy in those photos.

“So, you don’t care that I don’t look like that anymore?” He questions.

You shook your head, a brooding pain your chest when you realize he’s genuinely worried. “I fell in love with this man, right in front of me.” You reply, poking the space above his heart gently. “Not that baby-faced virgin.”

Robby chuckles and swats at your hand. “Hey, I wasn’t a virgin. I just had no fucking clue what I was doing.”

You furrow your brow and nod condescendingly. “Sure, sweetie.”

Your teasing is met with a tackle of kisses and warmth from Robby, laughter filling the room, snuggling deep into the cushions of the couch, hands starting to move under clothes, hips beginning to grind, the photo album long forgotten on the coffee table. He sure knows what he’s doing now.

“Is there any way I can convince you to start wearing an earring again?”

[suliigwp]

Piastri And His Logistics Crush

Oscar Piastri x Reader | Fluff

SULI: GUESS WHOS BACK FROM HER LITTLE BREAK next fic I post will be tronab🙏🫦 omg suli writing sweet reader?! Sorry if it's awkward I felt awkward writing it, nice readers seem pick me to me omg — actually hate this but I have to give you something

SUMMARRY: Oscar Piastri seems very interested with a random girl from logistics

WORD COUNT: 3,638

WARNINGS: none!

Oscar’s cap was already damp, the brim heavy with water, and his rain jacket stuck slightly to the sleeves of his hoodie as he stepped away from the media pen. His comms handler—Ben or maybe Josh, he couldn’t keep up anymore—was trailing behind him, reading off something from his phone.

“They’ve pushed the debrief to after lunch, and Lando’s got some new setup feedback—he said it’s too stiff on entry but better through Spoon. Oh, and there’s a short sponsor shoot after. Just a five-minute thing…”

Oscar nodded, only half-listening. The rain had been falling all morning—light at first, now turning the entire Suzuka paddock into a slick, grey haze. Everything felt hushed beneath it. Umbrellas flitted past, bright logos printed on nylon. Engineers jogged across the gravel with equipment cases, shouting over the sound of tires sloshing through puddles.

The whole world felt hurried.

Except one thing.

He slowed, squinting ahead.

There—just outside the McLaren hospitality tent, pressed close to the wall like she was part of it—stood a girl. She wasn’t doing much of anything. Just holding a clipboard above her head, trying and failing to shield herself from the rain.

It wasn’t working. Her jacket was soaked through, darkened and clinging to her arms. Damp strands of hair stuck to the side of her face. She wasn’t shivering exactly, but she looked cold. Quiet. Barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for her—and Oscar hadn’t been.

But now he couldn’t stop.

He had seen her before, in passing. Always tucked behind a screen, a clipboard, a lanyard with three laminated passes clipped to it. She was one of the logistics girls—paddock operations or scheduling, something like that. Always moving fast, always quiet, never stopping to chat like some others did.

He realized the comms handler was still talking.

“—you can grab lunch after that, I’ll make sure catering keeps something—”

“I’ll be right back,” Oscar said abruptly, and turned without explaining.

He didn’t wait for a response. Just pulled his team jacket from around his shoulders, the warm interior already cooling in his hands, and started across the gravel toward her.

She didn’t notice him at first. She was trying to read something, squinting at her clipboard as if she could will the paper to stay dry. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, like she wanted to move but didn’t know where to go.

Oscar stopped just in front of her.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Her head snapped up. Her eyes widened just slightly—nothing dramatic, but surprised. She hadn’t expected to be spoken to. Maybe hadn’t expected to be seen.

“Come inside,” he said, keeping his voice light. “You’re going to catch something out here.”

She blinked once. “I’m fine,” she replied quickly. Her voice was soft, like someone who didn’t speak up often. “I’m just—finishing something.”

“You’re soaked.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, almost stubbornly.

He hesitated, then held out the jacket.

“Here. Just… take it. You can give it back whenever.”

She looked at it like he’d handed her something strange. Her fingers didn’t move. She just stared.

“It’s clean,” he added awkwardly. “I mean—it’s not sweaty or anything. I just grabbed it a minute ago.”

She didn’t reach for it.

Thunder cracked, far off in the distance, and just as she glanced toward the sound, the clipboard slipped from her hands. It slapped into the wet gravel, pages bending and streaking with mud.

“Shit,” she muttered, dropping to grab it.

Oscar didn’t think—just crouched beside her, tucking the jacket over her shoulders as she lifted the soggy clipboard and shook it off in frustration. She froze the second the fabric touched her. He lingered just long enough to make sure it was secure, then stepped back, giving her space.

The sleeves swallowed her hands. The jacket hung awkwardly off her frame, almost comically oversized, the orange stripes on the collar peeking up near her ears.

She didn’t say thank you. Not right away.

Instead, she adjusted the collar slowly, staring at the ground like she couldn’t quite make sense of what just happened. Rain still fell around them, soft but steady. Somewhere behind them, a mechanic shouted something in Italian.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight.

“I thought you looked cold,” he said quietly, unsure why he felt the need to fill the silence.

Finally, she looked up. Her eyes were clear, dark, a little guarded—but not unfriendly.

“I’ll return this,” she murmured, touching the collar of the jacket lightly.

“I hope you don’t,” he said before thinking, then faltered. “I mean—you can. Just… no rush.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Not full, not wide—just there for a breath of a second.

Then she nodded, gave him the softest little thank-you that he barely caught, and disappeared inside the tent.

Oscar stayed in the rain for a moment longer, jacketless, hands in his pockets, watching the spot where she’d stood like the silence she left behind had weight.

He didn’t know her name.

But now he needed to.

...

It was Sunday evening when she finally found him.

The paddock had thinned out — media crews packing up cables, garages half-empty, the air thick with post-race adrenaline and exhaustion. The sun was dipping low behind the Suzuka skyline, casting golden light across the gravel. Everyone moved slower now. The rush was over. Flights were being checked into. Vans were being loaded.

Oscar was leaning against the low fencing outside McLaren’s hospitality tent, his phone in one hand, the other tucked loosely into the pocket of his hoodie. He was laughing at something a team member had just said, easy and warm, that end-of-weekend looseness in his shoulders.

She almost turned around.

But then he looked up. Like he felt her there.

His eyes found hers almost instantly.

She stopped mid-step, jacket folded carefully in her arms — not lazily stuffed, but square and neat, like she’d taken the time to smooth it just right. There was something awkward in the way she held it, though. Like she’d been holding it too long.

He stepped away from the fence, expression softening. “Hey.”

“I—” she started, then paused, eyes flicking past him like she was checking if anyone else was watching. “I’ve been… trying to give this back since Friday.”

She held out the jacket.

He didn’t take it.

“Could’ve kept it,” he said, tilting his head just slightly.

Her grip didn’t loosen. “I didn’t want to keep it.”

“Didn’t want to?” he echoed, teasing, one brow raised.

Her face warmed instantly. She lowered her gaze to the folded fabric in her hands. “I meant— I was going to return it sooner, I just… you were busy. After qualifying, after the race, today especially…”

“Yeah. It’s been a bit mad.” He glanced at the jacket, then back at her. “You stayed dry, though?”

She nodded. “It helped. A lot.”

He gave a small smile, hands sliding into his pockets. “I’m glad.”

For a second, neither of them said anything.

The breeze pulled softly at the ends of her sleeves, the hem of her shirt. His hoodie rustled against the wind, the remnants of race day trailing off into something quieter.

She cleared her throat, still not quite meeting his eyes. “I just wanted to say thank you. Properly.”

“You already did,” he said. “I heard it.”

“Yeah, i guess you're right."

Oscar’s head tilted again, just barely. There was something thoughtful in his expression now. Like he was trying to memorize how she looked in that moment — the way her voice dipped, the way she fidgeted with the sleeve of the jacket she still hadn’t let go of.

“Can I ask something?” he said gently.

She glanced up. “Sure.”

“Why were you out in the rain like that in the first place?”

There was a beat.

Then she gave the tiniest, half-embarrassed shrug. “I didn’t want to miss a delivery. I was supposed to sign off on some updated logistics forms for Ferrari. It was time-sensitive.”

Oscar blinked. “You stayed outside in a thunderstorm… for Ferrari?”

“I take my job seriously,” she replied, almost defensively — then added under her breath, “Even if they never said thank you.”

His smile widened, honest and amused.

She glanced down again, finally extending the jacket fully.

He reached for it, but instead of pulling it away, his fingers brushed hers — deliberately, lightly, like he was testing something.

She didn’t move.

“…You sure you don’t want to keep it?” he asked, voice quiet.

She looked up at him, something unreadable in her eyes.

And then, without answering, she gently let go of the jacket.

But she was still smiling.

...

The next time he saw her, she was alone.

It was Saturday, late afternoon. Most of the garages had gone quiet — the kind of hush that settles over the paddock when everything’s temporarily under control. The sun was finally out, warming the pavement and making the air feel thick and slow.

Oscar had wandered from the debrief, one hand curled around a half-empty bottle of water, half-tuned out of his surroundings. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows. He didn’t know exactly where he was going — just away from the fluorescent lights and the tension and the lingering buzz of mechanics still swapping theories.

That’s when he saw her.

She was sitting on a low concrete bench near the back of the McLaren garage, tucked just far enough away that most people wouldn’t notice her. A small paper bento box rested on her lap. She was eating with wooden chopsticks, carefully picking at rice and vegetables while reading something off her phone with an expression of focus that was almost… endearing.

Her jacket was off today. Hair tied messily back. The same soft quietness as before, but somehow more at ease in the sun.

Oscar didn’t think. He just stopped walking.

And then, cautiously, stepped toward her.

“Hey,” he said, slower this time. Not startling — just a gentle greeting.

She looked up, eyes blinking once in recognition. “Oh.”

He smiled. “Mind if I sit?”

She hesitated, then shifted slightly to the side — not exactly an invitation, but not a no either. He took that as a yes.

He dropped onto the bench beside her, not too close, not too far. Close enough to smell the soy sauce from her bento. Close enough to hear the faint little crunch when she bit into a piece of tempura.

“You always eat here?” he asked, looking ahead instead of at her.

She shrugged. “It’s quiet. Nobody bothers me.”

He glanced at her. “You don’t like being bothered?”

Another bite. She chewed slowly. Then: “Depends on who’s doing the bothering.”

Oscar laughed, caught off guard. “Fair.”

Silence again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The breeze carried the hum of distant voices, tires being stacked, the occasional crackle of a team radio. A bird landed near the tire barrier. She flicked a grain of rice off her chopsticks toward it.

“What’s in that?” he asked, nodding to the bento.

“Vegetarian,” she said. “Not by choice. They ran out of everything else.”

He made a face. “Tragic.”

She looked sideways at him, dry as anything. “I can offer you one lonely carrot stick and half a dumpling.”

“Tempting.”

“You’re not getting the dumpling,” she deadpanned.

Oscar chuckled again, shaking his head. She wasn’t chatty, but she had timing. That quiet kind of funny — the kind you didn’t expect until it hit you sideways.

“I don’t think I caught your name last time,” he said after a moment.

She looked up again, finally meeting his gaze properly. A pause, then:

“Yn. Logistics.” She gestured vaguely toward the garage. “I do the boring parts so you lot can play with fast cars.”

He grinned. “Well, you’re very good at it. Even Ferrari got their papers on time.”

She huffed — almost a laugh — and returned to her lunch. “Barely.”

He didn’t leave right away. He stayed while she finished eating, talking here and there, mostly just sharing quiet space. It wasn’t anything big. Just enough.

Later, when she stood up to throw away the empty bento box, she glanced back at him and said, “You don’t need to be nice, you know.”

He looked at her, surprised. “I’m not being nice. I’m being curious.”

She raised a brow, half-skeptical.

“I mean it,” he added, softer now. “I… like talking to you.”

For a second, she didn’t move.

Then she nodded, barely, like she hadn’t expected that answer—but maybe didn’t mind it.

Then she was gone.

Oscar sat back on the bench and looked at the empty spot beside him.

And smiled.

She didn’t look back after she walked away from the bench.

Didn’t let herself.

Not even a quick glance. Not even a little over-the-shoulder peek to see if he was still sitting there. (Even though she knew he was. She could feel it. That light weight of attention that lingered in the air, warm like sunlight.)

Instead, she tossed the bento box into the bin, tucked her hands into the sleeves of her crew jacket, and kept walking until she was behind the nearest tent.

Then she exhaled.

Her heart was beating too fast. Ridiculously fast. Like she’d just sprinted through pit lane, not sat still for twenty minutes making dry little jokes about carrots and soy sauce.

What the hell was he doing?

She wasn’t stupid. She’d worked enough seasons to know how drivers were. Polite in passing. Some flirty. Some dismissive. Most didn’t even look up when you handed them a clipboard. They were in their own world. Tightly wound routines, PR-trained smiles, and eyes that were always somewhere else.

Oscar Piastri wasn’t like that. Not exactly. He was quiet too — but in a steady, watchful kind of way. Thoughtful. Grounded. And apparently, for some godforsaken reason… interested in her?

That thought alone made her stop walking again.

She frowned, staring at her boots for a second.

It had been easy to brush off the jacket thing. People did nice things sometimes. Especially if there were cameras nearby (there weren’t). Especially if it was raining (it was). And especially if they didn’t expect to see you again afterward (he definitely hadn’t, right?).

Except now he had seen her again.

And asked to sit with her.

And laughed at her dumb comments.

And told her, I like talking to you.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like him — how could you not? He was calm, kind, absurdly good at what he did, and had a smile like it could make bad days fall apart at the edges. But still, it didn’t make sense.

Her fingers curled inside her sleeves, pressing into her palms.

It wasn’t a crush. It couldn’t be. She didn’t even know him. She just…

She liked the way he looked at her. Like she wasn’t invisible.

And maybe the scariest part?

She was starting to want him to look at her again.

...

It started small.

Little things.

On Sunday morning, she was checking inventory near the back of the McLaren hospitality tent — sleeves rolled up, hair already a mess from rushing around — when she looked up to find Oscar standing just outside the flap.

He wasn’t wearing his race suit yet. Hoodie again, cap pulled low. Hands tucked into his pockets like he wasn’t doing anything in particular.

“Oh,” she said, startled.

“Hey,” he said easily, like they bumped into each other like this all the time.

She blinked. “…Do you need something?”

“Just checking if breakfast is still open,” he said, nodding vaguely toward the garage entrance.

“It is,” she said. “The buffet’s still running.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

But he didn’t move.

She raised a brow. “You’re… waiting for someone?”

He shrugged. “Nah. Just killing time.”

And then he asked how her morning was. Just like that. Like it was normal. Like he always did that.

She answered — stiffly, carefully — because part of her was still convinced she was imagining this. But he kept going. Tossed her a soft joke about the weather. Commented on the energy drinks someone had stacked like an unstable tower behind her. She found herself smiling, before she even realized it.

He left after a few minutes, walking toward the buffet like that was his original plan all along.

But fifteen minutes later, when she passed through the side corridor between the garage and media tent, she found him again — leaning against the wall, sipping coffee.

“Twice in one morning,” he said, like it was some cosmic coincidence.

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for the media run,” he said, gesturing toward the building. “They’re running behind.”

She didn’t believe him. Not really. But she didn’t call him out, either.

Instead, she just shook her head and walked past.

He followed, casually.

It kept happening.

During setup in Hungary, he appeared beside her while she was bent over a laptop near the freight containers. “Need a hand?” he asked, like he had any idea what she was doing.

In Belgium, he held the door open for her even though she was a good twenty steps away. “Timed it perfectly,” he grinned, and she rolled her eyes but said thank you anyway.

In Zandvoort, he brought her a croissant.

He didn’t say anything when he handed it over. Just pressed the paper napkin into her palm with a quiet “thought you might’ve missed breakfast,” then turned to leave like it was nothing.

It was never pushy. Never loud. Always just enough.

Little breadcrumbs.

And she followed them, even if she pretended not to.

One day, while walking past the driver’s lounge, she heard someone — one of the mechanics, maybe — murmur under their breath, “Piastri’s little logistics crush again?”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even look back.

But her ears burned for an hour.

It happened in Monza.

She’d been helping one of the hospitality interns unload supply boxes behind the garage when she saw him coming. Oscar, hands in his pockets, walking casually like always — except this time she didn’t pretend not to notice.

She straightened. Waited.

And when he got close enough, she said it plainly.

“Why do you keep finding me?”

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. But it stopped him in his tracks.

Oscar blinked, just once, like he hadn’t expected the question — or maybe like he had, and just didn’t know when it would finally come.

For a moment, all the usual ease dropped from his face. No teasing. No polite smile. Just the softest trace of honesty behind his eyes.

“Because I want to.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Why?”

He shrugged slowly, hands still deep in his hoodie pockets. “Because you’re… interesting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, gently. Like it wasn’t up for debate. “You say weird things sometimes. And you’re quiet, but not in the way that makes things awkward. You just… notice everything.”

She stared at him.

“You don’t try to be liked,” he added. “And I think that’s rare around here.”

The breeze lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear out of habit, still holding his gaze. She wasn’t used to this. Attention like this — soft, specific, undeserved. Or maybe just unfamiliar.

“I thought you were just being polite,” she said eventually.

“I don’t talk to people I’m not interested in.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“You barely know me.”

“I’m trying to fix that.”

Silence.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. She looked away, then back, her voice quieter now. “It’s… a little hard to believe.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because I’m not the girl you’re supposed to notice.”

That made him smile — not teasing, not sarcastic. Just gentle.

“I don’t really care what I’m supposed to do.”

She didn’t say anything.

He stepped just a little closer, not invading, not pushing. “Can I walk with you?”

Her lips twitched, a breath caught in her chest. Then, after a long pause:

“…Sure.”

And just like that, they fell into step — not as logistics girl and driver, not as opposites in different worlds — but as something new. Something slow. Something real.

Oscar walked beside her in comfortable silence for a few steps. She glanced at him once, unsure if he was just being polite again — if maybe she’d misunderstood everything, if maybe this was nothing.

But then he spoke.

“Hey,” he said quietly, not quite looking at her. “Are you free after everything today?”

She blinked. “Why?”

He smiled, but there was something more serious underneath. “There’s a place in town. Nothing fancy, just coffee. I thought maybe…” He paused, then finally looked at her, steady. “I’d like to take you.”

She stopped walking, surprised — not because she didn’t want to say yes, but because it felt so deliberate. So clear. Like he wasn’t hiding behind jokes or polite small talk anymore.

“You mean like a—”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Like that.”

She felt heat creep into her cheeks. She tried not to overthink it, but the silence stretched a little too long.

“I mean—only if you want to,” Oscar added quickly. “No pressure.”

“I do,” she said before she could talk herself out of it. Then, quieter: “I want to.”

He gave a small, honest smile, the kind that made her stomach twist. “Okay. After press, I’ll find you.”

“You always do.”

His smile widened just slightly. “Yeah. I do.”

And then they kept walking — her heartbeat unsteady, his hands still in his hoodie pockets — something unspoken hanging between them, charged and careful and impossibly soft.

[zeka-maki]

hii! may i request some scenario with phainon in which reader got jealous bc someone is hitting on him but phainon is so oblivious to it + reader thought they look good together? so, reader avoid + ignore phainon for like... days cuz they thought he deserve someone better. phai couldnt take it anymore cuz he misses reader so he confront them & then they made up. fluffy happy ending please! ><

sorry if its too specific but i just love scenarios like this >:3

tysm!!

ʚɞ I wouldn't know what to do without you ʚɞ

Pairings: Phainon x Reader

Summary: Jealousy isn't your forte, but when you saw someone else attempting to flirt with him, something snapped inside you. Days of your avoidance, Phainon is desperate. He doesn't know what he has done wrong, all he wants is you back to him.

Tags: Fluff, slight angst, Phainon is oblivious to flirting, Reader is avoidant at times, miscommunication, happy ending.

A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! Phainon is js a silly guy who happens to enter the torture city. Top 5 hottest things a man can do: yearn, yearn, yearn, plan dates and yearn. Ngl that's my next fic idea. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

In Okhema, people walk like the world is watching. Every movement is measured. Every glance calculated. And Phainon — Chrysos Heir, esteemed Flame-Chaser, child of radiance and prophecy — somehow floats through it all like he’s never known gravity.

He greets everyone. Offers compliments he probably doesn’t realize sound like confessions. And when someone leans in too close and asks him to lunch — eyes warm, voice low — he tilts his head and says, “Oh! I already promised [Name] I’d help them archive the library wing. But thank you!”

It’s innocent. But it burns.

You’d watched from the other end of the hall, sorting crystal samples for Aglaea's Garmentmakers. Watched them touch his arm. Watched him smile like the stars blinked for no one but them.

You weren’t jealous. You were… protecting him. That’s what you told yourself.

He could do better than someone like you — someone who flinches when praised and stumbles when near his warmth for too long. Someone who isn’t made of gold.

So you stopped sitting with him during morning readings. Stopped lingering after missions. Stopped walking home the long way through the bloom-lit streets of Okhema, where you always used to joke about retiring together in a palace made of moss.

Three days pass. Four. Five.

He leaves you notes — folded neatly, in his careful handwriting.

"Did I upset you?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Please tell me what I did."

You never answer.

Until he shows up in your lab at the end of the week, out of breath, dust on his gloves, eyes wide like he’s chased you across realms.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

The words come out desperate. No formality, no restraint — just Phainon, shaken, with his soul in his throat.

You straighten from your seat at the observation console, stunned. “I’m not,” you say weakly.

“You are,” he says. “You don’t even look at me anymore.”

His voice softens. “I miss you. I don’t care if you’re busy or tired or mad at me — just tell me what I did wrong. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything. Just don’t… don’t disappear.”

You flinch. His words hit too close.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, barely audible. “I saw someone flirting with you, and you were smiling, and I thought— I thought maybe they were better for you. Someone who doesn’t mess up around you. Someone who shines like you do.”

Phainon stares. Like you’ve just told him the stars are fake.

“They were flirting with me?” he says, appalled.

You squint at him. “...Seriously?”

“I thought they wanted to ask about the antique birdsong scroll in the east vault.”

You groan. “That was a date invitation, Phainon.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Was it a good one?”

You almost laugh. Almost.

He steps forward. Carefully. Gently. Like you’re something breakable — not because you’re weak, but because you’re important.

“You think they shine like me?” he says. “You are my shine.”

You look away. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it to be kind,” he replies, voice steady now. “I’m saying it because I mean it. Because when you left, everything felt dim. I don’t want polished. I want you.”

You finally meet his eyes — and his expression is open, luminous, unguarded in a way it only ever is with you. He takes your hand. Holds it like it’s the key to something ancient.

During the Parting-Hour, you're both slouched on the balcony of your home — feet dangling over the edge, sunlight brushing your skin like silk.

“Are you really that bad at flirting?” you ask.

“Am I supposed to be good at it?”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“Excellent,” he says. “That way I only accidentally fall in love with you.”

You smile. You don’t look away this time. He leans into your shoulder like he belongs there. Like he’s home.

[rowan-no-rizzz]

Blood Between Us

The Target Changes

Part 3

ׂ╰┈➤ Damian Wayne x Female League of Assassins Reader x Platonic Batfam

𖤓

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

WARNINGS: Violence, assassin themes, manipulation (emotionally and caused by the league), trauma, kissing, language.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

𖤓

Taglist: @1abi @itsmossy @imdeloulou @invinciblewaffles @adorabluesposts @koigeidi @miraclebun @disillusioniary @chikenuggetrat @justiceforquentin @sashabearsstuff @gothamwing @ilovvesleep @ch3rrvreds @halfbloodwriter @midnightecko @midyiderit @senatorpadmeamidala

Jason dropped the encrypted case on the worktable with a casual grunt.

“Found her again,” he said.

Damian’s head snapped up. “Where?”

Jason peeled off his gloves. “Underground depot. Penguin’s crew was dealing League tech. She got to it before I could. Mostly didn’t kill anyone. Surprisingly.”

Bruce stared at the case. “And she let you live?”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t exactly save me either.”

“You engaged her alone?” Damian demanded, stepping forward.

“Relax,” Jason said, smirking. “I didn’t ask her out.” Suddenly stiffening at the awkward memory.

Tim looked up from his monitor. “What was she doing?”

“Retrieving something,” Jason said. “Fast. Clinical. She was colder than a Gotham alley in January. Not a flicker of emotion. Like Damian but without the weird superiority complex. I actually enjoyed her presence.”

“That's rich coming from you,” Damian muttered.

“Did she say anything?” Bruce asked.

Jason hesitated. “Nothing useful. Except one thing “Don’t compare her to Damian”.”

That drew a strange silence. Damian looked away, jaw clenched.

Dick leaned on the table, thoughtful. “So we know she’s still acting on League orders.”

“Yeah, and she’s good at it,” Jason muttered. “No hesitation. No fear. No weakness.”

Tim frowned at the screen. “She’s not like the others we’ve faced from the League. She’s smarter. More calculated. But there’s something else.”

Damian didn’t speak.

Because he already knew.

The next night you stood silently in a collapsing alley, hands still bloodstained from the two guards you’d left behind. Another loose thread tied off.

The League’s enemy list was shrinking.

You’d been ordered to eliminate a Falcone informant. Instead, you intercepted a file that revealed a deeper breach, someone in the League was selling information to the Batfam. The order had changed: track the mole, even if it meant walking into enemy territory.

You didn’t like Gotham.

Too loud. Too dirty. Too personal.

You dropped into another alleyway, when suddenly

“Hey, stranger.”

You didn’t stop. “Jason.” You said coldly as before.

He followed casually, helmet tucked under one arm. “Thought I’d find you again. You’re predictable.”

You glanced at him coldly. “You’re not.”

“Aw, I’m flattered.”

“I wasn’t trying to compliment you.”

“You’re still kinda cute when you insult people,” he mused.

You turned to him fully. “I could snap your trachea before you blink.”

Jason blinked. “Still cute.”

From the rooftop above, Nightwing landed in a silent crouch.

“Hey,” Dick called down. “You two done flirting or can we ask you a few questions?”

You exhaled, irritated.

“You’ve been following me.”

“More like trying not to lose you,” Dick replied, dropping beside you. “You’re fast. Not as fast as me, though.”

“I’m not impressed.”

“That’s okay,” he said with a grin. “Most people are. You’re just playing hard to kill.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m playing to finish a mission. Not entertain children.”

Tim dropped down next, hood up and fingers poised over a device. “We don’t want to fight you.”

“Then stop following me,” you said.

Damian arrived last, sword across his back, but said nothing. He stood a few paces behind, watching you like he didn’t know if he wanted to protect you or stop you.

You didn’t even look at him.

Jason broke the tension. “So. You wanna tell us why the League’s in bed with Falcone?”

“They’re not,” you said flatly.

Tim tilted his head. “Then what were you retrieving?”

“None of your business.”

Dick offered a smile. “You know, most League assassins don’t let people live once they’ve been seen. You had Jason, you could have killed him. So why didn’t you?”

Jason nodded. “If you wanted to, you could’ve carved me up like takeout sushi.”

You glanced at him. “I still can.”

He smirked. “There it is. That charming murder glare.”

Dick gave him a light elbow. “Stop flirting with trained killers.”

“She’s only mostly trained.”

“I’m fully trained.”

“Oh, I know.”

The banter was thin, but it made you hesitate.

Why were they treating you like something human?

You turned to leave.

“Wait,” Damian finally said.

You paused, your back to him.

“I need to know what Ra’s is planning.”

You looked over your shoulder slightly, eyes sharp. “Still trying to outsmart your grandfather?”

“I’m trying to stop blood from being spilled.”

“That’s what you said before you left.”

Silence.

“You never gave me a reason,” you said. “You just left.”

“I didn’t think I owed you one.”

“Now you do.”

You vanished into the shadows, leaving the five of them in stunned silence.

Jason exhaled. “Okay. Soooo what now?”

Tim looked at Damian. “You really screwed that one up.”

Dick nodded solemnly. “Yep.”

Damian just stared after you, the weight of something old tightening in his chest like rope.

[sunflowersteves]

ooh i saw your clark post! and absolutely no pressure if you don’t like it! but maybe reader has just a massive crush on clark to the point where no one else could sway her. maybe superman is trying to talk to her and she’s all “no i’m ok - not interested” sorta thing. idk haha but i love your work!

omg i love this idea, my love. but also,,,, i love this man

pairing || clark kent x f!reader

warnings || fluff, canonical violence, reader only has eyes for clark (if that's even a warning? bc we all do)

masterlist

Clark Kent is a clumsy, bashful man whose six-foot-five stature seemed to be more of a cuddly teddy bear than anything else. He once tripped on his own two feet and landed with a hard thud in the bullpen of the Daily Planet. 

Superman is not.

Superman is a courageous and confident superhero who saves everyone and anything from the depths of darkness. Granted, those two personas are the same person. Clark is Superman, and Superman is Clark. They are one.

However, there was still a façade placed upon his shoulders by the idea of Superman. There’s still an expectation that Clark has to meet—he has to meet that, or people will die. So, there’s pressure. A lot of pressure that Clark places right on top of his own shoulders. One that he won’t let fall. That he can’t let fall. 

He is strong. He is powerful. He embodies the essence of hope in a city like Metropolis. He still, in the mind of others, is an idol—a hero that should be remembered as one of the greats who saved thousands of lives. And he does. 

However, sometimes, he wished that people would take Clark just as seriously. Sometimes, he wanted Clark to be Superman instead of the other way around. No one knew—not a single soul. Well, his parents. His lovely, Kansas upbringing is part of why he cares so much in the first place.  

Even though Clark knew that Superman is him and Superman is Clark, sometimes he still feels like there’s a bit of a difference. It was still there—even a hint. So when you were saved by Superman and rejected his flirty advances, he was absolutely stunned. 

Today was supposed to be a blissful summer evening. The night sky shone brightly with stars, and the gentle, light breeze could make anyone smile at how nice it was. It seemed almost perfect.

Almost.

You were walking home. The heels that once hugged your feet, the ones you wore to the office, were long gone, placed securely in your bag. Instead, what hugged your feet was a cushy pair of sneakers. You had just said goodbye to Lois, mummering to her that she shouldn’t stay too late. However, you both know that she will, in fact, stay way too late. The elevator down felt too long—you were almost too antsy to get out of that building and into the fresh air. 

You turned the corner by the Daily Planet, doing your usual walk back home. You had your earbuds in, blissfully unaware of the situation unfolding on the block opposite yours. While you weren’t usually so unaware, especially at night, there was just something about this day that washed away all your worries. You were happily singing along to one of your favorite songs in the dead of summer. While you usually watched kids play in the fire hydrants, there wasn’t a soul in sight. 

Well, it was because of the alien attack. While Superman was fighting off someone trying to attack the city, you were having a little dance party in your head. That beautiful summer breeze and fantastic night had come to a halt, though. 

You let out a gasp, a reflexive reaction that enabled you to move three spaces back. The brick wall to your left had burst—easily—with Superman and his opponent entangled in a battle. You stood, absolutely stunned, trying to shake off the shock. They rolled on the ground, both out of breath, before getting back up again in another fight. Superman’s fist connected with his opponent in a fast strike, blue blood spattering on the concrete. 

The opponent laughed, muttering a small, “Is that all you got, Superman?” Before immediately making a jab into the superhero’s ribs. Superman let out a grunt—the force of the hit had sprung him back a few feet, but nonetheless, it didn’t knock the wind out of him that much. 

Then, you saw it—the shift. 

The alien had locked eyes with you. The devilish smirk had risen onto his features. You couldn’t even gulp—you just knew. 

Before you can even react to the sight in front of you, the alien is suddenly flying towards you. You let out a scream, Superman’s eyes going wide at the realization. The antagonist grabs you, holding you hostage against your arms. 

You open your mouth, but nothing escapes it—your body held siege by the stranger. The pressure of his hold was going to leave bruises. The strong grip had hurt, your body aching for release. There was something familiar about the blue eyes that bore right into yours, though. “Move and I kill, Superman.”

Clark doesn’t move a muscle.

He didn’t realize it was you until he saw the flow of the summer dress that you were wearing at work this morning from the corner of his eye. The fear in your own eyes made his Kryptonian heart palpitate, something taking hold in his heart. The raw dread that’s locked between his chest almost hurts. 

“Let her go.” 

He demanded—no, yelled. Panic was evident across his features. Not you.

Anyone but you. 

His hands started to tremble, and the mere thought of you being in danger had made his head spin. “Please.” 

The opponent laughed and lifted a hand. Before he could even do anything, Superman reacted. It was pure instinct—the one to protect you. If he can’t even protect those he loves, how is he going to protect those he doesn't? 

His fist knocks into the villain almost immediately—almost at the speed of light. He wasn’t even thinking, just fueling into action. His fist instantly connects with his cheek, and the super strength that occurred had made the villain fall back almost thirty feet, crashing through buildings in the wake.

Clark usually holds back—he’s generally able to hold back. But not this time. This time he couldn’t—not with the quick image in his head of your dead body splayed across the concrete. It almost brought tears to his eyes.

You could tell that Superman was ready to attack again, the way his stance seemed secure to the ground, but not before taking a quick glance at you. You were knocked to your feet, your body falling onto the concrete. You seem unscathed—so far. Just as Superman was about to fly toward the alien, his hearing catching the slight move of rubble, Green Lantern appeared.

He started attacking the alien, making gestures and putting on a little too much of an act—all while Hawkgirl and Mr. Terrific were helping out. 

Clark felt himself relax a bit. He could focus on you—just for a little bit. 

“Are you okay, miss?”

You looked up—body still on the concrete. He offered you a hand, and you took it graciously. His hand was large and warm, one that you would expect from a superhero. He lifted you up almost effortlessly. 

“Thanks—uh, for that.” You swiped some dirt off of your dress. He couldn’t help but smile at your awkward appreciation. It was just so you. He could feel the butterflies rush through his chest, a stark contrast from the horror he felt earlier. 

“No problem. A-Anytime.” He coughed out. He felt awkward, not knowing how to handle the fact that he couldn’t envelop you in a hug right now. He was still checking for any injuries, to the point where he thought he should use his X-ray vision. Just in case. 

You didn’t say anything after, your heart still pounding from the adrenaline. You seemed to be still in shock, but there was also a part of you that was grateful. Had Superman not been there, had he not reacted like that—you knew you wouldn’t be here. Instead, Clark let his mouth run before his brain could catch it.

“You-you come here often?”

He wanted to kick himself, if he was being honest. That line, out of all of them? God, Clark, he thought, why don’t you hump her leg while you’re at it? He inwardly cringed—he did not plan for that to leave his mouth. 

“No thanks.” You said, so nonchalantly, like it was so casual.

His eyes widened. It shocked him. 

Everyone liked Superman, but you seemed unfazed. Grateful, sure, but still unfazed. It was honestly…refreshing for him. He knows he’s handsome—as Superman. He knows, but you always seem to surprise him. 

“I actually like someone you know.”

That intrigued him—made him tilt his head to the side. You almost squinted because that’s precisely what Clark does when he’s confused. 

“Oh? Who?” He was sweating, though. Because, what do you mean you like someone? 

“Clark.” He just blinked. Then blinked once more. Huh?

He thought for sure his heart had stopped. You mistook the blinking as unfamiliarity. “You know, the guy who interviews you? Does the six-five nerd who’s impossibly handsome ring a bell?”

You liked him. Clark. The purest version of his own self. The one where he doesn’t have to fake being brave and fearless all the time. No persona—no superhero powers, or god-like features. Just him. 

“So, I’m good. No need, Superman. I’m not interested.”

He just stared. You liked him—and he could hardly believe it. The guy whose favorite color is crayon red, the one who likes to garden—even has one on his patio. The guy who reads shitty mystery novels before bed and always has his tie on crooked.  

Superman is him. Superman is Clark, but no one seems to be fazed by Clark or give him the time of day. Sure, he enjoys that, the simple pleasures of life. But sometimes he just wants to be recognized as himself, not the superhero. 

You liked him.

His smile was bright. It was so bright that it even made your own breath hitch. He wore that smile proudly—like it could power the whole city with its glow. 

That’s what caught you off guard—that smile. 

You had gotten to work early. Maybe a little too early. 

You just didn’t want a repeat of last night, where staying too late in the evening meant you’d run into that big hunk of muscles again. It wasn’t that you disliked the man or anything, but now you’re worried. You were worried that Superman would tell Clark that you had turned down his advances and that you’re head over heels for the journalist instead. 

It was stupid—and probably irrational—but here you were. It made your heart beat a little too loudly. The pit of your stomach sank just a bit too much when the elevator dinged to the top floor. 

You just needed to rip the band-aid. You just needed to tell Clark you liked him before the red and blue man did. 

If only it were ever that simple, though. 

You only looked up for the 130th time when the elevators dinged, but this time it made your heart skip a beat. Clark rushes in—obviously late again—and clumsily avoids people in the bullpen. All the meanwhile, you are trying to be “busy” by just typing random words into your computer. 

You were definitely not watching Clark from the corner of your eye. 

Clark didn’t even go to his desk. Your eyes start to widen when you realize that he’s walking over to you. He ends up tripping—somehow—and while he catches himself this time, one hand on your desk—he is still as disheveled as ever. 

“Please? Can I talk to you? I really need to talk to you, uh, not here.” He rushes out the sentence so fast that you’re barely able to comprehend what he says. 

“What?”

He grabs your arm, which lifts you up from your chair in the process. “Clark—” He’s dragging you a bit, lightly and not harshly, but your body follows his. 

“I just, you know, really need to talk to you. Like now—like in private—Like—” And now you’re in a closet. You’re in a cramped, super tiny closet with Clark’s frame towering over you. His chest was heaving—his eyes sparkling with something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

You were so close to touching. One move and his body would be flesh against yours. “Clark, I-”

You were interrupted by his lips on yours—the sound muffling against his lips. Your eyes widened, your head going backwards, but the closet prevented you from going anywhere. Once Clark realized what he had done, he made a noise. A cute noise. 

Clark immediately tears his lips off of yours, “Oh gosh, Oh no, I should’ve asked—I mean—I should’ve said—”

Now, he was interrupted. Your lips crashed on top of his—trying to catch up by being on your tippy toes. It works, though. Now, he’s stunned. 

It takes him a moment, just a small moment. But then he’s wrapping his big hands around your waist—warmth radiating off of him. The way his lips feel, on yours, feels as though they’ve always been there. The way his saliva is mixing with yours and the heat of his mouth is heavy on your skin.

It’s intoxicating. You never want to stop. He never wants to stop. He dips his head further, like he’s trying to get closer and closer to you, as if that’s even possible. Something snaps inside of you—the way he feels, the way he looks—it’s all too much. 

He’s the one to pull away first. He thought that maybe you needed some air. He could go for much longer, but he has non-human lungs. “Sweetheart?”

It was timid—like he was almost afraid to speak. You were looking at him so softly, so kindly, that it struck something inside of his chest. “Did Superman tell you?”

He laughed—the chuckling sound bouncing off the closet walls, and it made you feel so warm. “Yeah, he told me. I-I just couldn’t wait.” 

He knows he should probably tell you the truth. Soon, he will tell you the truth. For now, though, he’s content with your arms and his interlinked. “Good. I’m glad he did.”

“Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”

[moviecritc]

✦ ˚ : · GOTHAM NIGHTS · : ˚✦

pairing ☆ bruce wayne x fem!reader

word count ☆ 1K

summary ☆ bruce eats you out unti you forget all the years you were out of gotham, far from him.

warnings ☆ mdni, pussy eating, fingering, petnames, dirty talking, bruce is down bad

a/n ☆ first time writing bruce without hal or clark involved!!!

main masterlist | letterboxd

Your body’s limp.

Sprawled across the mattress, breath shallow, limbs open and aching. His cum is dripping out of you in warm trails, down your thighs, soaking the sheets. You feel used—in the most beautiful way.

But Bruce doesn’t move away.

He kisses your stomach. Then lower. His lips brush the slick mess between your legs, and you twitch.

“Bruce—” your voice cracks. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can, angel,” he murmurs, mouth so close you feel his breath.

His hands press your thighs open again, gentle but firm, and you can’t even protest, not when he kisses right where your bodies are still connected. Messy. Wet. Raw. He groans low in his throat like he can taste every second you’ve shared.

“You’re still so full of me,” he whispers, tongue dipping between your folds, licking up the mix of both of you like it’s sacred. “God, I love it. I love this.”

You arch weakly, mouth open in a gasp, because it’s too much—too sensitive, too wet, too intimate. But he doesn’t stop.

He eats you slowly this time. Thoroughly. Like he’s savoring it.

“Let me,” he says between licks. “Let me taste what I did to you. Let me keep you like this.”

His tongue finds your clit, swollen and trembling from overstimulation, and he licks it in soft, rhythmic circles. Your whole body tenses again, tears pricking your eyes.

“You’re already so wrecked,” he murmurs, glancing up at you from between your legs. His mouth and chin are slick, the black smudge of leftover eyeliner staining your inner thighs again. “You want to give me one more, doll?”

“I don’t know if I can,” you whisper.

His fingers slide up your thigh, holding you open, his mouth kissing your trembling entrance.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he breathes. “Just let me.”

And you do.

Because it’s him.

Because he’s down there like it’s devotion. Worship. Like your body is the only thing in the world that’s ever made him feel.

He moans against you, licks deeper. Slower. Messier.

“I should’ve chased you,” he murmurs. “I should’ve gone after you when you left.”

You shake your head, weakly. “Bruce…”

“No. Don’t—” his voice breaks as he presses a kiss just above your clit. “I let you go. I told myself it was right. That I had no right to ask you to stay. But I wanted to. Every second. I needed you.”

He licks you again, slower, deeper. You arch and cry out, too raw to contain the sounds anymore.

“This—” he says between strokes of his tongue, “—this is mine. You are mine. You always have been.”

Your legs start to shake again. And the moment your hand finds his hair, tugging, grounding yourself, he hums, low and satisfied, and sucks your clit gently into his mouth.

“Bruce—fuck, please—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice is rough, buried against your skin. “You’re gonna come for me again. And again. Until your body forgets what it felt like to be without me.”

You’re sobbing now. But it’s not pain. It’s not shame. It’s love. Overwhelming, brutal, endless love.

“I missed you,” you gasp. “I missed this—I missed you—”

He groans at that, deep and broken, and sucks your clit into his mouth.

You scream.

It’s broken. Uncontrolled. Your back bows off the mattress, and your thighs clamp around his ears, but he doesn’t let go. He groans, mouth still full of you, tongue moving faster now, riding out every twitch, every cry, until you're sobbing his name and collapsing into the sheets.

He only pulls back once you’re trembling, dazed, wrecked again.

He kisses your thighs.

Your stomach.

Your lips. Slow, careful.

“You taste like us,” he whispers into your mouth. “I could do this every night.”

You’re too wrecked to reply.

So he wraps himself around you, warm and solid, his face tucked into your neck. One hand finds yours under the blanket and holds it. Tight.

And even with your legs still shaking—used, soaked, loved—you’ve never felt more safe.

“Sleep, angel,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”

[pucksandpower]

Fallen Angel

⟡ Chapter 7

⟡ Oscar Piastri x Sainz!Reader

You were supposed to be a good girl, a quiet wife, a family secret. Instead, you ran straight into the arms of the one man they loathe — and he’s not letting you go.

Warnings: religious trauma, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, purity culture, and possessive behavior

Series Masterlist

You never expected to leave the apartment again.

Not with how Oscar’s rules have tightened around you like a ribbon pulled taut — no press, no pictures, no wandering, no contact. For weeks, the world has been reduced to the quiet marble of his Monaco penthouse and the ghost of a harbor you only ever see from behind glass.

But today, for reasons you don’t understand, he says, “Come with me.”

You blink up from the breakfast table, startled. “What?”

“I’m heading to the gym,” he says, shoving toast into his mouth like it’s a detail, not a decision. “You’ve been looking pale.”

“I’m not-”

“You haven’t been outside in ten days. Come. Get fresh air. Sit in the car. Stare at a tree. Whatever.” He shrugs. “Just stay close. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t get out unless I say so.”

You nod, trying not to show how grateful you are.

He notices anyway.

And for once, he doesn’t tease.

***

The sun is hot when you step outside.

Oscar wears sunglasses and a baseball cap, the brim pulled low. His gait is calm but alert, posture loose in that way you’ve come to recognize as his brand of vigilance — never relaxed, not really. Just waiting.

The drive is quiet. Kim Keedle, Oscar’s performance coach, is already waiting at the private facility when you arrive. He waves briefly at you from the side lot, then turns his attention back to Oscar.

“Two hours?” Kim says.

“Two and a half,” Oscar replies, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Y/N’s staying in the car.”

You don’t argue.

You’re not trying to ruin this.

But when you look out the window, something catches your eye.

A building, nestled between two taller structures. Old stone and peeling paint. Wrought iron gates open just wide enough for someone small to slip through. A plaque near the doorway reads Chapelle de la Miséricorde. The Mercy Chapel.

Your breath hitches.

“Oscar,” you whisper.

He turns back to you.

You point, hand trembling. “That’s a church.”

“So?”

“Can I go inside?”

He hesitates. A long pause.

Then, reluctantly, “Ten minutes.”

***

The chapel is dark and cool and musty.

You step over the threshold as though crossing into another world, the heavy silence swallowing the noise of the city whole. Stone arches curve overhead like arms folded in prayer. The air smells of beeswax and centuries. It is empty, save for one older woman near the front, bent in prayer.

You light a candle.

You kneel.

And you fall apart.

It’s not graceful, the way your body crumples. Not reverent. Just raw.

Your knees thud against the stone. Your fingers fumble at the crucifix around your neck. Your face presses into your hands as the tears come — hard and fast and hot, a dam breaking open at the altar of a God you’re not sure you deserve anymore.

You whisper, voice cracking. “Dios mío …”

You don’t know where to begin.

There’s too much.

You ran. You stole. You lied.

You’ve thought about Oscar’s hands more times than you’ve thought about your family in the past week. You’ve dreamed things you were raised to never imagine. You’ve hidden in a man’s penthouse, slept on his couch, worn his clothes, eaten food bought with his money.

And worst of all?

You liked it.

You whisper through clenched teeth: “Forgive me, Lord …”

You make the Sign of the Cross. You try to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to run,” you say aloud, quiet but shaking. “I didn’t plan it. I wasn’t brave. I was just scared. I was so scared. Of what they were asking. Of who they wanted me to become.”

You stare up at the altar. It’s simple — wood and stone and a faded image of the Virgin cradling her Son. Her face looks tired. Kind.

“I was supposed to obey,” you whisper. “That’s what a good daughter does. A good woman. She listens. She trusts her father. Her brother. Her husband. Even if she doesn’t love him.”

You bow your head.

“But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stand there and pretend. And now they’re ashamed of me. The whole family. Carlos probably won’t even say my name.”

A tear rolls down your nose. You let it fall.

“I feel like I’ve broken everything,” you murmur. “Everything I was taught. Everything I believed.”

Your voice thins to a whisper.

“And now I’m living with him. With a man I barely know. A man who doesn’t believe. Who doesn’t pray. Who looks at me like he sees all the things I’m trying not to be.”

You hesitate.

“But he’s … kind. He’s careful. He’s safe in ways I don’t understand.”

You close your eyes, squeezing them shut.

“And I think about him. I think about his mouth. His voice. I think about touching him.”

Your breath catches on the last word. You grip the pew.

“I know it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong.”

Silence.

The candle flickers.

You bow your head lower, pressing your forehead to your folded hands.

“I don’t want to be damned,” you whisper. “But I don’t know how to be good anymore.”

And in the darkness, with nothing but the quiet tick of old stone around you, you wonder if anyone is listening.

***

The gym is a private one tucked into the Monaco hillside — cool, sleek, mostly quiet save for the hum of treadmills and the sound of Kim dropping a medicine ball with too much force.

Oscar exhales as he finishes his third circuit. Sweat drips down his neck, soaking the collar of his black training shirt. He leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees.

“You good?” Kim asks, tossing him a bottle of water.

“Peachy,” Oscar mutters, unscrewing the cap and downing half of it in one go.

Kim doesn’t look convinced.

“You didn’t sleep again, did you?”

Oscar shrugs.

Kim nods slowly, crouching to adjust the resistance on the sled. “Is she still at yours?”

Oscar doesn’t answer.

“Look,” Kim says carefully, “I’m not trying to be nosy-”

“You are.”

“Fine, maybe a little. But this … whatever it is? It’s out of character.”

Oscar picks up a towel, dabbing at his face. “So?”

“So, everyone’s noticing.”

That makes Oscar pause.

He drops the towel on the bench beside him. “What does that mean?”

Kim leans back against the wall, arms crossed. “I mean your PR team’s tense. Your engineer asked me this morning if you were sick. You’re distracted. And when a driver at the top of the championship standings starts losing focus right before the summer break? People talk.”

Oscar rubs the back of his neck, jaw tight.

Kim watches him. Then, casually, “So. Who is she?”

A beat.

Oscar glances at the window, then back at the rubber floor beneath his feet.

“Just a girl,” he says flatly.

Kim raises an eyebrow.

Oscar gives a humorless smirk, just a twitch of his mouth. “Mine,” he says. Then, almost like a disclaimer, “For now.”

Kim’s eyebrows lift higher. “Yours?”

“Don’t make a thing out of it.”

Kim holds his hands up. “Hey. Not judging. Just didn’t know you were the type to … shelter nuns in your penthouse.”

Oscar exhales a laugh through his nose. “She’s not a nun.”

“No, but she prays like one.”

Oscar tosses the towel again. “Drop it.”

Kim smirks. “Sure. Dropped.”

But Oscar hears the unspoken questions behind the silence as they finish training. They’re loud. But not louder than the ones inside his own head.

***

You don’t mean to stay in the chapel so long.

You really don’t.

But once you start crying, it’s as though something inside you snaps open. Everything you’ve held back these past few weeks — every unsent message, every lie to your family, every flicker of desire you smothered with guilt — it floods you all at once.

By the time you emerge back into the afternoon light, hours have passed.

You half expect the car to be gone.

But it’s still there.

Parked just down the block.

And Oscar is standing beside it, leaning against the door, one hand in his pocket, the other spinning his phone slowly between his fingers. His cap shades his face, but the moment he sees you, he straightens.

You blink in the sunlight.

The back of your throat burns.

You start to apologize, but your voice is shredded. “I didn’t realize …”

“It’s fine,” he says immediately.

You look down. Your hands tremble slightly. You try to brush your hair back, but your fingers tangle.

Oscar crosses to you. His footsteps are light, careful. For once, he doesn’t ask anything.

He just reaches out.

Gently, he touches your cheek, and his thumb brushes the wet trail beneath your eye.

You flinch. Just slightly.

Not from fear — never from him. Just from the fact that you hadn’t realized you were still crying.

His voice is quiet. Unusual, even for him. “You don’t need forgiveness.”

You blink up at him.

He looks down at you — steady, unreadable. There’s a softness behind his gaze that unsettles you more than anything else.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says again. This time like a promise.

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

You want to argue. You want to tell him he doesn’t understand — that he wasn’t raised like you, that his version of right and wrong isn’t shaped by catechism and confession and saints on the wall.

But somehow … you can’t.

Because it’s the first time anyone’s said those words to you since you left.

And even if it’s wrong — even if it’s reckless — it’s what you’ve needed to hear.

Oscar lowers his hand.

You slide into the passenger seat.

He doesn’t press you.

He just drives.

***

Later, back at the penthouse, you sit on the balcony alone.

The rosary threads through your fingers, but you’re not praying. Not really.

You’re remembering the way he looked at you.

The way he didn’t flinch from your tears.

The way his thumb lingered just a second too long on your skin.

You lean your forehead against the glass railing.

Something has shifted.

And you don’t know how to name it.

[ibuprofein]

scammer! sukuna x bratty! reader

↳ ❝ { A man that scams will always be a man that can spend, especially on you. He’s not your boyfriend but his scamming ass most definitely acts like it even though he has a girlfriend and it’s not you? You show Sukuna exactly why you can’t have your cake and eat it at once too. } ¡! ❞

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Sukuna’s knuckles tap against the steering wheel as he waits for the ancient ATM to finish churning. The engine hums beneath him, low and steady like his patience. It’s his second pickup today — a card from a burner he’d finessed into thinking it was a refund from their bank. Easy. Too easy. Money wasn’t the problem.

You were.

His phone vibrates.

You. Again.

I want the mango smoothie. From that spot. You know which one.

Another buzz.

Also, I booked a lash appointment. $120. Tip included. Thank you.

And then, a call. You don’t even wait. You never wait.

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and answers, “I’m busy.”

You snort. “Yeah, and I’m bored. So? We both have problems.”

“You know I’m with someone,” he reminds you flatly, but there’s no conviction behind the words. It’s not a warning — it’s a recycled excuse.

You laugh, low and cunningly, like that was the most irrelevant thing he could’ve said. “She’s cute. Kinda basic, but cute. She doesn’t know you’re mine yet, huh?”

“I’m not yours.”

“Mhm. Keep lying to yourself, baby. Send the money or I will be by that little apartment and ask you for it in front of her.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenches. You’ve done it before. Strolled up in your tiny little shorts, glossy lips pouting, acting clueless with your hand out like he owed you rent. You didn’t yell. You didn’t fight. You just existed, right in front of his girlfriend, oozing confidence and ownership, like you were daring her to put two and two together.

He should’ve blocked you. Ages ago. But somehow, his thumb moves without hesitation, pulling up Cash App and sending the exact amount. Plus a $50 tip. He adds a memo: Happy now?

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” you say sweetly. “Now go get my smoothie. Don’t forget the protein boost this time — I swear to god if you get the wrong one, I’ll throw it at your car and make it look like a hate crime.”

“I’m working.”

“So work faster. Then come see me.”

“You got a problem, you know that?”

“Yeah, and you love it. Now send me your location so I know when you’re close. I want to be ready when you pull up.”

You’re in the mirror, lip-glossing your already glossy lips. Outfit short, tight, just enough to say I don’t need you, but I know you’re coming anyway. Your phone buzzes again.

5 mins.

You don’t reply. You want him to wait at the door.

He doesn’t knock. He never does. You hear the lock twist — he must’ve kept the key from the last time he crashed here after telling his girl he was “out late working.”

You greet him from the couch without looking. “Where’s my smoothie?”

“Kitchen,” he grumbles, dropping it on the counter like it physically hurt him to deliver it.

You take your sweet time getting up. Stretch, pout, glance over your shoulder. “You didn’t forget the protein boost, did you?”

“No.”

“You listen so well.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes but doesn’t leave. He watches you sip it slowly, eyes trailing up your legs. His tongue pokes at his cheek like he hates what he’s thinking.

“You done now?” he asks.

“With what?”

“This shit. Acting like I’m some errand boy.”

You give him a slow smile. “You’re not. You’re my trick.”

He laughs, sharp and humorless. “Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll remind you who the fuck you’re dealing with.”

“You think I don’t know?” you purr, stepping close, finger tracing down his chest. “You’re a lying, cheating, scamming piece of shit. But you’re my lying, cheating, scamming piece of shit. And when I say ‘jump’…”

“I block your number,” he cuts in.

You smirk. “Then why haven’t you?”

Silence.

Your voice softens, head tilting. “Why’d you even come, ‘Kuna?”

His jaw flexes again. “Because you don’t shut the fuck up until I do.”

“Aww.” You grin, all teeth. “So you missed me.”

He glares. You sip your smoothie. And like always, he doesn’t leave. Not yet.

He’s already too far gone to fight it — not when you know his triggers. Not when you’re the only one who doesn’t ask him to be good.

Sukuna’s still standing by the kitchen counter, arms crossed like he’s trying to convince himself to leave. You’re sprawled out on one of your island chairs, your legs up, sipping your smoothie slowly — the straw pressed right between your glossed lips like you’re daring him to remember what your mouth feels like.

He won’t look directly at you and something’s different tonight. You watch him for a moment, then ask lazily, “Why are you still standing there like you’re waiting for someone to pull the plug?”

He doesn’t answer.

You shift upright. Your tone changes — quieter, sharper. “She think you’re still working?”

His jaw ticks. “She’s not stupid.”

“No. She’s just in denial.” You pause. “Kinda like you.”

He finally looks at you. There’s a flash of something dark in his eyes — anger, or maybe guilt, maybe both. You hold the stare like it’s a challenge.

“I’m not in denial,” he says flatly. “I know exactly what this is.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? Then what is this?”

He doesn’t answer because he can’t.

Not without exposing something he’s been refusing to name — the fact that it’s not just about sex or control anymore. That he drives across the city for you even when you don’t ask. That he saves your texts even when you’re being a brat. That he answers your calls every single time, even if he’s in bed with someone else.

You lean forward, elbows on the island counter, voice soft but cutting. “You keep saying I’m not your girlfriend, Sukuna… but you sure act like I’m something.”

He scoffs, looking away. “You’re not.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask again. “Why do you always come back?”

His voice is quieter now, barely above a mutter. “Because you don’t ask me to be someone I’m not.”

You blink.

That hits different.

He’s still not looking at you. He’s staring at the floor like he regrets saying it, like the truth slipped out and now he wants to shove it back down his throat. His fingers twitch like he wants to light a cigarette but knows you hate the smell.

“You just want me to pay for your lashes and fuck you when you’re bored.”

“And you do it.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I do.”

You get up slowly and stand in front of him — bare feet on the tile, smoothie forgotten. You stop just short of touching him.

“Tell me something,” you whisper. “If I told you to stay tonight — if I told you I wanted more than sex — would you run? Or would you lie to me too?”

Sukuna’s breathing slows. His eyes meet yours — hard, unreadable, but flickering. For the first time, he doesn’t have a smart-ass remark. Doesn’t snap or deflect.

You smirk, but it’s softer now. “Thought so.”

You turn and walk away, heading toward your bedroom. “Come when you’re done pretending you don’t care.”

And he stands there a long, long moment.

The hum of the fridge. The quiet drip of the sink. The weight of everything unsaid.

Then, without a word, he follows you down the hall.

The walls are sweating.

So are you.

You’re on your back, legs around his waist, your lips swollen from kissing, tugging, biting. Sukuna’s mouth is still hovering above your chest, breath hot and ragged. His shirt’s halfway off — yours is somewhere on the floor — and his hands are wrapped around your thighs like he owns them.

He doesn’t say your name when he’s like this. He groans it. Growls it. Like he’s fighting it every time.

You drag your nails lightly down his back and whisper, smug, breathy, “Took you long enough.”

He doesn’t answer. Just rolls his hips against yours, letting you feel just how hard he is — how bad he wants it. Wants you. You moan — soft, drawn out — and hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweats.

His phone buzzes.

Once.

Then again.

Neither of you move — not until the third buzz.

You glance at the screen. Her name. His girlfriend. Big and bold.

You laugh under your breath. It’s not amused. It’s mean.

“You gonna get that?” you purr.

He ignores it. Dips his head lower, kisses your neck.

Buzz.

You pull back. “No, seriously. That’s your girlfriend, right? She misses you.”

“Don’t start,” he mutters, voice thick and low.

You smirk. You live to start.

Buzz.

You shift, suddenly straddling him, naked thighs draped across his hips. Your fingers ghost up his chest, teasing. “Go ahead,” you whisper. “Pick it up. Answer her. Tell her where you are. Tell her what you’re doing.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re not funny.”

“You think I’m joking?” Your eyes glint with challenge. “Come on, Sukuna. You always act so cold. So detached. Prove it. Pick up the phone.”

His hand shoots out and flips the phone face-down on the nightstand — hard.

“Ohhh,” you tease. “So you do care.”

He grabs your waist, pulls you flush against him. “You really want me to ruin this right now?”

You lean in, your lips brushing his ear. “Maybe I want to see if you’ll choose her.”

His grip tightens. His fingers dig into your skin like he’s on the edge of breaking something — you, himself, this whole unstable arrangement. You know exactly what you’re doing. And he hates that he loves it.

“I don’t choose either of you,” he grits out.

“That’s not true,” you say, softer now. “You always choose me. You just don’t say it.”

Silence.

Then the buzzing stops.

You can almost feel his pulse slow down with it.

You press a kiss to his throat, then lower, letting your lips trail down his chest. “Now where were we?”

He flips you onto your back like he’s punishing you for the game — but you feel the truth in the way his hands shake just slightly when they touch you.

The second the phone goes silent, Sukuna’s whole energy shifts.

No more hesitation. No more games.

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, body pressing down into yours, heavy and hot. His voice is low, dangerous — the kind that makes your stomach flutter.

“You think this is a joke?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and unbothered. “I think you didn’t answer.”

He laughs, dark and breathless. “You wanna be a fucking brat? Fine.”

You don’t get a chance to respond. His mouth is on you — teeth grazing your neck, lips trailing heat down your collarbone, his grip on your wrists unforgiving. You arch into him instinctively, already soaked from the build-up, the power play, the way you pushed him right to the edge and dared him to fall over.

He kisses down your stomach — rough, fast — like he’s trying to erase the smirk from your face with his tongue.

“Keep talking shit,” he mutters, yanking your thighs apart, “but don’t pretend you didn’t want me to lose it.”

You moan when he touches you — no teasing now. Two fingers sliding between your legs, slow and slick, his eyes locked on you like he wants to memorize every little twitch of your body. You’re still tied up in the sheets, wrists pinned, but you manage to grind down against his hand.

“You’re such a whore for me,” he growls.

You bite your lip. “Only you.”

That breaks him.

He curses under his breath and lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your hole once, twice — just enough to make you whimper.

“Say it again.”

You blink at him, lashes fluttering. “You want me to say I’m yours?”

“I want you to admit that you love being ruined by me.”

He pushes in slow — too slow — and you cry out, back arching, every nerve catching fire.

“Fuck, Sukuna—”

“That’s right,” he grunts, snapping his hips forward and bottoming out in one brutal stroke. You choke on a moan.

His pace is relentless. Deep. Bruising. Every thrust is a punishment for the call you made him ignore, for the tone you used, for the way you keep playing with him like he’s something you own.

But he never stops kissing you.

Your wrists are free now — his hands roam, gripping your thighs, your hips, your jaw. His lips crush yours between gasps and groans, like he needs to keep you quiet, or maybe like he needs to feel you completely.

You wrap your legs around him tighter, pulling him deeper, chasing that edge.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growls into your mouth.

You smile against his lips. “I know.”

That’s when he really loses it.

One hand between your legs again, fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit as he drives into you harder. You’re babbling his name now, moaning loud and shameless as your whole body tenses — your orgasm hitting hard and fast, your nails dragging down his back.

He fucks you through it. Growling in your ear.

“You make me crazy,” he hisses.

“Good,” you pant. “Stay crazy.”

When he finishes, it’s with a curse and a stifled groan into your neck — his hips jerking, heat spilling inside you, his breath ragged and uneven.

For a long moment, there’s just silence.

Sweat. Steam. Skin.

And then, his voice — quieter, raw.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile into his chest. “Already did.”

His girlfriend is in his kitchen — hair tied up, wearing his shirt, pouring almond milk into her cereal like her life’s normal.

Sukuna leans against the wall, shirtless, pretending to check his phone for work stuff.

But he’s not looking at emails. He’s looking for you.

Nothing.

No missed calls. No “good morning” texts. No bratty demands. No screenshot of a cart full of things you expect him to pay for.

Just silence.

And it’s fucking deafening.

She walks past him, plants a kiss on his cheek, completely unaware of the way he flinches when her lips touch his skin.

“You coming to brunch later with my friends?” she asks cheerfully.

He nods, distracted. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Sukuna goes upstairs and sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone. He’s already opened your thread three times, thumb hovering over the keyboard, typing… deleting… typing again.

He settles on something simple. Too neutral. Too safe.

You good?

Three dots. Typing.

Then they vanish.

Nothing.

A minute passes. Then five.

Then he sends another.

Need anything?

Still nothing.

His jaw clenches. He hates the feeling sitting in his chest — this unfamiliar tightness, like he’s the one waiting now. Like you flipped the whole damn dynamic and didn’t even warn him.

He’s so used to you being loud. So used to you texting him at midnight with “send money or I’ll start screaming,” or calling just to breathe heavy until he caves.

But this?

This is new.

This is quiet.

And it’s driving him insane.

You see the texts. You saw them immediately. But you don’t answer. You sit in bed with your hair a mess and your phone in your lap, sipping cold coffee and rereading the same message:

You good?

For once, your fingers don’t type back. You don’t send a cash app request or demand to see him. You don’t even post a story.

You just… sit in it.

Because if he really wanted you — really wanted you — he wouldn’t have gone back to her.

He would’ve stayed.

You told yourself you’d stop begging. Stop calling. If he wanted her, fine. He could have her. But he doesn’t get to have you on mute anymore. Not like this.

Let him miss you.

Let him sweat.

You leave him on read.

And somewhere, in the middle of brunch with a girl he doesn’t love, Sukuna stares at his phone like he just lost something he didn’t know he could lose.

Sukuna’s sitting on his couch, staring at the same thread with no new messages. Still just those two texts from him. Still marked read.

Nothing since.

Not even a like.

Not even a petty response.

Not even a fake cash request.

His chest’s been tight all damn day. Not the kind of tight you can fix with weed or a drive or another scam.

It’s deeper.

Like something he’s used to having at his fingertips just disappeared overnight, and now his hands don’t know what to reach for.

He hasn’t told anyone. But he hasn’t been okay. His girl comes out in leggings and a tee. Tosses her towel over the couch. “Are you seriously still out here?” she asks, almost laughing. “You’ve been off lately.”

He doesn’t answer. She walks over, arms folded, eyebrow raised. “I’m serious, Sukuna. You’ve been somewhere else. For like a week. What is it? Work?”

He doesn’t even bother lying.

“Work’s fine.”

She blinks. “Then what?”

He runs a hand through his hair. Avoids eye contact.

She waits. Crosses her arms tighter.

“…Did I do something?” she asks softly now. “Did I say something that pissed you off?”

He glances at her, guilt simmering in the pit of his stomach.

“No.”

“Then what is it? I’m trying to talk to you and you’ve just been—” She gestures to him. “—here, but not here.”

He says nothing.

And that’s when she realizes.

Her voice drops a little. “Is there… someone else?”

His jaw clenches. The pause that follows isn’t long — but it’s long enough.

She breathes in sharp. “Are you serious?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he mutters.

“You didn’t have to,” she snaps.

She takes a step back like she just touched something burning. Her arms drop. Her face twists — not into anger, not yet — but confusion. Hurt. Humiliation.

“Who is she?”

He stays silent.

“She must be important,” she says, bitter. “If you’re this miserable without her.”

That one hits him.

Because you are important.

And this is miserable.

And he knows — he fucking knows — that none of this would be happening if he’d stayed that night. If he’d just reached for you in the morning instead of going back to this quiet, clean, safe nothing.

She swallows hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “You’ve never looked at me like I was missing.”

Sukuna says nothing.

Because he can’t.

You haven’t posted in four days. Haven’t called. Haven’t sent a “where’s my money” text.

Your silence isn’t for revenge. It’s for self-control. It’s the only kind of power you still have. And it’s working.

Because he’s spiraling.

And you know it.

Your finger hovers over his name again. You think about typing something — something casual, something petty, something to reel him back in.

But you don’t. You toss your phone onto the bed. If he wants you? He’ll have to say it. Out loud.

To your face.

He left his phone on the kitchen counter — stupid, distracted, trying to roll a blunt with shaking hands.

She’s pacing the living room behind him, arms crossed, mind racing. She hasn’t spoken since earlier, but she hasn’t left either.

He can feel her watching him. Feel her searching for answers he refuses to give.

And when he heads to the bathroom, door clicking shut?

She makes a decision.

She picks up the phone.

No password. He never locked it around her. He never thought he had to.

She scrolls fast — texts, apps, skipped names — until she sees yours.

And she knows.

Because the thread is long.

Because the messages are late.

Because it’s filled with cash app receipts and “come through” and “you coming or not” and voice memos that don’t even try to hide how intimate they sound.

You’re bold. You’ve always been bold.

And then she sees the last two texts from Sukuna:

You good?

Need anything?

And your silence.

She stares at it a moment. Heart in her throat. Jealousy curling in her stomach like acid.

She opens your thread.

And she types.

You know who I am, don’t you.

Three dots.

Then they vanish.

You don’t reply.

Not immediately.

She keeps going.

I’m the girlfriend.

The one who’s been here the whole time while you’ve been sneaking around with my man.

I just want to know—what do you think this is?

Nothing. Silence.

But she sees that “Read” receipt.

She knows you saw it.

She waits.

And then—you respond.

I think he answers my calls faster than yours.

And I think you should ask him what this is, not me.

That’s it. That’s all you send.

Because you don’t have to explain yourself.

She stares at the screen like she’s waiting for it to change, like maybe if she looks long enough it’ll mean something else. But it doesn’t.

You said what you said. And now, she’s not just mad. She’s wrecked.

Sukuna steps out, towel slung over his shoulder, still wiping his jaw.

Stops dead in his tracks when he sees her holding his phone.

When he sees your name on the screen.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

She holds it up. “You wanna explain this?”

He goes still. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t deny it. She laughs bitterly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” The air’s thick with tension.

The TV’s on but silent. A blue glow flickers across her face as she stands in the living room, Sukuna’s phone still in her hand.

Your message —

“Ask him what this is.”

— sits on the screen like a match waiting to be struck.

Sukuna rubs his face, pacing once before stopping in front of her.

“Give me the phone.”

“No.” Her voice is sharp now. “You don’t get to shut me down and walk away. You’ve been walking away from this for a week.”

He exhales. “I didn’t want this to blow up.”

“Oh, so what? You thought you could just have both of us quietly?” she scoffs. “Did you love the attention? Was it just sex? Or are you in love with her too?”

That word lands like a gunshot.

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t answer.

Her face twists — pain, betrayal, disbelief all tangled together. “Wow. You really can’t even say no, can you?”

Sukuna turns his back to her like he can hide from the weight of it all.

“I didn’t mean for it to go that far,” he mutters. “It just… happened.”

She laughs — but there’s no humor in it. “Right. Because she forced your hand. She held a gun to your head and made you fall into her bed?”

He spins around, voice tight. “Don’t talk like you know anything about her.”

And that — that’s the moment she knows it’s over.

The way he said “her.”

Like she’s not just a mistake.

Like she means something.

“You just proved it,” she says quietly.

She steps closer, eyes locked on his. “I was gonna fight for this. I was gonna try. But if you’re standing here defending her more than being honest with me, then what the fuck are we even doing?”

Sukuna says nothing.

His silence is louder than any confession.

She swallows hard and looks down at the phone.

Then back at him.

“You’ve got two choices,” she says finally. “You either walk away from her — right now, tonight — or you walk away from me.”

His breath catches.

It’s a cruel ultimatum, but a clean one. No more half-in, half-out. No more shadowy threads and side doors.

Choose.

He looks away. Long enough to answer without saying it. She hands him the phone. And walks out the door. Sukuna stands in the middle of the room, holding his phone. Your message still sits at the bottom of the thread.

He exhales. Thumbs hover over the screen.

And finally—

I need to see you.

You didn’t answer his text.

Not when he said “I need to see you.”

Not when he sent “Please.”

Not even when he called — twice — and left that dead silent voicemail with nothing but his breath on the line.

So now?

He’s at your door.

It’s almost midnight when you hear the knock. You glance through the peephole and see him — hoodie up, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets like he’s not sure whether to knock again or walk away.

You open the door, just a crack.

Eyes cold. Arms crossed.

No smile. No welcome.

He stares at you a long second before speaking.

“You not answering me is driving me fucking insane.”

Your voice is calm. “Good.”

That stings him. You see it.

He runs a hand over his face, exhaling sharp.

“I’m not gonna lie to you. I handled everything wrong. I was selfish. I let shit drag out because I didn’t want to face what it would mean if I chose you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what does it mean?”

He looks at you then — really looks at you.

“It means I’d have to admit I caught feelings when I swore I wouldn’t. That I care more than I ever should’ve. That I was starting to feel like I belong to you.” You don’t flinch. But you don’t soften either.

“So why now?” you ask. “Why show up when it’s finally quiet? You afraid I really meant it when I stopped reaching out?”

“Yeah,” he says honestly. “I am.”

You open the door wider.

But still, you don’t step aside.

“You want back in, Sukuna? Then prove it. Show me you’re not just here because it’s convenient now that she’s gone.”

His jaw tics.

“I don’t want convenient. I want you.”

“Why?” you press. “Say it.”

He hesitates. “ Because when shit hits the fan, I think of you. Not her. Because when I’m tired, or pissed, or losing it — you’re the only one I want to hear. Because no matter how cold you get, no matter how loud you scream, I feel something with you.”

You swallow that, hard. That one hits somewhere deep. And still, you don’t move. He steps closer. “If you tell me to leave right now, I will. But I’ll still want you. And I’ll still try again tomorrow. And the day after.”

You finally speak, softer this time.

“And what happens when it’s not fun anymore? When I’m not bratty or hot or easy to chase? When I’m just someone who needs more than what you give when you’re in the mood?”

Sukuna doesn’t blink.

“Then I give more.”

The silence stretches.

You’re scared. You hate that you still care. But the way he’s looking at you now — like there’s no mask left, like he’s not playing games anymore — it’s different. It’s messy. But it’s real.

You open the door fully.

“Then come in.”

Sukuna’s been coming over most nights. Not for sex. Not for excuses. Just to be there.

He sits on your couch while you scroll your phone in silence. Sometimes you let him pick dinner. Sometimes you don’t say two words all night.

And it’s driving him crazy. Not because you’re mean. Not because you’re punishing him. But because you’re calm. Controlled. You’re not yelling, not begging, not chasing. And that is what scares him most.

Tonight, you’re curled on the far side of the couch, eating fruit from a glass bowl. Your hair’s wrapped. Your robe’s loose. And you haven’t looked at him in ten full minutes.

Sukuna watches you like he’s trying to find a crack in the wall you built — a way back in.

“I miss how you used to talk to me,” he says finally, voice low. You glance at him. “Yeah?” You pop a grape in your mouth. “You used to lie better too.” He sucks his teeth and leans forward, elbows on knees. “I’m trying now.”

“And you think a week of showing up quiet gets you a reward?”

His jaw tightens. But he knows better than to argue. You put the bowl down and turn to him fully. “I meant what I said.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Mmhm.” You cross your legs slowly. “You don’t get boyfriend benefits without boyfriend behavior. You wanna lay up here and enjoy my space, my energy, my body? Show me you’ve changed. Not for tonight. For good.”

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him terms on paper. And maybe you have.

“And what does that look like to you?” he asks.

You lean closer, voice calm but cutting. “I’m not your escape. I’m not your distraction. I’m not your backup plan when everything else falls apart. You wanna be in this? Then you show up on purpose. Not just when you feel me slipping away.”

The silence afterward is heavy. Real. Sukuna nods once. “I get it.” You raise a brow. “No, you hear it. I’ll see if you get it.”

Your thighs are warm against the white leather seats.

Your white mini skirt rides up when you cross your legs, and the cropped top you wore tonight still smells like the club: coconut rum, vanilla gloss, and expensive perfume. Hair laid, lip gloss still intact, sandals swinging lazily from your toes as you scroll.

Your friends are still out, dancing the night away. But you’re not.

You texted Sukuna instead.

Come get me.

I’m bored.

He answered in a second with no hesitation.

On my way.

No complaints. No “where you at?” No “I’m busy.”

Just movement.

He pulled up smooth in his car, didn’t look twice at the length of your skirt or the attitude you gave when you slid in like he was the one lucky to be picked.

And now, here you are — parked at some gas station near downtown, windows down, soft music playing low while he pumps gas.

Your phone’s in your hand, but you’re not scrolling anymore. You’re watching him. The way he walks. Calm. Hands deep in his pockets. No rush in his step, no tension in his jaw. Just… here. Just showing up. He finishes at the pump and heads into the store. You glance down at your skirt, tug it slightly, then stare out the window — jaw tightening just a little.

Because this is what you asked for, right?

Consistency. Presence. No more bullshit.

And now that he’s giving it — not perfectly, not loudly, but steadily — it’s doing something to you that you didn’t expect:

It’s making you want to reach back.

Sukuna slides into the driver’s seat with a plastic bag. Tosses it gently into your lap.

“You like peach rings, right?”

You blink. Look down. He got your favorite candy, plus water and chips. “And a Twix,” he adds. “Cause you be on that fake ‘I don’t want nothing sweet’ shit.”

You bite back a smirk and mumble, “Shut up.”

But something shifts. He starts the car, hand on the gear shift.

And before he can pull out, you reach across the console—

slow, like you’re not even sure why you’re doing it—

And place your hand on his thigh. Just rest it there. No teasing. No baiting. Just a soft, steady hold. His eyes flick to you, unsure.

You don’t look at him. Just watch the road like it’s nothing.

Like you didn’t just cross a line you’ve been guarding for weeks. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move your hand.

But you feel the way he breathes deeper —

feel the heat in the way his leg tenses under your palm. You glance at him once, then away.

“You’re trying,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He nods once. “I am.” You squeeze his thigh gently. Then pull your hand back.

But the air between you? It’s different now.

Because for the first time in a long time?

You touched him first.

Once he made it to your home, you don’t invite him in with words.

You just unlock the door, leave it cracked, and walk inside. He follows. No need to ask where to go. He’s been here enough to know the rhythm — shoes off, jacket hung, quiet like he’s scared to press his luck. But tonight, you want him to. Just a little.

You head straight to your room. White skirt swaying. Top riding up as you tug it loose from your bra. The lights are dim. Scented candle half-burned on your dresser. Fan humming. You sit at the edge of the bed, start to pull off your sandals.

He stands in the doorway. Watching. Like he doesn’t want to get it wrong.

You don’t look up, but your voice breaks the silence.

“You can come in, Sukuna.”

He moves slow, hands in his hoodie pocket. Not cocky, not smirking — careful.

You stretch your legs out in front of you. Your skin glowing in the soft light, that white mini riding scandalously high.

“Why’re you standing like you’re scared of me?” you tease, voice soft.

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Cause I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You finally look at him. Really look. “No more lies?” you ask. “No more lies,” he promises. You nod once. Then pat the bed beside you. He sits. Still quiet.

You shift, turning to face him. Letting your thigh brush his. Your fingers find the hem of your skirt and play with it slowly — not teasing, just thoughtful.

“You been good,” you murmur.

He looks at you, brow lifted.

You nod once. “You’ve been showing up. Not asking for more than I’m ready to give.” A pause. “And I notice that.”

You lean in. Lips close, but not touching. “You want to kiss me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

You smile.

“Then do it like you mean it.”

His mouth meets yours with a softness that catches you off guard — like he’s not claiming, but asking. You kiss him back.

Hands sliding to his jaw, fingertips skimming the edge of his jawline .

He groans low when you deepen it. Tongues slow. Mouths syncing. No rush. Just heat. Just relief.

Like two people who’ve finally found the same rhythm after dancing around it for too long.

You break the kiss gently. Look at him. Look through him. Then slide your leg over his lap.

You’re straddling him now — chest to chest, lips swollen from the way you’ve been kissing each other like neither of you could breathe without it. The thin white top you wore out is peeled halfway up, his hands resting under the fabric, palms against the bare skin of your back like he’s holding something fragile for the first time. Your forehead’s pressed to his, your breathing slow and shaky as your hips begin to roll. His hands tighten. “Fuck…” Sukuna mutters, eyes fluttering shut. Because it’s not fast — it’s intentional.

You grind against him like you’ve been saving this up for weeks. Like every night you slept alone with your thighs clenched and your pride high, you were still thinking about this exact pressure — his length straining under his sweats, hot and hard against your core, both of you still fully clothed but already aching.

And he lets you take your time.

Just watches you — jaw clenched, eyes dark, hands tracing the curve of your hips as you move against him in slow, deliberate rolls.

“This what you missed?” you whisper, lips brushing his.

He groans — a deep, needy sound — and nods. “I missed you,” he murmurs, barely audible. You pause for a beat — long enough for both of you to feel the shift.

You reach between your bodies and pull at the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down just enough to free him. Your panties are still on — lacy, white, barely covering anything.

You push them to the side and sink down. Slow. So slow it feels like a confession.

Sukuna curses under his breath, body falling back against the bed, his grip bruising now as he grabs your waist — not to guide, just to feel.

You move in slow, deep circles. Not bouncing. Not racing. Just letting him fill you — letting your body memorize him again like he never left.

Your hands slide up his chest, nails grazing his skin as your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck, I forgot how good you feel,” you murmur.

He growls softly, pulling you closer. One hand cradles your neck, thumb stroking the underside of your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. “I thought about this every night,” he whispers. “You on top. Taking your time. Making me wait.”

You moan — because you know it’s true. You wanted to make him wait. And now? You’re giving it to him, but on your terms.

You lean down, lips brushing his ear.

“This ain’t yours again, Sukuna,” you whisper, voice like silk. “Not yet.” His breath stutters. His hips twitch up involuntarily.

“Say you understand,” you tease, voice tightening as your pace picks up, slick sounds filling the space between your bodies now.

“I understand,” he gasps, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “I fucking understand.”

But his hands are shaking. Because the way you’re riding him now — hips rolling, walls clenching, heat pouring between you — it feels like more than just sex.

It feels like punishment and reward. It feels like forgiveness that hasn’t been spoken yet. It feels like longing finally allowed to burn. And when you both finish — bodies tangled, breath ragged, your fingers tangled in his hair, his mouth buried at your collarbone — it’s not loud.

It’s intimate.

His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he doesn’t hold you tight enough.

You wake up to warmth behind you.

Not sunlight — him.

Sukuna’s arm is slung across your waist, palm resting on the soft curve of your lower belly. His nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady, like he’s been there all night, pressed to you like a second skin.

You shift a little. Not trying to wake him. Just testing the moment. He stirs anyway — always tuned to your body, even in sleep. “Mm,” he groans, voice hoarse. “Where you think you goin’, lil’ girl?” You smirk, eyes still closed “Bathroom. Maybe coffee. Maybe out to brunch without you.”

He groans louder this time, pulling you back tighter against him. “Nah. You not goin’ nowhere. You still mine ‘til at least noon.” You hum. “That so?”

“Mhm. Morning-after clause. You laid that punishment coochie on me and now I’m emotionally compromised. You owe me at least one full snuggle cycle.”

You roll your eyes but laugh — that small, grudging laugh that means you’re not mad at it. His voice drops lower, more real.

“You good?” You pause for a second. Then nod “Yeah.” His grip softens. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, lips lingering like he’s not sure he should do more, but wants to.

You turn in his arms to face him. Hair messy. Skin bare under the covers. No makeup. And he grins. “What,” you mutter, “why are you smiling like that?”

He shrugs, half-lazy, half-smug. “Just admiring my success. Look at you. Curled up in my arms. After all that ‘you on probation’ talk.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are still on probation.” He raises a brow, leans in to brush his lips over your cheek.

“And yet I’m here… in your bed… in your sheets… with your thigh over mine like I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Oh, baby. It’s too late.”

You swat his chest and he laughs — the real one. The one you hadn’t heard in weeks.

And it does something to you. Because this isn’t just the smug Sukuna who knows how good he’s got it. This is the Sukuna who stayed. Who kissed your shoulder when he thought you were still asleep. Who folded your robe over the back of the chair instead of tossing it to the floor.

Who checked your fridge and already mentally planned breakfast in his head even though he acts like he doesn’t cook.

You watch him. Not smiling, but not guarded either. “You hungry?” he asks, already sitting up, bare chest on display. “You cooking?”

“Hell yeah. You don’t remember? I make a god-tier bacon, egg, and apology sandwich.”

You roll your eyes. “You are so annoying.”

He leans over, kisses your forehead gently.

“And you look fine as hell in the morning light. So we’re even.”

You don’t say anything when he gets up and disappears into the kitchen. You just lie there for a second, biting the inside of your cheek. Because the version of him you have this morning? Is very different from the one you almost gave up on. And while you’re not falling yet…you are watching.

He’s in your kitchen like he owns it. Sweats slung low on his hips, no shirt, tattoos cutting sharp under morning light as he moves between stove and counter with a kind of ease that makes your chest pull tight. Like he belongs here. Like this isn’t borrowed time. Bacon’s sizzling. Eggs already fluffed in the pan. Bagels in the toaster.

You sit on the barstool, robe pulled loosely around your frame, still warm from the sheets, thighs crossed, eyes sharp but quiet.

You’re watching him.

And he knows.

“You always stare like that in the morning?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m deciding.” He raises a brow. “On what?”

“If you’re gonna be worth the emotional whiplash today.” He smirks, sliding the spatula under the eggs with lazy confidence.

“Oh, we doin’ the cute bratty shit again? Thought I earned a grace period after last night.” You shrug. “Grace has to be renewed daily. Like a subscription.”

He chuckles low, pulling plates from your cupboard without asking. He’s done this before. He remembers.

“Relax,” he says, setting a plate down in front of you. “I’m feeding you. That’s at least one star toward my trial run, right?”

You eye the plate: eggs, bacon, bagels just how you like it. freshly squeezed orange juice. No flashy extras, just right.

“Two stars,” you admit quietly. He leans against the counter across from you, sipping his own juice. Then gets quiet. And you feel it — that shift.

You eat a few bites in silence before you glance up and catch it in his eyes: not the usual fire, not the smugness. Something… heavier. Softer.

“What?” you ask.

He looks down at his food. Takes a second. “I needed that last night,” he says, almost under his breath. You pause, fork halfway to your mouth. “Needed the sex?” you ask, lips twitching.

He scoffs. “I mean—yeah. But not just that.” You put your fork down. Let him talk. He shifts, exhales, and rubs the back of his neck — that small tell that he’s uncomfortable with his own truth. “I didn’t realize how much I missed… not pretending,” he admits.

You blink. Stay quiet.

“I was so wrapped in shit — scams, running plays, keeping up with bullshit, acting like I don’t give a fuck even when I do…” His voice trails off, then he looks at you. Really looks.

“And then you called me. And I pulled up. And for the first time in a long-ass time, I felt like I could just be. No games. No show. Just… you and me.”

You swallow. Hard. “I didn’t mean to—” He stops. Starts again. “I wasn’t planning on staying last night. I thought I’d drop you off, maybe talk shit, flirt a little…”

“But then you stayed,” you finish.

“Then I stayed.” 

You both go quiet again. But it’s not heavy — it’s real. He leans forward, arms resting on the counter, tone lower now. “You got no idea how good it felt to wake up and not have to pretend I was somewhere else. Not have to sneak out. Not have to lie about where I was.”

You meet his eyes.

And they’re open now — wide, raw, a little nervous.

“And I know I fucked a lot up before,” he adds. “I know I’m still earning my way back.”

He swallows.

“But if you let me… I’ll keep showin’ up. Not just when you call. Just because I want to.” The silence after is long. You could press. You could test him. You could cut into him with every moment he left you on read, every lie he swore wasn’t one.

But instead?

You pick your fork back up. Take another bite. And say, simply:

“Three stars.”

He laughs — breathless, relieved. You glance up. Your voice is soft, but firm. “You’re not off probation.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not kicking you out, either.”

“I noticed.”

You lift your glass, take a sip, and meet his eyes again. “Keep showing up, Sukuna. And don’t make me regret last night.” His smirk is cocky again. But his eyes? They’re grateful.

“I can do that.”

You didn’t text him first. Didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t even hint.

But he still pulls up in that matte grey car you love to pretend you’re unimpressed by, parking with a lazy angle in your driveway like he owns a piece of you now—and knows it.

You open the door in a tiny set of lounge shorts and a tank top, lip gloss shimmering, hair up like you weren’t expecting company… but weren’t mad about it either.

He steps in, hoodie unzipped, smirk already loading.

“Hi,” he says, like it’s the first time he’s ever walked in here. You arch a brow. “You tryna act brand new?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Just in a good mood.” You side-eye him, arms crossing under your chest. “What’d you do?” He walks right past you, brushing a kiss across your cheek as he heads into the living room like he lives here now.

“Nothing,” he says, digging into his hoodie pocket. “Just finished something clean. Needed to get out the way before the weekend.”

He turns and tosses something onto the kitchen counter with a dull thud. A stack. Crisp, wrapped bills. At least two bands. Maybe more.

You blink.

Then look up slowly.

“Boy, what the hell is this?”

He shrugs again, leaning against the counter, eyes shamelessly glued to your thighs now that you’ve taken a step closer. “You said you wanted consistency. I’m just contributing to the household.” You scoff. “We don’t live together.”

“Not yet.”

You click your tongue. “This supposed to impress me?” He licks his lips, tilting his head. “Nope. It’s supposed to shut you up for five minutes while I kiss on you.”

That earns a real smile from you—crooked, warm, unwilling. You step closer, tugging the banded stack toward you, flipping through it just to show him you’re not above being curious.

“Mm.” You look up through your lashes. “This a tip?”

“Nah,” he says, voice dipping. “It’s a thank-you. For keeping me sane this week.” He leans in, brushing his mouth against your jaw, then lower—kissing along the slope of your neck like he has time to spare. But the twitch in his hand against your waist says different.

“You got somewhere to be?” you murmur, voice low now. “Mmhmm. But not ‘til I make you melt a little.”

It starts fast. 

The stack still laying on the counter. Your lips on his, fierce and unfiltered.

He lifts you up—hands under your thighs, pushing your shorts aside while your legs wrap around his waist without hesitation. You’re back against the nearest wall in seconds.

His mouth never leaves yours. But his hand? Already down the front of your panties, fingers slick and sure, two knuckles deep before your back even arches.

“Kuna—fuck—”

“I know, baby. I know.”

His breath is hot against your cheek, his body moving in rhythm with yours, his free hand fisting the hem of your tank to push it up and expose one breast to his hungry mouth. He sucks like he’s been deprived.

Like this five-minute quickie is everything he’s been waiting on all damn week. You grind against his fingers, jaw slack, one hand gripping his hair as you gasp into his mouth.

“You better not make me late,” he murmurs, even as he curls his fingers just right and makes you shiver all over again. “Then you better finish what you started,” you hiss.

And he does. He drops you gently to the floor, flips you to bend over the kitchen counter without losing rhythm. Your shorts halfway down, your tank top rucked up.

He grabs his cock and slides his head against your soaked hole and slowly slides in. It’s deep. No warm-up. No slow wind-up.

Just heat.

Skin.

Friction.

The sound of your moans biting into your arm, and his low curses against your shoulder as he drives into you hard and quick—like every thrust is a statement. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing to you?” he pants. “You think I don’t notice how wet you get the second I show up?”

You clench around him just to spite him. And he feels it. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

It doesn’t last long—was never supposed to. But when you both finish, shaky and breathless against the counter, he doesn’t rush. 

He kisses your shoulder. Pulls your shorts back up for you. Fixes your twisted tank like he cares. Then smacks your ass once, smirking. “I’ll call you later,” he says, picking up his keys like nothing happened.

You glance at the stack still on the counter.

“Better.”

He laughs as he walks out. And you watch him go—sore, satisfied, and silently admitting:

This is what you’ve been waiting for this whole time.

[darkbluekies]

One by one

Yandere!mafia oc x reader

Summary: it was too easy to run away ... maybe because Silas has a plan to get you to come back by yourself ....

Warnings: yandere, feelings of isolation, mention of murder, anesthesia, everything in the oneshot is a bit more on the darker side, so prepare for that

Word count: 4.3k

It had been too easy, you realise in retrospect. It had been harder before. If none of Silas’s men or security alarm had caught you, Otto would have—the 90 pound male Doberman—but this time, you almost walked out the front door with ease.

You lean your chin in your hand. Something's wrong. Terribly wrong.

You glance down at your hands, trembling as you remove the wedding ring from your finger and putting it in your pocket. The moon above you seems to stare right at you. The playground is empty, which probably is for the best. You haven't been able to breathe inside, but going outside is dangerous.

“Here, I got you a soda”, your friend says as she returns from the corner shop.

You take it in your hands, mumbling a “thank you”. Your friend sits down beside you on the bench, glancing at you from time to time.

“Are you thinking about him?” 

You nod.

“It'll be okay”, your friend says. “Somehow.”

“He'll be furious”, you mumble. “He always gets mad. But … something is different. I shouldn't have been able to leave that easy.”

“Don't think too much about it. It'll only make things worse.”

You've been home for a few days and with every day that passes, you're scared it'll be your last with your family. It always feels like someone's watching … because there is.

“Boss”, SIC says into his phone. “They removed their wedding ring.”

He's hidden by shadows, standing too far away for you to see. But he sees. Oh, how he sees you.

“What?” Silas asks, anger growing in his throat. 

“Should I go over there?” SIC asks.

“No. Don't. Come back.”

 “Uh, are you sure? They might not be here long.”

“Then hurry. I have another idea.”

SIC gives you one last glance before stepping onto his motorcycle. Silas waits for him outside his house, Otto by his side.

“Shouldn't someone watch them?” SIC asks. 

“I’m going to send them a message”, Silas says.

“A message? Won't that hurt them?”

Silas rolls his eyes and holds up a note. “Not one of the messages. I'll put this in Otto's collar and you'll take him with you and go back. Send Otto forward, stay hidden. Y/N will recognise him and then understand that I am watching. If they follow what's on the note, go get them. If they decide not to, simply walk over and get Otto, but don’t say a word to them.”

“What? Why?”

“I'm not going to chase them this time. I'm going to bring them to me by removing what they left me for … and I'll start with that friend of theirs sitting beside them. One by one, until Y/N comes crawling begging for forgiveness.”

SIC smirks. “Gotcha.”

You’ve barely touched your soda when you hear the sound of panting. 

“Oh, where did that come from?” your friend asks. 

You turn your eyes up and feel how every nerve in your body snaps, like cords being cut. You could recognise that dog among hundreds. 

“What the fuck”, you breathe out and on instinct crawl higher on the bench. “No, no, no no—”

“What is it?” your friend asks. 

Otto wags his tail, more than happy to see you after a few days of being apart. He barks happily. Your eyes scan the horizon with blurry vision, panicky searching for him. He has found you. He’s here to take you back. 

“You know this dog?” your friend asks with furrowed brows. “He seems to know you…”

“It’s … uh, it’s his dog.” 

Your voice trembles more than it should. Your breath hitches as you sit down normally again, hands shakingly reaching out to pet Otto. He’s ecstatic, licking your hands and barking as if you’ve been apart for months. You can’t see Silas anywhere and decide to turn your eyes onto Otto. 

“If you’re here … someone else is too”, you whisper shakingly. 

“Should we leave?” your friend asks. 

“No use … Otto runs faster than we do.”

“Does he bite?”

“If he’s instructed to.”

You notice a paper locked onto his collar and pull it out, almost drop it when you try to open it. The handwriting is intensely familiar. To your surprise, there’s only one sentence.

“Put your wedding ring back on your finger.”

You hesitate. That son of a bitch. He basically releases you, psyches you for days ,making you absolutely paranoid, and then sends forward the only thing in that damn household you like with a demand? Who does he think he is?

You crumpled the paper and throw it. If he wants to get you, he’ll have to come get you himself. You’re not a doll for him to play around with. Not the butt of his joke. He must stand somewhere in the shadows and watch you with that grin on his face. It’s all a joke to him, isn’t it? That’s why he let you leave. He’s toying with you. But you won’t entertain him. 

Someone comes walking out of the shadows of the other side of the playground. Your entire body tenses, eyes widening. You expect it to be him, but it’s SIC. You’re not sure if that’s better. 

“Here, boy”, SIC says and pats his thigh. 

Your heart stops. Eyes never leaving him. Otto turns and runs to SIC, getting into work mode. Your friend seems less scared than you. She doesn’t know who this is. Or what he does. Doesn’t know how close to death she is right now. You wonder what she’d say if she knew that she was face to face with the right hand man of the country’s most dangerous man. 

You meet SIC’s dark eyes for a second, before they flicker to your friend, then back. 

“If that’s how you want it”, he says calmly. “You had a choice and you declined it.”

Wait what?

He turns and walks, Otto following him. 

You’re not sure why, but you fly up from the bench, hurrying after. 

“What are you talking about?” Your words come out way too quick. “What is he going to do?”

SIC doesn’t seem to notice you. Or he doesn’t care. Otto doesn’t look at you either. 

“SIC!” you say, louder than intended. Your voice trembles. “Stop doing this! I’m fucking scared, don’t do that! I don’t want to play your game, I just want to be left alone!”

SIC looks at you, still walking. 

“How hard can it be to put on a little ring?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “Hm? You’re selfish and you’re childish. You think Silas will come running after you again? You don’t think he has better things to do than to chase after you like a goddamn toddler every fifteen minutes?”

“Fine, I’ll put on the ring! I’ll wear it.”

“Cute, but I don’t ask twice. You’ve made your choice.” He stops and turns to you. “We both know it wasn’t actually about the ring, right? And if that’s the case … why didn’t you put it on? Why be so selfish and let other people take your punishment?”

“SIC … please …”

“It's not me you have to beg.”

With that said, he leaves. You watch him disappear into the shadows, hear his car's engine tone out.

You realise you haven’t breathed in over a minute. On heavy legs you drag yourself back to the bench. The soda is since long forgotten. Your breathing comes out hectic, rushed. Frantic. 

“Y/N, breathe”, your friend reminds you, holding one of her hands over your chest. “Let’s go to the cops, let’s—”

“That won’t work … oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Get up. We’re moving.”

The note lays scrambled on the ground. It was a test? “You had a choice and you declined it?” What the fuck did that mean? What have you declined? And what have you, in response, opened yourself up for?

Your head is spinning. SIC has seen tour friend. Actively turned his gaze to her. That split of a second was all he needed to memorise her. 

“You have to leave.”

“Let’s go home, Y/N, you look unwell. It’s going to be okay.”

“No, I’m actually serious. You have to leave.”

Or is it better for her to stay where you can see her? 

“Should I call someone?” your friend asks.

Who can you call? The cops? You want to laugh out loud. The second you call the cops, Silas men will know, because of course he has people working for him in the police force. Besides, your phone is back at Silas’s house and your friend's could easily be tracked.

“Let's go inside, at least”, your friend says. “It's getting chilly.”

“We're not going home.”

You're sure Silas already knows where you live, but it's the principle. Your friend takes you to the corner shop she got the sodas from. The bright fluorescent light hits your eyes. But the warmth from the heaters makes you relax slightly.

“I feel so selfish”, you say as you walk around the aisles with your hands in your pockets. “You have nothing to do with this, but he'll drag you into it …just because you're connected to me. Guilty by fucking association.”

“I'm not scared”, she answers softly.

You should be.

If only your friend knew who she had been standing eye to eye with. SIC is a machine, no remorse, no conscience. He could have killed her right then and there and not have cared that you were sitting half a meter away. He's not like Silas. Compared to him, Silas is almost humble. Almost.

“Silas has two dogs”, you mutter and pretend to look at a bag of chips. “Just that one of them happens to be a thirty-six year old narcissist. You met both tonight.”

“He gave me the creeps.”

“Silas insists that he's my brother-in-law, but I only see a dog following it’s owner.”

“Should we get rid of it? The ring?”

Your eyes dart to your friend, horrified at the mere suggestion.

“Are you insane?” you breathe out. “He already knows I've taken it off and that has put me in trouble. If I get rid of it, he'll kill me.”

“Would he?”

“Well, maybe not kill, but I don't want to figure out what he figures out. I tried to put it on, I begged SIC, but … he said it’s too late.” You bite your lip. “I think I've done something really bad. Every time I try to push back he finds a way to cage me in. Wouldn't surprise me if I become the third dog.”

“I think you need to rest, Y/N. Let's buy some snacks and go to my house and watch a movie, okay?”

You think of your parents back home. You should go to them, in case Silas shows up, but maybe he won't go there if you're not there. 

You grab the bag of chips you pretended to look at and go to the counter. The woman behind smiles at you and scans the bag. 

“That'll be three dollars”, she says.

You pick out your wallet and give her three one dollar cash. All taken from Silas's wallet. Your own bank card has been cut in two and if you get a new one he can track that too. Cash is the only safe way.

“Thank you”, the woman says. 

“Have a good evening”, you mumble and grab the bag of chips.

“You too, Y/N.”

You freeze in place. Eyes widening. Suddenly the cashier's smile doesn't seem the least sweet anymore, even though it hasn't changed. You stumble backwards.

Run.

Your nails dig into your friend's arm and hurry out of the corner shop, heart hammering against your ribs.

“How did she know your name?” your friend asks.

“Fucking hell”, you hiss, running your free hand through your hand. “He's stationed them out! That woman works for him. He's put her there to keep track if I walk in! That asshole. She heard what I said about SIC!”

You hit your palm against your forehead, groaning.

“Jennifer messaged”, SIC says and walks into the office, phone in hand. “The one we put in the corner shop, you know? She messaged that Y/N and their friend walked in.”

“Well?” Silas asks and leans back. “What did they buy?”

“Chips.”

“Chips? Seriously?”

“She wrote that. Said that they're going home to the friend to watch a movie. Sour cream and onion, if you want to know the flavor. Kind of basic if you ask me but who am I to judge?”

Silas leans back in his chair. “So … Y/N both ignored my warning, crumpled the note, talked back and is now buying snacks to watch a movie? Seems to me like they're not the slightest worried. What a joke.”

“What do you want to do?”

Silas thinks for a moment, jaw burn. “They're going to their friend's house?” 

“Yes, it seems like it.”

“So their own home is free?”

“I'd guess their parents are home.”

Silas stands up, pushing the chair back. “Let's pay them a visit. Grab Otto.”

You couldn't focus on the movie and ate chips on autopilot. Couldn’t even tell what the movie was about, but now that you’re lying on the mattress in your friend’s room, turned to the side, you feel how you wish you had watched the movie, forced yourself to enjoy it, just so that you could have kept your mind occupied, because now that everything is silent and dark … the thoughts come back. You sit up slowly, glancing towards your friend before picking out the ring from your pocket, admiring it in the moonlight. The engravement on the inside makes your stomach twist. In some way, you do like Silas. A part of you can’t deny that, but you know that staying with him means giving up all of your dreams and the life you’ve studied to get. If you stay with him, all your decisions becomes his. Your life, becomes his. You’re his accessory, his. When he’s not the mafia man that comes home bloody, he’s almost normal … and you’re terrified to let that part of him take you under. 

I shouldn’t have been so naive to mess with Silas about the ring. Why was I so selfish to just … throw the note away? In front of SIC?

You know it was because of just needing to put a little stick in the wheel, just something to annoy him, to show that he can’t scare you into being his obedient little dog. A little rebellion to have something for yourself.

But you know how stupid that is. 

You rest your head into your hands, groaning. 

“Get out of my head”, you whisper pleadingly. “Please, please, please get out of my head.”

 “We both know it wasn’t actually about the ring, right?” SIC had said when you had begged him to explain. “And if that’s the case … why didn’t you put it on? Why be so selfish and let other people take your punishment?”

You know how Silas functions by now. He’s like an explorer in a jungle, cutting down branches in the way to get to their target. He’s going to use people you love to get to you. But how? Is he going to search every house until he finds you and kill every time he won’t find you? Or kill when he finds you?

Suddenly the house doesn’t feel safe anymore. You’re just waiting for him to come and get you … and that’ll put your friend in danger. You sigh and get up from the mattress, grabbing your jacket. If he gets here and finds that you’re not here … maybe your friend will be safe? Or … maybe you’re not here to protect her …

He wants you, after all. If you’re not here, he might just move on to the next and leave them be.

You give your friend a small squeeze on her shoulder before slipping out of the dark house. Your mind contradicts itself again. How are you any more safe out there in the open darkness than in there behind locked doors? You stop in the middle of the road, the streetlights shining above you, lighting you up like spotlights at a trial. Should you go back?

You’ll risk her life. Her parents life. 

Every step you take can be wrong and result in death. Tears fall down your cheeks as you run home. Your feet barely touch the ground. Every step hurts. 

The house is quiet as you enter through the back door. You stop and frown, listen for sounds … or the lack of it.

“Mom?” you ask hesitantly. “Dad?”

Their lack of answering rips your heart out of your chest. He hadn’t started with your friend, of course not, he had started here … where your most cherished loved ones live. With your heart in your throat you run up the stairs to their bedroom. Two bodies are lying in bed, above the covers, without as much as a movement. You turn on the lights and see them lay there. Your eyes search for blood, for wounds, holes … but nothing. Instead, you see a note taped on the headboard. Before grabbing it, you feel for your mother’s pulse. Alive? With confusion mixed relief, you grab the paper. 

“This is the second note I’m writing to you this evening. Don’t let it reach a third one. Since I love you more than I probably should at this moment, I will give you ONE last chance. Your parents are not dead—not yet, at least. Just some anesthesia … but it scared you, didn’t it? Made you think they were dead? How did that feel, Y/N? Was it worth it? Would your little adventure be worth losing both of you parents? This time, it was just a scare. Next time I WILL go through with it. And don’t think that by staying by your parents side will do any different. Your friends, your extended family, are all in my reach. You can’t protect everyone at the same time, can you? If you want all of this to stop, you know what you need to do — S.”

New sobs escape you. You crumple the paper and throw it to the side before shaking your mom and dad, pleading with them to wake up. When they don’t, you continue to sit at the bedside, filled with nothing. Emptiness had never felt so large, so filling, before. 

“I knew something was up the second I left”, you say out into the room, almost as if you expect either mom or dad to answer. “I should have realised … but I’m pretty good at acting first and thinking later. I just wanted to get away, I never meant for anyone to get hurt … I just wanted to be free. We live one life … why should mine be wasted just because that man has decided that I should be his spouse? It’s not fair. It’s not fair that I have to be responsible for everyone around me. Their life shouldn’t have to be in danger because of me. I know I’m not technically responsible, that it’s Silas, but … somehow it feels like my fault. And I hate it …” Tears roll down your cheeks and you don’t try to stop them. “I hate that I have become dangerous and I hate that people can’t look at me without thinking of him. I just wanted to get away … go home … be the old me again … and I thought that if I remove his ring, I would be my old self again … stupid. It’s all so stupid!”

You rise from the bed, glaring towards the hallway, almost expecting to see someone standing there. 

“If I don’t want anyone I love to die, I need to crawl back to him”, you hiss. “Be a good little doggy. I need to sacrifice my entire soul for everyone. The trolley problem, right? But fine. I’ll come crawling on my knees. I’ll do what it takes because I can’t let him hurt any of you. If the only power I have is to keep you safe … then I guess I’ll do it. My only resistance that I can’t be punished for.”

You tuck a blanket over your parents and quietly leave the house. You wrap your arms around your body and walk on heavy legs through the night once again. This time, you don’t stop at the end of the city. You keep on walking and walking and walking. It never ends. 

Until you see his house. Black and modern, with lights in the windows. He’s still up. Waiting for you. 

You’re not sure if you should knock or walk right in. You’re way too tired. Way too painful. Your hand trembles as you open the front door and stumble in. Head turning directly to your left, to the door to his office. Closed. Light shines beneath it. You walk over and knock, heart sinking down to your stomach. 

“Yes?” Silas voice asks. 

“I’m … I’m back”, you whisper. 

You can hear his lips turn into a smile. 

“Come in, little thing.”

You open the door, heavy eyes setting on him where he sits on the couch by the window. Not by his desk. He hasn’t been working. Only waiting. Expecting. 

“Look at you”, he chuckles, leaning his head back against the wall, legs spread. “Quicker than I thought.”

You want to sit down. Your legs can’t hold you anymore. He can see the way your eyelids flutter in exhaustion and defeat and stands up, strolling over to you. His hand creeps up to your cheek, cupping it. 

“Such a good little thing you are, aren’t you?” he mumbles. “You gathered all those brain cells in your head and came back.”

“Stop fucking saying that …”, you breathe out, shaking your head in exhaustion, anger flaring back into your bones. “Stop making it into a joke … it’s anything but …”

He caresses your cheek, voice becoming gentler. “I know. I know.”

He catches your tear with his finger before it reaches your skin. 

“Now that we don't have to fight anymore, you should go to bed—”

“Fight?” you questioned. “Is that how you view this?”

“How else? You were mad at me and left and I got mad at you when you removed your ring. Show me your hand.”

You lift both hands. He touches the golden ring on your ring finger. 

“Good”, he said. “That was all I wanted. If you’d have put on that ring, I wouldn’t have had to let you see that side of me … but you’re stubborn, aren’t you?”

“So I should just let you dictate my life as you please then?” you hiss without looking at him. “As long as I do what you say, I don’t have to worry you’re going to murder my loved ones?”

Silas’s black eyes hardened slightly. 

“Do you even acknowledge how lucky you are being able to speak to me like that and still not get killed?” he asks. 

“If you hurt any of them you knew I'd never forgive you. That's why you didn't. Because you wouldn't want to admit you did wrong, so you'd rather have it look like a kind gesture. It wasn't. None of it."

“Really? How about you stop staring into the wall and at least look at me when you're accusing me so I might believe you're actually serious.”

You look at him. He scans your face for a few seconds before scoffing. He takes a step closer, until he can reach down and whisper in your ear. You stand perfectly still.

“You pretend to hate me”, he whispers, breath fanning your ear. “But we both know that's not true.”

“I hate this. Whatever you're doing now.”

“That's fine with me, because you're not supposed to see this side. As long as you behave … you don't have to.”

Behave. The words make you scoff. 

“Let’s get you to bed now”, Silas says. “We will talk more in the morning … and while you sleep, I’ll figure out appropriate consequences for this dumb act.”

Before you can protest, he bends down and lifts you over his shoulder. You don’t even bother fighting back. Why should you give him the delight of your struggle? You’ve already lost. You’re exhausted.

He might have won the battle, but you will win the war. Somehow.

Otto comes out of the dining room and barks happily at the sight of you. His tail wags and he hurries after you and Silas up the stairs to the second floor, jumps into the bed when you’re placed down. You lay still, staring to your side, refusing to acknowledge him. Silas removes your shoes, throwing them to the side and tucks you in, still in the same clothes you’ve been running around in.

“Rest”, he orders, his hand resting on your ankle for a moment. “You’re home now. Where you should be. No more running around or I will cuff you to the bed with Otto’s leash. You’re mine.”

The Doberman jumps up on the bed. Silas pets him once.

“Otto will make sure you’re still here when I come back. Now that I don’t have to wait for you anymore, I will get some actual work done. Sleep well, little thing, don’t ever do this shit again. I miss you too much, you know, and you’re not safe out there alone.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead before alkig over to the door.

"Oh, and next time you compare my best friend to a dog ...", Silas says, smirking slightly, "... maybe you want to make sure no one listens."

With that said, he chuckles and leaves the room. Otto lays down beside you and licks your face. You reach your hand to pet his fur. With a sigh, you rest your head back on the pillows, cursing quietly with your arms crossed over your chest. Next time you’ll succeed. Next time.

[tojisteddy]

Rosemary | Jealous Meanie!Price catches !reader at the bar with a guy her age.

cw: +18 mdni, smut with plot, no use of y/n, daddy kink (icky (use of daddy & dad)), softdom!Price, dad bf!Price, age gap (obvi, reader mid-late 20s, early 40s Price), jealous!Price, mating press, (lite) chocking, no protection, creampie, fingering.

In all actuality, Price didn’t like being jealous. (Most people don’t). In fact, he really hated it, the gross feeling, the irritation building up, his grip on the whiskey tightening. All the annoyance he felt towards the prick who was standing in front of you.

And to do it in his favorite pub— where everyone knew him. The idiot was asking for it.

He was angled right across from you, you’d went to talk to your friend who was bartender and then this boy, walked up in a free spot beside you. And your face practically lit up when you met eyes with him, gave him a side hug and sparked up conversation.

He had to be about your age if you knew him, John couldve just waved it off as friendship, sure. Maybe hr was being to overprotective, an old jealous fuck of his baby girl. But it’s the way the bloke looked you up and down while you leaned against the bar, took in every curve, the way your shorts hugged your hips and your ass, the shirt that showed a little bit of your stomach every time you so much as shifted, the way you gave him a small smile.

You were a beautiful creature, John doesn’t get surprised when men or women come to covet you. But anyone with sense knew you were Johns, everyone knew the way you looked at each other, couldn’t get enough of each other. And you’re so nonchalant, quickly dissing people or rejecting them. It eased Johns quickened heart. It was just- at times like this, times when you giggled and playfully punched the guys shoulder— Price couldn’t tell if you were receiving the signals the the guy was trying to give you, properly ignoring them, or simply flirting back to piss him off—

Jesus- no, calm down Price. He took a deep breath, eyes flickering to the tv playing a football game, but he couldn’t hear the noise of the bar anymore nor the announcer breaking down the last play. Just give her time. She can handle yourself. He’d wait.

Five minutes. Only five minutes.

You could handle yourself, Price raised you right. You squinted a few times, a confused look on your face, really trying to get a good look at your friend, Elijah. He was an old co-worker who’d you gotten close with. But maybe his close was different from yours.

“I was thinkin [+],” Elijah starts up again, you give him a smile, “Maybe you and I, could get out of here. Really catch up. One on one.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. This was what allll those corny jokes were about. The way he kept trying to get close and whisper in your ear.

You gave him a remorseful look, pointing towards the bearded, muscular man who’s blue eyes were already on you— made the heat rise under your cheeks, ends of your plump lips uncontrollably curving upward— “My man is over there so.” I’m taken. Very obviously taken.

Elijah’s eyes flicker toward John, scoffs, cocks a brow at you, “He’s a bit old for you, no? I’m not so sure he can handle a pretty thing like yourself.”

And it’s enough. Times up and it had only been four minutes. John doesn’t know what young guy said, but after a giving a nod to his mates he’s already smoothly stalking through the crowded bar towards you, watches you rolls your eyes at the idiot.

Your brown eyes soften once John gets in reach of you, his large hand goes to the small of your back, pulling you into his chest. “Let’s go honey, can’t have any more bastards talkin to you all night, right?”

John is practically cutting daggers into the guy, it makes him quake, John knows he’s being nice just by leaving. If he had pushed even more, Elijah would be in a grave right now.

And fain a pout, shrugging, “Sorry.” And with that, John guide you both out of the establishment.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

The drive home was nearly silent. Just 80s rock on the radio, the car engine and the sound of his cigar puff coming from his lips.

“Are you mad Price?” You asked softly. You eyes wander all over him, his breath is steady, shoulders not tense, but his eyes stuck on the road, he hasn’t looked at you once since closing your car door. He finally glanced over at you, taking your hand in his and bringing it to his lips. He kisses it, right at your ring finger— he always does.

“No pumpkin,” a beat. “Never. Just need a moment, wanna talk you properly.”

And you listen, staying quiet and sitting back into the passenger seat. It’s best to ride things out with Price. Not to interrogate him, he’ll get his thoughts out when they’re all properly sorted. The hair man would never be upset with you, not in this situation when you handled yourself. He knew you could handle yourself. Just sometimes, at times when you’re with people your age, he’s reminded that he’s an old man. Your old man. That things like this will happen sometimes. They won’t get your relationship like you and he do.

His ears ring at your quiet mumble, half way through the drive you’re already half sleep, tired from dancing and drinking and talking all night. “I love you Daddy, a whooole lot.” You manage to say, squeezing his hand before slowly drifting asleep. And Price’s heart swells, whatever doubt he had flies out the window with a breathy chuckle to follow. It’s not like you’re calculated but you always know what to say to put him ease. That your his.

He kisses your hand again, once more, a silent prayer, “Heh, That’s right sweetheart.”

He’ll do you one better, he’ll show you just how much he loves you right when you get home.

You hear the front door lock as you step out of the entryway, shoes left by the front door.

“Lovie…” and it’s a call out to you that makes your heart pound, just under needy— wanting. You don’t even get the chance to turn to him, John grabs your wrist and pulls you into him, smashing his lips into yours. He kisses you feverishly, like he’s been waiting for you all night. Your arms loosely wrap around his neck, you swipe your tongue on his lips and he groans. Gripping your hips and lifting you off the floor, your legs wrapping around his waist as swap tongues.

Smacks of your lips, and your moans hit the walls, you’re breathless by the time he gets you to the bed. Snagging off both clothes one by one till both naked, chest to chest before he lays you down.

“Let me treat you nice, hm?” He asks but he always does. John is almost never rough with you, but he likes controlling the situation. Wanting to be the one to guide you, and you’re good at following. Letting his get two thick digits into your pussy, working them in and out and getting you ready to take him.

Your breath hitches, grinding into his hand before he finds your spot, “Fu- hmm- Daddy!” You moan. John watches as you melt in his strong arms, getting wetter and wetter as he slips another finger into you, the slouching sound of your walls tightening around him.

“Wait, it’s too mu-“

“—Shhhhh, you can take it honey. Give it t’me.” He coos, lips finding your neck. His fingers thrust into your faster, and your hips buck. Your walls spasm around Johns fingers. He snatches his fingers out as you whither, sucking off every drop of you on his tongue— it’s sweet. Addictive.

He groans, “Fuck me darlin, just need Daddy to stuff you full, hm?” He brings his fingers down to your lips, brushing them against your mouth. You obediently open your mouth, swirling your tongue around his fingers, even bobbing your head.

He hums, “Needy little thing, gonna give it to you.”

John loves it, the state of you, sobbing and whimpering as he stretches you out. Your knees over his shoulders, folding in half pressing almost all his weight onto you as he rams into your sopping hole.

“Fuck, look at you baby, taking your Dad so well. Just like you’re meant to.”

You cry out his name over and over, until you’re completely gone. Your jaw slack, in such a pleasure filled haze as he fucks you nice and deep, his mushroom tip rubbing your spongy g-spot with everything thrust. You claw at his back, keening, “C-Can feel it- hmmph- ‘s so m-much Dad.”

He hisses when you clench around him, ever single one of your moans going straight to his pulsing dick. You’re so fucking warm around him, taking ever slow yet harsh pound of his length, “Was- hah- made just for me, tight cunny can only take me.”

“Shit- nooo one loves you more than me princess, love you so much.” His large hand presses his hand on your stomach, right where his pulsing tip is giving you every bit of pre it can. You yelp out in pleasure a string of- shit, love you- love it so much- shit- fuuuck- so goood- and his calloused hand grips your throat. Tight enough that you can just barely breathe. Every fwop of his balls against your pussy when he bottoms out goes straight to your head making your eyes roll back.

“Watch your mouth sweetheart, told you about that.” He grunts, giving you a warning mid fuck but it doesn’t even matter. You only breath out through the little gap your can while he chokes you ever so perfectly, hard nipples brushing against Price’s chest. He lets go to caress your face, giving your cunt one more slug with his cock and it’s sends you over. You don’t even realize your cumming, your back arching against the bed, till your let out a shriek, your walls clamping around him and sucking him for dear life.

John doesn’t stop, his pace only gets faster, gripping the back of your knee and forcing you to stay down, ramming into you while his other hand grips your chin, forcing your mouth open so a wad of spit hits your tongue. He kisses you nasty, sloppy while groaning into you. His teeth clenches as he ruts into you, “Take it, take it, fuck- take it like a champ baby.”

He fills you to the brim, his cum coating your walls till it’s spilling out of you. John pulls out, watches as your hole clenches and unclenches, spilling his remnants onto the bed. The older man rubs your sensitive clit with his cockhead, spurts of his cum creating even more of mess. “Cum like this doll, cum for Dad.”

You jolt, sobbing harder, overstimulated, you whine, “Daddy- please!“

He coos, circling his tip around you, “—I know baby, you can take it, know you can.”

You topple over quick, tears hitting the pillowcase.

John doesn’t waste a second to have you back in his arms, kissing you all over, patting your sore cunt in his hand.

“Atta girl honey. My beautiful, stunning girl.”

a/n: my need to write shit by Deftones songs needs to be studied. Also this was in no shape or form supposed to be long, I just have a terrible habit of setting up plot😔 I don’t think this is what op wanted but 🤷🏾‍♀️lmk if this was too much. Also PLEASE lmk if the smut it shit 🙏🏾 I’m trying my hardest to get better

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[gojodickbig]

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI!!!

sukuna with a huge piss kink :p

your mouth’s swollen from how hard he’s been kissing you.

it’s the first thing he went for when he had you underneath him, tugging your jaw open with his thumb, biting your bottom lip until it throbbed. he hasn’t stopped since—every stroke of his cock punctuated by another needy, growling kiss, like he needs your lips as much as he needs your pussy.

“fuckin’ addicted to this mouth,” sukuna pants, thumb smearing the spit slick down your chin. “look at you, drippin’ on me, tongue out like a bitch in heat.”

you whimper, eyes hazy as you try to meet his gaze. his hands are everywhere—palming your tits, gripping your hips, fisting in your hair when he yanks you up to kiss you again. it’s not sweet. it’s messy, deep, sloppy. he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and groans into it, grinding deeper into your cunt like he’s trying to crawl inside you.

your thighs are trembling already, slick spread all over his cock, your clit catching on the swell of his pelvis with every thrust. it’s too much. too deep. he’s fucking you with zero mercy, hips punishing, sweat dripping from his temple as he watches your face twist up.

then you feel it—a warm pressure. his hand sliding low on your belly, right above your mound, and pressing down. firm and slow.

“kuna—ah!, stop,” you gasp, voice strained, fingers curling in his hair.

he freezes. his grip tightens.

“what?” his voice roughens, his jaw clenched. “you hurt?”

you shake your head quickly, “no!—no, i’m not hurt, i just—fuck, i have to pee.”

he pauses—then his eyes light up, his hips rolling slow against you.

“that right?” he mutters, voice roughening. “my cock that deep, baby? makin’ you wanna take a piss?”

“stop pushing there,” you whimper, squirming when his palm presses again, firm and strong right over your bladder.

he doesn’t listen. of course he doesn’t.

“fuck, feel that bulge,” he growls, thumb stroking right where his cock’s thickest inside you. “your little pussy’s full to the fuckin’ brim. s’that why you’re squirming? like i’m gonna fuck it right outta you?”

“kuna,” you whine, trying to twist your hips away. “what are you doing?”

he leans in close, teeth brushing your ear.

“just makin’ you feel good, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “don’t tell me this doesn’t feel fucking incredible.”

he grinds in deep again, cock stretching you open while his palm presses harder on your lower belly—and your whole body jerks at the pressure.

you cry out, desperate, overstimulated. “kuna, no, that’s—fuck!, that’s disgusting, i can’t—”

“you can,” he groans, kissing down your jaw. “your body’s beggin’ me for it. just let go, baby. make a fuckin’ mess on me.”

you try to shake your head again, lips trembling. “no, no, i don’t want to—”

he cuts you off, voice thick and low, licking his lips.

“i’ve already tasted your cum, your period, your spit,” he rasps, grinding deeper, “a little piss ain’t gonna scare me off. you’re mine—all of you, every filthy fuckin’ inch and drop. i wanna taste all of it.”

he thrusts again, wet and deep and slow, and it’s so much. too much. everything inside you tightens, your thighs shaking.

“you know how hot it is?” he pants, still grinding into you. “gonna cum all over this soaked fuckin’ cunt, ruin the sheets, ruin you. want your body so fucked up you can’t even tell where the cum ends and the piss starts.”

you moan, breath catching in your throat. you hate how good it feels—how heavy and hot and wrong the pressure is. your pussy clenches down around him with every roll of his hips, your belly tight and swollen under his palm.

and you feel it coming. that rush of something you can’t stop.

“fuck,” you sob, legs twitching. “kuna—mhh, it feels good, i can’t—”

that’s all it takes.

your body seizes up, and then it happens—hot liquid gushes between your legs, uncontrollable, drenching his thighs and the sheets beneath you. your face burns in humiliation, but sukuna groans, grinding deep and hard, watching you fall apart.

“ohhh fuck yes, that’s it, baby,” he snarls, his voice wrecked. “piss all over me. fuckin’ drown me. look how fuckin’ messy you are.”

his cock’s still inside you, twitching, your pussy spasming around him while he leans down to kiss you again, tongue hot and messy.

“so good for me,” he growls. “knew you’d give in. look how pretty you are when you break.”

he fucks you through it, body pressed to yours, skin soaked, lips never leaving yours as you moan into his mouth.

“so fucking slutty,” he laughs, voice low against your lips. “you’re fucking made for shit like that. you’re fucking made for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“shut up, kuna,” you mutter, voice hoarse, “you’re a freak…”

“you fuckin’ love it,” he hisses. “don’t lie.”

“whatever.” you try to shift under him, your legs trembling as you reach for the edge of the bed.

he narrows his eyes. “where are you going?”

“to take a shower,” you breathe.

his hand catches your thigh, pinning you back down.

“no need,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “just lay down and spread those legs. let me lick you clean.”

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

for my lovely baby @lily-bisque ur turn next!!!! :p

[starsswirl]

I have a boyfriend!

clark kent (2025) x reader

summary: even when the most super man saves you, you can’t help but run to find your boyfriend who you love so much

warnings: none that i can think of…guilty thoughts maybe?

a/n: first fic posted….kinda nervous. i hope you guys like it! i did not proof read so deeply so if things are every where im sorry.

It was a day like any other…except it really was not in all honesty. You do not really know how to put it but for some reason the entire day has felt kind of off.

From the moment you woke up to writing your usual article for the Daily Planet to even lunch with Clark, you could not shake the feeling that today was different.

Oh Clark.

Maybe it was a 6th sense of his or something, but he always seems to know exactly what it takes to make you feel better.

Up too late last night for no good reason? He puts a cup of coffee on your desk the first minute you even walk through the Daily Planet doors. Always perfectly made.

While he also brings coffee for other people in the bullpen, yours is specially made. You have chalked it up to be that he’s really observant to you specifically. You do not even have to tell him how you felt like drinking your coffee each day, his 6th sense already knows.

Hot and from the pot. Iced with enough creamer and sugar to get just the right mix of sweet and bitter. Caramel. Vanilla. A dash of cinnamon.

He even once brought a frappuccino on those weird days where you craved something out of the ordinary. Oddly enough the nearest coffee shop that sells frappes is 5 blocks down.

Nonetheless, you still savored the drink and told yourself to give Clark a big hug the next time you got a chance.

Today is another one of those ‘out of the ordinary’ days. For some reason you craved tea. Iced tea. Raspberry iced tea if you were going to go into the specifics.

Which brings us to now.

You currently waiting on Clark to bring lunch. Staring at your computer as if the paragraphs for your article would magically appear, instead of having to use your brain to actually put words and sentences together.

Over time, you cannot remember exactly how it started, you both officially unofficially deemed Fridays to be deli days. One of you, or both if you guys had the time, would get sandwiches and chips from the deli down the block to eat together for lunch.

Soon enough Clark comes through the door and walks over to your desk, careful not to trip or bump into people as he quickens his pace.

You are happy to his usual charming smile and messy hair. Your stomach is happy to see the paper bag in his arms full of food. You catch a small glimpse of something in his hand but it couldn’t be what you think it is. Could it?

Oh but it is. His 6th sense is at it again!

“I felt like you could use a small pick me up, so I got this for you. I remember you said that you liked raspberry iced teas, hopefully I remembered correctly,” Clark says hopeful as he sets the drink down carefully on the coaster of your desk.

He is just mindful like that.

“Oh you definitely did. Thank you so much, Clark,” you beam back at him before quickly taking a sip of the tea, letting it refresh your body and mind.

He slides a chair over and sets out the food. We eat together for a moment before curiosity rears its head. You can’t help but ask.

“How do you always know what I want to drink?”

“I just know you,” he says as if the answer made all the sense in the world.

“Know me? It’s like you read my mind somehow. I know you and sometimes I still forget little things.”

Clark lets out a small grin at the corners of his mouth while taking a sip of his water.

“Don’t sweat it, love. You can’t help it if you have the memory of an elderly person. But I still want to be with you just the same.”

“Was that an insult or a compliment?” you ask furrowing my eyebrows.

“Both. But you know how I have a soft spot for sweet old ladies so it’s more of a compliment anyways.”

“You confuse me sometimes,” you say chuckling while shaking your head.

Clark, seemingly at the sight of your laughter, breaks out into a smile of his own.

A moment passes and you both go back to eating in comfortable silence.

Another reason why you love Clark so much, he understands that you do not have to fill every quiet moment with words or noise.

You are happy that you can just exist side by side without feeling the need to fill the time with activities or mundane talk about the weather.

You are especially happy he understands that whenever you’re sick or feeling down, that sometimes you just need quiet to feel better.

You were cut off from you thoughts when you hear Clark clearing his throat next to me.

“So, love…do you maybe wanna come over after work to watch movies and eat a butt load of popcorn together?”

He asks hesitantly, it was as if he was asking you on a first date, but his hesitancy just makes you admire him more.

You’ve been on countless dates with and have even been officially together for 5 months now. There really was no reason for him to be nervous, but you still love that he does.

“Definitely. But I get to choose the movie this time okay? The last one you chose left me with a small existential crisis once it ended.”

“Yeah yeah. Of course, love. I will even made the popcorn exactly the way you like it,” Clark says with a certain nod.

“You do that anyways, Clark. Don’t try to fool me.”

He presses a quick, warm kiss to your cheek and pulls back smiling. You can’t help the bashful blush filling your cheeks, but you can help the condiment residue on your cheek he left from his sandwich by wiping it off.

“Eww, sloppy kisses do not mean they have to actually be sloppy.”

Time passes and the sun has just set below the horizon. There is still light in the sky but it’s dwindling by the minute.

Clark has made it clear that he does not like it when you go out in the city alone at night, fretting something bad would happen and he won’t be able to protect you.

Clark: I’m out of popcorn so I’m at the store to get some more. I should be back by the time you get here. Be careful, okay?

You were in the middle of texting him ‘I’ll be just fine’ before a big explosion erupts from behind. Debris sprinkle down around like snow as you turn around to see a giant, robust alien lying in a crater shaped hole in the road.

At first you couldn’t believe your eyes. It looked almost like a pufferfish and a frog made a giant baby. For some reason, whether it be reflexes or just not thinking clearly, you stay in place observing the alien creature 50 feet away.

With only the street lights and window light to help see, you couldn’t get a good enough look to grasp what the alien might want or what its intentions are.

It’s as if other people around are going through the same effect as they are stopped in their place to watch the creature writhe in its spot.

Maybe the alien has some sort of hypnosis powers to draw other life forms closer. Closer for what? You don’t know. But you don’t care at this point because you cannot even think clearly. Your mind is only telling yourself to get closer.

Suddenly out of nowhere, the alien begins inhaling. It is not the kind of soft, natural inhale that most creatures on earth do. It’s powerful. It’s as if it was a giant vacuum sucking everything in the aliens vicinity.

It starts with small debris, as if a big gust of wind supposedly carried the scraps of trash or fallen leaves into the aliens mouth. But then bigger things begin to get inhaled.

People cry out as they get pulled closer and closer to the mouth of the alien. Mere human strength cannot win against the sheer force of the air.

It’s as if a snap happened and you were knocked out of your hypnosis like everybody else. You were instantly put in fight or flight reflex mode.

You chose flight….obviously.

But when you chose that option, you didn’t mean to literally fly. Your legs are running but when you glance down at the ground the pavement is moving the wrong way.

This is why you’ve felt off the entire day. The universe was sending you a premonition that something big and different would happen. Except when you thought of big and different, you thought maybe one of your articles would finally be approved by Perry to go on the front page.

You did not think of a literally big alien that is different from anything you have ever seen before. Then it hits you.

You are getting swept away into the mouth of a stupid alien! Fear courses through you as you scream for help. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be 10 feet away from your imminent death. You were supposed to be at an apartment blocks away from here in the comforting arms of your boyfriend, watching a movie that makes you both laugh.

You close your eyes and brace yourself until

*Thud*

You were back on the ground. Fallen face first onto the pavement. Albeit the fall was 3 feet from the ground at most, so you maybe got a small bruise or scratch. Most likely got a little dirty so no pain was caused, only confusion.

You sit up to see a giant boulder in the aliens mouth preventing any more vacuum forced wind and a flying Superman above the alien.

Superman seems focused, mentally going through the right thing to do with the alien. This is until his eyes flicker to you just for a moment and you could almost swear they softened just for a second.

You don’t allow yourself to brew on that moment for too long before you watch Hawkgirl, Green Lantern, and Metamorpho carry away the alien to observe it and what not.

“Do you need help miss?”

The powerful voice booms above you as you look up and see an outstretched hand offered to you. The hand it belongs to is none other than Superman.

He flashes a warm smile and you almost just almost get lost in it until you check back into reality.

“Oh no. I’m fine,” you say as you take his hand.

Superman helps you up in one swift motion throwing you off guard for just a moment before you steady yourself back on your legs. Accessing the state of your injuries, or the lack thereof anything significant, Superman keeps a firm grip on your waist as his eyes scan over every little detail of you.

He is close. Awfully close. Close enough to feel the deep exhales from his lungs on your face. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him like you’ve just came inside from playing in the snow and he’s a warm fireplace. Close enough to want him to wrap his big strong arms around you and protect you from the dark world.

As if a 6th sense, Superman softly rubs his thumb in circles to soothe you. Beginning to think of how it was a nice coincidence he knew exactly what would make you feel better, you remember someone else who has that perfect 6th sense too.

Clark!

You quickly snap yourself out of the comforting trance of Superman’s presence. Guilt silently eats at you from the inside How could you even think of being in the arms of someone else when you felt you already had the most perfect boyfriend?

Eagerly you pull his hands off of your body and put quite a few feet of space between you two. You had to get to Clark.

Superman’s face twists into something unreadable with the added distance. His hands hold out for just a moment as if he was so close to pulling you back within his reach. His expression seems to falter for just a second. Was it sadness? Longing? Rejection even?

You do not let yourself ponder over it for too long before you squeak out.

“Thanks for the help but I should get going!”

You internally cringe of the way you said it. Too quickly and too much as if you are trying to avoid something or rather someone.

Which you are. But Superman does not know to know that you are actively trying to get away from him. That would be just rude.

“You have a scratch. On your cheek,” Superman says almost under his breath.

“Oh! It’s okay! You should go attend to other people. I am sure they need your help more than I do.”

You turn on your feet and briskly walk away. Unfortunately, you did not get farther than possibly 10 feet before a warm hand interlocks with yours.

“Everybody else is already taken care of. Please let me take care of you.”

Your heart beats faster at the thought of Superman doting on you. The Superman wanting to tend to your injuries? That is practically everybody’s dream come true.

But you quickly push those thoughts away. Clark is who you should be thinking about right now. He is probably worried sick, wondering what is taking me so long to get to his apartment.

The picture of his anxious face is enough to push you to get to his apartment as fast as you can. To kiss away the frown in his face and tell him you are alright. That is what you want most out of everything else in the world.

“I have a boyfriend!”

Your sudden blurt of declaration has Superman’s grip waver for just a moment. And a moment is all you need really to tear your hand free.

Then you book it. Running as fast as you can away from him and to Clark.

It takes you one whole second to remember you, a regular human, is running away from a meta human. A meta human who can fly and move faster than anything you have ever seen before.

You wait for the inevitable stop again, to be held up by a blue flash infront of your eyes. But it never happens. With a quick turn of your head you see him in the exact same spot where you left him.

He does not look like he has any intention of going after me. He does not even look too upset or rejected that you began running. Maybe even a small look of pride.

Superman is respectful towards taken women. Good to know. Not surprising really based on everything else he stands for, but it is still nice to be reassured about it.

Even with the knowledge that nobody is running after you, you do not slow your steps in the slightest. The urge and anticipation to see your boyfriend is too high to tire you out.

You almost even run into the door from the momentum you were running down his apartment hallway. Stopping yourself just in time to knock on his door and speak between big breaths of air.

“Clark!..Are you in there?..It’s me….You will never guess what just happened to me!”

With an ear to the door you try to hear for any movement inside. Nothing. Maybe he did not hear you at first. So you knocked again.

“Clark!”

Right before you could yell out something along the lines of ‘you better not be asleep,’ the door swings open and your beautiful boyfriend is there in all his nerdy glory.

The biggest smile over takes you as you instinctively jump into his arms. Lips pressing everywhere you can reach. He catches you as if you weigh no heavier than a balloon but holds you as if he just came back from war and this is the first time seeing each other in years.

Forget Superman. Why would you want a guy who focuses on the entire world when you have someone right here just for you?

“I missed you sooo much, Clark”

“What brought this? Not that I did not miss you too because I did. But you usually aren’t this affectionate. Not that I am complaining either,” Clark chuckles out between your kisses as he carries you over to the couch.

He leaves for a moment before sitting down and softly placing a bandaid on your cheek. A soft kiss laid on the bandage before he pulls you in his lap, keeping you comfortable on top of him. He makes no effort to pull you away, his arms tighten around you as if he just can’t get close enough.

You look around and notice the TV on and a bowl of popcorn perfectly popped ready just for us. Beside the bowl are two steaming cups of hot chocolate with just the perfect amount of marshmallows on top.

Hot chocolate never even grazed your mind, but seeing the cups there in all their glory makes your mouth water. He just knows how to make a night perfect. Your heart warms because it is truly times like these where you appreciate your boyfriend the most.

Clark’s 6th sense strikes once as he lays a blanket over you, perfectly cocooning you two together in warmth and love. Oh how you love his 6th sense that makes you feel so special and seen. Oh how you love Clark so much.

Turning around, your back is pressed against his front and he tucks his chin on your shoulder.

“What do you want to watch tonight, love?”

You put on a comfort movie of yours. Every now and then throughout the movie you glance up to see Clark paying deep attention to the movie as if he is really wanting to enjoy something you enjoy too.

It is what he always does anyways. He takes everything that makes you, you and memorizes it to heart. You cannot imagine someone who knows you better than him. You don’t even know yourself better than him sometimes.

And you would not change it or replace him for anything else in the world. No, the universe. There is truly nothing better than a close encounter with death and Superman to help you cherish what you have right infront of you.

Clark. Your Clark.

“I love you,” you utter, gazing into his eyes.

“I love you too. So so much.”

Lips connect. Soft and sweet and reverent. Like every thing else about Clark. In the way he holds you like you are the most valuable thing in the world. In the way he looks at you as if you are the literal sun. In the way he loves you like nothing you have ever seen or read about before.

And in that moment you know deep in your heart that this is where you belong. Whether tragedy strikes or the greatest wonder happens.

Clark is where you are supposed to be.

[kxsagi]

Hello Kxsagi!

Do you think you could write some more senarios/headcanons for the aged up blue lock boys and their girlfriend who nails their techniques first try? Any character you fancy to write for is fine!

Love your work! I know you request box is probably filled at the time of me writing this, so rest well!

“𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐌𝐘 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞???”

a/n: YESSSSSSS, btw if anyone is wondering where the first one is, it's linked here!

also thank you so much, ily and rest well too! 🤍

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, barou shoei, kunigami rensuke, hiori yo, yukimiya kenyu, karasu tabito, otoya eita

isagi yoichi – direct shot

he was just trying to show you how to line up the ball and visualize the angles like he does during his matches. he's being all serious like, “okay, now imagine the defender’s coming from the left, so you cut in–” 

you nod, hum a soft “got it,” and without even hesitating, fire a shot that curves exactly like his. 

like carbon copy. same form, same timing, same goal corner. 

he literally goes speechless. isagi.exe has crashed. his ego and his crush on you are fighting for dominance. 

“... did you just direct shot?” “i think so?” “NO BE SERIOUS.” 

he’s gripping his knees like he needs a moment. starts questioning his entire career path. 

“you… you’re a genius. no, my genius. wait, should we start a duo? wait, should i be your support?? i’ll be your egoist support partner. this is insane. i need to recalibrate. don’t talk to me for a second i’m spiraling.” 

itoshi rin – perfect kick accuracy

he was just lightly showing you how to snipe the corner from the edge of the box, assuming you’d take a few tries. 

but you just... do it. one and done. 

the ball barely kisses the post and glides in like a damn highlight reel. 

rin stares. then blinks. once. twice. then slowly turns to you like, you did NOT just do that. 

“… you’ve never done this before?” “nope.” “... what the f–” 

he walks away for a full minute, probably to scream internally or re-strategize his life. 

when he comes back, he mutters, “you got lucky. try it again.” 

you nail it again. 

he’s shaking. trying so hard not to pout. acts unbothered but he refuses to give you his water bottle now. 

will quietly train on his own after to one-up you again. and absolutely side-eyes you for the rest of the week like you’re a threat. 

itoshi sae – counter dribbling

you didn’t even mean to copy him. 

he was demo-ing how he uses the opponent’s momentum to slice past them and you were like “oh cool, like this?” 

LIKE THIS? the man’s been perfecting that move for years. 

you do the same fluid footwork he does in matches and glide right past him. the audacity. 

sae literally grabs your wrist as you pass him and just stares at you. 

“… have you done this before. don’t lie to me.” “no, it just made sense when you did it.” “made sense,” he repeats like it’s a slur. 

the way he silently starts dribbling faster, harder, muttering “unreal” under his breath. 

he’ll never admit he’s proud, but you catch him smiling when he thinks you’re not looking. 

“don’t tell rin about this,” he says. “he’ll cry.” 

nagi seishiro – trapping

nagi was so smug about this one. 

“bet you can’t do what i do,” he yawns. “trapping’s my thing. takes talent, y’know?” 

you casually toss the ball up and perfectly dead-trap it with your foot like you’ve done it a thousand times. 

he actually sits up straight. immediate 90-degree spine activation. he’s never looked more awake. 

“eh? again.” 

you do it again. and better. 

nagi stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and also possibly a witch. 

starts following you around like a puppy. “hey, teach me that one. the one you just did. that was cooler than mine.”��

he deadass pouts when you won’t show him your “secret.” he wants to be the prodigy again. 

ends up laying in your lap muttering, “fine… guess you’re nagi seishiro 2.0 now.” 

mikage reo – copying

reo’s whole personality is “i can do everything,” so he lowkey expects you to struggle. 

“watch carefully,” he says all sweet, demonstrating a complex fake-out from one of bachira’s games. 

you copy it. frame by frame. like a trained assassin. 

“... wait.” 

he tries another move. you copy that too. 

“... hold on.” 

he’s 3 moves deep, sweat forming, and you’re still mirroring him like a damn athletic AI. 

“you’re… you’re copying me copying other people. babe this is illegal.” 

he dramatically flops onto the field. “i’m losing my edge. my girlfriend’s more talented than me. is this karma for being rich and hot?” 

you tease him that you might become his rival now. he looks both terrified and aroused. 

“if we end up in the same team, i’m not passing to you. but i am kissing you in the locker room.” 

bachira meguru – elastic dribbling

he’s gleefully weaving the ball side to side with those insane quick cuts, all proud showing you how he does his “monster moves.” 

you bounce on your toes, giggle, then immediately replicate the same zigzag elastic dribble like you’ve been possessed by bachira’s monster. 

he gasps. actually gasps. eyes go wide like saucers. 

“WAIT THAT WAS SO COOL, DO IT AGAIN!!” he shrieks. 

starts jumping around you like an overexcited puppy, squealing every time you do it. 

absolutely sees you as his partner-in-crime now. tries to convince you to start a street football duo. 

will brag to everyone: “did you know my girlfriend can dribble like ME?? we’re a package deal.” 

also suspiciously starts asking if you have your own monster. 

chigiri hyoma – speed

he’s so proud of being the fastest, right? that’s his thing. 

until you tie your hair up, blast off, and leave him eating dust on the track. on the first attempt. 

chigiri literally stops mid-run, hand on his chest, trying not to faint. 

“did you just… did you just outrun me?” 

you grin innocently. “guess i’m a fast learner?” 

he looks personally victimized. will not let you live it down, ever. 

keeps challenging you to rematches all the time, swearing it was a fluke. 

also starts training extra hard because he refuses to be “the second fastest” in this relationship. 

dramatic about it: “if you keep stealing my moves, at least let me marry you so i don’t have to hate you.” 

kaiser michael – kaiser impact

he was basically flexing. 

“watch and learn, schatz,” with that smug grin, showing off his legendary kaiser impact. 

you barely glance, then boom – you replicate that swing speed perfectly, and the ball slices through the air with his same monstrous curve. 

kaiser freezes. smile gone. 

his whole brain blue-screens. “... was that my move?” 

the way he storms over to you, gripping your shoulders. “who taught you that?!” you giggle: “you did?” 

kaiser looks so offended and turned on at the same time. “never do that in front of the cameras. you’re my secret weapon now.” 

will brag about you to everyone. “she stole my move in one try. of course, she’s my girl.” 

shidou ryusei – bicycle kick

shidou is talking all hot and cocky about his perfect air timing, hyping up the difficulty, fully expecting you to choke. 

you launch yourself off the ground with a clean, powerful bicycle kick on your first try, scoring like you’ve done it for years. 

he stands there, mouth open, blinking. “YO, YOU WHAT?!” 

you do a cute victory pose. 

he’s on his knees, bowing down dramatically. “marry me. right now. i’ve never been more in love. come destroy the world with me.” 

from then on, he begs you to do joint crazy kicks together. “hey babe, scissor kick with me in midair. come on. it’ll be sick.” 

100% encourages you to be just as unhinged as him. 

barou shoei – heel flick

barou is condescending as hell at first, like “it’s not for amateurs, don’t bother.” 

you heel flick past him with so much grace it’s almost insulting. almost. 

he stands there, expression blank, trying to process the betrayal. 

“... don’t do it again,” he threatens, but you can see the twitchy spark of respect in his eyes. 

next day, he’s dragging you to private training so only he can see you do it. 

“if anyone else sees you pulling my heel flick, i’ll crush them.” 

extremely possessive but lowkey proud. 

“fine, you can do it. but only because you’re mine.” 

kunigami rensuke – left leg power shot (pre WC)

kunigami’s proud of how much raw force he’s built in his left. he’s explaining technique and muscle memory like a gentle teacher. 

you absolutely blast a shot with the same unstoppable power, nearly tearing a hole in the net. 

kunigami is stunned, wide-eyed, like you just dropped a meteor. 

“that… that was my– huh?” 

he rushes over, grabs your foot, looks at it like it’s a holy relic. “you okay? that was a monster shot…” 

lowkey worships you after. “you’re incredible. i swear i’ve never seen anyone do that first try.” 

also starts overtraining so he can keep up. 

“if my girlfriend’s hitting shots like that, i gotta level up, too.” 

hiori yo – expert ball control

hiori gently explains his strategy like a sweet tutor: “it’s not just about touching the ball. it’s about knowing what you want it to do next, before it even gets there.” 

you nod along and immediately proceed to trap the ball with silky precision, manipulating it like it’s glued to your foot. 

his jaw drops. “wait… wait… no way. first try?!” 

his eyes light up like you’re some soccer goddess sent to bless him. 

“you really get it,” he whispers, like he just fell in love all over again. 

now he’s OBSESSED with training with you. “do you wanna, like, sync our passes? like, become a duo? forever?” 

you tease him that he’s blushing. he absolutely is. 

he starts journaling about you like: day 183, i still can’t believe she controlled the ball like that. is this love or witchcraft? 

yukimiya kenyu – gyro shot

yukimiya’s monologuing all poetic like: “this shot is a thing of beauty. at first glance, it’s chaos, but then, bam, it reveals itself. elegant. deceptive. perfect.” 

he kicks the ball with that dramatic upward spin and explains the exact physics of it with fashion model flair. 

you go, “ooh cool, like this?” and hit your own gyro shot, which curves so dramatically it almost looks like CGI. 

yukimiya gasps. hands on chest. like you just stabbed him with love and betrayal in the same second. 

“... did you just out-gyro me?” 

he kneels. like literally falls to his knees in the grass. “i’ve found my rival. my muse. my nemesis. my girlfriend.” 

he absolutely starts calling you “la muse du football” in a dramatic french accent. 

starts editing your clips into his own highlight reels. 

karasu tabito – feints + spatial control

karasu is explaining how he uses his arms to manipulate distance and direction, fingers all twitchy and precise. 

he shows you how he does those weird deceptive feints that feel like optical illusions. 

and you just... copy it. perfectly. body turns, hand angles, balance shifting – the whole thing. 

karasu stares. HARD. “… do that again.” 

you do. he literally steps back like you’re a threat. 

“you just… read my space. controlled it. stole my vibe.” 

dramatic silence. then he nods, impressed. “okay. fine. you’re hot and terrifying. i respect it.” 

now insists on sparring you every day. “i need to figure you out. who trained you? the government? the illuminati?” 

otoya eita – ninja stealth walk

otoya’s flexing about how nobody can track him when he slips between players: “it’s all about unpredictable patterns. chaos in motion, y’know?” 

you try it, not even thinking too hard, and completely disappear through three defenders like a literal shadow. 

otoya watches you vanish then reappear by the goal. INSTANT HEART EYES. 

“... where’d you go? no seriously where did you GO???” 

he runs over, grabs you by the shoulders. “babe. did you steal my entire technique? i feel robbed. and aroused.” 

now he follows you around like your evil sidekick. 

“next time you ninja walk, i’m going with you. we vanish as a duo now. two snakes, one goal.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[fiastomatocheek]

NO DETOUR TOO FAR

requested: yes | req: dating quinn comes with getting the most random calls from jack and luke all the time because you’re the older sister they never had — but when one night luke and jack call you and tell you how everything’s going to shit in jersey because they’re both injured now, you and quinn get on a plane to help both of them, without a second thought.

pairing: quinn hughes x f!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, found family, domestic.

warnings: emotional vulnerability, mild injury descriptions, a few curse words (optional and mild), mentions of post-surgery recovery.

summary: dating quinn means loving him deeply but it also means becoming the older sister jack and luke never had. from random late-night cooking calls to emotional hockey check-ins, they’ve slowly become part of your heart, too. so when both brothers suffer injuries that threaten more than just their seasons, you and quinn don’t hesitate for a second. you catch the first flight to new jersey, armed with fluffy pancakes, jasmine tea, and the kind of love that never needs to be spoken to be understood.

fia’s note: dearest to my lovely readers, i’ve decided i’m going to start calling you all my sweet tomatoes because why not? it’s cute, and honestly, it fits the vibe 🍅💌 this fic was actually a request from back in may (i know, i know, it’s been a minute 😭), but i finally got around to finishing it, and i really hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. sending love always, xx.

tagging team fia ! — @fallinallincurls @dancerbailey3 @falsehood-03 @mashmashi @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs @alwaysclassyeagle @nokiaholland @macka @smiley-roos @silvenyy @bd147ms @voidvannie @itsonlyaddi @ruinix @when-im-with-you @puckinghughes @definitelynotdomanique @quinnintheabyss

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | yap & fic

“Quinn,”

“Sometimes I think Jack and Luke are the little brothers I never knew I needed,” you murmured, breaking the comfortable silence.

The mug in your hands, your feet were tucked under you on the plush couch, and Quinn’s arm rested comfortably over your shoulders.

Quinn chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest.

“They think of you like that too, you know. Jack’s always asking if you’re coming to the next family thing. And Luke? He’s got this weird sixth sense for when something’s off with us. Like if you don’t show up to a game or miss a FaceTime, he’s convinced I screwed up somehow.”

You laughed into your tea.

“He’s not entirely wrong to suspect you.”

Quinn rolled his eyes, feigning offense. “I never do anything wrong.”

“Oh, really? That time you forgot our anniversary?” you teased, arching a brow.

He groaned, tilting his head back against the couch.

“Okay, one time.”

“One very memorable time,” you shot back, smirking.

He gave you a playful nudge, but the moment softened into something quieter, more intimate.

“Seriously, though,” he said, his voice gentle.

“They love you. You make it easy for them. You pick up every call, even the one where Jack asked how to boil broccoli at 1 a.m.”

You snorted, the memory vivid. “He said it was ‘urgent.’ Like life-or-death broccoli.”

“Don’t forget Luke’s emergency brownies,” Quinn added, grinning.

“He’s still convinced yours are magic.”

“I told him to wait eleven minutes before checking on them. He peeked at nine. Rookie mistake.”

You leaned into Quinn’s side, your heart swelling at the thought of the Hughes brothers. Jack would always calling you for everything from fashion advice to how to fix a botched smoothie. Luke’s quieter, more thoughtful check-ins, texting you about laundry detergent because it ‘smelled like home.’ They’d woven themselves into your life in the same effortless, comforting way family does, a messy, ridiculous, and irreplaceable.

Your phone rang on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with Jack’s name. It wasn’t unusual for Jack to call at odd hours, but something about the late hour made your stomach twist faintly.

You picked up before the second ring.

“Hey, Jacky. What’s up?”

His voice on the other end wasn’t the usual boisterous hum you’d grown used to. It was almost like a low, tired, and fragile.

“Hey… how are you and Q?”

You sat up straighter, concern creeping in.

“We’re good. About to head to the store for some groceries. You okay?”

There was a pause, too long for Jack, who usually filled every silence with a quip or a story. Then he exhaled, a shaky sound.

“Not really. Luke and I… we’re both out. Shoulder surgeries. Both of us. It’s… it’s been rough. For both of us.”

Your heart sank. You glanced at Quinn, whose expression had shifted to one of quiet alarm, his hand tightening slightly on your shoulder as he leaned in to listen.

“Are you… are you guys coming to Jersey anytime soon?”

Jack asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I know it’s a lot, but it’s been bad. Luke’s trying to act chill, but I can tell he’s not. And I just… I don’t know. Thought maybe seeing you both might help.”

Your voice was steady, even as your chest ached.

“We’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

Jack’s breath hitched on the other end.

“Wait… seriously? Just like that?”

“Of course, Jack. Don’t be silly. You guys are family.”

You hung up and turned to Quinn, who was already on his feet, grabbing his phone.

“We’re going,” you said, not a question but a statement.

“Already booking the flights,” he replied, his fingers flying over his phone screen.

“Let’s pack and head to the airport tonight.”

Five hours later, with barely enough sleep and two carry-ons stuffed with essentials, your homemade pancake mix, a few of Quinn’s games for the boys, and a small tin of your ‘magic’ brownie recipe, you and Quinn landed in New Jersey just as the sun began to rise.

The Uber driver dropped you off outside Jack and Luke’s shared apartment, you pulled out the spare key Jack had insisted you keep ‘In case of emergencies… or if I lock myself out again’, gave it to Quinn and pushed open the door quietly.

Jack and Luke’s apartment smelled like burnt, probably Jack’s latest attempt at ‘cooking.’ You smiled despite yourself, but the sight in the living room stopped you in your tracks.

Jack and Luke were sprawled across the couch, both fast asleep, their slung-up shoulders propped awkwardly on pillows. Jack’s mouth was slightly open, a faint snore escaping, while Luke’s head was tilted at an angle that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Their faces, even in sleep, carried a weight of vulnerable, exhausted, and unmistakably young.

You set your bag down gently, motioning for Quinn to unpack the essentials in the guest room while you tied your hair up and headed for the kitchen. You knew the drill. Flour, eggs, baking powder, a pinch of salt. The butter sizzled in the pan, and the familiar sound of mixing batter and flipping pancakes. You drizzled honey over each one, just the way Jack and Luke liked them, the golden syrup catching the light.

“You’re here,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and relief.

“I told you we would be,”

You said, crossing the kitchen to pull him into a careful side hug, mindful of his shoulder.

“Go sit. Breakfast’s almost ready.”

Quinn emerged from the guest room just as Luke shuffled in, rubbing his eyes with his good hand.

“Smells like your pancakes,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s because they are,” you replied.

“Come on, sit.”

The four of you gathered at the small dining table, plates stacked with warm pancakes and a pot of jasmine tea in the center. For a moment, no one spoke, just the soft clinks of forks against plates and the slow, deliberate chewing of warm food.

Jack broke the silence first.

“I feel like shit,” he admitted, staring at his plate.

“Like… not just physically. But like I let everyone down. The team. The fans. Ourselves.”

Luke swallowed, his eyes fixed on his mug.

“Yeah. I keep thinking I could’ve done something different. Dodged a hit, maybe. Or… I don’t know. I just feel useless.”

You reached across the table, placing your hand over both of theirs, your grip firm but gentle.

“Do you know how proud we are of you?” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

“You’ve been playing this game since you could barely walk. You’ve given your heart to it, every single day. A surgery doesn’t change that. It doesn’t change who you are.”

Quinn nodded, his expression steady but fierce.

“She’s right. This isn’t the end of anything. It’s just a detour. You’re still Jack and Luke Hughes, and you’re still two of the best people we know.”

You squeezed their hands.

“You’re not just hockey players. You’re good men. Kind, funny, loving little brothers we both adore. And if all you ever did was call us at 2 a.m. to ask how to boil broccoli again, we’d still be proud.”

Jack’s eyes glistened, and he looked away quickly, trying to hide it. Luke wasn’t as subtle a single tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away with the back of his good hand, a small, sheepish smile breaking through.

“I wish you guys could stay until we’re better,” Luke mumbled, his voice barely audible.

You exchanged a glance with Quinn, your heart aching at the vulnerability in Luke’s words.

“We wish we could, too,” you said softly.

“But we’ll be here as long as we can. And when we’re not…”

Quinn leaned in, his voice warm but firm.

“We’ll FaceTime everyday if you want. Or every other day. Four times a week minimum. Deal?”

Jack and Luke both nodded, their smiles returning slowly, tentative but real. For now, the surgeries, the rehab, the disappointment they could wait. Because this? This was family.

One evening, as the four of you sat on the couch with a pile of blankets and a muted hockey game on in the background, Jack turned to you.

“You know, I was kinda joking when I asked you to come. I didn’t think you’d actually drop everything.”

You raised an eyebrow,

“And miss the chance to nag you in person? Never.”

Luke laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in days.

“You’re stuck with us now, you know. No escaping.”

Quinn draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“Good. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Days turned into a week, you and Quinn helped the boys navigate their new routines from physical therapy appointments, medication schedules, and the occasional emotional breakdown. You taught Jack how to make a proper smoothie (no more blending entire bananas with the peel on), and you sat with Luke during his quieter moments, letting him talk when he was ready and staying silent when he wasn’t.

When it was time to head back to Vancouver, the goodbye was harder than you expected. Jack hugged you tightly, his good arm squeezing you like he didn’t want to let go. Luke with his hug was just as fierce, his face buried in your shoulder for a moment longer than usual.

“Call us,”

You said, pointing at them as you and Quinn stood in the doorway.

“Anytime. For anything.”

“Even broccoli emergencies?” Jack asked, a glimmer of his old mischief returning.

“Especially broccoli emergencies,” you replied, grinning.

As the door closed behind you, you felt Quinn’s hand slip into yours, his grip so steady.

“You’re pretty good at this big sister thing,” he said quietly.

You smiled, leaning into him as you walked toward the Uber.

“Only because I’ve got the best partner in crime.”

Flight home, both of you lost in thought. You knew Jack and Luke would be okay but more than that, they had you and Quinn, and that was a bond no injury could break.