#your jaw is going to fall off

[marionmorse]

MARIONMORSE, DROP ANOTHER HELMETPARTY SCENARIO AND MY LIFE IS YOUUURSS 🙏🙏🙏🙏

do u think... Do you think sometimes when the team has a movie night, when they watch those 60's action war movies like "Von Ryan's Express" and "Battle of the Bulge" or spaghetti westerns like "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly" and "Death Rides on a Horse," Soldier pauses during or right after fight scenes or duels or whatever to obsessively overanalyze them. Like, he'll try and turn them into strategies to use on the job, takes, uhm, 'notes', (tactical doodles,) sets up nerdy models using a whiteboard map and improvised figurines, uses these examples when he does those psyche-up pre-battle speeches or during strategy meetings.

'Cause I bet he does, I bet he does that, and it completely kills the momentum of the movie to the point where the rest of the team gets disinterested and slowly leaves him behind to do their own thing.

I genuinely bet Engie wouldn't though, nah, I bet he's enough of a patient kind of gentle kind of man willing to stick through these pauses 'cause he's just that into the movie. And maybe he's just a teeny bit into Soldier's dissections of actiony chaos. Maybe gleans a bit of an understanding of Soldier's thinking that way. Admires the guy's passion about his 'research,' how thoughtfully he gathers details in an effort to help the team. Starts mixing in tapes for these sorts of movies more regularly to their movie night pool maybe subconsciously, maybe on purpose. The rest of the team doing their own movie night. losers.

[nanamisweetgirl]

🜼 ⋆ toji hates when you cover your face whilst he’s fucking you dumb

tw: spıt, degradation, rough sēx !

“fuckin’ move your hand.”

his voice slices through the thick slap of skin on skin, ragged and breathless, but not any softer for it. his hips grind into you, deep and deliberate, cock dragging along your walls like he’s angry at them. like they’re the reason you’re crying already.

and maybe they are. maybe he is.

you cover your face anyway, forearm thrown over your eyes like it’ll save you. there’s snot on your lip, tears in your hairline, and your voice’s all broken up. you keep trying to tell him something—something about how it’s too much, how he’s too deep, how you can’t stop coming, and he just laughs, a sharp huff against your cheek.

“tch—again?” toji spits, a little amused. a little cruel. “can’t even take a proper fuckin’ dick without fallin’ apart, huh?”

your hand trembles where it shields your face, like it wants to fall. like it knows better. but then he shifts his weight, catches your wrist, and yanks it down to the bed with a slap of sweat-slick skin on cotton.

“wanna see your fuckin’ face when you cry.”

you whimper when toji says that and he simply grins.

“there she is,” he murmurs like he’s mocking tenderness, hips rolling slow now, filthy and sticky, cock buried in you to the hilt. he gives a rough thrust, then another—each one lifting your back off the bed, forcing your chest to arch. “s’pretty when you sob. keep lookin’ at me, baby. don’t go hidin’ now.”

you can’t. he’s so deep it’s nauseating. so thick it feels like your cunt’s gone loose and raw trying to keep him in. his pelvis presses right where it shouldn’t and it makes you jolt, a breathless little hiccup of pain and heat that makes your thighs twitch.

he notices. of course he fucking does.

“you like that? yeah, i know you do,” he pants, voice getting rougher now. his hair’s stuck to his forehead, eyes dark as sin. “cryin’ like a fuckin’ whore but keep squeezin’ me like you’ll die if i pull out.”

he grabs your jaw—his hand huge, fingers curling rough around your throat just enough to make your breath skip. your mouth falls open on instinct, dumb and wet and desperate for more, and he spits right on your tongue. doesn’t ask. doesn’t wait.

“swallow it.” and oh you do.

“good fuckin’ girl.”

he starts moving again, really fucking you now, rough and deep, his balls slapping up against your ass, wet and relentless. the bedframe creaks like it’s gonna break. your head knocks into the pillow with every thrust, dizzy and messy and barely present in your own skin.

“you think i’m gonna let you cum like this? when you keep coverin’ your face like a brat?”

you sob out a “no—no, please—i’m.. toji ngh, i’m sorry,” and he chuckles dark. leans down until your noses brush, until you’re forced to look up into those black eyes while he ruins you.

“yeah,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you are sorry.”

and then he fucks you harder.

[fricks]

"how are you a virgin and this perverted?" ☆

your best friend geto looks like he's been accosted. eyes wide, jaw slack, face all but screwed up in surprise at the words that have just come out of your mouth. what was it you said you were reading about? triple penetration? he might pass out.

you can't help but laugh at the look he's giving you. "what? you didn't watch porn when you were still a virgin?"

without warning, he snatches your phone right out of your hand and squints at the screen. "my porn was tasteful," he tsks. "this is... uncouth."

"uncouth?" you try to take back your phone, just for him to roll over in bed and hold it out of reach. you're half on top of him in seconds, clawing at his bulky arm. "give it back!"

"what is dac..." he stifles a laugh at the way you try so desperately for your archive of erotica. "...dacryphilia?"

"you don't know? what, no game? no hoes? bitches?"

"i manage, thank you," he rolls the both of you over and pins you down against the mattress, which has your breath hitching in your throat for some reason. it makes him smirk like a fucking idiot. "what, nervous?"

no... yes? you don't know. suguru has never made you feel nervous... jittery, maybe. you'd use nauseous, in both the good and bad way. sometimes he gives you this look that makes you feel like you have food poisoning. your body seems to react to him at the extreme.

you've always been touchy with each other. your friendship has been physical since day one—if you aren't touching, you're not in the same room. it's just how it's always been, a hand on his arm as you walk together, or his arm around your shoulders when you're seated. it's... normal. familiar.

so this—suguru pinning you down by the wrists, his long black hair falling down to tunnel your vision right onto that pretty face of his—probably shouldn't get you this wet.

or wet at all, really.

"tears," you say, for some fucking reason. "dacryphilia, it's crying, or making someone cry. like being overstimulated, or... humiliated, to the point of tears. or just crying for the sake of it."

geto looks down at you, and you try not to watch the muscles of his arms bulge as he keeps you locked beneath him. "i know."

you frown. "you know?"

"i just wanted to hear you try and explain it," he laughs. "fucking pervert."

"i'm going to kill you slowly," you wriggle beneath him. "get off me, suguru."

"or what? you'll cry? i think you're into that..." he teases, and manages to shift both of your wrists into one hand so that he can reach for your phone again. he thumbs it open and resumes your 'history' tab with a shit-eating grin. "virginity loss... best friends to lovers... size kink... corruption... breeding? really?"

"shut the fuck up," you hiss. you buck your hips up, not to throw him off—because you can admit he's bigger, heavier and a whole lot stronger than you are—but out of pure frustration. except your movement only presses you tighter against where his thighs cage your hips, and you freeze. you think something pathetic leaves your lips, but you can't quite hear yourself over the mortification bubbling up in your chest.

"oh?" he notices, of course.you want to claw his stupid handsome face off. "don't tell me this is working for you."

"it's not," you snap. "you are so fucking full of yourself, geto."

"suguru," he corrects you. "say it properly. and by the look on your face right now i'd wager that you'd rather be the one full of me."

god you hate him sometimes. "embarrassing me isn't funny."

"it's a little funny."

"fuck you."

"you look like you'd love to," he lowers his hips a little, and for the first time in your life, you feel the weight of a rock-hard cock pressing against you. "tell me to stop and i will. we can go get food or something, forget this happened."

the switch in tone from teasing to gentle makes you smile, which makes keeping up the disgruntled act a lot harder. the thought of verbalising your need right now makes you nauseous, so you opt instead for a shake of your head.

"great," he nods, and slowly releases your wrists. "you can take that back whenever you want, just tell me and i'll back off."

"what are you..." you're cut off when suguru hands you your phone back with a scrunched up nose.

"read it," he says. "out loud. if you stop, i stop."

you're confused only until you check your screen and see that geto has opened up one of your most recently read pieces and scrolled down to a rather graphic scene of the main character being eaten out by her best friend. it's a little ironic, considering the state you're in, but you can't bring yourself to be embarrassed when your own best friend is kissing down your stomach and hooking his fingers under the waistband of your shorts.

he's going to go down on you? but he's hard, and for as much porn as you've read, most of it depicts the guy taking what he wants.

"aren't you going to... you know? fuck me?"

your shorts and panties are pulled down in one swift movement, and suguru buries his face in your thigh to stifle his laugh. his body shakes with the force of it, which makes you frown. your pussy is a few inches from his face, and he's laughing like the prospect of taking your virginity is funny.

"you couldn't take me," he smiles up at you. "now read."

suddenly self-conscious, you try clamp your thighs shut, just to (once again) find yourself pinned down by his strong arms. "this is weird," you whine. "you're my... i mean we... you know? friends. best friends."

holding eye contact, suguru slowly lowers himself down to press a chaste kiss to your clit. it's not much contact, but it makes you jolt nonetheless. doesn't feel like how you had imagined it when you'd lay in bed late at night with your nose in a book and your hand between your legs. this is... better. feels right.

"still weird?" he asks, to which you nod without really meaning it. "weird like your porn on that phone?"

"suguru i swear to god if you don't—oh my god."

you forgive that man for all of the teasing he'd one as soon as he gets to work on you. flattening out his tongue against your pussy and tasting you for the first time has him already grinding against the mattress, and has you squeezing your eyes shut as you try to process this new realm of pleasure. you're glad he doesn't tease you for being so wet, but that he instead uses it to his advantage and starts making an even bigger mess of you.

his lips latch around your clit for only a few seconds. he hollows out your cheeks and you think you might die with how overwhelming the sensation is, but it's over all too soon. geto pulls back to do two things:

one, tie his hair out of his face, and two, tell you to start reading.

not wanting to miss out on these newfound pleasures of the flesh, you unlock your phone and start on a random spot on the screen, your voice a lot more shaky than you want it to be.

"he, uh... he ducks down and licks a stripe from entrance to clit, collecting... collecting her wetness on his tongue and falling in love with the taste of her enjoyments."

suguru, suddenly good at following instructions, does as written and leads his tongue upwards. you moan at the contact, but notice suguru starting to pull away at your lack of reading, so you go on.

"she loves the way he feels. he kisses her, uh, sweet center, before continuing to use his tongue to toy with her."

you can feel suguru smiling against you. "sweet center?" he laughs, but continues his ministries nonetheless. you roll your eyes, this has been a lot better of a read when your brain was fogged with unsated need. longing for the man that is now between your legs.

"growing messy, his focus shifts to her clit. his tongue dances with the bud of nerves as he brings two fingers of his left hand, ring and all, and pushes them inside of her. curling upwards until she—"

"is that what you want?" suguru cuts you off.

"yeah, yes. i think. just go slow."

"keep reading."

you clear your throat as suguru starts tracing circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue. he looks a little silly doing that, you note as you glance down to enjoy the view for a moment, but god does it feel good.

"curling upwards until she's an ecstatic mess of fulfilled wants. he completes her, in both soul and now flesh. fills her with his fingers in preparation for his—oh god, suguru, right there."

you hadn't even noticed him pushing into you, you were that eager to feel more of him. his fingers curl up as described in your reading material and suddenly he's brushing over a spot you've never discovered on your own. it blurs your vision, sends your skin hot.

"can't.. can't read anymore," you whine, bucking your hips up in some masochistic need for more. anything bigger than this and you'd keel over, you think, but you'd take anything suguru was willing to give you. "gonna—"

he allows it. encourages it, even. quickens his pace on the fingers plunging in and out of you, and starts making out with your pussy like a drunken virgin would. it's good in a way that shouldn't be: messy and needy and you think perhaps that suguru is just as close to coming as you are.

your orgasm is intense. your back arching off the bed and your body trying hopelessly to get more of sugurus touch. you think you moan his name, though it could be a babbled string of 'i love you's that you'll refuse to acknowledge later on in hopes that giving you head wasn't enough to ruin your friendship.

suguru moans loudly against your pussy as he tastes your release, the vibrations no help for your sensitivity, but his hips are stuttering against the mattress and you can tell even through your haze that you've made the cocky idiot cum in his pants.

serves him right.

and because the two of you are friends before you are... whatever this is, the both of you are falling into a fit of laughter upon your comedowns. suguru's lips glisten and your chest heaves with each breath you take, and he's climbing up the bed to press a kiss to your cheek.

"better than reading about it?" he asks.

"nope," you grin, which earns you a mean look that soon gives way to another laugh from him. "you could do it again some time if you wanted, though."

"please. i want to find out what skills you've picked up reading all of that weird shit." he pulls you into his arms and, despite being a little sweaty, you find yourself melting comfortably into his embrace.

"you couldn't keep up with me," you sing-song.

"yeah? try me."

"ever heard of male sounding? whip it out, sugu."

"ha. shut the fuck up."

part two here

[maiamore]

clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.

cw: 18+, smut, villain!reader, enemies to lovers, hate fucking, unprotected p-in-v, mentions of blood & violence, clark has a massive cock (ofc), sexual tension, tummy bulge, multiple orgasms, dub con, clark fucks HARD in this (2.4k wc)

𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR clark kent had only ever dreamt of days where he'd meet his match.

he'd accepted that he was physiologically different that the humans that he kept company with. and that meant compromising. which was a multitude of things. he could only every use one percent of his actual strength in his daily tasks for starters — taking a boatload of mental fortitude to contain himself.

that applied to his sex life. an act he indulged in often.

maybe it was written in his DNA, or maybe having a significantly larger body to muscle mass meant your sex drive left you unbelievably insatiable. he couldn't tell. there wasn't much of a reference point he could compare to.

even then, it was…unfulfilling.

the women he fucked weren't to blame for it. truly. he'd learned after a couple of partners that his cock was disconcertingly massive in 'human' standards. to quote the most recent, he had a 'monster cock.' something he took literal offence to initially, but later learned that was a generic term for far exceeding 9 inches. and that meant only ever being able to fuck barely halfway in before most of them tapped out.

it was okay. he was okay with it. being superman had perks, doing good, keeping people safe. being sexually fulfilled wasn't on the forefront of his mind at all. but that didn't mean he couldn't dream of meeting someone who could keep up with him.

and that was why, clark kent was obsessed with you from the second you threw the first punch to his jaw.

"are you — … are you freakin' smiling?"

you had your knee pinned to his pulse point, knuckles flexed with clark's dried blood. other hand squishing his jaw when his smile tenses against your thumb. bloodied pearly whites peeking through. that wasn't the expression you expected from a man who was panting, bruised, and bleeding from cuts on his lips and nose.

"it hurts," he manages through a laughter of amusement, "like, actually hurts." your brows raise quizzically. it was a no shit sort of moment, because well, you'd swung at his face. repeatedly. but the crooked smile he was giving you, made your cunt clench. "okay. i do not have time to figure out what bullshit you're on. stay out of my goddamn way, superman."

he doesn't chase you when you'd gotten up, free-falling off the museum's building, thumb drive in hand.

after that, getting rid of him was near impossible. he was everywhere you were, disrupting your plans. and for some absurd reason — taking hit after hit, as if testing how much you could deal, and how much he could endure.

the next time you see him, he's skulking in your apartment, rotating a relic that didn't seem like it was from this earth.

"do you have a death wish?"

clark doesn't turn when he hears you approach him, tossing the armored headpiece up and down in his palms. "you're hera," he muses, eyes glinting when your footsteps cease where you stop short of him. the mention of your past alter-ego, sends a dreadful chill down your spine. his gaze drags over your civilian state, formal, a lanyard around your neck, pencil skirt, and a thin black rectangular framed glasses.

you snatch the item from him. dusting it off before putting it back in its' place. "i don't go by that anymore." clark stumbles backward when you shoulder past him. you don't wait before you swipe him clean off his legs, the cement floors crackling beneath his fall. "i'm giving you about twenty seconds to get out before i fuck you up, supershit."

clark reacts to that nickname instantaneously, pointing at you accusatory. "do not —" he grumbles. shaking his head before pulling himself up to his feet. you weren't paying attention to him, wrist twisted to look at the second hand tick on your watch.

"look. miss hera, i'm here to talk —"

"times up."

the force that sends him crashing into your bookshelf cracks the walls of your converted loft. you sigh, unwinding your wrist from hitting that brick wall-like chest. he doesn't want to attack you, and you see it in the way he's standing up, not getting into a defensive stance.

clark raises his palms to surrender. "please, i'm really not here to turn you in." you listen to him for a second, but you wind up to throw another. this time, he catches your fists, a crackle heard before he twists you around, pressing your fist to your back. "would you listen?" you swallow thickly, his voice blooming a warmth in you.

he grunts at you headbutting him, and you take the moment to loop your arm around his, throwing him in the direction of your television console. you briefly hear him mutter a quick 'oh geez that one hurt' in a tired boyish tone. clark looks up to the figure already charging at him. he catches you by your hips when you pounce on him, legs locked around his chest. "ow, ow, ow — i'm serious! just let me talk!"

you huff, holding him in a tight headlock where you were straddled. in the split second you hesitate, he blindly grabs around your back, holding you by the scruff of your neck before slamming you down like he was getting a feral cat off of him.

"that does it." gritting through your teeth, your heels meet the base of his jaw, and it cracks beneath the weight behind the kick. clark whines out loudly, stumbling back. his senses are attuned now, your head whips to the side when he strikes you for real, the glasses you had on flying right off.

"i really don't want to hurt you. " he pants, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. you attempt to knee him, but he catches you, the whiplash of him grabbing you by your throat has your hand grasping around his wrists. his cape flutters when clark catapults onto the other side. you let out a yelp when your back slams into the paintings behind you. he's close now, your chest heaving hard enough to graze his.

you spit out the blood that collects in your mouth, sizing him with a deadly look, "as if you can." clark looks at you intently, gaze flicking to the smear of scarlet on your lips. his jaw tightens, trying to figure out how he could get you to listen to him.

and then — he licks a stripe over your sliced bottom lip.

your whimper ghosts his jaw, and clark holds you still in place by the neck. large hands spanning your entire throat. your eyes dart to his, flitting left and right. his thumbs shift, just slightly, your pulse slowing beneath.

"you done?" he's close enough that you can feel the hum in his voice. your eye twitches at the smug tone.

"the nerve you've got…" you mutter, your own tongue catching your lower lips. he tenses at the sight of you licking over the glossiness he left.

the thrum in your chest is palpable. he feels it, and doesn't let go. the adrenaline of both the pain and closeness turning into something much more twisted.

"you're strong." clark leans close and you tip your head to the side to avoid him. he takes the opportunity to drag his nose down your neck. "as strong as i am." your breath stutters, thighs thrashing helplessly next to his hips.

"so?" you feel him sigh into your collar bone, his forehead rested on the shifted painting behind you.

"so…you can take it. take…me."

your brows furrow at that, but the answer comes in the form of the monstrosity pressed up against your abdomen, that was twitching. "is…is that what this is about? you needed a super-powered criminal fuck buddy?" the deliriousness in your tone is evident, and it seems to embarrasses him.

"this isn't ideal," he snaps in a hushed whisper. pulling back enough to turn your jaw to face him. "i know you want it too. i can…i can feel your heart rate picking up." he points out.

his face is laughably apologetic considering the span of events so far. "well, it's a given with you humping me."

clark's jaw flexes, "gosh you — the mouth on you." he sputters, the grip around your neck tightening a fraction. "you're so damn crass. this is ridiculous. what am i doing?"

you laugh in his face, and he perks up, staring blankly at just how pretty you looked when you smiled. "are you joking? you have your dick pressed onto me and you're questioning my language?"

clark winces, hips bucking into you when you point out the irony in the situation. "don't…talk like that," he's trying not to acknowledge the fact that he was quickly hardening, but your entire presence was a catalyst. "talk like what?"

he's almost certain you're being obtuse on purpose, but in the off-chance you weren't, "saying stuff like dick, and…humping so brazenly." a smile curls at the corner of your lips, and your hand drops, two of your fingers spreading apart to trace over the outline of his bulge.

"o-oh geez," he gasps, followed by a breathless "give-me-a-goddamn-warning."

the hold on your throat loosens. so you grab around his cock firmly, thumbing where his tip would be. "you're here to fuck me, right? so act like it."

clark looks to you, brows pressed into a knit. his arm snakes around your hip, "…very well, then."

you gasp at the shift in positions, where he now had you pinned on your unmade bed.

his hand curls around your wrist, slipping them underneath his suit bottom. clark jumps when your softer hands grip his bare length, it surprises you "oh."

"i-it's…not exactly small," he grits, panting into the side of your head when you stroke him with his guidance.

"no kidding. you're hung, big blue."

clark grunts at that, breaths turning heavier the more you're dry rubbing his cock. "like that. yeah... that's good."

you hum, lifting your hips to accommodate his bigger frame while he tugs his suit off. the impressive size of him comes to your view, and you let out a stuttered breath. your pussy clench almost as a pre-warning.

he drags your skirt up, bunching it at your hips. "g..osh.." he mutters, looking up to see that you've unbuttoned yourself enough to reveal the curvature of your tits beneath a lacy blue bra.

"like that we're matching?"

clark huffs out a strained laughter, head dropping lower. "that's not funny."

the smirk on you turns to a gasp when he drags his thumb over your panties, wetness slowly blooming where your slit would be. your hips tilt to his touch, and he hooks his thumb around the edge of the fabric, letting his finger dip into you just enough. you moan brokenly, looking down at the erotic sight before you.

his body was definitely as formidable as his cock, biceps visibly flexing at your ministrations. "the point…of this is so you can do what you want. right? just stick it in then."

the tremble in your voice gives away your nervousness.

clark rolls his shoulder, pushing a finger into your cunt, sounding unintentionally smug, "to fuck you…without tearing you. i need you to take at least four fingers." you clench, on instinct, when he says that. it seems to draw a cocky smile from him.

you aren't sure how long had passed.

somewhere between your second and third orgasm, you lost track of time. clark had his mouth latched around your breast, plunging his fingers deep into you, relentlessly pulling whimpers out of you.

"enough — fuck." you claw at his back, slick with sweat sticking to your cheeks. "just do it already." clark's still diligently stretching you out, marvelling at how your pussy accommodates his digits.

"okay, okay…"

you feel the loss of him all at once and with a flutter, his thighs pushes yours further apart where they were hoisted beneath your thighs. clark angles his thick tip at your entrance. "take a deep breath for me" he whispers, easing himself into you while thumbing at your clit. the reaction was immediate, you squeeze around him, hips already attempting to squirm away.

clark holds you down, feeding you his cock inch by inch and all you can do is brace yourself. "you feel — so.." he groans out, lips pressed at the corner of your parted ones. you're letting out choked, heavy breaths into his mouth, rendered mute, "so soft, a-and wet." you're teary, blinking through the blur that prickle the corner of your eyes. he feels your it wet his cheek, and he pulls back, like he'd been burnt.

"sorry, i'm sorry." his hip still. and somehow, the sting grows even more painful when he isn't moving. "are you okay? should i stop?"

your nails dig into clark's arms, dragging them down his bicep, leaving angry red marks behind. he doesn't expect it, when you grab around his neck, flipping him beneath you. you steady yourself on his chest and fully sheath yourself. the two of you groaning out in unison.

"fuck. oh fuck." clark gasps when your hips lift, and snap back down. he grabs around your thighs, stabilising you as you bounce on his cock.

"god, oh my god, it's like, you're in my…throat.." you're whimpering into his mouth, body falling limp after your brave showing of just having him fully in you. clark holds you up your jaw, drowning your moans in his mouth. his other hand slides down your ass, parting them with a finger, hold firmly around the fat. he takes takes charge to thrust up into you, deep.

"mm—ff..i-i know. it's a lot." he's blabbering in your lips, securing his hold, feeling your tight hole clenching when fingers spanning enough to graze past it, the tip of his finger rubbing where his cock meets your pussy.

it's too much, and clark knows. "y..ou're doing so g-good."

your breath stutters in his mouth, drooling into him helplessly. fuelled by the praise he gives. "so goddamn good." your cheeks presses onto his, panting when the white hot flashes take you to what's now your fourth orgasm.

it comes with no warning. he jolts once, heaving, thick spurts of his cum shooting deep into you. never-ending, seemingly. clark turns you over in a fluid motion, cock still pulsing into you with deep spurts. he presses his hand flat onto your abdomen, where the outline of him pokes at your belly.

he's in awe, fully in the depths of a newfound pleasure. a heavy palm swiping the sweaty strands of your cheeks.

clark readjusts his hold on you, a finger tearing your blouse fully apart. you jolt when the buttons clatter to the ground. you gasp out when he presses deeper into you. his palm cradling your jaw.

"wait...what are you…—" he tuts, pressing a kiss on your parted lips.

"i haven't even begun fuckin' you yet."

[riveredmoon]

facesitti- oh, history study lessons with nerd!reader and athlete!sukuna

warnings: mdni: fem!receiving oral

pt 2 3

“if you don’t pass this exam…” your voice wavers, just a bit. “you’re off the football team, ‘kuna.”

your thighs tremble on either side of sukuna’s tattooed face, one hand fisting in his pink-hued hair like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. the other gripping on to his history textbook. the answers for tomorrow’s test staring back at you.

you want to fight it — not really. but, you know you should because this is important and you’re the responsible one!!! but his mouth is already wet from your slick and you can’t really see because of how fogged up your glasses are.

“i know that,” he growls, eyes narrowed, lips brushing against your folds. “so, let me study.”

“sitting on your face isn’t going to help you s-stud — fuck.”

you groan — his tongue drags a long, slow stripe along your pussy.

“it is,” his thick arms wrapping around your thighs, slightly, pushing you even closer to his plump lips. his tongue flicking against your clit so lightly, you don’t realize you’re rolling your hips against his face in response. “making you cum means i’m focused.”

you roll your eyes, ready to argue — but then he spits on your cunt and sucks your clit into his mouth like it’s the only thing he’s hungry for. your thighs tightening around his head, the textbook slipping from your grasp. you scramble to keep it upright.

“read,” he mutters, voice muffled. “you know i have to pass.” he pulls back just a bit and you shiver at the sight of your juices on his face.

“and don’t drop the fucking book on my head, brat.”

“maybe you’ll get all the answers the- sukuna!”

his tongue dips into your hole, curling, dragging back out — cutting you off completely. you clench around his tongue, your hips rocking forward instinctively. chasing the friction.

he chuckles. you groan.

“what is the first question, smartass?” he smirks, kissing the inside of your thigh — soft and slow. his fingers digging into you hard, your hips twitching.

your fingers shake as you try to remember how to read — the textbook feeling like cement from how heavy it is in your hands.

“n- name the polic— fuck..” eyes squeezed shut, jaw slack — no sound coming out. just sukuna’s tongue finding its way back, lazily gliding through your folds.

your hips roll in slow, desperate circles. grinding against his face. his tongue speeding up just a bit. chasing after that pressure. wanting, needing more. your orgasm is coiling hot and fast in your gut.

you’re still trying to keep the textbook steady.

slap!

your thigh stings from his hand just met it. his tongue gliding sweetly through your folds — a stark contrast.

cheeks hot, eyes narrowed. “which made it illegal f-for any foreigners to enter jap-?”

“sakoku,” he growls into your pussy — his mouth immediately latching back onto your clit, tongue flicking hard and fast.

slurping from sukuna, intelligible strings of words from you, and the thud from the textbook hitting his pillow (just shy from his head) are the only sounds that could be heard.

your (now) free hand reaches for the headboard. soft whimpers slipping from your lips.

he tightens his grip on your thighs, fingers heavy and hot. and he grinds your cunt down onto his mouth. his nose grazing your clit the perfect amount.

your legs quiver, your pussy throbs, and suddenly, all that tension snaps like a rubber band.

“c-c-correct,” you pant, completely wrecked. you’re trying not to fall over. your orgasm rocking through you like how sukuna tackles players on the field — hard, hot, and angry.

“see?” he murmurs, “your pussy is a good teacher.” lips barely ghosting your folds. and all you could do is moan.

and then he goes right back in — groaning into you, eating through your spasms, tongue still working like he’s trying to pull another one out of you.

you’re a twitching mess — babbling and drooling. the answers for the test are long gone from your mind.

then he pulls back with a wet pop, spit and slick all over his chin and nose. smug grin on his face, all confident.

“next question, nerd,” he groans, voice muffled by your pussy as he pulls you back down. “you’re supposed to be helping me pass.”

thank you @lily-bisque for reading my first draft, ily!

[kaiserresque]

"Satoru."

"Yeah, baby?" Gojo replies instantly, gaze flicking up with hopeful anticipation.

He’s still got that innocent glimmer in his eyes, as if he isn't the one currently cupping your breasts with both hands like they’re humanity’s last hope.

"Get your hands off my boobs."

He groans, flopping back dramatically against the pillows like a kicked puppy.

“Why are you being so distant lately?" he whines, bottom lip jutting out in the most insufferable pout as he gives your chest a pitiful little squeeze.

"You didn’t even laugh when I did the sexy voice in the shower, and frankly, I feel unloved."

"Go to sleep." you mutter, flipping a page of your book with surgical calm, still not gracing him with even an ounce of attention.

There’s a beat of silence. You know that kind of quiet—he’s either about to start weeping or set something on fire.

"Are you seeing someone else?"

Gojo props himself up on one elbow, the other hand still firmly on your chest. Still palming you like you’re a comfort object he refuses to part with.

You blink. "...What?"

"It is him!" he gasps, eyes widening in horror. "The guy with the beige sweater and receding hairline. I know a schemer when I see one."

You sigh through your nose. "That’s Megumi’s homeroom teacher. He’s a sweet man.”

"Oh so you think he's sweet now?" He snaps, sitting up straighter, finger jabbing the air in accusation. "That fossil has no business standing within five miles of you. I don't care how many degrees he has."

You finally lower your book just enough to stare at him. "It was a parent-teacher meeting, Satoru."

"Yeah, well, he was talking to you all slow and respectful and.... educational. What’s the bastard trying to prove?"

You go back to your book with a slow blink and no further comment.

"You are so—"

Before you can finish, he grabs the book clean out of your hands and flings it somewhere across the room.

"Hey—!"

You reach out for it instinctively, but he moves faster, already shifting his weight and rolling over you in one smooth motion. He straddles your hips, knees pressed to the outside of your thighs, his chest hovering just above yours.

One hand plants beside your head, the other trails down, gliding over your ribs, your waist— before settling low on your thigh, just beneath the hem of your shorts. His fingers splay there, staking his claim.

He’s looking down at you now, hair falling in his face, grin slow and easy like he has all night to make his point.

"You’re impossible," you mumble, glaring up at Gojo.

"Maybe this is why I piss you off so often," he says, lips brushing your jaw. "Just wanna see my pretty girl all worked up."

You try your best not to succumb to the temptation. You really do.

But his mouth finds the curve of your jaw, kisses warm and trailing as they move lazily toward your neck, each one a little more self-satisfied than the last. He hums against your skin, practically vibrating with contentment, thinking he's finally worn you down.

His fingers flex against your thigh, grip tightening just slightly as his lips trail lower—

"Gojo-sensei!"

You both freeze. Gojo's body goes still, lips hovering at your neck, hand frozen just beneath the hem of your shorts.

"I spilled juice on my shirt." Megumi's small voice echoes from the next room, painfully unimpressed and extremely inconvenient.

Gojo lets out the longest, loudest, most dramatic groan known to man, forehead falling onto your shoulder like he’s in mourning.

"...I swear that child has a sixth sense for cockblocking."

You laugh—wheeze, really—because he says it so seriously, like this is a national tragedy.

"I’ll be back," he grumbles, reluctantly hauling himself off you, the pettiness in his voice barely disguised. "But I’m taking the book hostage until further notice."

[sinkuna]

୨୧ ― The garage door slams shut with a muffled thud, sealing you both in the dark garage. The car is still warm from the drive home, engine ticking as the leather seats creak under Nanami’s weight. His tie hangs loose around his neck, silk fabric slithering between his fingers as he cages you against the backseat- his knee forcing your legs apart. 

"Seven days…," he grits out, the numbers sharp as his cursed blade… It was rare to hear him talk like that…

"Kento… please don't be mad… w-we ah~," impatient, his large hands shove your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric around your waist, "We've been so busy with the girls lately." your hands tremble as you run them over the lapels of his jacket.

He catches your wrist and pulls your hand to his mouth. A shiver races up your spine as he kisses your palm, tongue hot and wet as it traces along your skin. His teeth are just as sharp, grazing against your skin in a warning, "I don't want excuses," Nanami growls, the low sound going straight to your cunt, "I want you."

His breath carries hints of bourbon and mint from dinner- restraint absolutely snapped, the kind that’s been simmering all week between packed lunched, overtime with Gojo, and your second grader’s nightmares about how daddy doesn’t come back home from work one day… 

Nanami refuses to waste any more time. Like he said, it’s been seven fucking days. He’s missed having you all to himself. The feeling of your velvety walls wrapped around him- strangling his cock just how he likes it. 

Without hesitation. His thumb hooks into your lace panties, tearing them sideways with a rip that makes you gasp and arch, "F-fuck, Kento-!~"

"Quiet," he growls against your neck, calloused palm smacking your clit once, twice, the crack echoing off the tinted windows, "You've been begging for this all night." The sound of his pants zipper fills the small space, his cock springing free- heavy and angry red with a bead of precum drooling at the tip. "Squirming in your seat. Smirking at me as your heel grazes my thigh."

He doesn't prep you- doesn't need to. Your pussy has been dripping since the appetizers, and he knows, the bastard, smirking as he swipes his tip against your entrance, "Look at you," he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, coating himself, "So wet for me already. You missed my cock so much, hm?"

Fuck, yesyesyes you missed his cock, missed the stretch and burn and ache when he first plunges into you. A breathless, "Yes~♡ " falls from your lips, followed by a desperate moan as his fat cock rams into your soaked cunt without warning- filling you, stretching you out.

You do your best to choke back a scream. You know better, know to keep your voice down in case your girls and Yuji have fallen asleep- the last thing you need is to wake them. But Nanami is merciless, fucking you open, the squelch of your juices loud enough to drown out any other noise in the confined space, his hips snap up- slamming into you as he fucks you against the leather seats.

"I—fu—I've s'missed you, Kento~"

Nanami's eyes soften then, a small smile forming as his hand cradles your face. The pad of his thumb traces the outline of your lip before pushing in, his gaze darkening at the way your lips part for him so willingly.

His grip on your jaw turns bruising, the way his lips smash against yours- it's painful, but the sting is delicious, "You kept teasing me about wanting another kid," he grunts, sweat dripping off his jaw onto your heaving chest.

His wedding band catches the moonlight streaming through the garage window as he grips your throat, not hard enough to hurt- yet.

"Maybe I will put a third in you tonight. Watch you swell up again…" His voice drops, gravelly and low, "You'd look so beautiful like that, again."

You claw at the part of his chest that's exposed, the fabric wrinkled beyond salvation, and moan, "Y'already... nnf... can't handle two—hah!~"

He slams deeper- hand fisting in your hair cutting you off-  "Try me."

His Mercedes rattles as he flips you onto your knees, face mashed against the fogged window. His palm cracks against your ass, reddening the skin before he yanks your hips back, spearing you in one vicious stroke. Your tits crush against the seat, nipples rubbed raw by the upholstery as he drills into your g-spot.

Somewhere upstairs, he hears a floorboard squeak… The sound traveling easily through the thin wall that connects the garage to the house. Nanami freezes, cock twitching inside you. 

Then, unmistakable in the sudden silence, comes the patter of small feet and excited voices from within the house.

"Daddy and Mommy are home!"

"Shh! Remember what big bro Yuji said? We should be sleeping!"

Nanami’s eyes narrow, "S-shit." He rams home once more, burying his groan in the crook of your neck as he spills, hot and thick, painting your walls white as it floods your womb. His cum leaks down your trembling thighs as he collapses against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder blade with a defeated thud while muttering, "...they're awake-"

So much for having you to himself the rest of the night…

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Nine months later, Nanami Kento is changing diapers at 3 am, dark circles under his eyes but with a tender smile that lights up the pink nursery.

"Worth it."

⋆｡˚꒰ঌ 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱˚｡⋆

[psuejo]

❥ tied him down to my queen bed!

“fuuuck, baby—”

never in toji fushiguro’s thirty-eight years of living has he let himself get tied up. not during jobs, always too quick and nimble to even let them get close, nor when he was sleeping around. he was always on top, always the one tying them down and fucking them silly.

yet here he is, thick wrists and ankles bound to the posts of your bedframe, legs spread just for you. he can’t help it, not when you’re bouncing on his dick like a see-saw, a repetitive up and down that has those lightning veins dragging through your gooey insides.

“mmmgh, s-shit,” he moans, and it teeters off into a breathy chuckle, practically drowning in feigned confidence. even now, toji still wants to save face with that wobbly smirk on his face, though you definitely know better.

god, he feels like a teenager again, balls heavy and aching cock sensitive to every slight flutter and suctioning clamp of your sweet pussy. it’s like you’ve cast a spell on him, made him weak to your soft touches, the gentle bat of your long lashes, the feeling of your reverent lips peppering his face in endless kisses whenever he returns from a job.

that’s precisely how he ended up like this, tied down to your bed with just a small pout of your glossy lips and a few low, choice words whispered into his ear that’d had his pants instantly growing tight.

it hasn’t even been ten minutes, and toji’s ready to cum. you see it in the way his eyes keep fluttering like he’s having to fight the urge to let them roll back, how his hips don’t stop bucking up into you, shoving his dick in deep enough to create that perfect, cylindrical bulge in your tummy that has him drooling with endless moans and barely bitten off whimpers.

“c’mon, doll, un... mmf— untie me.” his hands flex, testing the barely sufficient restraints. “lemme f-fuck you right. that’s what ya want, y-yeah? jus’ untie me, baby, hah—”

you shake your head, hands on his chest as you up your pace, a familiar pressure building low in your spine. “you p-promised, toji.”

he did promise, he knows that, and he hates breaking them, but with the way you’re now swiveling your hips in torturous figure-eights, snug cunt milking him for all he’s worth, he is genuinely not gonna last.

“baby, pleaseee? you feel s-so fucking good, toji, god—” your voice is as sweet as ever, making the thick walls around toji’s mind melt into goopy, lovesick puddles and his balls draw up tight.

he doesn’t mean to cum before you, honest, but when you’re talking to him like that and riding him so good, he can’t help but pump thick, hot ropes of cum right into your womb, jaw slack for a long, whiny groan.

you don’t even get the chance to process the tears in his eyes before the ropes snap, two big hands coming down on your waist and flipping you right onto your back.

“toji, hnngh, wait—!”

your boyfriend just gives a rough shake of his head, the ropes sliding free from his wrists and ankles as he hikes your legs around his waist. his dark fringe falls in front of his face, and, for a foolish moment, you think he’s going to listen.

but toji has never been good at being submissive for long, even with you.

with a rough snap of his hips, he slams home, pushing that previous load of cum even deeper. “n-nah. ‘s my turn now.”

[reissancesstuff]

“WHO are you?”

sypnosis: you're too drunk to recognize your boyfriend.

warnings: alcohol (reader is drunk), swearing.

featuring: gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, fushiguro toji, sukuna ryomen.

Gojo

You are absolutely, unapologetically, undeniably wasted.

You don’t even remember how many drinks you’ve had. All you know is that the room is spinning, your heels are in your hand, and you’re sitting outside the club on the curb with a pout that could kill a man.

“Satoru,” you mumble, squinting at your phone. “Why hasn’t he called me back? That bastard.”

You’re just about to text him for the eighth time (your phone is upside down, for the record) when a familiar voice cuts through the haze.

“There you are,” the voice says, amused. “You’re lucky I’m sexy and patient.”

You blink up, shielding your eyes from the moonlight—or maybe it’s the streetlight, or maybe it's the glowing aura of the man standing in front of you.

He’s tall. White-haired. Wearing a black coat and sunglasses, at night, like a menace.

You frown.

“Who,” you say seriously, “the fuck are you?”

He freezes.

You narrow your eyes further, wobbling to your feet and poking his chest.

“Back off, handsome stranger,” you declare. “I already have a boyfriend.”

He sputters. “Handsome? Wait—”

“He’s the love of my life,” you say proudly. “Six feet of nonsense. White hair. Smug face. He’s so annoying. But like, in a hot way.”

“…That’s literally just me,” he deadpans.

“Nooo,” you slur. “Satoru’s prettier.”

His jaw drops. “Excuse me?! I AM SATORU!”

You gasp. Loudly.

“Oh my god. You’re one of those crazy fans.”

“What???”

You stumble back, dramatically offended. “You wanna be him, don’t you? Is that why you dyed your hair? Is this cosplay?!”

Gojo stares at you, dumbfounded.

You wave your heel in the air like a sword. “Back off! I’m loyal!”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. “Sweetheart—”

You cut him off, whispering, “Don’t call me that. Only Satoru calls me sweetheart.”

“…I am Satoru!”

A pause. Then, suddenly, you gasp again—like your brain has rebooted.

“Wait… You sound like him,” you say slowly, brows furrowing. “Say something only Satoru would say.”

He leans in, lips grazing your ear.

“I know how you like it when I kiss that one spot on your thigh.”

You shriek, smacking his chest. “Okay you’re him!!”

He laughs—loud, stupid, proud.

“I hate you,” you mumble into his coat as he wraps his arms around you, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

“You said I was hot,” he hums smugly. “I’m never letting that go.”

“You’re annoying,” you grumble, snuggling into him anyway. “Still prettier in my head.”

He kisses your forehead. “Good thing I’m also prettier in real life.”

---

By the time he gets you home, you’ve fallen asleep in his arms.

You wake up the next morning with a hangover, a glass of water on your nightstand, and a sticky note on your forehead.

"Handsome Stranger says hi. —Your boyfriend 💙"

You groan, burying your face in the pillow.

God, he’s never gonna let this go.

But honestly?

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━

Geto

You’re drunk.

Like, embarrassingly drunk.

Like, sitting outside the izakaya barefoot with your shoes in your lap and a half-eaten skewer in your hand, slurring into your phone like it’s your long-lost best friend.

“Where the hell is Suguru?” you mumble. “I’m cold. And also beautiful. I deserve a ride.”

A shadow falls over you.

You look up—slowly, dramatically—and see a tall, broad figure standing above you, dark hair in a low bun, wearing all black like he’s auditioning to be a villain in a slow-burn romance anime.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Deep. Familiar.

You squint. “Oh my god.”

He raises a brow. “Yes?”

“You’re hot,” you whisper.

He sighs. “Baby, it’s me.”

“No,” you say, pointing a threatening skewer at him. “My boyfriend is nicer. He’s sweet. And warm. And smells like sandalwood and chaos. You look like a mafia boss. You probably steal hearts and credit cards.”

Suguru stares at you like he’s questioning all his life choices.

You stand up—well, try to—and nearly fall into him. His arms catch you effortlessly, like it’s muscle memory.

You shove a finger in his chest. “I’m taken. My boyfriend will kill you.”

“Will he?” he asks, humoring you. “Violent type?”

“The worst,” you say proudly. “He once glared at a guy so hard his hairline receded.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“He is,” you nod seriously. “And he calls me ‘sweetheart’ when he wants something.”

Suguru exhales a laugh, something low and fond. “Okay. What if I prove I’m him?”

You blink at him, considering. “…Fine. Do it.”

He steps close, close enough that his chest brushes yours.

“Two weeks ago, you said if I didn’t let you adopt a cat, you’d put glitter in my shampoo.”

Your jaw drops. “How did you—?!”

“Three days ago, you cried because a dog in a TikTok wore boots.”

“And last night,” he leans in, brushing his lips by your ear, “you told me I’m your favorite ‘tall dark and dangerous’ man, but you’d leave me instantly for Keanu Reeves.”

You gasp. “Suguru?!”

“Yes.”

“OH MY GOD.” You slap his arm. “Why didn’t you say so earlier!?”

“I did.”

You cling to him, dramatic as ever. “I missed you. You smell good. Don’t ever leave me again.”

He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you bridal style toward the car, shaking his head with the softest smile.

“You’re gonna regret all of this in the morning,” he murmurs, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I regret nothing,” you slur. Then squint up at him. “Wait. Did you really glare a guy’s hairline off?”

“…That one might’ve been a little exaggerated.”

“Still hot.”

---

The next morning, you wake up in Suguru’s hoodie, with water, painkillers, and a sticky note on your phone:

“Mafia Boss says thank you for your compliments. You’re under permanent protection now. —Your real boyfriend 💌”

You bury your face in the pillow.

He’s never letting this go.

And honestly? You’re kind of glad.

━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━

Nanami

You’re sitting on a curb, absolutely wasted.

There’s glitter on your eyelids, chicken nuggets in your purse, and a girl from the bar sobbing beside you because her ex posted a gym selfie.

You offer her a nugget.

“You deserve better,” you tell her. “You’re gorgeous. Your eyebrows are, like, symmetrical. I’d marry you.”

She sniffles, then stares behind you. “Uhh… is that your boyfriend?”

You turn.

And see a tall, broad man walking up, sleeves rolled, tie loose, face unreadable—like God sent a male model from a finance firm to collect wayward souls off the street.

You frown.

“You look expensive,” you say slowly. “Are you one of those… high-end butlers?”

He stops in front of you. “You’re drunk.”

You blink. “How do you know?”

“Because I’m your boyfriend.”

Your jaw drops. “No you’re not. My boyfriend is… emotionally repressed. Wears beige. Has a sexy office job and a judgmental stare.”

Nanami sighs. “That’s me.”

You squint suspiciously. “Okay, if you’re really my boyfriend… what’s my weirdest habit?”

He looks down at you, voice flat. “You talk to plants. You name them. One is called Baby Groot. You cried when he lost a leaf.”

Your lips part. “Only he would know that…”

You wobble to your feet and nearly fall, catching yourself on his very firm chest. You clutch his shirt.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You are my sexy office man.”

“Let’s go home,” he mutters, guiding you gently toward his car.

You dig your heels into the ground. “Wait! Waitwaitwait—don’t kidnap me! I have a boyfriend!”

“You just admitted I am your boyfriend.”

“…Oh. Right.” You giggle. “Lucky me.”

He helps you into the passenger seat like you’re fragile cargo. Once seated, you stare at him as he buckles you in.

“You’re so handsome,” you murmur.

“I know.”

“And patient.”

“I have no choice.”

“You’re gonna marry me one day.”

His hands still for half a second.

Then: “I already plan to.”

You pass out smiling.

---

The next morning, you wake up in bed, dressed in your comfiest pajamas, with a glass of water, aspirin, and a note:

"In case you forget: yes, I am your boyfriend. No, I am not a butler. Please hydrate. —Kento"

You giggle into the pillow.

You’re definitely going to marry that man.

━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━

Toji

You are sitting on a barstool, double fisting two very illegally strong cocktails, laughing at absolutely nothing.

You're also very certain that a hot man is trying to kidnap you.

“Ma’am,” the man says, standing in front of you like an irritated wall of muscle. “It’s me.”

You look him up and down.

Black hair. Green eyes. Tall. Scary aura. Tight shirt. Very very hot.

But no. You're loyal.

You squint. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

The man pinches the bridge of his nose. “I picked you up from karaoke an hour ago.”

“Impossible,” you say dramatically. “My boyfriend would never show up to karaoke. He thinks fun is ‘a scam made by broke people.’”

“That’s exactly what I said,” he grunts.

You gasp. “You are hot though. Like, really hot. But listen—my boyfriend? He’s kinda mean, super strong, and terrifying. He could totally kill you.”

He stares.

You continue: “He’s also soooo good in bed. Real monster. Demon behavior. But he’s mine, so—”

Toji grabs your wrist. “Get your ass up.”

You gasp again. “You’re aggressive. Just like him. But he’d never touch me like that in public unless I pissed him off.”

“Oh?” he says, voice flat. “You mean like getting blackout drunk, threatening the DJ, and petting strangers' dogs without asking?”

You tilt your head. “So you do know me...”

“I live with you.”

You lean forward, squinting hard, then grab his face between your hands. “Say something only my boyfriend would say.”

He deadpans, “If you puke in my car again, I’m charging you five grand.”

Your mouth drops open. “Toji?!”

“Finally.”

You throw your arms around his neck. “Where have you been all night?!”

“Chasing your drunk ass down. Again.”

He tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and starts walking to his car.

“Wait,” you slur. “You’re not gonna murder me, right?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“But I’m your babygirl…”

He opens the car door. “You’re my goddamn headache.”

“Love you too!”

---

The next morning, you wake up with a hangover and a bruise on your hip that looks suspiciously like the edge of Toji’s shoulder.

You check your phone.

1 New Message from Toji

📸 [photo of you passed out face-first in his passenger seat, drooling]

Toji: Don’t drink again unless I’m there. Dumbass.

You smile.

Your murderous, scary, mean boyfriend is the best.

━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━

Sukuna

You’re absolutely, irreparably hammered.

How do you know?

Because there is a gorgeous man standing in front of you with piercings, tattoos, and arms you’d like to sit on — and instead of flirting with him, you’re loudly sobbing to your friend.

“He’s gonna kill him. He’s gonna kill the hot guy,” you sniff.

“Who?”

“That guy,” you point at the very man you’re talking about. “He’s hot but he’s not my boyfriend. But he’s gonna die. My boyfriend is crazy.”

The man in question — the hot one — drags a hand down his face. “You’re drunk off your ass.”

You nod solemnly. “Yes. And you should leave before he finds you.”

“I am your boyfriend.”

You blink. “Noooo, my boyfriend has tattoos—”

He lifts his shirt.

“—oh my god you have tattoos,” you whisper.

“And piercings.”

You stare at the twin bars through his eyebrow and the silver glint on his tongue as he smirks.

“My boyfriend has those too!” you giggle. “But also, he’s terrifying. He’d murder you in an alley for touching me.”

He steps closer. “You mean like this?”

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you flush against him.

You freeze. “Bold of you, hot stranger.”

He leans in, voice low and dark in your ear. “You bit me last time I tried to wake you up from a drunk nap.”

You gasp. “Sukuna?!”

“Yeah, baby. It’s me.” He presses a kiss to your jaw, sharp canines grazing your skin. “Now let’s get you in the damn car before I dump you in a gutter.”

You wrap your arms around him, eyes wide. “You’re so mean. I love you.”

“I know you do, dumbass.”

---

The next morning, you wake up to an ice pack on your head and a water bottle on your nightstand. Sukuna is sitting at the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone.

“…Did I threaten you again last night?” you mumble.

“You told me you’d report me to the FBI if I didn’t prove I was your boyfriend.”

“Oh god.”

“You also called me ‘Mr. Jail Tattoos’ and asked if I knew I was hot.”

“I hate myself.”

He glances at you with that lazy smirk. “You said, and I quote, ‘I wanna kiss you but my boyfriend’s gonna beat your ass.’”

You pull a pillow over your face. “Did you beat your own ass?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “But I did let you tackle me onto the bed. You drooled on my neck.”

“…Love you?”

He flicks your forehead. “Be less dumb next time.”

You grin. “That’s rich coming from you, Mr. Jail Tattoos.”

And he does, in fact, tackle you right back.

[iloveacaibowls111]

𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⊹

18+ MDNI, light smut

dilf!toji leans in the doorway, towel around his neck, fresh out the shower and completely forgetting whatever the hell he came in here for the second he sees you kneeling on the rug, brushing out megumi's messy little bedhead with this patience he swears only you’re capable of. 

“hold still, baby,” you say, soft and low, one hand steady until his chin, the other working the brush through the knots. 

megumi mumbles something under his breath. you laugh, kiss the top of his head, and keep brushing. 

and toji? toji is going feral watching you look after megumi with such care and love. it makes him want to marry you all over again and knock you up over and over again. 

the robe you’re wearing slips a little as you lean forward - allowing a peek of you thigh, the curve of your breast. you don’t even notice.

but toji does. 

oh, he fucking does.

suddenly, he is overwhelmed with an urge to give you more. more mornings like this. more little heads to brush. more of himself, permanently. 

you tuck megumi’s hair behind his ear and send him off to the kitchen with a “go pick out your cereal, i’ll be right there in a minute.”

the second he’s gone, you stand to follow - but don’t even make it a step before toji’s on you. 

his hand firmly grips your hips, pressing your chest tightly against his solid front. he leans down so his lips lightly grazes your neck, voice already rough.

“you tryin’ to kill me, doll?”

you blink at him, caught off guard. “what?”

he huffs a laugh against your skin, low and hot. 

“you. bein’ all soft with him like that. wearin’ this.” his hands slips under your robe, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh.

“you know what that does to me?”

“i was just brushing his hair, toji.” you laugh. you could feel him press up against you, hot and bothered.

“nah,” he mutters, leaving wet kisses along your jaw. “you were bein’ a fuckin’ dream. my wife. takin’ care of our boy like you were made for it.”

before you can say anything, he’s lifting you - big hands gripping the backs of your thighs, robe falling open as he walks you toward the bed. 

“you already gave me one perfect kid,” he says, setting you down and dragging his palm over your stomach like he’s picturing it full again. “you keep actin’ like that, i’m puttin’ another one in you.”

you let out a tiny whimper as toji slowly begins to grind onto you. the hard outline of his cock through his sweatpants pushing just the perfect amount of pressure onto you. his hands are now shamelessly groping your breasts while he marks up your neck.

“toji - megumi’s in the kitchen -“

“he’s got cereal. he’ll be fine. 

and right on cue:

“mom! dad! where’s the milk?! i’m hungry!”

toji groans against your skin, his hips flush against yours, jaw clenched like it physically pains him to stop.

he presses a soft kiss against your temple, a contrast to his rough voice at your ear:

“don’t move a fuckin’ inch. soon as he’s fed, i’m finishing what i started.” 

part two here

[tonycries]

JUNO

Synopsis. Yes, it’s his first time getting hit with bábyfever. No, you don’t think you’ll make it out aIive.

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

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, BRÉEDING K!NKS, marathons, p talking, creampíes, matíng presses, mentions of kids, REALLY pússydrúnk JJK men, proposals, ínnapropríate use of powers, cúmming dry, headIocks, true form Sukuna, dp, Sukuna’s second mouth, spítting, exhíbitíonism (Geto), oraI (fem rec.), pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Went off the RAILS for this one, whoops-

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Santa, baby.

It hits Toji slowly…and then all at once. 

And before you know it - before even he knows it - his vicious hips come stuttering to a fullstop. Scarred maw slacking open- gaping with a steep gasp. Toji’s angrily swollen length suddenly swabs another thick wad of creamy pre dripping down your insides. 

He feels feverish.

“T-Toji–” your disappointed whine comes out cracked - pathetic, because the sheer stretch is enough to make your lips spill with drool. Sliding Toji’s shaggy black bangs away from his prespired forehead, you’re peering up into those heavily-lidded green eyes of his, breath hitching at the glint of something different. Dark. “Are- are you hah- okay, baby?”

And Toji only jolts. 

He only lets his hips gush forwards with an emanating squelch ripped from your puffy folds. Like he didn’t even realize - was out of control. 

“Doll…” Toji’s voice is ragged. Ruined. Swirling up a few heavy digits down your teary slit, “Have you ngh- picked out yer Christmas gift f’me?”

You blink, “N-no, but-” 

“Then how about a baby?”

A baby?

Your mouth lathers in another bout of saliva at the way that your boyfriend seemed so hypnotized by the very notion. Lips puckering up with a slight tremble in your tone as you echo, “You want a-a baby-”

“Shit-” Toji hisses, calloused mountains of his palms bullying your thighs further and further open. Lightning bolts of his veins track down his thick neck when you’re being so rudely punished with a sodden thwack! against your cunt. “D-don’t say it with your pretty mouth ‘nless ya want me to f-fill this sweet pussy early.”

Toji Fushiguro…claiming he was going to cum early? 

You’re squirming your hips down his taut shaft in a way that gets you locked with five thick fingers wrapped around your throat - holding you in place. 

“What did I fuckin’- say-” 

“I want it-” Your nails carve red, red lines down his toned back. “-wan’ it all ah- inside me-”

Inside - oh, inside inside inside- God, you didn’t know what you did to him. Did you?

“Gonna be the d-death of me- swear-” Drawling out a low grunt at the clench of his cum-filled balls, he’s hunching over to pin you under his full, hulking weight and spit. Straight into your mouth- glissading one fat thumb through your lips and across your sopping wet tastebuds. “When I hngh- remember what that lil’ gremlin called you today I…” Toji gulps - thick and heavy. “You’d make the p-perfect pretty momma f’me, my wife.”

Wife? 

You felt dizzy. You’d mentioned wanting to start a family with Toji before - conversations that had him huffing and veering his face away, ears always stained a deep rouge. 

But this? What did Megumi even call you that had him- oh.

Oh. 

He’d called you momma. 

“Heh, ya remember now.”

That’s what had Toji’s head tumbling back as he’s barrelling you overstuffed all over again. Animalistic. Your jaw falls open stupidly when his rigorous inches pump in and out your goopy depths like Toji had no time to waste. 

No rationality when his gorging biceps lunge underneath your legs and pin them around his straining neck. Cushioned by Toji’s sweat-sheened deltoids, he’s dragging out a panting, “Lock them.”

But shit- “I-I don’t know if I can-” you’re whining. Every brushing French kiss of his rounded fat tip against that spot rendering your poor legs more and more useless with each sloppy second. Bolts of heat and electricity being spawned down your spine after every smooch of his divot. 

“Tch.”

And now, usually your boyfriend would have mocked those rippling mewls out of you until you’re begging him for mercy, usually he would have planted pound after teasing pound just shy of your g-spot to have you listening to his pussydrunken words yourself.

But instead, he’s keeping your ankles pinned with one hand in a vice-like restraint, your cunt glossing out another drenched ring of slick at the way his massive biceps flex. 

“M-making it sooo hard, f’me- aren’t ya, ma?” Toji giggles - giggles through clenched teeth when his sweat-sodden forehead bumps into yours. “S’alright s’alright- how do ya feel about ngh- makin’ Megs a big brother? Giving him a lil’ s-sister and a lil’ brother?” Manhandling you to be folded like lawnchair in the meanest mating press beneath him. You swear you spy a translucent trail of drool that tugs down the corner of his curled lips. “Gonna k-keep our hngh- kids all in line like this, too?”

And those words were meant to fluster you - they really were. 

But Toji’s finding himself shutter his dark lashes half-closed, thumping tip colliding into your cervix. So hard it was like he was ready to brand a permanent circumference into the very bottom of your melty cunt. 

Sloppy - he’s so sloppy. One set of knuckles wrapping around your precious throat to haul you back into every single one of his smacking thrusts. You’ve never felt more filthy-

“Oh shit- oh shit-” he’s spitting out into your lecherously opened mouth, condensed saliva warming you from the inside out. The bed creaks in a staccato when Toji’s muscled body collapses onto his elbows, caging you. Not anymore - he couldn’t do it anymore. It was building up and up and Toji was losing his damn mind. “I didn’t even th-think I wanted any more but- but oh– just had to trigger m’fuckin’ babyfever, huh? N’ not jus’ for one- for two more damn brats.” 

Two of his round-tipped fingers twirl around your plump clit and give her a teasing pinch. “A s-son with ngh- your eyes. N’ a daughter with mine.” The other hand nudges away the hair from your face. “-you’d just make the ngh- prettiest momma-”

“Y-you’re such a-” you mewl out, finger clutching for whatever expanse of the silken sheets that you can grasp onto. “-a softie, Toji–”

“A what?” he’s seething, heavy-handed palm gliding down your tummy and against the bruising nudge of where your melty walls were sucking the ever-loving soul out of him. “Repeat that.” And as soon as your stupidly cockdrunken mouth falls open to heed his word, he’s pressing down. Hard. Swirling a ruthless thumb over the rotund curve of his puffy cockhead. And that makes you choke- “Heh, th-tha’s what I thought.”

It’s like he was fucking you both dumb, weeping out a velveteen gush of milky precum every time your walls molded around him. Every time your pretty pussy was asking for something delicious from the very ends of his ruddy tip.

And fuck was it ever when he finally does. 

So much - too much sobbing out from the ends of his furious cock. Toji’s hiking up one muscular thigh flat onto the plush mattress to absolutely flood you with drenching splatters of seed that slobber all down every hidden ridge and orifice of your snug cunt. 

You felt like your walls were being inflated with every vicious load he fucked deeper and deeper. Torn between too much and more more more-

“Hey-” You’re flinching as your dominant hand gets trapped under something heavy - pinned to the sheets by Toji’s foot. And only then do you register it’s slow dance down to your clit. “N-no playin’ with this pretty pussy u-until-” Plugging into you even deeper to trap every pearly bead of seed, your puffy pussy lips burn with the stretch of his hefty base, the scratch of his dark happy trail. “-until we’re sure m’gettin’ my lovely Christmas gifts, ma.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Dad(dy) material

“M’gonna take haaah- care of you, my love.” Nanami’s rich baritone reverberates in your cottony-filled ears and over those saturatedly popping squelches from your drooling cunt down below. “M’gonna- take- such good c-care of you…and our daughter.”

And it’s not just that sternly filthy mouth of his babbling away drunkenly at your cunt, it’s not even a promise. It was a vow and your husband was well and fully intent on worshipping your pretty puckered pussy. 

Planting kiss after smooching kiss that made you whine. 

It made you buck your hips into a curvaceous arch off the silky sheets of the king-sized bed, painting a sodden drag down Nanami’s handsome features. Deeper. Harder. His button nose nudges up against your sensitive clit. “P-please, jus’ want you ngh- inside me again, Kento–”

Shit- Nanami’s huling body wrecks with shivers. Why would you say that? 

You could see the way that made his ruby red tip weep out a few glossy sputters of pre, staining down the side of his muscular thighs. Forming such a glinting sheen that makes your mouth water just as much as his. 

A slow, syrupy trail of his cum and your sweet, sweet juices dawdle down to his chin, you catch the way that the edges of his plump lips curve ever-so-slightly into a thoroughly pussydrunken grin. Nanami looming his heated mouth even closer to breathe you in-

“I told you, darlin’-” He sounds so sloppy now. Sensible glasses drooping down his nose, splashed with a few translucent stains. Words stumbling over one another and slurring when his tongue laps up a few pearly beads of seed from just before. He rolls his rugged tastebuds over your clit, “-hafta ah- clean up the mother of m’kids before I…before I- oh-”

And he couldn’t bear it - couldn’t finish that sentence. Couldn’t even glimpse down as another sloshing dredge of cum sobs its way from between your swollen pussy folds.

God, you’d driven him absolutely wild the very second your nervous self had confessed to him that you wanted kids. A mini you. And Nanami didn’t even bother taking off his work clothes, didn’t even bother carrying you to the bedroom as he usually would - taking you once on the kitchen floor. Twice in the hallway. And now-

You’re cumming. Verging over your peak and tangling your trembly digits through Nanami’s blond strands. Hips oscillating upwards in damp little gyrations over and over-

He’s lapping the remnants of cum onto his tongue, you’re watching with a strainedly hitched gasp as Nanami’s opening his mouth widely agape for you to watch the creamy mess pool on his tongue and slide down his throat. Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing in time with your own throat. 

He’d never acted like this before - hit with saturated, sloppy babyfever.

Fuck- you were so ruined. 

And so was he when he’s making you wait a few terse seconds, eyeing your drizzling cunt. Before gifting you with a low hum of satisfaction and a final squelching smooch against your peeking clit. “On all fours f’me, my love.”

Shit, it was like heaven.

Bumping into your pussy lips with his rosy head in a shy little peck. Once. Twice. You’re being slathered in such a thick shower of his wispy precum, Nanami’s head falling back with a heaving groan at the very idea of fucking a baby into you. 

“A-are you ready?” he’s gulping, more to himself than you. “Gonna…” Can’t even bear to say it. “-gonna fill you u-up. Oh- m’gonna…fuck a baby into ya.”

Just those words make him feel feverish. He doesn’t- can’t think anymore since being hit with the thought of you and a tiny lil’ girl with your smile and his eyes. 

And the very moment you nod - the very moment your head jerks even the slightest centimeter in compliance - you’re being stuffed overly full of his solid inches. No matter how many times your greedy pussy had gulped down his size, Nanami was staggering. 

All of his swollen, engorged inches massage hidden sweet spots you didn’t even know existed in your gummy walls. He’s spearing open your very depths with a barraging ram, not a single ounce inside left untouched. 

“S’that- s’that alright-” he’s gasping from behind into your ear. Hips moving before his mind, you’re being flooded full over and over in a heady back and forth of his pounds. “-tell me–”

And you’re nodding and nodding in a way you’re not even sure that Nanami catches with just how glazed his half-lidded eyes were. “S-so good- fuck- there- need it inside, okay, Ken?”

Oh.

THUMP! 

Before you know it, Nanami’s entire body is collapsing their fatigued muscles on top of yours. His glissading abs melting into your back, hefty weight pinning you to the mattress. You’re flinching at the feeling of two sharp canines punching neat indents into your tender neck, a low moan curdling at the back of Nanami’s throat. Raw and ruined, like he was trying to hold it back. “A baby- fuck! Ya really want a baby– gonna be the best mama, aren’t ya?”

But still not stopping - never even faltering. 

“Shh- I got ya, beautiful-” He’s kissing down a few flecks of sweat that dribble their way down your forehead, rough hands attaching themselves to your hips. “Sorry m’so- so ungentlemanly right now, darlin’. I’ll make it up to ya, but-” 

And you’re being overwhelmed by just how much power Nanami packs into each pound. Every clammy swipe down your bruised and battered g-spot. “-but you’re gonna sit all p-pretty and ngh- take it- right? Gonna milk me for every single drop, my wife- ngh- no wastin’ now.”

Can’t waste - couldn’t waste it. 

“D-do you think s’gonna fit?” your mouth babbles without you registering, eyeing down the chalky lamination of cum that coats Nanami’s heavy, thwacking! balls. The sheer volume making your head spin. 

And your husband was always the absolute sweetest, finally crashing his glossed lips onto yours with a shot hum. He’s shutting up every one of your nonsensical sentences - because what his wife wants, his wife gets. And if you want a baby…well…

“O-of course s’gonna fit, darlin’- I’ll make sure of it.” His minty breath fans your heated face when Nanami sinks into your pouty lower lip and tugs. Head nuzzling drunkenly into yours like he was magnetized to you, the squeeze of your cunt so good that he just couldn’t even bear the thought of parting even a single inch. “Took care of it hah- before, didn’t I? And I think- I- I think-”

Urgently, that velvety yellow tie he didn’t bother removing - didn’t have the fucking patience to remove - finds it’s way to your shaky hands. Directing you to pull, to choke-

And you swear you hear Nanami’s rugged voice crack when he whimpers. Whimpers. Gravelly and dangerous, and you feel his fat, bawling tip twitch with each word. Roughened palms cradling your tummy - your womb, yearningly. “M’gonna make a mess I’ll hafta clean up all over again, my love…”

♡ GETO SUGURU - SUCCESSOR

“So you see…”

And for Geto Suguru, it’s practically a battle to even babble out those words coherently. To bite back that pathetic fucking whimper at the back of his throat when he’s skimming his pearly teeth along the tender crook of your neck. 

“-th-this is your hah- official announcement of a successor.”

And the very sentence makes Geto laugh. Laugh. 

Humorless and ruined. Shit- he couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to.

Because it’s already too good to be true how he had you wrecked so filthily in the meanest of full nelsons, in front of rows upon rows of his association. Their heads bowed, breaths hitched, eyes dilemma-ed between looking away and peeking greedily upwards for more more more-

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit - he’s so drunk on the thought that Geto can feel himself drooling. Is this…fuck- is this what they call babyfever?

Softened fingertips idle down your thighs, smearing a messily trail down the leaky spatters of slick that your flooded slit just can’t stop drooling. And he finds himself grinning-

“Ahh- would ya look at that. Makin’ s-such a show, aren't cha?” Geto giggles - giggles - voice reverent in that exact same way that he had been since you’d off-handedly mentioned how the association would need a successor one day. Oh god, it was like your usually-composed Geto was possessed. Gone. 

He didn’t even know why he was feeling so fucked-out already. Why his fingerpads were dragging around and around your clit until you were sobbing. Mewling with every sticky plunge of his too-heavy girth into your cunt, “S-Suguru you’re being so-”

“Shut up.” Leaving a stinging thwack! against the curve of your plump clit, “Let ‘em hear- let her ngh- talk to me. Heh.”

And you couldn’t even whine in protest - because Geto’s already snatching a few thick digits to curl around your slacked maw. Letting your drooling lips coat him in sheer drivel and moans that slip through when he plants pound after pound.

He’s so greedy opening his way around, every rummaging jackhammer positioned exactly to recoil against your gummy cervix. Sloppy split-seconds between each battering ram leaving your gooey orifice bearing the incredible weight of him brushing his swivelling tip against your g-spot. He’s nodding and conversing along lecherously to the honeyed slurps! wafting from your poor pussy. 

“Mhm– mhm, I agree, ma…” And you’re being faced with a slurping pop! pop! pop! resonating from behind as Geto sucks on his fingers to clean off that sopping syrupy gloss. Savoring. Sing-song baritone lilting up just a notch in volume to address your audience, “Don’t you?” 

And when there’s no answer - you are the one being punished with a stinging smack! against the edge of your cunt. Geto’s digits latching around your gaping hole and twirling their way in-

Fuck- the sounds of hurried agreement thundering in your ears from all around you make you keen. 

And usually he’d be smooth, suave, private in bed. But right now Geto can’t help tug one rough forearm around your waist and pin your back against his glissading washboard abs. Massaging you with each rut up and down up and down up and-

“D’you w-wanna know what she’s sayin’?” he’s granting a long slather of his tongue up your bulbous tears, humming at the salty aftertaste. “Wanna know what she’s ngh- begging for?”

“Wh-what?” you’re blubbering out, lips wobbly oh-so-cutely in a way that he just can’t help but sink his sharp canines into. Tugging. 

And Geto didn’t know why he was feeling so…so needy. He had no idea what was making him stretch your jittery thighs open so wide it was like he wanted everyone to see - to know. 

But he has a feeling it’s to do with that idea you mentioned earlier. A…successor. 

Fuck- 

The notion is enough for him to gasp, for his entire body of hefty muscles to flinch like he’d just been zapped with a zillion bolts of bliss. And before you know it, your face gently meets the ridged tatami mats, and Geto’s manhandling you with his beefy limbs onto all fours. 

One hand kisses your puffy clit around and around in thorough circles, the other entirety of his arm curling around your throat - headlocking your lolling face upwards, you’re gasping. Drenched at the bulge of his flexing biceps against your neck-

“She’s sayin…” He bites down on your sensitive earlobe, “-she wants me t-to breed her until she’s overspilling.” And you thought he was done - you thought. Before he’s babbling away pussydrunkenly, head reclining mindlessly towards the front row. “Right?”

Yeah. Yeah, of course, he was right. 

It didn’t matter if Geto Suguru couldn’t properly think - couldn’t even breathe just about right now. Broad chest petering out the most heaving gasps from his lungs, he’s making sure every sloppy cadence of your hips back into his leave you reeling. 

Leave you yelping at the words cascading from his pretty coral pink lips- 

“S’what sh-she’s sayin–” His ragged grip tightens as does his claim on your spongy cunt, “-n-not me– m’kay- she wants me to fuuuck- fill her up. To breed her- wants me to put a baby in her so that everyone-” Those final words had you being lunged up onto your unsteady knees, leveraging the stranglehold around your neck to stick your arched back against his hardened front upright. You gasp- “-so that ngh- everyone knows what I did- all of ‘em. Gonna know what m’doin’ to ya- how I fucked a ngh- s-successor into you like this.”

“Suguru—” Comes that favorite syrupy-sweet song of his - and you don’t even have to voice your words to him. Because he can already  feel the squelching hug of your jostling walls, the way you give his thickened base a cute squeeze “M’gonna c-cu-”

Ah.

And he doesn’t give you the privilege of finishing your sentence before a sudden smack! right onto the hood of your beady clit makes you crash headfirst into your orgasm- and Geto into his. Multiple of them. 

His overworked cock torrenting the most saturated wads of ropy cum. They’re avalanching into your greedy hole, spilling down the side of his shaft into a creamy ring. Again. And again. And again and again and-

“O-oh–” Geto lets out a raw, guttural moan with your name tacked on like it was his favorite few syllables. The high so strong that he can’t even hold himself up. “Shit- s-swear s’your cunt– so heavenly for fucking what.”

Hypnotized. Collapsing onto a heap of long limbs on top of you, you’re squirming against the tatami floor. The knotted plug of Geto’s swollen base helping his copiously buttery amounts of cum stay safe and sound inside. 

Murmurs envelope you two- they’re still there. 

You’re jumping at the sticky schwf! of a few goopy traces of seed that slip down your puffy slit, being scooped up easily by a hawk-eyed Geto. Raising his hand up, up, up to bully between your pouted lips and oh…oh it really was babyfever.

He needed to see you with another two little girls that looked like you and had his status of leader. He needed to see you round and glowing. He still needed to see you full. 

“Gorgeous…you’ll never hah- believe what she’s tellin’ me now.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “I-inside…?”

Choso didn’t know whether this was supposed to happen. 

He didn’t know whether this was even possible. Was…was this some kind of strange new cursed technique? 

Because why did it only take one glimpse of you ruffling Yuji’s hair - just one motherly smile his way - for your beloved boyfriend to all but drag you back home the very first second he could. 

Shoving you against the cool platform of the front fucking threshold, melty brain churning with nothing but the strange image of you ruffling the hair of another little boy that looked strangely like a mixture of the two of you. 

But that was hours ago.

And Choso was still rabid. Still permeating open your bulging folds to watch the slow trickle of cum that you’re wetting down his wrist. “C-can you ngh- take more, baby?”

You’re clawing your trembly fingers down the wooden surface just past the entryway. Wetly condensed gasps escaping from your sloshed parted lips when he treks up one trembly, muscular foot on top of your body to pin you down. “Ch-Cho— how are you s-still going-”

Chosos’s racking out a low keen - the very sound of your voice making his furiously overworked tip swash a fresh wad of precum into your bruised cervix. Twitching with overstimulation when his wispy alabaster ropes lull into nothingness-

“I-I don’t know, baby–” he’s letting his dark head of hair curtain that utterly fucked expression on his face. Eyes sliding ravenously to the back of his head when his fatigued hips plant another yearning grind into your cunt. Dribbling maw slacking open, “I just- I just want…”

You already knew what he wanted - and the evidence was right there drizzling from your drowning slit, making itself at home in a creamy ring of cum down his gyrating hilt. But you’re whining out anyway, “W-want ngh- what, baby–?”

Fuck.

Fuck- he was being ridiculous. Being Choso Kamo knows that you’re simply using your sweet little nickname for him, he knows that. But he still finds his head lolling backwards with a groan. How pretty that sounds falling from your lips. 

SLAM!

“I- that-” He gasps. He heaves. Hunched over so you’re gifted with such a delicious eyeful of his sweat-slicked arms caging you from abovehead. Flexing and rippling as Choso’s sloppy cadence grows faster. Filthier. Pound after pound that frosts your tenderized g-spot in thick upheavals of creamy pre. “I want a baby– I don’t- ngh- I don’t know what this feeling is, baby…”

Whirling your sappy eyes over your shoulder to take a long look at him and- 

Oh.

Fuck, was that a mistake. Because your dear boyfriend was so irresistible - with his big, dark eyes dewey with pearly tears, rosy lips jutted out in a way that makes him look so kissable. So tired. Every twitch and bead of sweat trickling down his muscles made Choso look like he was on the very verge of falling apart. 

But he won’t stop - doesn’t think he even can anymore. 

“D-don’t look at me ngh- like- that-” So lovingly. Choso pecks a few pretty kisses down your arched spine, “S’gonna make me cum.”

You’re carding your fingers through thick, dampened locks of his hair to tug. “So do it, Cho–” And fuck, you’re scrambling your jittery hips in the most sinful of movements to meet his jackhammering pace - he thinks he just might pass out. Gulping at the smacking sting! that jiggles the mound of your ass against his toned abs, so hard that he sees his skin rub rawly red. “C-cum inside- again.”

Oh, he wants to. How badly he wants to. 

A few of his soft, rounded fingerpads smear along the treacle of excess cum from before that laminate your pretty skin. Swirling and swirling and he’s drawing gooey patterns right where you were bulging with every inch of him, puffed-up pussy lips engorged wide open when he’s nosediving with his thickened cockhead.

“But it’s s-so filthy, baby…” he trails off, lower lips all wobbly and whining. And Choso’s dark brows pucker into the cutest frown when he dances those very same sopping wet digits up to his pert mouth and sucks. Moaning. “Can I really- c-can I really cum inside? Again?”

“Mhm– trust me, Cho-”

And how could he ever not?

Before you know it, you’re feeling the spongy probe of Choso’s fat head kiss up against your womb. Thwack! Thwack! Thwacking a smooth staccato of wet swipes that your gummy depths are branded to remember, syncing up to that thunderous pulse of yours. 

“M’g-gonna cum- fuuuck- s’unfair-” he gasps against your ear, burning up. “-this pretty pussy of yours is s-sucking me up so ngh- well that-” Face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, you jolt when you feel a hot pitter-patter of tears- “-I-I’ve just gotta get you pregnant, baby–”

Flooding out thick, saturated spurts of his cum that glue to your mushy walls like a second coating of slick. He feels so hot inside swabbing around every nook and cranny, and you’re hit with the sleazy smell of sex and him. 

Shit. He was cumming nothing now.

“W-wait-” Choso’s voice grows ragged, his eyes snap open as if in a daze. And you catch the way one set of his slender fingers envelope the creamy base of his cock to squeeze. Pumping ever-so-slightly up and down up and- “M’cumming- dry- fuck! Can’t- I can’t cum dry–”

You’re sure that stupidly drunken reassurances are falling from your lips, but Choso doesn’t hear any of them. Can’t register them. Can’t recognize anything but the way he pulls out for just a split-second. Flipping you over onto your back, you take in the soft crackle of jujutsu when his hazied mind pumps every ounce of blood in his body back to his blanking cock.

“O-oh my god–” You’re sobbing out at the suddenly staggering stretch, the way your elastic walls were forced to accommodate that thickly expanding girth of his. “D-did you just use ngh- your cursed technique to-”

“Yes.” Choso’s wheezing out, chest storming back and forth while the overstimulation hits him mercilessly. He bores into your pretty face, “Yes yes yes yes- I…I want a baby– ngh- c-can’t fuck this pretty pussy pregnant if I cum dry.”

Over and over. He’s whispering out an almost-painfully rasping, “This time- this time this time-” when his achy cock splurges out a few more dry orgasms. Fuck-

He knew he was going to have you all round and glowing - he already knew. Knew he’d make Yuji an uncle and you a gorgeous momma - such a gorgeous momma, with a gorgeous son in tow.

Babbling out these very same words without even realizing into the crook of your tender neck, you huff out a cockdrunken bout of laughter. “S-seems you’ve been hit with ngh- babyfever, Cho–”

“Babyfever, huh?” he whimpers, startling tears trekking down the regal apples of his cheek when his poor cock cums dry again. You jolt at the electric buzz of jujutsu that zaps through your body when he’s hardening himself again. Again. “I like the sound of that…”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Too big? Funny.

“I just put one tip in n’ you’re already cockdrunk?” Sukuna’s rumbling, reverberating snicker echoes throughout the royal court room. He’s leaning back on his throne, basking you in the most sleazy grin, “Heh- anythin’ to say for yerself, brat?”

It’s honestly through sheer stubbornness that you’re finding it in your sugar-coated mind to huff. “N-no.”

The only one he’d let speak to him that way, he’s puckering up your pretty pussy lips around one of his fat thumbs. Swirling dousingly wet circular patterns around and around while another hand smacks his second cock down your sobbing slit once. Twice. “Then what, silly girl? Too big?”

He doesn’t realize if you know you’re nodding - nodding and nodding while mewling out the tiniest, “But m’not leaving until you c-cum inside, Kuna–”

Oh.

Oh.

Overgrown black nails digging neat crescents into the plush of your hips, he’s baring you with a snarling show of ivory canines. Voice shot - rasping. Weaved with something dangerous. “Oi oi- don’t talk outta ya ngh- damn pussy, woman. Use that pretty lil’ head of yours.”

“But it’s true–” Your arms find their way around his ridiculously broad shoulders, cushioned against his plush muscles. Batting your lashes, it makes Sukuna gulp when you slip and slide your grinding way along his extra length. And oh, you already know you won. “-I wan’ a baby.”

And no one has ever seen the infamous king of curses rendered speechless, no one has ever seen his devilishly red eyes bulge out almost comically, mean mouth - both of them - drop in slack-jawed awe. Except you, that is - right now.

Sukuna’s smug mouth gapes open and closes a few too many times that he will deny later on. “A-a baby? My baby?”

Nodding, “Mhm– a-” 

But, shit, you can’t finish your sentence - no matter how badly you wanted to. Because that very instant of confirmation makes Sukuna’s fat cocks perk up against your bulging g-spot, magical bolts of bliss sparking behind your eyes and making you dizzy

“A baby- an heir, is it?” He breathes - he gasps. And you’ve never seen Sukuna like this, never seen that special glint of something feral in his eyes as he spits out, “Don’t fuckin’ look at me like ngh- that.”

Curled digits planting just a few sodden slaps! of his staggering second length along your weepy folds before sinking in.

Shovelling all throbbing girths of his dual shafts into your snug orifice, it’s like both of Sukuna’s swollen cocks are fighting for dominance. Jostling against every single tenderized sweet spot embedded into your walls, spearing you open so wide that you can’t help but keen. Stupidly open mouth sinking into the flesh of his tattooed shoulder-

Smack!

“Tch, easy on the merchandise if you wan’ me ta ngh- fuck a baby into you-” he’s rolling his eyes, soothing over the sting on your ass. Bouncing his thick, muscular thighs up and down up and down to jitter your unsteady hips viciously along his lengths. “-how many?”

“Wh-what?” you’re blinking.

And of course Sukuna’s only growling something dark and heady at the back of his throat. Handsomely sharp jaw clenched when with one singular push of two beefy arms, you’re being stuffed splittingly full with his rock-hard cocks to the brim. His wet divots drizzling a painting of pre across your doughy cervix, splurging and rubbing up together. Till you felt like you were going to burst with every kiss of those pink, cushiony tufts of hair at his fat base. 

“Thereee we go—” he’s chuckling. Fucking up into you like he was angry. Like he hated you - even though it was the furthest fucking thing. “Look at you all ngh- t-taking the cocks you were saying’ was too fuckin’ big.” 

You’re pouting when he lilts his tone a few octaves higher to match your own - dramatically so. 

“But for bein’ my hahhh- good fuckin’ girl…” And that gravelling implication makes your glissading pussy greedily slick a fresh coating down Sukuna’s already-drenched shafts. “-how many heirs do ya wan’ me ta breed into this cute cunt?”

You’re not sure what you’re babbling out nonsensically - you’re not sure what you even think, but the monstrous curse in front of you arches a sharp, pink brow. Humming, “I’m thinking- hah- three. At fuckin’ least.”

And oh, the moment that promise leaves his mouth, it’s like a dam is being shattered open. 

Because it’s all that he can think about - all that he wants. He yearns. 

Manspreading until you’re teetering precariously on his staggering size, two of his beefy arms wrap around your middle to haul your pliant body cushioned against his sculpted pecs. One more veering to pinch your clit and the other- damn, that fourth one. 

Acting as if with a mind of its own when he splayed out a hand down your tummy, feeling for the cylindrical bulge of his dual cock spearheading you impossibly open. Caressing. Soft. 

“G-gonna have my power heh-” he’s babbling, biting his lower lip to hide a few weakened whimpers. “N’ your pretty features, ngh- and your dumb goo-goo heart and- and-”

And what was this?

Sukuna couldn’t stop thinking about that dangerous little vision you’d planted in his sugary mind. Couldn’t stop thinking about how gorgeous you’d look all round because of him - a pretty queen, with his pretty heirs. How much he’d love-

“S’all your f-fuckin’ fault, brat-” Sukuna snaps his teeth, words coming out hot. Feverish. As frenzied as his hips were when they’re crashing into your own so hard that it hurts. Bruising the planes of his sharp hip bones, buttering up your goopy insides until they felt viscous around him. “Fuck- a thousand fuckin’ years n’ this is what makes me ngh- lose- it-”

Fuming - seething.

Because every collision into your elastic cervix has him recoiling back just a haf-bounce. A gluey smear of precum tainted behind, but parting with your pretty pussy for just that was too much. 

He needed more. More, more, more-

“Kuna- Kuna m’gonna cum-” Your babbles cut through his shimmering visions of you with three kids dangling off your shoulders, fighting him for your attention. Heh. Hips jittering pathetically up and down to meet his sloppy cadence, your teeth sink into his tender earlobe. “M’gonna- hah- m’so close-”

Thwack!

His fingers smear along the mounded flesh on your ass, squeezing. “S’fucking cum, dammit.”

What Sukuna didn’t expect was for himself to cum, too - sharpened carnivorous teeth digging deep into your throat - for all to see. Curdling low grunts at the back of his throat and fuck-

Fuck, he sees white. 

Now, Sukuna always came so much. The double divots at the very ends of his two cocks splurging out candy-like seed that waters your melty cunt until you were overspilling. Every peak of your high being wrung out of you. Sukuna’s pulling out just one of his cocks to make an even bigger mess-

“Oh- ohhh-” Sukuna seeps with the puddle of opaquely milky cum waterfalling from the minute openings of your sloppy hole. Something about it makes him gulp. Parched. Second mouth manifesting on a free hand and slurping a few candied dredges, “I think…I think th-three isn’t enough.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - Wifey, wifey

“K-kiss me-” Ino gasps - he begs. And your breath just hitches at the way his pretty brown eyes flood with a glaze of tears. Rosy lips raw and puckered, “Please- please, I j-jus’ need you to kiss me, pretty–”

And how could you refuse?

With your splayed-out palms mountaineering over his heaving pecs, you’re craning your glissading body down, down, down to kiss him senseless.

And shit, he can feel the way your clingy walls hug his pulsing shaft even tighter. Careening his mushroom head to bump up against your bruised g-spot, he leaves a few gluey pecks exactly on the bullseye of your tender orifices. Just in time for Ino’s lips to wrap around your tongue and suck-

“M-mmpf- woah.” Ino’s weepy eyes scrunch wildly together, maw spilling slack to groan out. Like he’d just realized something - just had the world’s greatest epiphany. “S-sweetness, I…” Struggling - heaving to scramble up all the correct words, but it was so hard when your squelching pussy was talking to him like this. Only - only - continuing at your reassuring nods, “I wanna fuck a baby into you- two, actually.”

Fuck- fuck. That’s not how it was supposed to come out. It felt so…dirty speaking to his beloved girl this way. 

But Ino can’t help the way that his overstimulated mind was so heated it felt like he was burning from the inside out. Leanly strong arms manhandling you to scurry his ruddied face into your sweat-sheened neck, “I-I mean-”

“I want that too, T-Taku–” you’re moaning. “N-need you to fill me up so badly. Ngh- been wantin’ it for a while now…” Oh, it sounds like music in Ino’s ears and a mantra in his mind.

Over and over and-

“No-” Ino’s rutting his colliding cockhead against your pulpy cervix, teeth gritting furiously with such pathetic embarrassment. “No no no- fuck! M’gonna–”

And that’s just about the warning you’re being showered with, before something hot and thick dumps inside your cunt. Viscous spatterings of velvety ropes smear themselves on your slobbering walls, gummy insides so wet and sweltering hot. Just from those words you’d uttered - Ino thinks that he’d be happy even if they were the last fucking ones he’d ever head. 

That shrill gasp escaping from your lips is enough to make Ino groan. 

“Baby, did you just-”

“Yes.” He’ll berate himself later for cutting off your pretty voice, head now too busy reeling with trying to scoop up the gelatinous dredges of cum your gaping hole was slurring out. Deft fingers pushing each creamy ring back inside- “Move your fingers, pretty. Can’t let it go to ngh- waste. I-I’m sorry s’jus’ ah- this pussy is just…”

Truly, there was no word to describe the utter heaven that Ino was floating in right now. 

And the only thing justifying his words are the way his hips drill into yours. Not stopping. Not even slowing down. His thrusts were so filthy now - absolutely nothing like the measly languid slides you were gyrating down his fat cock. Flexing abs massaging your core, rounded cum-filled balls once more so heavy and stinging against your ass. 

No, it’s like something had snapped - something had…changed. 

Two rough hands clap around your vigorously gyrating hips, so pressurized that it was almost as if Ino was dying to bruise his patterned fingerprints right into your tender skin. And his delicate voice cracks with a ruined little whine of your name. Eyes sliding to the shadowy back of his lids-

“Th-this is alright- right?” His lower lip trembles, asking. Pleading. Slender hips curving up again and again in a way that had your sugary sweet pussy flaps creaming out drizzly sheen after sheen of fresh slick. “Can I really…”

Huffing out a teasing little puff of laughter, it makes Ino’s pretty cheeks flush even deeper. “Mhm— nothing to hah- be shy about, baby.”

God- he couldn’t even bear to say those sultry words out loud. Instead, reverently gliding one of his palms along your tummy, Ino’s breath hitches at the nudge and pull of his bawling tip. 

Pressing down. Hard. 

“M-m’gonna make you s-so ngh- full here– spilling.” he’s drawling out, words stumbling along into one another. And you can’t help but have your hips fucking even faster into his pirouetting grinds at the utterly husky tone of his voice. The way he sounds ruined already. “Use me until ya give me t-two sons–”

Shit- when did he even learn to talk like this? It’s like his mouth was declaring those deepest, darkest secrets of his. Oh…yeah he knew it - it was babyfever. And Ino was a hopeless, happy patient.  

Sappy pecks being lined up along your kiss-bitten lips, one of his thumbs expertly rummages for the bulging caress of where his smooth, curvaceous head was spattering thick wads of pre. “Think they’ll h-have my ngh- looks?” Head lolling all the way back at the sliding pressure. “Hope they have your haaah- smile, pretty–”

“Shit- shit shit shit-” you’re gasping, wet breaths being drunken in by a parched Ino. He’s greedy - ravenous. Such an uncharacteristically sleazy smile being smeared all over his lips when your cushiony g-spot gets bruised by his rotund tip. “I-it feels so good, Taku- Ngh-”

“Only the b-best for the mother of my kids, duh-” he rolls his eyes. 

Oh, his words were so sweet - pert lips grazing your own in a messy excuse of a kiss was so sweet. But what wasn’t was the way that one set of his long fingers spiral around your wrists and pin them behind your back. 

And it gives him the absolute perfectly heavenly angle to latch those gentle lips around your hardened nipples. “Gonna be s-so pretty- the ngh- prettiest momma-” Nuzzling his head into the valley of your heaving breasts, his teeth sink into one sensitive nub and tugs. “Have you all round n’ swollen and m-mine. Mine mine mine-”

All that resonates in your mind when he’s finally tipping you over to cum. Your eyes daze with a bleary tinge, tired thighs aching when your hips thwack! wetly into his.

His tired cock drooping out a few more pearly beads of seed that refreshes your gripping walls - before Ino sees sparks and cums dry. Eyes practically smothered white with how far they’re rolling back, sweat breaking out over his forehead all over again, mouth falling slack.

And out of it comes only two words-

“Marry me.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - HEAVEN N’ BACK

“D-don’t run away–” And to anyone else, it would sound like the strongest is begging on his knees. Words crumbling with hollow rasps, cracking into pathetic little whines. “Come baaaack- where’d you think you’re hah- goin’?”

But you knew better.

You knew that Gojo Satoru was just a single more saturated squeeze of your clingy walls from fucking snapping. And times like this, you wondered just how high the kill count would be - whether you would be number one on that list. 

As if reading your mind, his staggeringly long fingers grasp around your wrangling legs and drag you about halfway through those navy sheets like some ragdoll. 

With an innocently rosy pout, Gojo’s planting a pretty peck against your ankle, whispering out an utterly strained. “Just hngh- look at her-” And you’re realizing with a shockwave that he isn’t talking to you. Not even close. Cerulean eyes so hazy and glowing - smoldering into where your cunt was being speared right through by his solid inches. “-I c-come back from the fuckin’ ah- death n’ my girl’s zonin’ out.”

“I-I’m not–” you’re whining, being pressed with all his weighty muscles into the meanest mating press. 

“I-I-I-” Gojo’s mocking with such a sleazy grin - and for a split-second you’re wondering if he’s even realizing what he’s babbling. Eyes half-lidded, barely focused. Sweat-glistened forehead connecting with yours, the humorless grin that Gojo’s plastered on is so ruined. “-heheh, m’not gonna die w-without breedin’ ngh- this cute cunt ever again.” Boring down at your greedy hole, “Riiight~?”

It’s as if he expects your sweet, sugar-coated pussy to answer. Huffing with a dramatic pout once the only thing he’s gifted in return are the most lecherous squelches he’s ever heard in his life. Mumbling, “Got her mouth full– gonna be even f-fuller soon, y’know?”

“Y-you said that already, Toru–” you’re sobbing out, thighs drooping wider and wider open with every withering ram being punished upon your puffy pussy. 

He’s drilling into you so deeply that you swear there’s a permanently red imprint of your thighs on his washboard abs. Rummaging open your gluey walls that it was like they were permanently molded around his fattening girth. Thick, viscous sloshes of pre coating your poor, bulging folds. 

The sight is so pretty that shit- Gojo can’t help but have a little fun with it. 

Plunging out this entirety of his fat shaft to spy down at the way your poor unshut hole sloshes all over herself with a milky torrent of his cum. Gojo’s curling a few fingers over his hefty hilt and thwack! thwack! thwacking! your tearful lips even soppier. 

“Look at how much you’re ngh- wastin’-” And Gojo sounds genuinely upset, rosy lower lip wobbling at the frosty ounces of his voluminous seed. “Guess I jus’ hafta breed ya alllll over again…”

Ah, the things he does - the stamina he has. 

Well, stamina if it counts just a little cheating. Reversed curse technique currently working overtime to make sure that neither of you are breaking bones right now - though, that’s too late to say for the bed. You’re gliding a hand down the shattered headboards, avoiding those broken springs-

“B-being so greedy right now, Toru–” Yet, every scolding word of yours sounds like a whine as your slobbering flaps swallow up every inch he’d give. “What has hah- gotten into you.”

You knew. 

Oh, you knew.

Because Gojo really did think for a few seconds that it would be the end of it all right there on Shinjuku grounds…as if. 

Gojo Satoru had clawed his way over to you and he would always - from hell and back. And the one thing on his mind was-

“A baby–” He’s spitting out a lecherous mantra - the same one he’s been husking over and over for hours now. The thought enough to have his sculpted back hunching, his jaw slacking open, a sly drizzle of drool beading down the corners. He didn’t know why - he didn’t know how, couldn’t get it out of his mind. “A baby a baby oh- y-you’re gonna give me a baby, right?”

As if you could say no to that. 

Because even after so long - Gojo was willing himself to paint your cute cunt white all over again. He doesn’t know if he can, doesn’t know whether it’s fucking possible but fuck- if he wasn’t going to try. 

Shit- he felt so feverish with want and he didn’t even know why.

Gojo smears his lips down yours in a kiss, buzzing fingertips giving your pert clit a ready slap! It’s harsh. Right in time with the ruthless cadence of his fat, mushroom tip marching into your g-spot. “Now fuck yerself ngh- back onto this fuckin’ cock- milk a baby outta me. Take it all.”

Something about his words were so mean - desperate. And as soon as your mindlessly fucked self was writhing a few fingers down to your neglected clit, they’re getting rudely swatted away by Gojo. 

Eyes wild, teeth bared in such a base animal instinct. “Move that damn hand.” Rolling one fat thumb over the plump, tenderized hood. “I said fuck yourself not- hmpf- Can’t breed her hah- properly otherwise.”

You’ve never seen your lovely boyfriend ever act like this before. He’s sparking the ends of his eyes with blue lightning bolts of cursed energy. Free hand siding a few fingers right down the cylindrically carved pathway of his rummaging cock. 

Gasping, “T-Toru what are you-”

But he only smiles mysteriously, and you don’t know if you’re even capable of handling what he’d just examined at your gooey depths. Rendering you dizzy already.

But Gojo, it turns out, was doing far, far worse. 

It’s like his body is overtaken by some sort of fever, a giddy little giggle bursting from his lips. You’re being fucked so hard into the mattress that you’re sure you’ll be able to count the little outlines of the sheets on your skin even tomorrow. 

Neat, pearly rows of teeth smirking, “Our first is gonna be a g-girl.”

And maybe you’re cumming - maybe you’re not. By now the nth orgasms on top of orgasms simply leave you gasping at the crescendo of euphoria, your vision halfway blacking out. Gojo Satoru really was the greatest at everything and that included making you lose your mind.

Just about the only thing you’re registering is his fatigued cock spasming deep into the honeyed depths of your cunt. Coating your womb in a sugar sweet lather of cum - once. Twice. Sloshing with every rugged swivel and drip! between your pursed lips.

Gojo hisses when his achy cock starts cumming dry halfway through. And he doesn’t know whether he simply flipped the two of you over or fucking teleported; because when you’re blinking your vision back, you’re finding your unsteady legs straddling his slender hips.

Gojo’s head lounges hungrily behind on the pillows, face tilted cockily up at you. And his massive palms don’t know where to touch - anywhere and everywhere down your simmering body. 

“C-c’mon now- don’t think we’re done just yet.” Before finally resting on your slightly inflated womb, still convulsing with tingles of your high and the steaming hot weight of his cum. His hips rut- ah right…babyfever - that’s what it is. “F-fuck a few babies outta me, wontcha?”

“B-babies?” Plural. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Because of course, it’s plural. “I want six.” 

A/N. Ahhh honestly I don’t even know if I want kids but…anyways, hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[honeyciders]

sin bin sweetheart.

summary: when your housing falls through, the last person you want to end up living with is your best friend’s arrogant, hockey-playing brother, satoru gojo. sharing a space with him feels like being trapped in the sin bin, but the longer you live together, the harder it is to ignore the fact that breaking the rules might be worth the penalty.

pairing: ice hockey player!gojo satoru x fem!reader details: fluff, angst, smut (fingering, nipple play, riding, couch sex, shower sex), enemies to lovers au, roommates au, best friend’s brother au, college au. contains: profanity, alcohol consumption, mentions of death. art by kynlv1. 16.2k words.

sin bin (n.) – (in sport) a box or bench to which offending players can be sent for a period as a penalty during a game, especially in ice hockey.

01. how to piss off your new roommate 101 (an introductory course).

There are only three rules you asked Satoru Gojo to follow:

No bringing random girls home.

No hockey gear all over the living room.

Do your own laundry.

Sure, it might not be your house, because, technically, you’re the one moving in, but you think you’re being pretty reasonable. It’s just your bad luck that your new roommate happens to be the worst at following rules, because right now, at one o’clock in the morning, you are subject to him breaking rule number one already—and very loudly, at that.

There’s a thud against the wall, and a muffled laugh, followed by a low, drawn-out groan that sends every nerve in your body firing at once—though not in the way Gojo’s current “guest” might be feeling. You clutch the pillow over your head, suffocating yourself with cotton in a desperate attempt to block out the obscene noises. It doesn’t work. Nothing does. Not your loud sighs, not the rustle of your own blanket, not even the way you jam your phone’s speaker against your ear and crank your playlist until the bass rattles.

Your playlist doesn’t stand a chance against Gojo’s bedroom door and his absolute disregard for your sanity. 

Rule number one, you think bitterly, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was the bare minimum. You had been so clear when you’d moved in three days ago. No random girls; no trail of hockey gear sprawling through the apartment; no mountains of dirty laundry festering in the communal space. Simple, enforceable rules—or so you thought. Apparently, Satoru Gojo is not the kind of man who respects laws, rules, or any other socially acceptable guidelines for how to coexist with another human being. Especially not when he’s this loud.

A particularly obnoxious moan makes you snap. You swing out of bed, feet hitting the cold wooden floor, and stomp into the hallway. You pause in front of his bedroom door, hand hovering in the air, knuckles inches away from knocking. Maybe you should just let it go. It’s not worth the fight. Not worth seeing that infuriating grin of his, the one that makes you want to throw a shoe at his face.

You hear another giggle from inside.

Nevermind. Definitely worth it.

You pound on the door. “Gojo!”

The noises cut off instantly. For a blissful moment, there’s silence—no laughter, no groans, just the sound of your own shallow breathing and the pounding of your fist against the door. Then comes the telltale rustle of sheets, followed by footsteps, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking his sweet time just to make you more irritated.

“Roomie?” His voice drips with amusement, low and lazy, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Can’t sleep? You could’ve just asked nicely if you wanted me to tuck you in.”

Your jaw drops, heat rushing to your cheeks—not from embarrassment but from pure, undiluted fury. “Rule. Number. One,” you bite out, enunciating every word. “Do you even remember what rule number one is?”

There’s a soft laugh on the other side of the door, and you can hear his guest giggling faintly too, like this is all some joke to them.

“You’re no fun,” he says. The doorknob clicks, turning slowly.

The door swings open to reveal Satoru Gojo, all six-foot-something of hockey-playing, rule-breaking glory, leaning against the frame. He’s shirtless—of course he’s shirtless—skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that makes you roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your brain. His white hair is mussed and sticking out at odd angles, like he’s just come off the ice—or, well, not the ice, but something just as irritatingly active.

He smirks down at you. “Didn’t know you were such a light sleeper. Or… Are you jealous?”

“Jealous?” Your voice cracks an octave higher. “Of what, exactly? The fact that you sound like you’re starring in a bad porno?”

His laugh is immediate, loud, and unrestrained. He leans closer, bracing one arm against the frame just above your head, his bare chest far too close for comfort. “If you were watching, it’d be a good one.”

Your face burns hotter. “You’re disgusting.”

He laughs again, and the girl—this poor, probably very lovely girl—steps into the hallway behind him, wearing one of his oversized jerseys and looking anywhere but at you.

“I should… probably go,” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” you mutter before he can say anything. “You probably should.”

She scurries past you without a second glance, and you suddenly feel a little bad for her. Not because of Gojo—though he is the worst—but because she has no idea what she’s walked into. She’s just another girl in a long line of them, another notch on his stick, and probably clueless to the fact that he thrives on the attention, not the intimacy.

Gojo watches her disappear around the corner, then turns back to you, his smile gone slack. “You didn’t have to be mean.”

“I wasn’t,” you snap. “I was trying to sleep. Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you and your—whatever.”

Gojo studies you for a moment, his head tilting just slightly as if he’s trying to decipher something written on your face. It’s unnerving, the way his eyes—bright and unnaturally sharp even in the dim hallway—linger on you, taking their time. For the first time tonight, he’s quiet, though not in a way that feels like victory. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you more aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the glimmer of sweat on his skin, his overbearing presence in the narrow hallway.

“Whatever?” he repeats. “That’s harsh, even for you.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?”

“Not really,” he says. “Keeps me young and pretty, don’t you think?”

The audacity of this man. Pretty. He says it like it’s a fact, like he’s fully aware that half the campus would line up just to run their fingers through that ridiculous white hair. You hate that it is a fact, that his lean, cut frame and infuriating confidence somehow make him stupidly, obnoxiously attractive.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “Do you even remember the rules we agreed on when I moved in? Or was I talking to one of your empty hockey helmets?”

“You wound me. I’m a great listener. I heard every word you said that day. I just don’t… care.”

Your hands ball into fists. “You don’t care.”

“Not about rules,” Satoru teases. “You, though? I care about keeping you entertained.”

“Entertained?” you echo, incredulous. “By waking me up at one in the morning with—” You cut yourself off, scowling as the words die on your tongue.

He grins and steps forward. “With what, sweetheart?” he asks, voice dipping into that husky, too-casual tone that makes your stomach do stupid things.

You take a step back; then another, until your back almost hits the opposite wall. “You’re impossible,” you spit out, but your voice is thinner than you’d like.

“You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Stop saying that!”

“What?” His grin widens. “It’s true. You get all flustered. Bet you don’t even know you’re pouting right now.”

“I’m not—”  You snap your mouth shut, realising that you are, in fact, pouting, and that only makes his grin that much more smug.

“Adorable,” he says simply, leaning back.

“You’re annoying as fuck.”

“And yet, you moved in here.”

You inhale sharply, the reminder stinging more than you’d like to admit. He’s right—you did agree to this arrangement. You had convinced yourself it was temporary, a few weeks max while you figured out your own place. Riko’s brother had been the last resort. You never expected it to feel like… like this. The hallway feels too small. He’s too close, too much. You can smell his cologne—clean, a little sharp, something that clings to him even after a game or whatever this was. You hate that your brain even registers the detail.

“Go to bed,” you manage to grit out.

“Careful,” Gojo drawls, stepping back. “Sounds like you’re starting to like telling me what to do.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You spin on your heel, storming back to your room, and slam the door behind you.

You don’t see him again until morning, which, unfortunately, is only a few hours later.

The scent of coffee drags you from your room, bleary-eyed and determined to avoid any and all conversation. But the moment you step into the kitchen, there Satoru is—shirtless again, because apparently he doesn’t own clothes—leaning against the counter. His white hair is damp, still dripping from a shower, and his sweatpants hang low on his hips as he scrolls lazily on his phone.

“Morning, roomie,” he drawls, not looking up. “Sleep well?”

You grab a mug and pour yourself coffee. “You’re lucky I don’t own a bat.”

“Ah, threats of violence. My favourite way to start the day.”

You don’t answer. You can’t, not when he’s standing there like that: hair damp and curling at the ends, little droplets of water slipping down the curve of his neck, trailing over his collarbone. It should be illegal to look that good at 7:42 in the morning, and in sweatpants, no less.

Instead, you wrap both hands around your mug and focus on not throwing it at his stupid, smirking face.

“Awfully quiet this morning,” Gojo muses, locking his phone and tossing it onto the counter. “What happened to the yelling? The righteous fury? The deeply unsexy threats about noise ordinances?”

You take a long, scalding sip of your coffee. “I’m choosing peace today.”

“That so?”

“Yup. Thought I’d try being the bigger person and see how it feels.”

“You sure it’s peace you’re feeling? ‘Cause it kind of looks like repressed rage. Or maybe,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter, “you’re just still flustered from last night.”

You nearly choke. “Flustered?”

“Uh-huh. You did knock on my door in the middle of a good time.” He winks. “Can’t blame you for being curious.”

“You’re delusional,” you state.

“Maybe so,” he acquiesces. Gojo’s grin is lazy and crooked, shamelessly amused as he watches you struggle to maintain even a scrap of composure. You busy yourself with sipping coffee again, even though it’s too hot and definitely burning the tip of your tongue. Small price to pay for the distraction.

He shifts his weight and the movement draws your eyes before you can stop yourself—down to where his sweatpants slouch indecently low, the V of his hips on full display. Your eyes snap back to your mug so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. 

“I’m not flustered,” you mutter, mostly to your drink.

Satoru hums, unconvinced. “Of course not. You’re the picture of serenity.”

He reaches for the coffee pot and you realise, with a petty kind of satisfaction, that there’s not enough left for a full cup. You watch, vindicated, as he tips it all into his mug and frowns down at the half-full result.

“You’re the worst,” he says, utterly serious.

“I’m the one choosing peace, remember?”

“That was obviously a lie.”

You shrug and sip. “Maybe I’m just learning from the best.”

Gojo laughs, low and bright, and leans further over the counter, like he’s trying to invade your personal space just for the hell of it. “You’ve got a mouth on you, huh? I like that.”

“Bet you say that to all your roommates.”

“You’re my first,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Be gentle with me.”

You scoff, setting your mug down with more force than necessary. “I don’t even want to know how you ended up on the lease.”

“Simple,” he says, straightening and sauntering toward the fridge. “My old place burned down.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Well. Not all the way down. But it did get very, very singed.”

“And they let you sign another lease?”

He turns, carton of milk in one hand, and says, “Yup,” popping the ‘p’ at the end. You roll your eyes so hard you see stars, but there’s a weird warmth curling in your chest now, beneath the irritation and caffeine. Despite yourself, your gaze lingers on him a beat too long—on the line of his shoulders, the relaxed slope of his spine as he leans down to peer into the fridge.

“You gonna keep ogling me or…?” he says without turning.

You startle, cheeks warming. “I wasn’t ogling.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t!”

He straightens again, milk in hand, and gives you a look that says he knows he’s won. “You’re bad at lying. Your ears go all red.”

You clap your hands over them instinctively, which only serves to make him chortle. “I hate you,” you grumble, grabbing your mug and heading for the living room. 

“I love our morning chats,” he calls after you. “They really centre me for the day.”

You flip him off over your shoulder.

“You’ve got a great energy, roomie! Keep it up!”

It turns into a sort of game, after that: who can rile up their roommate the fastest. Satoru Gojo, of course, plays to win.

He starts small—mild provocations disguised as “accidents.” The shower mysteriously runs cold whenever you step in after him. Your favourite snacks vanish from the cupboard, only to be found later half-eated and crumpled under his bed. He starts setting his alarm ten minutes earlier than yours and singing obnoxiously loud in the mornings. It’s always the same song—something bubblegum pop and irritatingly catchy, like Twice or Britney Spears—and it sticks in your head all day, pulsing behind your eyes like a migraine.

You retaliate, of course. You start leaving passive-aggressive sticky notes around the apartment:

Replace the toilet paper next time, you sicko.

If you touch my almond milk again, I will cut off your balls in your sleep.

Why do you shed like a cat? Buy a lint roller. Freak.

You switch the labels on his shampoo and conditioner. You hide the remote. You change the password on the Wi-Fi.

It only fuels him. The worst part is, the bastard laughs. Every time you glare at him, every time you yell his name across the apartment, every time you swear you’re going to murder him in his sleep, he just grins like the cat that got the cream. Somehow, impossibly, he always wins.

Nanami is already at your usual table in the campus café when you arrive, tossing your bag into the seat opposite him with a force that rattles the salt shaker. He doesn’t look up from his coffee when he asks, “What did he do this time?”

“He unplugged the fridge, Kento,” you groan, slumping into your chair. “The fridge. All my groceries are ruined. My oat milk exploded.”

“Did you check the breaker?”

“Do I look like someone who knows what a breaker is?”

“Yes,” he says. “You are a functional adult. You are enrolled in a university. You should know how electricity works.”

“Okay, Mr. Engineer,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “I was too busy trying not to throw Gojo out the damn window.”

“I thought you lived on the first floor.”

“Exactly my point.”

You look down, picking at your cuticles. You wish Gojo, your best friend’s annoying brother, wasn’t your last resort. The student dorms were all occupied, and you had to find housing at the last minute. Gojo offered, because he’s known you since you were an acne-riddled teenager in middle school, and also, most likely, out of obligation for his little sister’s best friend. Why else would he put up with you and pay half the rent? You remind yourself that you’re in his house, and not the other way around, and try to stay grateful for that fact.

You also wish you could tell Riko about her older brother, but you can’t because Riko’s dead.

Nanami sets down his cup with a soft clink, eyes lifting at last to meet yours. There’s no pity in them—he’s not the type—but there’s understanding. With every ounce of his understanding nature, Nanami says, flatly, “You’re going to give yourself a stroke before midterms.”

You exhale through your nose, pressing your palms to your eyes. “It’s like he wants me to lose it. He keeps bringing random girls home, Kento. At 3 A.M. And they’re loud. One of them used my toothbrush.”

Nanami looks visibly disturbed. “Why do you know that?”

“Because it was wet.”

“You should throw that out.”

“I did throw it out. And then I wrote a note. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Oh, my bad, was that your toothbrush? I thought it was for guests.’ Guests, Kento. He has a guest toothbrush now, that he keeps in the same cup as mine. I’m being psychologically tortured.”

“He’s always been like this,” Nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s the one being victimised.

“You were on the same team as him for three years,” you say. “How did you not murder him in a locker room?”

“Because I’m not an idiot,” he replies. “I kept my earbuds in and my mouth shut. You, on the other hand, are picking a fight with a man who once got suspended for pelting a referee with jello shots.”

“That was him?” you gasp.

“Of course it was. Who else brings jello shots to a game?”

“I knew it wasn’t a food poisoning incident,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair. “They kept blaming the vendors, but one of those things hit Riko in the back of the head.”

Nanami’s expression softens for a second. He clears his throat, glancing out the window. You follow his gaze, the familiar ache blooming in your chest. It’s been two years since the accident, since the call you never thought you’d get. Since Satoru’s voice broke down over the phone, rasping your name, saying it over and over again like it would change something, like you could undo it just by being there.

Sometimes you forget she’s gone. You still scroll through your photos and stop at the ones of her, still think to text her dumb updates about your day. You still reach for your phone when Satoru does something particularly stupid, your thumb hovering over her name like muscle memory.

It’s worse around him. He reminds you of her—same nose, same stupid grin. Same laughter echoing off the apartment walls, loud and fearless and full of something that’s been missing since she died.

You scrub a hand over your face. “I don’t even know why he let me move in,” you say quietly.

Nanami, annoyingly perceptive as always, says, “Because you’re the only person left who reminds him of her.”

Your throat closes up. You glance away, blinking hard. It’s easier to talk like this with Nanami, with someone who knew her, who understands what’s been left behind in her absence. 

It’s just harder when you go home, when Gojo’s waiting in your kitchen, stealing all your forks, leaving crumbs everywhere, making a mess of your carefully managed grief. It’s harder when he smiles at you, wide and unbothered, like nothing in the world could touch him, like he isn’t hurting just as much. Maybe that’s why you haven’t packed up and left, or haven’t demanded he take you off the lease.

“Do you want to come watch us practice today?” your friend asks gently. “You could use the break.”

“Sure,” you agree, nodding.

The rink on campus is mercifully empty, barring the ice hockey players and their coach. You huddle deeper into your hoodie, tugging the sleeves over your palms as your breath fogs in the cold air. The bleachers are metal and unforgiving beneath you, but there’s something calming about the sharp scent of ice and the dull echo of skates carving into the rink. Nanami’s team is already mid-practice, moving like clockwork in their matching jerseys, passing the puck to each other. Nanami’s form is unmistakable—broad shoulders, crisp turns, no-nonsense efficiency. He’s the kind of player who never wastes energy, never showboats.

Which is probably why it takes you a second to notice the blur of white helmet skating circles around everyone else.

Even from here, you can tell it’s Gojo. Nobody else plays like that—reckless, fast, stupidly dramatic. He doesn’t pass so much as he dares his teammates to keep up with him. One second, he’s flicking the puck behind his back to someone mid-sprint; the next, he’s skating backwards while taunting the goalie, stick dragging lazy arcs on the ice. It should be annoying. It is annoying. But it’s also hypnotically, infuriatingly graceful.

You watch, arms tucked tight around your ribs, as Gojo ducks past a defender and pivots sharply on one skate. The move is flashy, unnecessary, but completely effective. He spins just out of reach, like he’s showing off for a crowd that isn’t even there. Then again, knowing him, maybe the absence of an audience is what makes it fun.

He catches the puck again mid-glide, lets it roll across his blade for the briefest second, and sends it arcing across the ice with a lazy flick of his wrist. It lands right where he wants it—at Nanami’s feet. Nanami redirects it into a clean slapshot that smacks against the boards with a heavy thunk. The coach blows his whistle and yells something you can’t quite make out, and the players all begin to split into drills.

Gojo circles back to the bench, tugging off his helmet. His hair is damp and flattened at odd angles, cheeks flushed red from exertion, but he’s smiling. He laughs at something one of the younger players says, throwing his head back like everything in the world exists solely for his amusement. His grin is sharp and his posture is loose with confidence, like he’s never known a moment of self-doubt in his entire life. He stretches his arms overhead, the hem of his jersey riding up just a little over his pads, and you force yourself to look away before your eyes linger too long.

It’s stupid. You’re here to support Nanami. You’re here because your friend thought you needed fresh air, something different, something other than the quiet churn of your own thoughts. You’re not here for him.

But when Gojo finally turns, like he’s felt your eyes on him all this time, and spots you across the rink, he smiles—wider this time. Brighter. You look away too fast to know if he waves.

The drills resume. They’re brutal, repetitive, the kind that test stamina more than strategy. Nanami is steady and solid, the way he always is, never showy but always in the right place at the right time. Gojo, by contrast, is everywhere. He darts around the rink, weaving in and out of formations, making near-impossible shots just to see if he can land them.

You settle into your seat, arms hugging your knees, and try not to think too hard. But it’s hard not to, especially when every stupid little memory rushes in like floodwater. The way Gojo always takes the last Pop-Tart in the box but leaves the wrapper on the counter; the way he sings obnoxiously loud in the shower and always, always manages to steal your charger right when you need it most; the way he tilts his head and looks at you, eyes too blue and too knowing, like he enjoys seeing how close he can get to pissing you off before you snap. Perhaps worst of all: the way he never apologises, just looks at you, smug and smugger, until you roll your eyes and pretend you weren’t mad in the first place.

Asshole.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring blankly, wrapped up in your own thoughts, until someone else joins the bleachers. The guy’s tall, wrapped in a wool coat and beanie, sipping a coffee that steams in the cold air. He glances at you briefly, offers a polite nod, and turns his attention back to the rink.

Gojo’s still showing off. The team’s moved to scrimmage now, red versus blue, and he’s the first one to score. He raises both arms in triumph, sticks his tongue out, and skates backward toward the bench, basking in invisible applause. 

You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands. “God, I hate him.”

The guy next to you chuckles. “You know him?”

“Yeah,” you say looking up.

“He’s not so bad. Bit of a drama queen, but he’s good. Probably the best player we’ve got.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t want to give Gojo the satisfaction, even by proxy. Instead, you wait for the moment he inevitably catches sight of you again—because of course he does, because nothing in his life is ever subtle. His head tilts. His grin turns sharklike. He lifts his stick and points it right at you, mouthing something across the rink. You groan again and pull your hood up.

Later, when you’re halfway back to your shared apartment, your fingers still freezing from the cold, your phone buzzes.

Gojo: you looked cute freezing your ass off up there Gojo: want me to warm you up? 😇

You: 🖕

02. the beginnings of affection (an existential crisis).

In high school, you made the grave mistake of telling Riko you thought her older brother was hot. It wasn’t a lie, because he was—tall, lean, unfairly pretty in that model-off-duty way, with a smile that had left many a classmate in a state of ruinous delusion. But back then, he was an idea, a rumour, a hallway myth in an expensive uniform and designer sneakers.

Now you live with him. Now you know better. Underneath his veneer of hotness lies a cold, twisted soul incapable of feeling remorse.

Yet. This morning, you catch yourself staring.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Roommate. His hair’s still damp from a shower, falling in soft curls over his forehead, and he’s wearing a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him. Yours, actually—the one you thought you lost three weeks ago. It fits him, though it’s oversized on you, the faded design on the front nearly unreadable. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and one of the pant legs is tucked into a sock for some godforsaken reason. There’s a smear of toothpaste on his cheek.

And yet you think: cute.

Which is concerning. 

You frown into your cereal, spoon halfway to your mouth, and try to rationalise it. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the new shampoo he’s using. Maybe you’ve finally been broken by the sheer absurdity of sharing space with him. That must be it. A slow descent into madness. Like Stockholm Syndrome, but for roommates.

He catches you looking and grins.

“What?” you snap.

“You were staring,” he says smugly, raising his mug to his lips.

“I was zoning out,” you lie. “You just happened to be in the way.”

“Mhm. Don’t worry,” he says, winking. “Happens all the time.”

“You’ve got toothpaste on your face, weirdo.”

He wipes it off with the sleeve of your hoodie. Not his hoodie. Yours. You make a mental note to burn it.

“I’m going to start charging you rent for borrowing my clothes,” you mutter, standing to rinse your bowl.

Gojo hums. “Then I’ll start charging you for moral support. You know, the way I bring light and laughter into this apartment.”

“You bring irritation and trauma.”

He laughs. You pause, hand on the faucet. You shouldn’t feel warm. You shouldn’t feel anything. But there it is again—that awful flutter in your chest; that twist in your stomach like you’ve just misread a question on an exam and realised too late. You stare down at the water running into the sink and think, no. No, no, no. Not this. Not him.

Your hand tightens on the faucet. You don’t look up. If you do, he’ll see it: the flicker of something not quite annoyance, the hiccup in your heartbeat. The very beginnings of affection—or, worse, the remnants of it you thought you’d long since buried.

“You’re being quiet,” your roommate observes, voice languid with interest.

“I’m thinking about how I’ll kill you,” you reply. “Maybe poison. Something slow. Arsenic in your overpriced protein shakes.”

“Ooh. That’s hot. Do I get a last meal?”

“You already ate the last of my oats yesterday.”

“Untrue,” he says cheerfully. “I gave it to my teammate—”

You finally turn to glare at him, but it’s a mistake. He’s still wearing your hoodie, still smiling with toothpaste in the corners of his mouth and hair curling at his temples. His mug is held loosely between his fingers and he taps it against his hip like he’s about to say something clever.

He doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you. You blink first.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something stupid and ruin my morning.”

Satoru grins. “I was gonna say you look nice. But I see now that would be stupid.”

Your cheeks burn. You hate that he still gets to you. Hate that, despite all the bickering and unsolicited borrowing of clothes, you still feel something twist inside when he looks at you like that. He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down. “I’m going to be late,” he announces, stretching until the hem of your hoodie rides up and reveals the slope of his back. You look away like you’ve been burned.

“Don’t forget your umbrella,” you say, because it’s drizzling outside.

He grabs the umbrella by the door. “I’ll be back around seven,” he calls, halfway out. “Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t.”

But the door shoots behind him before the lie is even fully out of your mouth. There’s no point denying it. The problem isn’t that he’s hot. It’s that he’s warm, sometimes; thoughtful in ways you don’t expect, and annoyingly perceptive. The problem is that, in the hazy moments between arguments and insults and irritation, you’ve let your guard slip.

God. You’re so screwed.

“Hey. Hey. I thought I told you not to wait up.”

“I didn’t wait up for you.”

He toes off his shoes with a grunt, dropping his keys into the dish by the door and pulling off his jacket in one fluid motion. The collar of his t-shirt is wrinkled, stretched a little too wide at the neck, like someone had tugged at it—maybe he had, or maybe it was already like that. His hair’s a windblown mess, strands sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are rimmed with red like he’s either been up too long or had one too many drinks. Or both.

But he’s still Satoru, still maddeningly good-looking in that careless way of his, still the same insufferable guy who leaves the toilet seat up and sings Twice songs in the shower.

You’re curled up into the far corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around you, half a bowl of popcorn abandoned on the coffee table. You weren’t waiting up—really, you weren’t—but the TV is playing some old sitcom on mute, the light from the screen flickering across your face in soft, silvery flashes. Your phone is dark in your lap. You’ve read the same sentence in your book five times. You glance up when he speaks, and he stops mid-step, tilting his head at you.

“I didn’t wait up for you,” you repeat, quieter this time, and go back to pretending to read.

He smiles faintly, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t push. “Right,” he says, voice low. “Of course not.”

He throws his  jacket over the back of a chair and pads into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You try not to follow him with your eyes. Try not to notice the way his shoulder blades shift beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way he hums softly under his breath as he opens the fridge and lets the light spill out across the tiles.

“You didn’t answer my text,” you say after a moment, tone sharper than you mean it to be.

“My phone died.”

You nod, once. Stupid. You don’t say anything else.

Satoru walks back into the living room, glass in hand, and sinks into the armchair opposite you with a groan. “Rough night,” he says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Didn’t think it would go that late.”

“Didn’t think you were going out at all.”

That makes him crack an eye open, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Jealous?”

You snort. “Of your terrible taste in dive bars and worse taste in company? Never.”

“I didn’t stay long,” he says. “The music sucked.”

“You go for the music?”

“I go for the distraction.”

Outside, it’s started to rain again, a slow, gentle drizzle against the windows. You stare at the pattern of drops sliding down the glass, trying to ignore the shape of him in your periphery—broad shoulders and long legs and bare feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. He’s too close and too far all at once.

“Do you… want some popcorn?” you ask eventually.

Satoru opens his eyes again and blinks at you. “Is this the part where you admit you were waiting for me?”

You scowl. “Forget it.”

“I’m kidding.” He sits up, leans forward slightly, eyes warm now, too warm. “I’d love some.”

You push the bowl towards him, watching as he picks out a piece and pops it into his mouth. 

“This,” he says, chewing thoughtfully, “would be the part in a romcom where we kiss.”

“This,” you say, rolling your eyes, “would be the part in a horror movie where the protagonist makes a terrible decision and dies five minutes later.”

“That’s just rude.”

“Good.”

But he smiles at you, bright and boyish, like there’s no place he’d rather be than in this shitty living room at one in the morning with rain tapping against the windows and you scowling over a bowl of popcorn. You hate that it makes your heart ache; hate that, for all your better judgement, for all the times he’s made you want to scream into a pillow, there’s a part of you that softens around him. A part that keeps watching the door when he’s late. A part that stayed up, no matter what you said.

“We should bond,” Satoru says suddenly. “Do you have any plans tomorrow?”

You blink. “Bond?”

“Yeah. Like team-building. Except we’re not a team, and there’s no building.”

“That’s the worst pitch I’ve ever heard,” you say, but the corners of your mouth tug upwards despite yourself.

He shrugs, leaning back into the armchair again and tossing a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it clumsily with his mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like we’ve been circling each other. Might as well make it official.”

“Make what official?”

“This thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Our roommate truce-slash-rivalry-slash-situationship.”

You nearly choke on your own breath. “What—what situationship?”

“Okay, fine. Maybe not that last one.”

You throw a pillow at him, and he catches it with one hand, laughing. The room is too warm, or maybe that’s just your face. You glance away, shaking your head.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I was thinking. Since it’s Saturday tomorrow, and we’re both obviously in need of deep, soul-cleansing joy—”

“You mean you want to avoid your hangover.”

“—we should go skating.”

“Like, on the ice?” you ask.

“No, on a frying pan,” he says. “Yes, on the ice.”

“Come on,” Satoru calls. “It’s just frozen water.”

“I know what ice is,” you hiss.

He skates back toward you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and a beanie pulled snug over his snowy hair. Of course he makes gliding over a frozen lake look like second nature. He probably was born skating. You glare at him from your self-imposed prison at the edge of the ice. Your fingers are locked in a white-knuckled grip on the guardrail, your knees slightly bent like your body already knows it’s about to betray you.

Satoru stops a few feet away, his skates coming to a perfect halt with the faintest spray of ice. “You’re going to have to let go eventually,” he says, amused but not unkind.

You shake your head immediately. “I don’t trust frozen water. Or you.”

“That’s fair.” He shrugs. “But one of those things is going to get you moving, and it’s not the ice.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Doesn’t have to. Come on,” he coaxes, holding out a gloved hand. “I’ll go slow. Promise. Baby steps.”

You glance down at the ice, then at his hand, then back at the ice. It’s unfair, really, the way he looks so annoyingly trustworthy in moments like this. As if he hasn’t spent the better part of your shared time together being the most irritating man on the planet. As if he didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes zipping across the lake like a show-off while you contemplated your mortality from the safety of the shore.

Still, you let go of the guardrail. Just a little. Your hand slips into his, and his fingers tighten reassuringly around yours. He doesn’t tug; he waits, steady and warm and patient, until you peel yourself entirely away from your comfort zone and step onto the ice.

You immediately regret everything. Your foot slides, your balance tips, and you let out a strangled noise as you clutch at him with both hands now, absolutely abandoning any pretense of dignity. Satoru laughs, open and delighted, the sound echoing across the lake like it belongs in a different world.

“I’ve got you,” he says. His grip is solid, his body a firm counterweight to your graceless flailing. “Just stand. Don’t try to walk yet. Feel how your skates sit on the ice.”

“I hate this. I hate you,” you mutter, clinging to his coat.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, and you scowl because he’s grinning now, and it’s not helpful at all.

Slowly, he eases you forward, step by wobbling step. The cold nips at your cheeks, your breath fogging between you in soft white puffs. Every movement feels like a gamble, your muscles tense with the knowledge that at any second, you could end up flat on your back.

“You skate like Bambi,” he observes cheerfully.

“Say that again and I’m taking you down with me.”

“You’d have to catch me first,” he says. “And given your current progress, I’d say that’s not happening in this lifetime.”

You lurch at him, purely out of spite, and he lets out a surprised yelp as he stumbles back a little, catching you both from falling with more grace than you’ll ever possess. You end up in his arms, your face smushed embarrassingly against his chest, heart pounding from more than just the cold.

“You’re not bad at this,” he murmurs near your ear. “For someone who looks like they’re skating on stilts.”

You pull back to glare at him, but his smile softens into something almost fond, and you blink. He’s still holding you, hands braced at your waist now, fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. His touch is warm through the layers. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you can.

He leans back, clears his throat a little, and says, “Alright. Lesson one: don’t look down.”

“What?”

“No, seriously. Head up. Trust yourself a little. If you stare at the ice, your body will think you want to meet it.”

You lift your gaze slowly, reluctantly, and focus on the horizon instead: trees dusted in frost, a sky bruised with early twilight, and Satoru’s impossibly pale eyes, sharp and bright and filled with something you can’t name. He starts guiding you again, his hands still at your waist, your balance a little steadier now. Each glide is cautious; it’s progress, however painstaking.

You’re still clumsy—more shuffling than skating—but the panic has dulled, replaced by a nervous sort of awareness: of your feet, of your breathing, of him. The cold cuts through the air with a crispness that sharpens everything, from the bite in your lungs to the sting in your cheeks, but somehow, with Satoru’s hands anchoring you, it all feels a little softer.

“Look at you,” he says, low and a bit smug. “You’re a natural.”

You snort. “I’m one step away from death.”

“Death by ice is very poetic,” he muses. “We’ll put it on your tombstone. Beloved roommate. Skated once.”

You elbow him weakly, the motion throwing off your centre of gravity just enough to send you pitching forward—again. You gasp, arms flailing, but he catches you effortlessly, laughing as he draws you back upright like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature to steady you.

“That’s lesson two,” he says, grinning down at you. “Don’t do that.”

“You are the worst teacher.”

“And yet,” he says, steering you in a slow arc, “you’re still standing.”

The lake is quiet, save for the dull scrape of blades against the ice, the rustling of wind in the trees, and the shouts and hoots of a group of teenagers skating on the other end. You imagine the rink gets really crowded later in the evening, but for now, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in shades of silver and slate, the world narrowed down to the stretch of frozen water and the steady cadence of his voice in your ear. You take another step. Then another. Satoru doesn’t let go, even though you think you could maybe handle it on your own now. But you don’t ask him to.

“This wasn’t just about the skating,” he says after a while.

You glance up at him. His expression is unreadable now, the teasing stripped back to something quieter. You try for lightness. “Oh? Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me?”

“No. I did that last week. You were too busy yelling at me about the dishes.”

You huff a laugh, but it catches in your throat, because he’s looking at you in that way again—like you’re the only thing in focus. Like the cold and the ice and the time you called him a walking disaster don’t matter.

“I just wanted to do something with you,” he says. “Riko—Riko and I used to do this all the time as kids.”

“...Oh,” you say dumbly.

He doesn’t look away when you say it. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and you realise, belatedly, that you’re not gripping onto him anymore. You’re standing.

“She used to hold my hand like you’re doing now,” he continues, a half-smile flickering across his face, wistful. “Only, she had these tiny little gloves with cats on them, and she’d nearly pull me down every time she slipped.”

You can see it, easily—Riko as a small blur of determination, dragging her too-tall older brother around a rink, shrieking with laughter while he pretended not to be terrified of falling. You wonder what it was like, growing up with someone like that; with someone who looked at Satoru and saw more than the smirking exterior, who loved him before he learned to weaponise his charm.

“Is this where you guilt-trip me into being nicer to you?” you ask.

“No,” he says. “You being mean to me is the only thing that keeps me grounded.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not when your chest is doing that awful thing again—that fluttery, traitorous ache that started as irritation and now feels like something worse. “Do you ever stop being—” you begin, but you don’t finish.

Because he lets go. Just like that.

Your breath catches, skates faltering as your arms instinctively reach for him—but you don’t fall. Your legs wobble, sure. Your equilibrium protests. But you’re still upright, and still moving, slowly and awkwardly and without grace. And he’s just standing there, a few feet away now, watching you with a look that’s proud and amused and terribly fond.

“You’re doing it,” he says, and the words hang in the air like steam, like warmth in the cold.

You stare at him. “You tricked me.”

“Obviously.”

“You let go.”

“I did.” Satoru’s smile is maddening. “But look. You’re fine.”

You aren’t sure if you’re grateful or angry or both. The lake is wide around you, open and echoing, and your arms feel empty without his to cling to. But you’re skating. When you reach him again—because of course you make your way back, clumsy half-glides bringing you close enough to grab his coat again if you want to—he doesn’t move away.

“I hate that you’re right,” you mutter, breathing hard.

“I’m always right.”

“You’re never right.”

“You’re right,” he says solemnly. “I’m only ever hot and devastatingly charming.”

You shove him. It doesn’t do much; he’s solid, annoying, smug. But he laughs, and it echoes across the lake again, bright and honest. Then his hands find yours once more. “Next time,” he says, leaning in close, “we’ll try a spin.”

You gawk at him like he’s insane. “I will murder you on the ice.”

“I’d die happy.”

You should pull away. You should say something cutting, something that reestablishes the boundaries he’s always so eager to toe. But you don’t, because he’s warm even through your gloves, and the sky above you is bleeding into a soft lavender dusk, and his breath is a whisper against your cheek when he adds, “You were really brave today.”

“Don’t make it weird,” you mumble.

“Too late.”

You close your eyes, just for a moment. Without warning, you tug his hand and take a step back on the ice, away from him. It’s shaky. Messy. Maybe even stupid. But you don’t fall, and when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already following.

You don’t end up at the ice hockey team’s practice on purpose. It’s all a matter of circumstance: you’d forgotten to bring your keys, and Satoru had practice immediately after classes, so you decided to pay him and Nanami a visit because you’re meticulous and already ahead of all your assigned readings, so you have some free time anyway.

Your boots squeak faintly against the rubber mat lining the entrance as you step inside, the sharp scent of ice and that weird rubbery tang from equipment stinging your nose. It’s colder than you expect it to be—not just chilly, but biting—and you hug your coat tighter around yourself, muttering under your breath about your own stupidity for forgetting your keys.

Through the glass panels that separate the stands from the rink, you catch sight of the team already in warm-ups, skating brisk laps along the boards. Nanami is easy to spot, with his clean-cut form and too-serious expression, weaving between teammates. Satoru, in contrast, is a blur of motion and colour—grinning, flippant, always moving like he’s daring gravity to catch him. You know it’s him even with the helmet on. There’s something unmistakable about the way he skates, fast and loose like he was born with blades for feet and no sense of self-preservation.

You slip into the bleachers, choosing a middle seat and tucking your hands between your thighs for warmth. Your breath fogs in front of you in soft clouds. Below, the players yell instructions at one another, the thud of pucks hitting boards punctuated by the scrape of blades on ice. You expect to be bored within ten minutes, but strangely, you’re not.

You catch yourself watching Satoru more than you should.

He’s wearing a dark jersey with the number six on the back, paired with white hockey pants. He skates like he owns the ice, like the world is some elaborate game designed for his entertainment, and he’s the only one who knows all the rules. He’s obnoxiously good, of course. His passes are sharp and clean, his puck handling seamless, like the stick is an extension of his arm. He doesn’t celebrate the goals he scores, but you can tell he enjoys each one. It’s in the way he glances towards the stands after every shot, like he’s half-expecting applause. Like maybe—just maybe—he knows you’re watching.

And, of course, the one time you lean forward with genuine curiosity, Satoru catches your eye. You immediately sit back and pretend to examine the very interesting metal railing in front of you. When you look up again, he’s skating backwards towards the centre line, grinning like a lunatic. You roll your eyes.

Practice drags on, but in that weird hypnotic way that makes time pass fast. The drills shift from technical to scrimmage-style, players darting about, sticks clashing, shouts echoing through the space. Nanami plays with all the joy of someone forced into it by obligation, but you admire his skill all the same. Satoru, on the other hand, is infuriatingly smooth, darting past defenders and spinning to block shots.

At some point, you begin to lose feeling in your toes. You pull your legs up into your seat and burrow deeper into your coat. Satoru scores another goal with a fancy little flick of his wrist and has the nerve to wink at you through the glass. You flip him off, and he beams like you’ve handed him a bouquet of roses.

When practice ends, the players skate to the benches, pulling off their helmets and guzzling water. You consider leaving before Satoru can come find you, but by the time you make the decision, he’s already peeled off his gear and is jogging toward the stands, a towel slung around his neck and his hair a snowy mess of sweat-damp curls.

“You stalking me now?” he calls up, voice echoing through the cavernous space.

“I forgot my keys,” you reply flatly. “Trust me, if I had other options, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Aw,” he says, leaning on the railing in front of you. “So you missed me.”

You stare down at him, unimpressed. “You smell like a wet dog. I can smell it all the way up here.”

“Still came to see me, though.”

You open your mouth to reply with something scathing, but the words don’t quite come. Not when he’s standing there with flushed cheeks and a grin that’s more sunshine than snow, squinting slightly because of the overhead lights. Not when you remember, fleetingly, that Riko once told you her brother was really quiet, and you remember, again, that he changed after she died. The thought vanishes before you can dwell on it.

“We’re out of milk, by the way,” you say instead.

Nanami skates over. His jersey is soaked through, but his hair remains irritatingly neat under his helmet. He slows to a stop beside the boards, stick tucked under one arm, and gives you a nod in greeting. You nod back.

“She came all the way out here just to tell me we’re out of milk,” Satoru says.

“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale and gesture vaguely in his direction. “Why do you talk like that?”

“He talks like that because he has no concept of shame,” Nanami says.

“You wound me, Nanamin.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response—just raises a single brow and skates off toward the locker room. You watch his retreating figure for a second, then glance back at Satoru, now balancing precariously with one arm out.

“You are so dramatic,” you mutter, standing and starting down the bleachers.

“I prefer being called expressive,” Satoru calls after you, hopping off the railing and jogging to meet you at the base of the stairs. He smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and whatever chemical funk lives permanently in every locker room, but he’s grinning so widely you almost forget to wrinkle your nose. Almost.

“I can see your hair freezing,” you say as you fall into step beside him. “That’s disgusting. Go shower.”

He throws an arm around your shoulders; the gesture makes your skin bristle from the chill still clinging to his clothes. “But you like me gross,” he says, bumping your side with a playful swing of his hip.

You scoff and shove him off, barely managing to keep your balance as your boots skid slightly on the damp rubber flooring. “I like you better when you’re not radiating the scent of boiled socks.”

“So specific,” Satoru laughs. “Were you composing that one in your head the whole time I was on the ice?”

“No,” you mutter. “It came naturally. Like an allergic reaction.”

You follow him through the back hallway toward the locker rooms. It’s quieter here, the sounds of the rink replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional groan of old plumbing in the walls. The linoleum floor is scuffed and water-stained, and everything smells like damp towels and disinfectant. You slow your steps, lingering near the door to the players’ lounge while Satoru pushes through the locker room entrance.

He peeks back before disappearing inside. “You waiting out here, or are you coming in for the full experience?”

“I value my life,” you deadpan.

“Suit yourself,” he singsongs, tossing the towel from his neck over your head before ducking inside with a grin. You yank the towel off with a sound of disgust and drop it on the floor. A few minutes pass. You idle on your phone, scrolling through old messages, then flick over to your calendar. Everything’s already done: papers outlined, deadlines logged, readings colour-coded and annotated. You’re bored.

Ten minutes later, the door creaks open and Satoru emerges, hair damp and pushed back from his face, now in grey sweats and a university hoodie two sizes too big. He looks softer like this, more human, like he could’ve been anyone else, if the world had been a little gentler.

“What?” he says, catching you staring.

You blink. “Nothing.”

He tosses his duffel bag over one shoulder and jerks his chin toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s hit the store. You said we’re out of milk, right?”

“And bread,” you add as you fall into step beside him again. “And you used the last of the eggs and just… put the empty carton back in the fridge.”

“False accusations. I plead innocent.”

“You plead lethargy.”

03. conflict resolution (the eternal affliction).

Christmas comes and goes, and the new year begins with you and Satoru deciding to sell the TV. It had been half-broken for weeks anyway—Satoru insisted it gave the screen a “vintage haze,” but you insisted it gave you migraines. So, on the second day of January, in a rare moment of mutual decisiveness, you both posted a picture of it on Facebook Marketplace with a joke caption, and watched the replies pour in. Some poor soul came to pick it up that evening, and just like that, your living room was quieter than it had been in days.

Maybe you needed the quiet. The holidays had been a blur of noise—family phone calls, missed trains, clinking glasses, and Satoru’s very enthusiastic and very drunk rendition of Last Christmas that made your upstairs neighbour leave an aggressive Post-It on your door.

Now, it’s snowing—thick, slow flakes that coat the windows and silence the city. You’re curled up on the couch with two blankets and a cup of peppermint tea you don’t really like, watching Satoru fiddle with the thermostat.

“It’s broken,” he says for the fifth time, shirt riding up slightly as he bends down to look behind the radiator. “I’m gonna sue the landlord.”

“You say that every week,” you reply, blowing on your tea. “You’ve never sued anyone in your life.”

“I could,” he says indignantly, standing upright. He looks infuriatingly good in sweats and a hoodie, even with socks that don’t match and a piece of tape stuck to his elbow from when he tried to fix the window seal this morning. “You don’t know what I get up to when you’re asleep.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re usually asleep before me.”

Satoru points a finger at you. “Exactly. That’s what I want you to think. But maybe I’ve been moonlighting as a lawyer in the dead of night. Ever think about that?”

You take a long sip of your tea to hide your smile. “You can’t even read the rental agreement without getting a headache.”

“You said you’d never bring that up again!”

“You were crying, Satoru.”

“It was printed in a size 10 font, what do you want from me?”

You laugh. Outside, the streetlights blur into glowing halos. Inside, it’s dim and warm, the air thick with the scent of peppermint and laundry detergent, and something you can’t quite place—Satoru, probably, who always smells like something slightly sweet, like sugar cookies and whatever shampoo he uses when he forgets yours isn’t his. You look over the rim of your mug at him. His hair’s messier than usual, falling into his eyes. You’ve told him to get it trimmed. He hasn’t listened.

“It’s still getting colder,” you say quietly, watching the snow. “You think we’ll get snowed in?”

Satoru flops onto the couch beside you, his body warm where it presses against your blanket-wrapped one, his knee knocking lightly into yours. “God, I hope so,” he mutters, tugging the throw off your legs to cover himself. “We could use the time off.”

“You don’t even work a real job,” you remind him.

He frowns, the expression exaggerated and pouty. “Excuse me. I’m a public servant. I’m out there risking life and limb every day, for our stupid old landlord. Or did you forget who shoveled the steps this morning?”

“Badly,” you point out. “You missed half the landing.”

“I was conserving energy,” he says primly, “in case we do get snowed in. You’ll be thanking me when it’s day four of no groceries and you’re chewing on the couch cushions.”

You scoff, curling your feet under you. “We’ve got food. I made sure.”

“I saw.” He grins, tilting his head to rest against the back of the couch, blue eyes sparkling. “I saw you hide the good snacks in the cereal box. You’re so sneaky.” Satoru reaches for the remote out of habit, then remembers the TV is gone. “Oh. What are we supposed to do now? Talk to each other?”

You smile around the rim of your cup. “We could play cards.”

“We could commit tax fraud.”

You nudge his leg with yours. “Satoru.”

“Fine, fine,” he sighs. “But only if I get to cheat.”

“You always cheat.”

“You always let me.”

He says it quietly, but he looks at you like he’s talking about something else entirely. Maybe he is. You set the mug down carefully, your fingers too warm now to keep holding it. You’re suddenly aware of everything: how his thigh brushes yours, how he’s slouched so far down the cushions that his hoodie’s ridden up again, showing a sliver of pale skin and the waistband of his sweats; the scar on his hip he told you he got from an ice hockey accident; the way he shifts when you don’t say anything, like he feels your gaze and likes it.

The peppermint flavour in your mouth goes sticky and sweet.

“I’m bored,” he says again, softer. “You wanna do something stupid?”

“Like what?”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Like take a really hot shower. Together. For environmental reasons.”

You huff, trying not to laugh, even as your stomach does a slow somersault. “Very eco-conscious of you.”

“Exactly. I’m a hero.”

You roll your eyes, but the thought lingers—his body wet and close, fogging up the glass, your cold skin pressed to his. It lingers longer than it should. You lean your head back against the couch and try to chase it away, but Satoru leans closer, propping his chin on your shoulder, voice lazy and low, as he says, “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re such a bad liar.”

You shoot him a look, about to say something, but it dies on your lips. He’s close. His eyes are sleepy but sharp, his breath warm where it brushes your cheek. You blink slowly. You think you could kiss him and he’d let you. You think if you said please, he’d let you crawl into his lap and never leave.

“I don’t even like peppermint,” you deflect, mostly to yourself.

“Riko used to say you always drank it in winter.”

“It’s supposed to feel festive.”

“You’re festive,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like the words slipped out without thinking.The snow falls harder. The pipes groan, and the heater hisses weakly. You pull the blanket higher around your neck. “You’re not warm enough,” he observes.

“Thanks for the update.”

“I’m just saying. We could fix that.”

“Is this you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?”

You stare at him. He’s gorgeous like this—half-lazy, half-serious, the kind of effortless pretty that shouldn’t be allowed in sweats and two-day-old hair. You think about the way his voice goes low when he’s teasing you, like it is now. The way he always runs a hand down your back, firm and gentle, when he knows your day’s been long. It’s unbearable, sometimes, the want. The wanting him like this.

“I could be convinced,” you say quietly.

“Oh, yeah?”

He doesn’t move right away; he watches you—searching, maybe, or waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t. He shifts to face you more fully, and leans in slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away. His fingers brush your jaw, warm and careful, and then he kisses you.

It starts soft, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. You answer with a small sound at the back of your throat, leaning in, tilting your head, letting your mouth part just slightly under his. Satoru deepens it with a low noise that vibrates between you, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to anchor your close. His lips are warm, his mouth sweet—peppermint and the leftover hint of something honeyed from dinner. He kisses like he does everything else—wholeheartedly, a little cocky, and all-consuming. Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto as he presses in.

His other hand slides beneath the blanket, settling against your waist. You’re still bundled up in layers, but you feel the heat of his palm through the cotton. Your whole body reacts to it: shivering, softening, leaning closer. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound.

When he finally pulls back, it’s just barely, his nose brushing yours. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown, a flush high on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. “You sure?” he asks roughly. “Because I’ll stop. I’ll stop right now if—”

You kiss him again, quick and firm. “I’m sure.”

Satoru lets out a breath, then nudges the blanket off both of you. The cold air hits your skin for half a second before he’s pulling you onto his lap, coaxing you into straddling him. You go willingly, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. It’s clumsy at first—your feet slide, your knee bumps the coffee table—but he steadies you with both hands on your hips, and it stops being funny.

Your faces are inches apart. You can see every speck of silver in his eyes, the pink curve of his bottom lip, the threadbare collar of his hoodie that dips just low enough to show the line of his throat. Your fingers slip under the hem of it, and he shudders.

“This okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods, but adds, “Don’t ask like that. Like I’d ever say no to you.”

You kiss him again. His hands move—up your back, under your shirt, leaving trails of heat where they go. You’re both flush with warmth now, the kind of warmth that fills your chest and settles low in your belly. The radiator’s broken, and your tea’s gone cold, but it doesn’t matter, not with his body beneath yours, not with his mouth at your neck now, pressing soft, reverent kisses to the place where your pulse beats.

“Satoru,” you whisper, and he groans softly against your skin like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week. You tighten your fingers in his hoodie, tugging just slightly, and he lifts his head to look at you. You run your hands down his chest, over the soft cotton. “This has got to go.”

He grins, crooked and flushed. “You just want an excuse to touch me.”

You tug the hoodie up, and he raises his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. His hair is mussed even further, sticking up in a dozen directions, and you can’t help smoothing it down with your hands. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the planes of his chest scattered with faint scars.

“You’re staring,” he says, softer now.

“You’re pretty,” you reply, just as quiet.

His smile falters—not in a bad way, but in that way it does when you say something that actually gets to him. He swallows, reaches up, and brushes your hair back behind your ear. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when I’m trying to be cool.”

“You’re never cool,” you whisper, leaning in again. “I’m on birth control. Just so you know.”

His laugh is rough, but it dies in his throat the second you crush your mouth to his again—all heat, no patience now, just the wet slide of his tongue against yours. His hands are already pushing under your shirt, fingers tracing every rib, until his thumbs drag slow circles under your breasts. You arch into his touch.

“Off,” he says, yanking your shirt up. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away, leaving you in just your bra—some flimsy lace thing he’s already eyeing like he wants to tear it off. The cold air hits your skin, but you barely feel it, not with the way his gaze burns over you. His hands are on you again instantly, palming your tits through the lace, squeezing just hard enough to make you whimper. His thumbs flick over your nipples, already stiff, and you gasp when he leans down to lick a hot stripe over the fabric.

“So beautiful,” he says, teeth catching the edge of the cup. He tugs it down, freeing one breast, and seals his mouth over it with wet, filthy pulls of his lips while his tongue flicks the peak. You moan, thighs clenching, already grinding down against his lap where his cock strains against his sweatpants.

“Satoru—” Your fingers twist in his hair, holding him to your chest as he switches sides, biting lightly at the other nipple through the lace before dragging the cup down to give it the same treatment. His free hand slides between your thighs, cupping you through your pants, and you shudder when he presses the heel of his palm hard against your clit.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groans against your skin, fingers rubbing slow, torturous circles. “Can feel it through your pants.”

You’re panting now, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction. He undoes the string of your pants with one hand, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear. His breath hitches when he sees how wet you are, glistening and swollen.

“Look at that,” he rasps, dragging two fingers through your folds, spreading your slick. He slides one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, teasing. “Already so fucking tight—how’re you gonna take me?”

You whine, hips jerking, trying to him deeper, but he just chuckles, adding a second finger, curling them just right to make you gasp. He pumps them slowly, his thumb circling your clit in time, until you’re trembling, your thighs shaking around his wrist.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers free with a filthy sound. You nearly sob at the loss, but he unbuckles his jeans, shoving them just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking. 

“Ride me,” he orders, voice rough.

You don’t hesitate. You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, and lower yourself into him inch by inch. The stretch burns, the way he fills you so perfect, it steals your breath. Both of you groan as you take him to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, and his head falls back against the couch with a groan. His hands roam your body—squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to grip your ass, urging you faster. You comply, bouncing on his cock now, the slap of skin echoing in the room. Every thrust drags him against that perfect spot inside you, and you can feel the coil of pleasure tightening, your clit throbbing with each movement.

“Gonna come,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “Satoru, I’m—”

“Let go,” he urges, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles. “Come on my cock.”

The orgasm crashes through you—your back arches, your walls clamp down on him, and you cry out, shuddering as pleasure rips through every nerve. He fucks you through it, his hips jerking up to meet your frantic movements, until he groans and spills inside you with a low moan.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and spent. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your heartbeat steadies. He tilts your chin up, after a moment, kissing you slow and lazy.

“So,” he mumbles against your lips. “About that shower.”

“Yes, please.”

He peels you off the couch with a groan, your legs shaky, your skin still fever-hot where his come drips down your inner thighs. The bathroom tiles are cool under your bare feet as he guides you in, his palm never leaving the small of your back, like he can’t stand not touching you for even a second.

Steam fogs the mirror before the water even hits your skin. Satoru adjusts the spray with a rough twist of his wrist, testing it with his fingers before pulling you under the warm heat. The water sluices over your shoulders, your breasts, his hands following its path like he’s trying to watch every inch of you with his touch instead.

“You missed a spot,” you tease, breath hitching when his thumbs drag over your nipples, already stiff again from the contrast of heat and his calloused fingers.

“Fucking smartass,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it—not when his cock is already thickening against your hip, the tip flushed and leaking. He crowds you against the tile, his mouth searing a path down your throat, sucking bruises into the tender skin below your ear. Water beads on his lashes when he looks up at you, fingers hooking under your knee to hike your leg over his hip.

“Turn around,” he orders, voice frayed with want.

You obey, bracing your palms against the slick wall as he presses flush against your back. His cock nudges between your thighs, not quite inside it—just rutting against your slick folds, teasing. The head catches on your entrance, the stretch just shy of unbearable, and you whimper, pushing back.

Satoru chuckles, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head aside. His other hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading your slick over your clit. “Still dripping,” he says, circling that swollen bud just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “Like you’re fucking made for me.”

You gasp when he finally pushes inside—slow, deliberate, stretching you with every inch until his hips meet your ass. The water cascades over both of you as he starts to move, deep, rolling thrusts that have you arching, your nails scraping against tile.

“Look at you,” he groans, tightening his grip on your hip. His other hand leaves your hair to grab your breast, pinching your nipple as he fucks into you harder. “Taking me so fucking good.”

It’s too much—the drag of his cock against your walls, the slap of skin, the way his teeth sink into your shoulder. You’re babbling, half-formed pleas and his name, your thighs trembling with every thrust.

“Gonna make you come again,” he grits out, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing circles. You come with a cry, your walls fluttering around him as your climax crashes over you. Satoru fucks you through it, his hips stuttering as his own release hits—a harsh groan against your neck as he spills inside you.

He holds you up when your legs give out, turning you in his arms to kiss you slow and filthy under the spray. His tongue licks into your mouth, while his hand drifts down to your ass.

“Clean now?” you mumble against his lips, dazed.

He laughs, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Dirty as hell.” His other hand slides between your thighs, gathering the mix of water and come dripping down your skin. “Gonna have to do this again.”

You shiver as he brings his fingers to your mouth, watching your lips part to suck them clean.

Spring is sprung, but nothing changes between you and Satoru. It’s as if the two days you spent snowed in right after New Year’s are just that—two days that exist outside of your usual periphery, kept locked away in the recesses of your mind like a dream you can’t decide whether to revisit or forget. The world has thawed and so, seemingly, has he. No more late nights curled together on his couch. No more cereal-for-dinner declarations or tangled limbs under too-warm blankets. That strange liminal space you existed in, suspended in the hush of snowfall and the hum of radiator heat, disappears as soon as the city begins to bloom again.

Instead, things shift back into old rhythms.

You start finding mismatched socks in the laundry again. His cereal bowls accumulate in the sink in quiet protest of dishwashing. You bicker over the thermostat settings like you always used too—Satoru insists that 24°C is the perfect temperature while you’re constantly reaching for the dial to turn it down. He steals your phone charger without asking. You use his shampoo out of petty revenge. He hogs the bathroom mirror every morning, combing through his hair with a devotion that borders on tragic. And you… you go back to pretending that none of it ever meant anything more.

You try not to notice how careful he is now, how his gaze lingers a little too long but his fingers don’t. How he keeps his distance—playfully, almost purposefully. As if closeness is a privilege that’s been revoked. As if intimacy was a mistake that neither of you are willing to acknowledge.

And because it’s easier this way, you don’t ask.

Instead, you both fall into the easy charade of Just Roommates, the same performance you perfected before that blizzard rewrote the script. It’s familiar, comfortable—until it isn’t.

Because one night, he doesn’t come home.

You notice it sometime around 11:30 P.M. His shoes aren’t by the door, his keys aren’t clattering into the dish like they usually do. The apartment is quiet in a way it hasn’t been for months. You try not to worry. He’s an adult. He disappears sometimes. That’s just Satoru being Satoru. But something in your chest prickles with unease, and your thumb hovers over your screen for a good five minutes before you finally open your messages.

You: hey, you coming home tonight?

No reply. The text sits there, read but unanswered. You sit on the couch for another half hour, idly scrolling, not really seeing anything. Your eyes keep darting to the door like he might waltz in with some dumb excuse and a bag of chips. When the clock hits 1:04 A.M., you give up pretending and text Nanami.

You: do you know where satoru is?

Nanami: hold on. Nanami: yeah. unfortunately. 

Two seconds later, an image pops up.

It’s a picture taken at a frat party—one of those messy, overcrowded events where the music’s too loud and the floor’s sticky with God-knows-what. There’s a blur of colour and movement, people crowding the frame, but it’s not hard to spot him: Satoru, in the centre of it all, unmistakable even with the grainy quality of the photo. He’s half-sitting on the back of a couch, red solo cup in hand, sunglasses perched uselessly on the bridge of his nose despite it being well past midnight. His head is tilted toward a girl beside him—brunette, bright lipstick, her arm draped over his shoulder.

You stare at the image for longer than you mean to.

The girl’s laughing. Satoru’s smiling. And not that small, soft sort of smile he gives you when he thinks you’re not looking, but wide and lazy, the kind he usually wears when he’s trying to charm his way out of something.

Your stomach curls, cold and unpleasant. You shut your phone off. The apartment is still too quiet. You brush your teeth with shaking fingers, climb into a bed that feels a little too big, and press your eyes shut like that might block out the sudden ache in your chest. 

It shouldn’t matter. You’re just roommates.

You think about the girl he’d brought home that day, three days into your moving in. You’d felt bad for her, knowing that she was just a notch in his over-filled stick. Is that what you are, too? Just another person he slept with? His little sister’s best friend, who’s never been the same after she died, just another name on his list?

Maybe it’s your own fault. You knew what he was like.

The morning after, you don’t reach for your phone. You don’t check to see if he came home sometimes after you fell asleep. You don’t look for his shoes by the door. You just go about your day like you’ve got somewhere to be.

It’s easier this way. To keep moving. To stay busy. To pull your focus away from the image etched into the backs of your eyelids: the shape of him in someone else’s orbit, grinning like he didn’t have your heartbeat tucked between his palms only a few weeks ago.

When you finally do check your phone, there’s no apology. Just a half-hearted “my bad lol” text that arrives sometime around 10 A.M., flippant and thoughtless, as if it never even occurred to him that you might’ve waited up.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t push. The silence becomes your new rhythm.

Where once there was casual ease between you, there is now only space. Deliberate, careful space. You start closing the door to your room whenever he’s home. You keep your headphones in, even when you’re not listening to anything. You stop making dinner for two. You stop leaving him notes on the fridge. He seems to notice, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe he’s too oblivious to put the pieces together. Or maybe this is just easier for him, too.

You start planning your exit. You don’t tell him. You don’t know how to. You start searching on your laptop late at night, under the covers like it’s something shameful. Studio apartments, room shares, sublets posted by strangers who spell everything in lowercase. Nothing looks promising, but you scroll anyway, determined to find something, anything, that doesn’t have him in it.

You start making lists in your notes app. Things you’ll need: a kettle, your own set of plates, a bathroom rug. Things you’ll miss: the way he sings when he’s in the shower, the sound of his laugh echoing down the hallway, the smell of his shampoo. And then there are the things you don’t let yourself write down. Like the way his arms felt around you that night on the couch. Or the look in his eyes when he thought you were asleep. Or the fact that, for a brief few moments this winter, you really, truly believed he could be something more.

You don’t talk about any of it. Not to him, not to Nanami, not to your friend who sits next to you during class. You just swallow it down like a bitter pill and keep moving.

Some nights, he comes home late and you pretend to be asleep. Some mornings, he lingers in the kitchen a little too long, like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything, but you never do. You sip your coffee in silence, watch the steam curl up, and keep your eyes fixed on the window. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to him. It’s that you don’t trust what you’d say.

Because the truth is this: you’ve overstayed your welcome, not just in this apartment, but in the idea of him. You let yourself want, and now you’re paying for it.

And Satoru—he’s still Satoru. Beautiful and reckless and untouchable in the ways that matter most. He flits around you like he doesn’t notice you pulling away. Or maybe he does, and he’s letting you go. So you send in applications. You tour a too-small studio with cracked linoleum and convince yourself the peeling walls are “charming.” You lie on your bed at night and stare at the ceiling and imagine what it’ll feel like to live in a place where his laugh doesn’t echo through the walls.

Spring has sprung. The world is warm and blooming again. But you—you’ve never felt colder.

When you tell Nanami you’re moving, he doesn’t chide you for it. Just shrugs, and asks if you want any help with packing. You nod, grateful, and ask if you can accompany him for their ice hockey practice that evening. You need to give Satoru your keys back, and you would prefer to do it with your friend next to you.

The rink is always colder than you expect. Even in the early blush of spring, when your jacket is too light and the wind a little gentler, the ice rink clings to winter. Nanami doesn’t say much on the walk over. He’s not the type to pry unless invited, and you’ve been… quiet, to say the least. A silence cushioned in resignation more than sadness. As if the version of yourself who cried into her pillow over Satoru in January has finally dulled into someone softer, steadier.

You sit in the bleachers with your arms tucked close to your chest as Nanami skates onto the ice. The boys are already roughhousing, and Satoru—he’s grinning. Always grinning.

You spot him the moment he hops the rail. His hair is a mess under his helmet, and his jersey hangs a little lopsided over his pads, but there’s that same carefree energy, as though nothing in the world has ever really touched him. Not even you.

You fold your fingers around the keys in your coat pocket and press them tight into your palm. Practice is what you’ve come to expect. Fast. Loud. A blur of bodies in motion, blades on ice, the occasional thud as someone crashes into the boards. You watch the way Satoru moves—like he owns the rink, like gravity is just a suggestion. You realise, belatedly, that you are looking. Maybe too hard.

When the whistle blows and the scrimmage ends, the team filters off the ice in staggered waves, peeling off helmets, slapping shoulders, shouting about drinks and dinner plans. Nanami nods at you from the bench, motioning that he’ll meet you outside. You’re halfway down the bleachers when you hear his name.

“Hey!” Satoru’s voice cuts through the buzz of conversation. You turn. He’s jogging over with that same impish grin, helmet under one arm, hair sweat-damp and eyes far too blue. “You came.”

You blink. “Yeah.”

“You missed me, huh?” he teases, bumping your shoulder with his. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you love watching me play.”

There it is—that familiar tilt of his head. A part of you wants to smile back, the way you always do. Fall into the rhythm again. Pretend.

But not this time.

You pull your hand from your coat pocket and extend it toward him, fingers curled around the small, silver ring of keys. “Here,” you say simply.

Satoru stills. He looks at your hand like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing, like the keys might bite him if he takes them. “What…?” his voice falters. “What’s this?”

“Your spare,” you reply. “I’m moving out.”

He doesn’t take the keys right away. He stares at you, the confusion sharpening into something quieter, something more serious. “You’re serious.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

You don’t say I wouldn’t have watched you skate around like nothing ever happened if I wasn’t. You don’t say I wouldn’t have dragged myself back into this space, this icebox version of our past, if I didn’t want to close the door for good.

He finally reaches out and takes them, curling his fingers slowly around the metal like it might dissolve. You notice the way his smile has faded. The rink is suddenly very quiet.

“I see,” he says. It’s the most subdued you’ve heard him in weeks.

You take a step back. “Good game, by the way.”

You walk away.

04. the end (happily ever after).

“You can’t leave until the end of the month,” Satoru says by way of greeting, toeing off his shoes at the entrance. “You signed the lease with me. You have to stay until April.”

You pause halfway through stacking one of the moving boxes, fingers curled around a stack of your dog-eared books. “Are you seriously quoting the lease at me right now?”

Satoru shrugs out of his jacket. “I’m just saying. It’s legally binding.”

You set the books down a little too hard. “What, so now you care about the rules?”

“I’ve always cared,” he says.

“No, Satoru. You care when it’s convenient. You care when it means getting the last word. You don’t get to act like this now, after weeks of pretending I don’t exist.”

“I wasn’t pretending—”

“You stopped coming home,” you snap, the words catching in your throat like thorns. “You stopped showing up. You stopped talking to me.”

“I needed space,” he says, and you laugh—cold and bitter and hollow.

“From what? From me? From whatever happened that weekend?”

He says nothing. Just shifts his weight and stares at the floor like the grain of the wood might suddenly rearrange itself into answers.

You swallow. “Right. Of course. That weekend didn’t mean anything. Just like everything else.”

“Don’t do that,” Satoru says quietly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what we are,” you retort defensively. “Were. Because you clearly figured it out a long time ago and didn’t bother telling me.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” Your voice shakes. “Then what about the girl from the party, Satoru? What was that?”

His head jerks up. “What girl?”

You cross your arms. “Nanami showed me a photo. Some frat party. You and some girl. You looked—happy.”

Something flickers across his face—confusion first, then something like hurt. “You mean Misaki?”

“I don’t know her name. I just know you were smiling. With your arm around her. And I know I don’t sleep with people I don’t care about. So maybe it didn’t mean anything to you, but it did to me. And you were just going to go back to your life like nothing happened, I wish you’d said so before I gave a damn.”

“Misaki,” he says again, stunned. “She’s dating Hajime.”

You blink.

“She’s my teammate’s girlfriend. He wanted a photo of all of us for her birthday because she’s moving to Osaka. That’s it. We all posed for a stupid picture, and then I left. I didn’t even want to go.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But your chest still aches with weeks of uncertainty, with that night you nearly cried yourself to sleep on the mattress you were already half-packing away. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I thought I already fucked everything up,” he admits. “You stopped talking to me. You looked right through me. I thought I crossed a line, and you regretted it.”

You shake your head, disbelieving. “You—you thought I regretted it? Satoru, I—” You cut yourself off. Swallow it down.

He steps forward, hands out like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed anymore. “I didn’t want to risk making it worse. But then you stopped coming to practice. You stopped leaving your door open. You were just… gone.”

“The only thing we ever had in common,” you say, “was Riko.”

His face falls.

“She’s dead, Satoru. And maybe… maybe we were just trying to hold on to each other because she was the one who tied us together.

“No.” His voice is firm. “No, that’s not true.”

You look away. “Isn’t it?”

“Maybe at first,” he says. “But not anymore. Not for a long time.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I had more time. I miss you. Every day. I miss going grocery shopping with you. I miss your hair in the drain and your mugs on the counter and the way you used to fall asleep on the couch back when we still had the TV. I miss you,” he repeats, quieter this time, “so no. You can’t leave. Not until I get to ask you out properly.”

For your first date, Satoru sneaks you into the campus ice rink at one in the morning. 

“Nicked the keys from the coach,” he says. “Don’t tell Nanamin.”

The air inside the rink is biting and crisp, even colder than you remember from the times you’d come to watch practice. Satoru flips the lights on, flooding the empty arena with a soft, almost romantic glow—clean white against the polished glass, shadows stretching long along the bleachers. You stand near the edge of the rink, hugging your coat tighter around your body.

“I can’t believe you stole from your coach for this,” you say, though you’re smiling.

Satoru shakes the keys at you. “Borrowed. It’s borrowing if I return them.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m endearing,” he corrects, walking backwards towards the ice, arms spread wide. “And this is your first official date. Has to be memorable.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is soft and melty, like it always is around him now.

He’s already laced into his skates, having arrived with them slung over one shoulder. You, on the other hand, have to sit at the benches while he kneels in front of you to help you with yours. His fingers are quick and practiced, tugging the laces snug before double-knotting them with a flourish. It should be embarrassing—being fawned over like this—but there’s something reverent in the way he moves, like this is a ritual of his own making, and it tugs at something in your chest.

“You do this for all your first dates?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but failing. You’re too aware of the way his breath fans over your thighs, or the way his touch lingers just a little too long against your ankles.

He glances up at you, bright eyes amused. “You’re my first. Be gentle with me.”

The ice is smooth, freshly resurfaced. Satoru leads you to the centre, gliding effortlessly, show-offy as ever. He does a little spin, throws both arms in the air like he’s just scored, then turns and offers you a hand.

“You know I can’t skate like that.”

“Lucky for you,” he says, stepping closer and tucking his fingers through yours, “I happen to be very good at holding people up.”

You’re wobbly at first, your legs unsure, and he skates backward slowly, pulling you along. His hands are steady on your waist, his smile wide and proud. And once you find your rhythm—still shaky, but upright—you circle the rink together, the only sounds the soft hiss of blades on ice and your laughter echoing against the rafters.

It’s surreal. You’ve seen him like this before: in his element, cocky and sure of himself on the ice. But it’s different now, because now, every glance he throws your way feels like it means something. Halfway through, he slows to a stop and pulls you in close. “You know,” he says, softer now, “I used to dream about this.”

You blink up at him. “About breaking and entering university property?”

“No,” he says. “About you. Being with you. I used to imagine all the ways I could maybe get you to see me the way I saw you. And it always started with something like this.”

You flush. “Satoru…”

“Do you remember,” he says, nudging his forehead against yours, “after the snowstorm? When I told you I wouldn’t regret it?”

You nod.

“I meant it,” he says. “I still mean it.”

The kiss comes naturally, like exhaling. You’re both half-frozen, and he tastes like mind and cold air, but it’s perfect anyway—slow and warm and just a little clumsy, because you’re still in skates and your balance is terrible, and he laughs into your mouth when you nearly topple over.

“I’ve got you,” he says, arms anchoring you close.

When you eventually sit on the benches again, sipping hot chocolate from a thermos he’d smuggled in his bag, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Next time, I’ll bring you here in the daytime like a normal person.”

You hum, smiling against the rim of the cup. “But I think I like this version better.”

Satoru’s fingers find yours and squeeze. “Me, too,” he says.

The final buzzer sounds.

The crowd erupts around you—horns blaring, feet stomping, voices swelling into an anthem of unbridled celebration. On the ice, bodies collide in a heap of jerseys and helmets, gloves flung into the air like confetti. The scoreboard flashes a victorious 5 – 4, and you swear your heart’s beating just as fast as the game-winning slapshot Satoru landed in the final two minutes.

You stay seated in the bleachers, slightly breathless, fingers clenched around the hem of your coat. The whole rink pulses with energy. You could cut the adrenaline with a knife. Students are screaming their heads off. Someone nearby throws a foam fingers into the rink. Your ears are ringing and your eyes are locked on the number 6 jersey, skating lazy circles while his teammates swarm Nanami in a dogpile near the goal.

Satoru Gojo.

You watch him turn, searching the stands. The grin on his face is dazzling, sweat-slicked hair sticking out of his helmet in damp tufts. He lifts his stick over his head like a banner, pointing it directly at you when he finds you in the crowd.

Your heart stutters. You’re not even embarrassed about how wide your smile stretches.

He doesn’t even wait for the rest of the ceremony.

Not ten minutes later, he’s climbed the barriers and jogged up the bleacher steps, ignoring the photographers, the shouts of “Gojo! Pictures!” and Nanami’s loud, “Get back here, Gojo!” He finds you in the fifth row, standing now, half-shocked and half-laughing, and barrels straight into you.

“Hey—” you start, but then he’s kissing you.

It’s not the first time—God knows it won’t be the last—but something about it makes the rest of the world dissolve. Your hands find the sides of his face, fingers catching on the straps of his helmet, as he presses you back gently against the guardrail. He tastes like mint and ice and sweat, and his smile never fully disappears against your mouth.

“I knew you’d come,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice rough with exertion. “Could feel it.”

You swat him lightly on the chest, breathless. “Of course I came. It’s the finals.”

“You didn’t come to the semi-finals,” he teases, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Thought I’d been demoted.”

“You were in the sin bin for half the game,” you retort. “Not exactly sweetheart behaviour.”

He grins against your cheek, pulling back just enough to look at you. The crowd’s still losing their minds around you, but neither of you seem to notice. His helmet’s off now, clutched in one hand, and his forehead leans against yours.

“You came tonight,” he repeats. “That’s all I needed.”

It hits you, then, just how many people are watching. Phones are out. A chant’s already building in the lower rows—Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!—but he doesn’t care. He kisses you again like you’re the only person in the arena.

Maybe you are.

“God,” he says, breathless as he pulls away, “you’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that after a win.”

You smile, fingers curled loosely in his jersey.

“Well,” you whisper, tugging him closer, “guess you’ve earned it.”

[fricks]

gojo likes to try incorporating you into his workouts. ☆

when he had first suggested you join him in the home gym, you'd thought he meant to work out alongside him. and sure, keeping up with the strongest is a miracle you weren't planning on performing, but you had gotten dressed in some nice gym clothes to at least get into the mood.

just for him to have you naked within the first few minutes. laid out on your back while gojo holds a plank between your spread legs.

apparently to satoru, the best motivation to keep his plank going is the reward of your taste. for as long as he can hold himself up, he lets himself feast.

"i could have motivated you verbally," your back arches up off the mat as your boyfriend flattens his tongue against your clit. you resist the urge to reach down and pull his hair, lest you throw him off-balance and he denies himself your pussy until he can hold another plank.

"you are," the vibrations of his words against your heat does more to wreck you than they probably should. "keep those pretty moans up. i wanna hear you."

he latches around your clit and sucks, which forces you to oblige almost instantly. god, you want to drag him upstairs and into bed and ride him for all he's worth. "right there," you exhale. "you're doing so good, toru."

"call me strong," he moans.

"really?" you snort through your nose. "you don't hear that enough?"

"nope. do it."

"you're sooo strong, toru." you laugh. "strong and pretty."

satoru lowers his head to lick a long stripe from your entrance up to your clit, the motion making your laughs turn to moans and his jaw slacken with...

did he just orgasm from that? god he's full of himself.

"you done?" you lift your head to look down at him. he's resting his flushed face against your parted thigh, but manages to shake his head nonetheless.

"not until you are," and he's latching back on, working you to orgasm with only his mouth: no hands to play with your pretty folds, no strong arms to hold you down and lessen your writhing... you want to hate how good he is at this, but you're so fucking close to the edge.

a part of you wants to force it down, try and prolong this pleasure as long as you can. both to feel the glory of his tongue a while longer and also to fuck with him, keep him in this plank for as long as you can.

but you couldn't stop this even if you did try. soon enough, you're squeezing your eyes shut and letting satoru hear his name fall from your lips as you cum. it's the best orgasm you've had in a while, which is saying something considering he gives you multiple a day.

and finally, once your legs have stopped shaking, he lowers himself out of his plank and sits on his heels in front of you.

"what the fuck," you look him over. "why don't you look tired?"

stupid question, maybe. all he gives you in return is a grin and a gentle smack to your sensitive pussy. you're sure you look like the one who's been putting all the work in: he hasn't even broken a fucking sweat.

"you need a break?" he asks, tilting his head like a cocky dog. "or you think you can ride me while i do my hip thrusts?"

[luveline]

𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐋𝐚𝐩

Clark stays the night for the first time. fem, 3k. [explicit] 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Are you bringing the briefcase?” 

“What’s your obsession with the case?” Clark asks. 

You shrug, tipping your head back to give him a better view of your eyes, widened in a mock-doe ogling, like he’s the biggest, brightest thing in your universe. It’s not that far from the truth. 

“I like the case,” you confide, bedroom eyes and a fresh coat of lipgloss waiting to be kissed off, ‘cos you know he’s too much of a gentleman to do anything about it. And because it’s nice, so nice, to see the way his face splits into a smile. He’s like sunshine bearing down on you. 

“Then it’s coming with me. Go get your coat, Peitho.” 

“Who’s that one?” you ask. 

“The goddess of persuasion…” —he leans down to breathe your air, just for a bit— “…and seduction,” he finishes, kissing your nose quickly. “Get your coat. Let’s go.” 

You collect your things into your bag and put on your coat. Clark presses a hand to the line of muscle between your shoulders, leading you out of the Daily Planet and toward the tram. You take it down to the station on your block, and Clark convinces you to double back for the greengrocers. Or, he grabs your hand and pulls you along, citing a deep need to find some snow mountain garlic. You make a boy risotto once and he thinks he calls the shots. 

Your love story with Clark isn’t exactly convoluted. He made you coffee and brought you out in the sun to watch ducks in Centennial Park. You’d teased him with delicate outfits and long stretches, had occasionally brought him dinner. And it isn’t a long story, either. It’s been, what, three weeks? Nearly four? Too long to be this nervous, and yet. Clark squeezes your hand as your heart trips for the third time in as many minutes, caught on the sharp cut of his jaw and his messy curls. He doesn’t say anything as you weave between tight aisles looking for the specialty foods, but you get the sense that he knows you’re nervous. 

“I can’t believe you remembered where I got the garlic,” you say conversationally. 

“It’s rare, right? From the Himalayas.” 

“Did I tell you that, too?” 

“Your article, honey,” Clark says, his eyes tracking the jars of preserves and a row of open-basket offerings. “Single clove, golden… ah-ha!” He lets your hand fall to grab a paper bag and the tongs buried within. This basket has a plastic covering over the top that clicks and folds upward, releasing a heavy scent. 

“Careful, Clark, it’s like, a billion dollars per pound.” 

He shakes his head, unworried. “How much do you need for the risotto? Tell me when. And don’t short it.” 

You decide not to short it —you’ll pay. But when you and Clark get to the counter, baggie of garlic, fresh oregano, ginger stems and tangerines dumped unceremoniously onto the counter by the cash register, he bats your hand away with the most aggression he’s ever shown you and offers the clerk his card.  

“I don’t like mean Clark,” you murmur, squinting in the sun as Clark shepherds you back outside. 

“No? You should get used to him.” 

“Didn’t peg you for a bully, Kent.” 

“I’m not.” He swings an arm over your shoulder, careful not to hit you with the groceries (what a loser!). “I could never bully you, you’re too nice. And who will make my dinner, if you’re upset?” 

“So funny.” 

“I know,” he says against your cheek. Your skin warms under a prim kiss. His lips part and the wet of his tongue doesn’t touch you, but you can feel it regardless, the humidity of his breath rolling over your skin. 

“Off!” you demand. 

He grins and takes back his arm. “Off,” he says, looking very much like he’d like to kiss you again. It’s awful how palpable the need is on his face. You ignore it as best as you can, too worried he’ll get you home and kiss you against the door, fumbling blindly for a bed he’s never seen. 

He’s less desperate than you’re making out. In fact, if Clark wants to seduce you is anyone’s guess. He holds your hand down the street to your apartment building, laughs lightly when you tug him behind the staircase toward the back, and holds your handbag while you rummage for your keys without protest. 

He places his case, your bag, and his shoes at the side table on the way in. You try to see your trimmings through his eyes, hand on his arm to balance as you pull off each of your shoes. You like the process of it, your fingers in his muscle, his eyes on your knee as you bring your foot up behind you, and your fingers as you slide them into the back of your shoe to tug it off. You like the sound they make as they topple to the floor, and the way you slip across the floor as Clark gathers you up for a hug right there in the door. His hair makes a sound as it falls around his face, Clark burying his nose in the side of your head. You hold his back. Feel for ridges. Find thick layers of fabric in the way. 

“Wanted to do this all day,” he says. 

If it weren’t so endearing to be wanted, you’d laugh. Clark doesn’t make you guess about his affections. He’s unlike anyone you’ve ever met, if only for his honesty. His earnestness. 

You duck your head into the curve of his neck. “Smell nice,” you mumble. 

“Are you tired?” 

“No… You’re… putting the moves on me.” 

“Is that what I’m doing?” His laugh vibrates at your temple. 

“Can you make me dinner?” 

He pulls away from you to hold your face. “Yeah, I can make you dinner.” 

The plan had been Clark would come over and you’d make dinner, considering your expertise. A chef’s column for the biggest news outlet in Metropolis doesn’t come easy. You’re good at what you do. And that risotto had been half the reason Clark fell in love with you, if he’s to be believed. (Though he doesn’t say love.) (The other half a thin, pale skirt.) 

Clark is a quick study. Your cooking lessons have helped him some. It’s nice to see him in your kitchen, waving a wooden spoon at you as he talks, stripping out of his suit jacket and rolling up his perfect white sleeves.

He gets broth up his arms and on his tie. You stand in front of him with the heat of the stove kissing your side and carefully work the knot from his neck. 

“Kiss?” he asks. 

You use his tie to guide him down. 

—

Clark brought his pajamas in the briefcase. 

He made you garlic butter and pesto by hand, plated up your risotto with a kiss. He hoisted your legs into his lap when you’d started to falter during the movie and he’s rubbed them until you’d dozed, and now he’s in the shower, having taken his pajamas and his shower things with him. His shampoo had been macadamia and argan oil. 

And his pyjama pants are blue. 

He rolls into your room with wet hair slicked to his neck and roughly towel dried at the front, blocking the TV with his height, a pair of socks still held in his hands. “I put my clothes in the laundry. Is that okay?” 

You’re hoping you hadn’t left your delicates at the top of the bin. “Yeah, of course it is. I’ll wash them before bed, they’ll be dry again before morning.” 

He shrugs. “I brought slacks for tomorrow.”

“How much fits in that briefcase?” 

“You’d be surprised. Move over?” 

You shuffle to one side of the bed so Clark can sit down beside you. He seems large against your headboard. You trace the curve of his neck to a relaxed jaw. There’s no stubble there when you run over his skin with your fingers, but there’s a teeny-tiny spot of blood under his chin. You wipe at it until it comes off. “I’d kiss it, but I’m worried it’ll get infected.” 

“Kiss me anyway,” he says, lifting his chin. His collar is tacky with water. 

You lift yours in turn to reach, lips pressing with the utmost care to his chin as he wraps an arm behind you. You can’t see the cut, but you worry you’ll hurt him if you aren’t careful, and he feels your hesitation under his hand. 

“It’s okay. You can’t hurt me,” he says, like this is normal to say, like it doesn’t have your heart cradling itself in the heat of your stomach. 

You kiss him again, then his neck, the column of it solid beneath your lips. You wait there with your nose tip digging in, but he doesn’t say anything. 

A small gasp floods from you as he grabs you by the waist and pulls you into his arms, on top of his legs, long and lithe and dipping the mattress underneath him. Your face falls flat against his collar, warm to damp, startled but far from unhappy by his sudden show of strength. He closes his arms around you and hugs you. In a moment, his nose rubs itself against your cheek in a nuzzle. It’s animalistic only in the sense that it’s without thought, his nose rubbing into the same spot over and over again. 

He doesn’t moan, but nearly. The sound he lets out is one of relief. Like you’d evaded him all day, and this is a victory. 

“Is this the part where we start telling each other secrets?” he asks.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly. 

“I didn’t know how badly I needed this.” 

You needle your arms behind his back to hold him, too.

“Do you…” 

“What?” he asks. 

“It will sound like I’m flirting, and I am a little, but it’s a genuine question, okay?” 

“Alright,” he says. You can tell he’s not about to laugh at you, which is nice. 

“Do you work out?” 

He smiles against your cheek. “Some. In the morning, when I can. I lift weights.” 

“I know that– I realise it’s a silly question. I don’t think people tend to look like you naturally.” 

“Is this still part of the genuine question?”

“No, this is the flirting.” 

“Oh, gotcha.” He knocks under your chin lightly. 

You look up to let him kiss you. 

He makes another wretched sound, like the beginning of a groan half-smothered by your mouth. Clark parts his lips, turning his head to the side, the taste of him pressed into your tongue as he breathes you in. It is incredibly foreign to be breathed in while you’re kissing, but Clark pulls at your back like he’s worried you’ll move away, feeling and breathing, sudden fingertips tumbling down your back. 

“Where are you going?” he whines. 

“You’re tickling me.”

“On accident. You really are Peitho, you know. She’s cunning and cruel when she wants to be.” 

“Don’t pressure me.” 

“Now that’s not funny, is it?” he asks, grinning as you lean down slowly. 

“Let me feel your heart.”

You press your fingers to his pulse. He lets you count the beats, says, “That’s sixty seconds,” like he’d known you would struggle to time it with your fingers. 

“I think you’re dead at a hundred.” 

“What’s that mean, doc?” he murmurs. 

You stroke his jaw with the flat of your nail. Not teasing —thinking. 

“I think I need to shower, too,” you say. He knows why. His eyes go lax behind his glasses with fondness. “Okay?” you ask, tapping his glasses with your nail gently. “You can clean the smudges off of your glasses while I’m gone. How’d they get this dirty, that’s crazy.” 

He rubs the small of your back with pressure. “I think it might’ve happened when I tried to get my face in your neck. And your ear. And, you know, your head.” 

He sounds delightfully bashful. It begets another kiss. 

You lose time in his lap. Really, you’d stay. But you need a minute in the shower to breathe through your nerves, and Clark is remarkably in touch with feelings, so he kisses you and sits up to encourage you away. “Go on. I’ll be here.” 

“Don’t look through my stuff. Promise?” 

“Sure,” he says, like a liar. 

You come back some twenty minutes later in your nicest pointelle pyjamas, skin slicked with a tiny bit of body oil and lotion atop it that smells of figs, ‘cos it’s the only one Clark’s ever mentioned liking aloud. He doesn’t skimp on compliments and loves to tell you that you smell good, but the fig one, the first time he smelled it, stopped him cold side by side on a couch in the coffee shop by his apartment. “What is that?” he’d asked. 

Your smug smile drops. “Clark,” you breathe. 

He pulls your teddy bear by the back and makes him wave. “Hi, honey.” 

“You found Charlie.” 

“You were hiding him.” 

“He was tastefully placed on my desk.” Where you’d hoped he wouldn’t be seen.

Clark pets Charlie’s downy head. “How could you hide him? He’s lovely. He told me–”

“Charlie didn’t tell you anything, he’s my teddy.” 

“Since you were young?” he asks. 

Charlie’s all worn around the armpits, the fur kissed anxiously from his cheeks. “I’ve always had him, yeah.” 

“I think I’d be remiss not to tell you that you look beautiful,” he says, “and Charlie says the same.” 

“Don’t talk through my teddy.” 

He presses Charlie to his chest like he’s a baby.

“He loves you.”

It turns your heart. You’d been ready to lay back in his lap and have him kiss you dizzy, tucking curls behind his ear to whisper saccharinely into the shell of it, but you’re thinking now that you want to curl up with him and find that box of chocolates he’d given you last week (for looking oh so morose for all of five seconds, apparently) to share. Have him rub your arms as you pretend to watch a movie. 

“Okay. Okay, come and hug me,” you say, leaning against your desk expectantly. 

Clark is up in three seconds flat. 

—

You wake with a start. 

There’s a shape beside you in bed, turned toward you, so close to you that you struggle to see him beyond the dark curls of his hair against your flowered pillow case. 

He has freckles on his shoulders. You hadn’t seen them last night in the dark, or even in the lamplight Clark begged for, just to see you, of course I want to see you, you’re beautiful like this, and they surprise you. There’s a handful of them across the hills of his shoulders. Barely any at all, but enough to kiss. 

He feels your mouth and wakes up quicker than you’d wanted. 

“Shit,” he says, grappling backwards for his glasses on the nightstand. 

“Clark?”

“Sorry.” When he turns back to you, he’s wearing his glasses again. You frown.

“What’s wrong?” 

Your stomach hurts. Like, hurts, the explanation loaded in one fell swoop. He slept with you and he didn’t mean to stay because he hadn’t ever meant to stay–

“No, sorry, nothing is wrong.” Clark clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I wake up badly, sometimes.”

“Was it me?” 

“No.” He smiles like you’re the sun, blinking sleep away lazily. His eyelids and mouth are both puffy with it. “No, of course it wasn’t you, come here. I slept well.” 

You’re aware, then, of his missing shirt, the way your thigh slides between his as he pulls you tight to his chest. 

Just like that. 

You press your face to his shoulder, rather than let him see your expression. The night before comes back to you in a heated rush, every soft touch and softer kiss. You shudder under his tracing patterns.

“Can see you better like this,” Clark says, bringing his hand to your cheek to angle you in the sunshine.

You’re too tired to move, but you want to be kissed. Fortunately, your boyfriend is as generous as he is kind, and he promises to do all the hard work. “You can make yourself comfortable, honey,” he murmurs, turning you onto your back with an easy strength.

You cover your mouth with your hand. 

Clark can see your smile regardless. “So pretty,” he says quietly, kissing your chest, glasses slipping down his nose as he cranes his neck further.  “God, you’re perfect like this.” 

“You didn’t kiss me good morning,” you murmur, mostly to tease him. 

“I will.” His hand finds the pulp behind your knee. “I will. I promise.” 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! this was two requests (here and here) put together thank you both<3 

[classyrbf]

being lord sukuna's new wife and he decides to celebrate by putting you in a mating press. He has you in the meanest mating press known to man. Your legs are thrown over his shoulders, knees pressed to your chest and your nails are digging into his tattooed skin, clinging to him for dear life. You feel every inch, every throbbing vein inside of you. He fucks you with such vigor, fucking you like he needs your cunt to live and to him he quite literally does. He needs to have you screaming his name, your poor cunt creaming around him and your nails scratching down his back. He’s got you stuffed to the brim, cum spilling out around the sounds, creating the most lewd sound that echoes off the walls of his bedroom. But he keeps going, because he’s far from done. His stamina, libido, and sheer will to have you go dumb on his cock is what keeps him going.

The smell of sweat and sex lingers in the air and clings to your skin, the scent of you intoxicating, making his mind whirl and cock throb. He has you breathless, eyes rolling to the back of your head so much you’re afraid they’ll get stuck there. Each time he hits that spot deep inside you, your legs shake, drawing you closer and closer to another orgasm. You’ve already lost count, but you know he’s keeping a tally. You’re a babbling mess and that’s all sukuna needs.

“What was that, wife? I can’t quite hear you.” He smugly asks, smirk written on his face. His thrusts get deeper and harder, skin on skin creating a sticky mess between you two. Your toes curl, your hole fluttering around his cock as you cum again. He growls when he feels you clench down, settling deep inside you just to feel you in all your glory. His clawed hand reached up to your face, gripping your chin to face him, licking the drool from the corner of your mouth while he slowly pumps his cock.

He kisses you messy and slow, tongues sliding across each other, biting down your lip, swallowing your moans and pathetic whimpers. You let out loud mewl, shaking your head when you feel his pace pick back up. “No, no, no, no,” you cry. The feeling is all too much, your entire body tingling, brain mush, but why does your pussy want more? Your mouth is saying one thing but your body is saying another.

“No?” His brows furrow, sliding his cock out until it’s just the tip inside. “You don’t want my cum? You don’t want me to breed this cunt? Say it with your chest.”

You’re laying there, out of breath, pupils blows wide and now you’re conflicted. Part of you wants to crawl in his skin, feel so connected with him, wanting him deeper and deeper inside of you. But you’re so exhausted, your mind feels like it’s gonna break if you cum again. Can you even walk? You were unsure at this point. “I…I…” Your words get caught in your throat when he slams his cock back inside you, a loud cry echoing through the room. “Ah! Ah! Ah!” You’re in no position to run as he just fucks you, aiming to fill your cunt.

Your jaw falls slack, his sweaty forehead pressed against yours. Heavy balls slap against your ass, jaw clenched, completely focused on breeding your cunt and watching the way your eyes go wide every time you feel him paint your walls. “Scream, cry, do whatever you want, but I need to fucking breed you.” He grits his teeth. He feels so deep, like you’re going to split open any second, but you take it because deep down, no matter how overwhelming it may feel, you want it too.

He loudly groans, slamming inside you as he cums deep, spurts of hot cum filling you up. Half lidded eyes stare into yours, both of you watching each other come undone. Sukuna fucks his cum into you slowly, a loud squelch following each time he presses his hips against your ass. He pulls out, hands holding your legs apart to watch cum drip from your hole. It’s almost like art to him. Your legs are trembling, breathy whimpers falling past your lips in attempts to catch your breath.

Sukuna stares at you as if you’re the greatest thing in the world, his hands caressing your entire body before settling on either side of your face to help ground you. “You did well,” he hums, scanning your face. He understands you can barely walk, let alone even think, taking it upon himself to lift you in his arms and taking you into the next room to bathe you.

[daddyjackfrost]

Lost in The Wild ; B. Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: It was supposed to be an easy mission. In and out. But then communication went out. The intel became useless. The weather turned horrific. Bucky lost his gun. And then, you.

Warnings: Fluff, slow-burn, friends to lovers, horrible weather, blood, injuries, yearning, cursing, Ft. Sam, Steve, and Natasha, SMUT, p in v, oral (f rec.), kissing, praise, MDNI, unprotected sex, brief crying, they’re so in love your honor, down!bad bucky, lmk if I missed any! WC: 12.9k

A/N: First ever Bucky post! It’s been years since I’ve written on this account so have mercy on me. Thank you to all the wonderful writers on here that are so talented and inspiring. As for timeline… I don’t know. Canon? What canon? Comments & Reblogs are appreciated!

The rain had been coming down in sheets for hours. Not the kind that offered relief or clarity—no, this was brutal, heavy rain, the kind that blurred the edges of the world and made the earth itself hostile. It was the kind that soaked you to the bone, made every step a battle, and turned even the most solid ground into something slippery, a trap waiting to swallow you whole. 

The terrain had started off rocky, already a pain in the ass. Sharp crags jutted out from the hillsides like broken bones. Narrow passes that barely fit a single person had suddenly become rivers of slick mud and falling debris. Visibility was horrible and comms were patchy at best, and then they were gone entirely—just static and silence, the kind that settled into your chest and made it difficult to think straight. 

Bucky’s boots sank with every step, the mud sucking greedily at the soles, threatening to pull him under. His jaw was clenched tight, his vibranium arm flexing and twitching as adrenaline surged through him. He was briefly glad that he had cut his hair and didn’t have to worry about strands on his face. A small feat, but a significant one. The cold bit through his tactical gear, but he barely felt it. All he could focus on was the silence in his ear. 

Your voice, gone. 

One second, you were right behind him—mud on your face, grinning like an idiot, breathless and half-laughing about the total bullshit of intel you both had been fed. He had grunted and told you to stay close. 

Then, the world cracked open. 

A landslide tore through the ridge, and before he could grab you, before he could warn you—before he could even think–you were gone in a roar of earth and stone and rain.

He screamed your name. Loud, desperate. Absolutely no care as to who may have heard. He screamed once more, the rain slapping harshly against his skin. 

There had been nothing. No response. Just the sound of the storm ripping the world apart. 

Now, he was moving blind and completely alone. Mud covered his hands, smeared across his cheek, soaked into his skin and clothes. His rifle had been torn from him earlier and his sidearm was somewhere in a ravine miles back, lost in the chaos. All he had now was a combat knife and fear—chewing through his chest at an incomprehensible rate. 

In the distance, he could hear the screams of the Hydra agents. Some had been swept away when you had been and the others were trying to hold on, trying to find him and survive. He silently prayed that another landslide, something horrific, would wipe them out. 

He knew that the bunker had been emptied. He stumbled upon it when he began looking for you and had been tempted to go in, try and get some help. But he needed to find you, first. He had turned around and hadn’t looked back. 

He tripped over a root, hit the ground hard, and didn’t even flinch. Just pushed himself back up, spit blood, and kept moving. He had to find you. 

He had to find you. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough and low, throat raw.

“Focus. Come on.” 

Every snapped twig, every distant sound—he turned to it like a live wire. He felt like an animal, something manic, as he listened for any sound of you. Hope and terror felt the same now as his heart beat too fast. He was distantly aware that his hands were shaking, and not from the cold. 

You were out there somewhere. For a split second, he let his mind wander. You could have been crushed—dead. 

No. No, he couldn’t think like that. He blinked once, harshly, before shoving all those horrible thoughts to the back of his mind, where he kept all the bad. 

You were smart. Deadly. He knew that. He knew you were better than most people–most soldiers–he’d ever worked with. But even the best had limits and you were human. Flesh, bleeding, breakable. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. You had looked so small as you disappeared into the landslide. He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind, of the way your eyes had briefly widened and your lips had parted. His tortuous mind wondered if you would have called out for him.

It didn’t matter, he decided. He hadn’t acted fast enough, hadn’t caught you. He didn’t even realize he was whispering your name again until it broke in his throat. 

“Where the fuck are you?” 

Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the twisted trees and gnarled terrain. He whipped his head around, trying to look for anything, then, he caught the shimmer of something. He wasn’t sure if it was metal or blood but he moved fast. Slipped once, hard, landed on his knees again but didn’t stop. His hands clawed through the mud, his breathing loud and ragged. 

Then—there. In the shadow of a fallen tree, half-covered in mud and leaves and blood, was you.

Your body was twisted awkwardly, like you’d been thrown by the force of the slide. One arm cradled to your chest. Cuts littered your face, lips split, blood soaking into your torn-up gear. There was a deep gash along your side—too deep—and your eyes were half-lidded, fluttering like you were waiting to let go. 

Bucky tore through the mud, pulled and stretched his torn muscles and dropped beside you with a choked breath. His hands hovered over your body, not touching yet. Not sure where it was safe. Not sure if he could bear to feel how cold you were. 

His fingers twitched, and he bit down roughly on his bottom lip to prevent the wounded sound that almost left his throat at the sight of you. Your eyes fluttered once more before gently shutting. “Hey—hey, no,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Don’t you fucking dare. Open your eyes, doll.” 

His warm breath brushed against your cheek and your lips twitched, a shallow breath escaping. You willed your eyes to open, even if it was just for a moment.

“Barnes…”

He nearly collapsed from the sound of your voice. It was quiet, weaker than he’d ever heard it or wanted too, but it was there. 

Relief hit him like a truck and he moved closer to you, but it didn’t fix anything. You were still bleeding, still barely breathing. He could feel the tremble in your body as your fingers brushed against his sleeve like you were checking if he was real. He pressed his arm closer to you, finding brief comfort in the way you squeezed his skin. 

It was the first time he had felt warmth in the last three hours. 

“Alright, I got you,” he whispered, lips trembling from the cold. “I’ve got you now, okay?” His voice was low, rough, tight with something he couldn’t name. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/n. Just—just stay with me, yeah?’ 

You tried your best to nod but everything felt too heavy and you were too weak so you simply hummed and he almost choked at the sound. He pushed the tree off of you, murmuring softly when you groaned in pain.

“I know, I know, just a second, doll.” 

He breathed in deeply before he crouched down and scooped you up, carefully, like you’d shatter if he breathed wrong. His arms and body were solid beneath you like he hadn’t suffered similarly, like he wasn’t injured. You hissed in pain but your arms naturally curled weakly around his neck. At the moment, you trusted him more than anything. More than the pain, than your own body. 

Bucky held his breath and kept his eyes ahead, knowing that if he made eye contact with you like this, all broken and bleeding in his arms, he’d crumble. He tightened his grip on your body when your eyes shut and pressed his chin into your hair. 

“Open ‘em, doll,” he muttered. “Come on. Please.” 

You tried, but your head felt heavy so you dug your fingernails into his neck instead. His hold on you tightened even further as he ran, rain striking down, harshly and unforgiving. The temperature was dropping rapidly and he knew he had to get you somewhere dry, somewhere he could take a look at all your injuries. 

By some miracle, and he would later pray about it, he found shelter not far from the ridge–a cave. He remembered seeing it during the initial scope of the terrain, during the mission brief. You had joked about it, something stupid about him retreating into the cave for a nap. He laughed—or, he thinks he did. He wished he had. 

He’d kill a man to hear your laugh right now. 

The cave was barely more than a dent in the mountain—narrow and damp, carved into the rock like the earth itself had given up trying to stay solid. The wind howled outside, slicing through the trees and screaming through the cracks in the stone. Rain still battered the world, relentless in its fall. 

He had to crawl to get inside with you in his arms. 

The stone scraped his knees, his elbows. His back ached from how he curled around your body to shield you from the worst of it. He didn’t stop, barely felt it. All he saw was the blood soaking through your clothes. You were shivering, lips blue, breathing unevenly. A faint wheeze escaped with each breath, and even in sleep, your brows were pinched in pain.

Once he was deep enough, he laid you gently on the stone floor. Bucky knelt beside you, soaked through, hands shaking. His face was drawn tight, teeth clenched so hard his jaw clicked. Rain still dripped from the ends of his hair, trailing down his neck, his face, soaking into his torn shirt. His fingers were red and brown, a deep maroon that he had painted with before. 

He blinked down at your unmoving body and clenched his fists. He could barely think straight with his heart beating out of his chest so he breathed in deeply and flipped the switch, the one he hadn’t used in years. The one that turned him into a machine. That buried softness and kindness and everything he didn’t deserve to feel beneath layers of instinct and orders and purpose. 

He was a soldier. You needed a soldier. You needed him to be smart, tactful. 

He peeled his jacket off and wrung the water out, laying it beside you. He scooped your unconscious body gently and laid you down on his jacket. He cut away the arms with shaking fingers and wrapped them around your side, trying to stop the bleeding. 

He looked through his field kit, whatever was left of it, to find something, anything, that he could use to put some part of you back together. He used the wipes to clean the blood and dirt off your face, sanitized your cuts as best as he could before he plastered on the bandaids. His fingers pressed against your skin, once, twice, and then he pulled away like you had burned him. 

He pulled his belt free and used it to tighten the splint he’d carved for your arm out of his remaining gear. He moved with precision, detachment—like you were just another asset, but his hands trembled when they brushed your cheek and he hated it. Hated how you made him feel even when you were barely conscious, when he was trying inexplicably hard not too. 

“Come on, Y/n,” he breathed out. “Open your eyes.” He curled his hands into your body, trying to stop the tremors. He’s not sure he’d be reacting like this if it were anyone else. He doesn’t even want to entertain the thought, because the conclusion is one he can’t face. You’re his partner, his teammate. You laughed at his terrible jokes sometimes. Shared your food with him when he forgot to eat. You always waited until he got on the jet before calling it in, like you had to make sure he wouldn’t get left behind. 

You weren’t his, weren’t anything. He shouldn’t be shaking like this, blinking rapidly like if he focused real hard, this battered version of you would be replaced by the you he knew. But he knew your laugh. The sound of your footsteps. The way your eyes sometimes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking. You mattered to him, which was so much worse.

And now you were bleeding out in a cave that stank of moss and wet rot, and he couldn’t even fucking stop shaking. He didn’t have the right materials or any way to contact Steve or Sam. He felt useless, which is just another thing he hated about himself at the moment. 

He stood up slowly, recognizing the familiar aches in his body, already mapping the bruises and new scars he knew littered his body. He had to get a fire started, had to get you and himself warm, so he scanned the area for a completely dry place before he dropped to his knees, fumbling through his kit. The cotton lining of his gloves—dry enough. He tore it out with his teeth, rolling it into a crude nest with shaking hands. He shoved it beneath a wedge of dry bark he’d peeled from the heartwood of a split branch, praying the core was dry enough to catch.

The first strike of flint against steel sparked nothing. The second—nothing. He swore, then coughed, the sound raw. His hands were still trembling.

Third strike. A spark jumped.

It kissed the cotton and died.

He closed his eyes. Again.

Fourth strike. Fifth.

A breath. A tremble. A single ember caught—barely a glow, a flicker like a dying star. He hunkered over it, shielding it from the damp air with his body, and blew—gently, desperately, his breath ragged. The ember pulsed. It grew.

It flared.

Tiny flames licked the shredded cotton, then the bark.

Heat.

He nearly sagged with relief as the fire cracked to life, light dancing against the slick cave walls. His hands hovered over it, aching, blistered with cold. He gave himself a moment, a single moment to enjoy the heat before he crawled to you and gently pulled you closer to the fire, close, but not too close. He didn’t want to risk it. 

His fingers moved over your temple, gently checking the wound there. You flinched and Bucky almost sighed in pained relief. At least you weren’t unconscious. Just sleeping. He could deal with that. His fingers scraped gently against ripped skin and you flinched again, a broken sound leaving your throat. 

He froze before his thumb brushed your eyebrow. He blinked once at the action before he snapped at himself, standing up so fast he smacked his shoulder against the cave ceiling. Pain rippled through his back and he lurched forward, clutching his left arm. 

He fell to his knees, coughing. The sound echoed and for a moment, it truly felt like his own personal hell. He looked down and grimaced at the blood. He had yet to take a moment and analyze his own injuries, but he knew there was no point. Whatever it was, he’d survive, and you…you may not. He had to focus on you. 

He wiped his mouth and stripped off what was left of his shirt, wet and freezing, and crouched beside you again, lifting your body into his lap to wrap his arms around you. Your temperature was dropping and there had been pregnant pauses where you had stopped shivering. 

He didn’t like what that may mean. 

You were limp against him, your face tucked under his chin, breath fanning across his throat. He could feel every line of you—every bruise, every tremble. He murmured a soft apology when his arm accidentally grazed the gash in your side. The fire’s orange hues danced across your skin and he watched carefully, momentarily awed. 

You were alive, he had to remember that. He was rocking back and forth like he had forgotten. 

“I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispered, barely audible over the raging storm outside. “I should have kept you in front of me. Watched your back, instead of you watching mine.” 

His hold on you tightened and he released a small breath when you pressed your nose into his throat. “I could have grabbed you, kept you from falling…” 

His voice cracked and he pressed his mouth to the top of your head, breathing you in like a man starved. All he could do now was wait, wait for your body temperature to rise, wait for you to wake up. 

He hated waiting. 

The cave was wet, and water dripped steadily from the ceiling into the puddles forming near the entrance. The air smelled like steel and earth and his knees ached from the cold rock floor, his back stiff from how tightly he held you.

All he could do was ignore all the feelings that threatened to crawl through his chest by thinking about next steps. When you were awake, able to move, he knew that getting in contact with Steve or Sam was going to be difficult, but it needed to be done. 

Briefly, his mind flashed to the bunker. Hydra had kept it a secret but SHIELD had found out, as it sometimes did. It should have been an easy mission, in-and-out, but as reachable as everything sometimes seemed, the weather had always been untameable, with a mind of its own. 

Still, while they had prepared for it, no one had expected it to get this bad. Even now, the storm raged wildly outside. The sound of it was both anxiety-inducing and welcomed, background noise he hadn’t asked for but didn’t mind. 

While your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed you closer to his body and angled you closer to the fire and shut his eyes.

You woke to the sound of breathing.

Not yours—his. Measured. Steady. Like he was forcing every inhale calmly, despite its aggression. 

Your head was on his shoulder. His hand was on your thigh, warm and still. The cave was still cold and dark but the fire offered welcome heat and glow. Everything inside you ached—bones and skin all stiff and frozen, some cracked and some bruised.

You stirred slightly, a soft movement of your chin. Bucky felt it, he had listened closely as your breathing changed and your muscles shifted. 

“Bucky…” Your throat was hoarse, lips dry. You were still pressed against him, his hands warm and solid, holding you together. 

He didn’t answer at first. Just a small movement of his shoulder. 

Then he exhaled hard. “We’re moving.” 

The softness from before—his trembling hands, the whisper of your name, that broken honesty in his words and body—was gone. Replaced by that rigid, sharp-jawed version of him you’d only seen in combat or when he was forced to engage with strangers. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring toward the mouth of the cave like the storm may break in at any second. 

You slowly nodded, your nose brushing against the skin of his throat. His throat bobbed before his hold on you loosened just a fraction. 

“I can walk,” you rasped, words muffled as you tried to sit up. 

Instantly, Bucky’s arms around you tightened. “No, you can’t.” 

You tried again, “I can—”

“You can’t.” His voice cut like a blade, a little throaty and gruff. “Your ribs are unstable. Your shoulder’s fucked, and the gash on your side will rip open any second. You’re not getting back up.” He exhaled. “I’m not risking it.” 

Instead of answering right away, you slowly wiggled your fingers and toes, trying to get feeling back in them. After a moment, you lifted your head off his shoulder and groaned in pain, wincing when your unused muscles moaned in pain. 

“Hey, fuck,” Bucky’s exterior slipped for a second and he looked panicked, one hand on your good shoulder and the other on your arm, trying to offer some support. “Be careful.” He helped you slip off his lap, hand on your back—warm, solid, pulsing. 

Once you were sitting up straight, Bucky leaned back on his heels, one hand subtly reached out towards you in case you needed him. 

You swallowed hard and blinked away the exhaustion in your eyes. “Where are we going?” 

“I’ve got a plan.” His tone was clipped, controlled. Every word chosen to shut you down before you could argue. You could tell by his stiff shoulders and the way he refused to look at you that he wasn't to be reasoned with right now. 

Still, you had to try. “Bucky, look at me.” 

He froze, kept his eyes on the floor. For a second, you thought he’d listen. You just needed to see him. Needed to hear everything his eyes had to say. Instead, he shook his head. 

Bucky stood, already pulling his remaining gear together—knives, makeshift medkit, the remnants of his utility belt. He moved like a machine, like he’d mapped the next twenty steps and was already living in them. 

You watched him carefully, watched his body and the stretch of his muscles. By his movements alone, you knew he had injured his leg a bit, perhaps a sprain. His ribs hurt, probably bruised. He hadn’t cleaned himself up, not like he had you. There was still mud and blood on his face but it did little to hide his exhaustion, the frustration that had etched into his skin. 

Remnants of his soft whispers, his delicate touch still danced across your skin and you locked them away, kept them close to your heart as you came to terms with this version of him. You wanted him to look at you. 

He rolled his shoulders once, picked up his jacket, now warm, and slipped it on before he knelt in front of you. 

“This is gonna hurt.” His arms slid under your knees and shoulders, lifting you like it was nothing. But you could see the strain on his muscles. “Try not to pass out.” He slowly maneuvered you until you were draped across his back, legs and arms locked around him to the best of your ability.

You gritted your teeth, breath catching as pain stabbed down your side and back. You didn’t fight him—couldn’t, because his body was warm and solid against yours, still slightly soaked through, even trembling slightly beneath the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. 

You wanted to thank him, wanted to tell him to take a moment for himself, knowing he must have spent hours just taking care of you, but you also knew better. Knew that you both had to get out of this storm. 

You pressed your face into his neck as he bent to crawl out the cave. His knees and hands scraped against the rough, cold floor and you winced for him. He said nothing as his hold on your waist tightened and he stepped out into the storm. 

The cold slapped you both in the face. The wind cut sideways through the trees. The rain had turned the world into a mess of slick rock and rotting leaves and ankle-deep mud. Bucky moved like he had done this a hundred times, like he had spent hours analyzing the terrain and perfected where to step. 

You didn’t speak as he carried you down the ridge, every muscle in his body tense with focus. He didn’t look at you once, even when you had hissed in pain. His jaw was locked, veins tight in his neck, eyes scanning every inch of his surroundings. The rain  and mixture of leaves slapped against his face. Instinctively, you wiped his cheek clean. 

You didn’t recognize the path he was taking. It wasn’t toward the evac point—not unless he’d circled back, which didn’t make sense in this terrain or weather. You stretched your neck, trying not to pay attention to the coldness that seeped into your bones. His fingers tightened under your thighs. 

“Where are we going?” You asked, lips brushing against his ear. 

He hesitated for just a second. “The bunker.” 

You lifted your head weakly, eyes wide. “The Hydra bunker?” 

“There’s a comms room. Secure line. I can tap into SHIELD frequencies. Get a ping out.” 

He really had thought about this. You frowned, the thought of Bucky holding you in that cave, his mind running rampant as he kept you alive, circled in your mind. 

“But it’s full of—” 

“It’s empty,” he said, with certainty that chilled you. “I already scoped it. Before I found you.” 

“You—” You blinked, once, twice, and then leaned your head over his shoulder, trying to understand him. “What?” 

“I saw it when I was looking for you. It was empty. I was going to go call and wait for help, but I turned around.”

You stared at him. Logically, you knew that made sense. If he had called for help, maybe neither of you would be in this situation. But, a small, twisted part of you frowned.

“You were going to leave me,” you whispered, even though you knew it wasn’t true. He had just said that he turned around and he did find you. But he could have taken longer, or not come to find you at all if he had been ordered not to. 

Bucky finally turned his head and met your eye. And, there it was—something breaking loose in his face, just for a second, like the very thought you just had, had been eating away at him. “I was going to get help. But I knew I had to find you. So, I did.” 

You looked away, chest tight, heart fluttering with something unexplainable.

He didn’t speak again. 

It took an hour to reach the edge of the treeline. An hour of silence, mud, and Bucky’s unyielding grip around your trembling body. Every step he took was a choice, to not panic, not spiral, not let himself fall into the noise that threatened to tear his mind and heart apart. 

He needed to stay sharp and diligent. You were depending on him. 

So, when he saw the crumbling silhouette of the Hydra compound through the trees—half-collapsed, rotting into the ground—he didn’t hesitate, just kept walking. 

“We’re close,” he muttered, and set you down gently behind a fallen log, hidden beneath wet pine boughs. His hand gripped your thigh and his finger curled under your chin, tilting your head so you could meet his eyes.

“Stay here. No matter what.” 

“Bucky—”

He dropped his hand and pulled his knife from his side holster, checking the edge. “One of them might still be in there. I’ll handle it.” He pointed the knife at the ground. “Do not try and help me.”

You sighed. “You don’t have to—” 

“I do.” His voice was rough now. Not angry, but final. An edge to it that resembled the very sharpness of the blade in his hand. “I’ll come back for you.” 

He looked at you one more time. Let his eyes meet yours for a moment before they travel the length of your body, pausing at your side. 

Then he was gone. 

The forest swallowed him whole. 

You waited, every breath sharp in your chest. You were drenched, hair sticking to skin. Rain pattered softly on the leaves above you. Your hands trembled in your lap. You hated the way your body felt like a prison—useless, aching, broken. Hated that you couldn’t follow him. 

You had been through worse, had survived so much worse. You could have helped him, could have stood on your own if you really had to. 

Bucky made it so you didn’t have to. You didn’t know how you felt about that, about him. 

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Or, so you guessed. 

Then, you heard it. A single, muffled thud. A body. There had been someone in there. 

But then came nothing else. Just silence. 

The underbrush shifted and he reappeared, soaked and stone-faced, blood drying on his knife and on his neck. You didn’t ask, didn’t have to. He was breathing more heavily, slowly, and you knew his injuries had worsened. 

He was a super soldier, but he wasn’t immortal. 

Bucky knelt beside you, eyes meeting yours briefly before scanning the sky through the trees. “I got through. Signal’s weak, but I managed to reach Steve. They’re getting the jet in the air.” 

You reached out, fingers grazing his wrist. He didn’t look at you and didn’t pull away either. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife and you slowly pried it from his hands, tossing it beside you. 

“You’re going to be okay,” he said softly. It was so quiet, like you weren’t meant to hear it. 

He barely acknowledged what he said and you decided that he didn’t know he had said it, pretended like the words didn’t make you freeze, remind you of him in the cave, feeling and talking to you like he had already lost you. 

You sat shoulder-to-shoulder as you both waited for the quinjet. 

The warmth of your bodies pressed together reminded you strangely of home.

The extraction was supposed to feel like relief. 

But to Bucky, it felt like exposure—too loud, too bright, too late. 

The quinjet split the sky open with its roar, cutting through the clouds like a blade. Trees bent under the force of the rotors. Wind tore through the clearing. And all Bucky could do was hold onto you tighter, shielding your body from the chaos and branches like his own didn’t matter. 

Sam was the first down the ramp. Steve right behind him. Both armed, both scanning for threats. 

Bucky didn’t speak at first, just waited until Sam looked over at him, then stood up, his leg pressed against your back for stability. 

“She’s critical,” he yelled, voice flat. “Bruised ribs, busted shoulder, hypothermic, and infection risk.” You looked at him, eyes wide. “She’s lost too much blood.” 

Steve’s eyes flicked over both of you—your limp body, Bucky’s slashed and bloodied arm, the bruises blooming across both of your cheeks. He didn’t ask questions, just nodded. “Let’s move.” 

A medic stepped forward with a stretcher. Bucky stepped in front of them like a wall. “Be careful.” You almost smiled. The medic—young, wide-eyed—nodded quickly. You slipped your hand into his and fingers curled around your hand.

Bucky helped you onto the stretcher, murmured something soft when you winced in pain. He didn’t let go of your hand until they forced him to.

Sam and Steve watched closely as Bucky followed right beside the stretcher, matching their steps, never more than an inch away. His jaw was locked, eyes burning. You reached out for him again and he took your hand in his. 

You turned to the medic and pulled Bucky closer. “He’s injured,” you rushed out. “Badly. His leg, ribs, and arms.” Bucky tried cutting you off but you squeezed his hand. “Shut up, Barnes.” 

The medic stared at you both and you blinked slowly. “Treat him, okay? Don’t listen to him. Listen to me.” You smiled softly, trying to ease the tension between the poor, young medic’s shoulders. “Talk to Steve if he complains.” 

“Y/n,” Bucky muttered, “I’m fine.” 

The quinjet lifted, slicing up through the trees. 

You passed out again before they hit altitude. 

The world returned slowly. 

A dull ache in your side, your chest. The sterile scent of disinfectant. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. 

And then, warmth.

A heavy hand around yours. Thumb brushing back and forth in a pattern you could feel in your bones, something soft and ingrained. 

You recognized the weight, the press of skin. You blinked, the ceiling fuzzy above you, mouth dry.

“Buck?”

His head snapped up from where it had been resting on his forearm. His eyes were bloodshot. His stubble had grown into something darker, rougher. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in centuries. 

You tried to smile, muscles groaning after minimal use.

“You look like shit.” 

For half a second, something cracked—his face shifted like he was going to laugh, maybe even cry. His eyes widened and his lips wobbled. But then he shut it down, wiped the emotion clear. 

Slid the mask back into place. 

He sat upright, hand still enclosed around yours. “You’re awake. Good.” He kept his voice smooth, monotone. It was killing him, pretending to be indifferent, but he couldn’t express the relief he was feeling. He hadn’t heard your voice in so long, hadn’t seen that smile. 

You frowned, eyebrows furrowing. It hurt a bit and you faintly recalled soft fingers brushing against your forehead. “Don’t do that,” you whispered, clearing your throat. 

Bucky blinked before he brought a paper cup filled with water to your lips. “I’m fine.”

Eagerly, you pulled the straw into your mouth and sucked, letting the water wash away the dryness. You finished all the water and wiped your chin. “I didn’t ask if you were fine.”

His jaw flexed. He looked away. Hand still around yours, thumb still tracing patterns into your skin. 

You tightened your grip on his hand and his eyes met yours briefly before he looked at the monitors as if he couldn’t describe your charts with his eyes closed. 

“Thank you,” you said, quietly, a small smile on your lips.

It was silent for a moment, something that could have stretched into something uncomfortable, but then he bowed his head and broke—his shoulders shaking just slightly, his hand gripping yours like he was trying to ground himself. 

He didn’t cry, not really. But you could feel it—the sheer weight of everything he hadn’t let himself feel, the weight of your life on him, the heaviness of his guilt. 

You stayed silent, held his hand tightly as your thumb drew circles on his skin. You had your own guilt; the weight of what you could have done, how you should have been more diligent, reached out for him, fought for yourself harder and made it to him, been less of a burden. 

But this wasn’t about you. This was about him, and how he tried his best, his very hardest to keep you alive. How you made him confront his feelings for the first time, with the threat of loss looming behind him. 

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, hoarsely. “I—fuck. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I’ve never been that scared in my life. Not during Hydra, not even when I came back.” 

You stared at him, heart tight and eyes shiny. You weren’t usually an emotional person, but these were unusual circumstances. When you had been swept away, as you were thrown around and bruised, all you could think about was him; how he’s your best friend and you never told him, how all you wanted was for him to be more, someone you could love and hold. 

“I would never have made it,” he said, eyes bright, “If anything happened to you.” 

Your eyes stung and your heart beat faster, the monitor beeped in warning. Neither of you noticed. 

You breathed his name and he leaned closer, the heat of his body caressing yours. You brought your joined hands to your lips and kissed the back of his hand, slow and soft, eyes on him. 

His breath caught like you’d hit him with a bullet, his entire body stilling. His lips parted in wonder and his eyes widened slowly. 

“I’m okay,” you smiled. “Nothing happened. You made sure of that. I’m okay.” You needed him to know, needed him to understand that you wouldn’t have made it if anything happened to him, that you were grateful to him. 

Before he could answer, the door slid open and Dr. Bates stepped in, tablet in hand, coat wrinkled like she hadn’t taken it off for weeks. 

Her eyes fell on you, Bucky, then your joined hands. She smiled, just a little. “Sorry to interrupt.” Bucky straightened up but didn’t let go of your hand. You turned towards her. “I’m glad you’re awake, Y/n. It’s good to have you back.”

You smiled at her, glancing at the tablet in her hand.

“Thanks, Doc.” 

“You’ve been under for two weeks,” she started gently, coming to the edge of your bed. Your eyes widened in surprise and you glanced at Bucky, who stared at you, unblinking.

 “We had to keep you sedated—” she explained, “your body was in rough shape when you came in. Ribs deeply bruised, bordering on contusions. Your right shoulder was nearly dislocated, and you had early-stage sepsis. If you hadn’t been found when you were—” she paused, glancing at Bucky—“you wouldn’t have made it.” 

You turned your head slowly towards him, lips pulling into a frown. 

He looked away. 

“You’re lucky,” the doctor continued. “He kept you alive long enough for us to stabilize you. Field-treated half of your injuries himself. Not exactly regulation, but…” she smiled, gently, “it worked.” 

You gave Bucky’s hand the faintest squeeze. “So…Am I cleared to go?” 

Dr. Bates hesitated, then nodded. “As long as you don’t overdo it. No combat. No gym. No carrying anything heavier than a coffee cup. You’ll need regular check ups—especially to monitor your lungs and immune response. And, you shouldn’t be alone.”

Before you could speak, Bucky’s voice—clear, rough—cut in. 

“I’ll be with her.” 

The words were simple, but the way he said them—calm, final, almost soft—settled something in your chest and made warmth swim through your body. 

Dr. Bates blinked, almost like she’d expected a fight. Then she nodded again. “Good. Then I’ll start the discharge paperwork.” 

She turned and left, and the door hissed closed behind her. 

Silence fell again, heavy, but not uncomfortable. 

You stayed quiet for a beat, still absorbing it all. The ache in your ribs had settled into something manageable, but another kind of ache twisted low in your chest, one you couldn’t ignore. 

You turned your head slightly on the pillow, eyes slowly growing heavier. “What about you?” 

Bucky looked up from where he was still gripping your hand, a blanket of something softer, something resembling relief had been draped over his shoulders.

“What?” 

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice soft. “Your leg…and your arm. Your ribs. You were limping when—when you carried me.” 

His brows pinched together like you’d just reminded him of something he’d forgotten and you briefly panicked. Bucky would refuse to get medical attention if it meant he had to leave you, you knew he would. It was just who he was. You loved him so much. 

Abruptly, you blinked—eyes wide for a second before you schooled them. You had never let yourself think it, much less admit it so openly. 

“I’m fine,” he replied, quickly, trying to brush it under the rug. 

You narrowed your eyes and swallowed the lump in your throat. “Don’t give me the bullshit brush-off, Bucky. What did they say?” 

Before he could dodge the question again, the door slid open and Dr. Bates reappeared, a different tablet in her hands. 

“Something wrong?” She asked, glancing between you. 

You nodded gently towards Bucky. “Can you tell me the truth? About him. Did he let you take a look?” 

Bucky gave a little sigh, leaning back in the chair. And yet, even then, he didn’t let go of your hand. You briefly wondered if he knew he was still holding it, but the weight of it, the way it felt like his lifeline, made you aware that he did. 

Dr. Bates didn’t even hesitate, like she had expected this sooner. “He came in with three fractured ribs, a torn ligament in his left leg, and deep lacerations on his arm. Didn’t want to be checked and told us to prioritize you.” She sounded almost fond. 

You blinked at him slowly and he looked away, mouth twisting into a hard line. He didn’t want you to know these things, didn’t think they were relevant. He had half a mind to remind the doctor of patient confidentiality, but then he lifted his eyes and the genuine concern on your face, in the tremble of your fingers, kept him quiet. 

She continued, tapping her screen. “The serum accelerated his healing, of course. Most of it was resolved within days. He’s been medically cleared since the first week.” She paused, then added, almost like an afterthought, “He also requested a bed next to yours. Just in case.” 

Your heart flipped and your ears felt warm. He was so obvious in his care, it dripped and leaked out of him no matter how hard he tried to keep it locked up and it was so beyond endearing, you almost burst into tears. 

Bucky still wouldn’t meet your eyes. 

“He said—” she glanced at him, a small curve in her lips “—and I quote, ‘I’ll only sleep if I can hear her breathing.” 

Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you blinked hard, trying not to let it show too much but your heart rate had picked up and it was obvious on the monitor. “Oh.” 

Dr. Bates softened, just a little. She leaned in, like she was about to tell you a secret. “He hasn’t left your side since the quinjet. If that tells you anything.” 

With that, she set the tablet down on the edge of your bed. “Just sign whenever you’re ready and press the red button. It’ll only take an hour or so to get you discharged.” She smiled at you and then turned and left again, door shutting gently behind her. 

Silence, familiar, settled between you, thick and humming. 

You finally looked at him, a smile on your lips. “You’re an idiot.” It’s all you could stay, your heart on fire and chest bubbling with affection and love. 

His mouth twitched and for a second, he looked younger. “Takes one to know one.” It was stupid, something he would have said to Sam, but your eyes were bright and his attention was divided. 

You reached up slowly, hand trembling, and brushed your fingers across his knuckles. He didn’t usually let you touch him this easily. It was riveting, freeing. “You should’ve told me.” 

“I didn’t want you worrying about me,” he muttered. “Not when you were fighting for your life.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, softly, replied. “I’m not fighting anymore.”

He stared at you, deep blue eyes reminding you of the ocean, of the storm you both had survived. 

“I’m not fighting anymore so you can stop worrying.” You smiled at him, sweet and soft. “I know you think that it’s your fault but it isn’t. You found me, saved me.” 

Bucky cleared his throat and clenched his jaw. He didn’t need you telling him not to worry because it wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t change the fact that he stayed awake at night and hovered in the hallways, slipping into your room to make sure you were breathing, keeping an eye on your vitals. 

“Bucky,” you said, voice thicker and full of steel. He sighed and slowly nodded. He was many things, filled with guilt, but he wasn’t immune to you, to your wants and needs. And what you needed was him to be honest, to listen. 

“I hear you, doll,” he sighed, quietly. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He squeezed your hand once and almost pulled away but your grip tightened and you smiled. 

As if you knew what he meant, could see the depth of his care. Like he hadn’t folded and crushed the love he had for you and shoved it in the deepest parts of him, trying to keep it hidden. It was unravelling, fast and without permission. 

The door slid open quietly. 

Natasha stepped in first, concern in her eyes but a small grin tugging at her lips at the sight before her. 

Steve followed behind her. Sam too. They all looked tired, but relieved. The doctor had alerted them when you had woken up an hour ago, wanting to give you time to adjust. 

They looked at you and Bucky—still close, your hand in his, his chair pulled right up against your bed—sleeping. Your head rested on the pillow and Bucky’s on his arm.

They didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. While they had been in and out of your room, sending flowers and asking for updates, Bucky hadn’t moved. He had only complied with getting medical help because it had been your last demand before passing out. He had stayed by your side for two weeks, unwavering. 

Steve hadn’t seen him sleep. Bucky had refused any drugs that may have knocked him out and every time Steve came to check on him, he was up. Usually watching you. This was the first time either of them had seen him at peace, and it was with his hand around yours. 

“They’re sweet,” Natasha whispered, her smile growing. She had known, of course she did. She saw the way you both looked at each other when the other wasn’t looking. 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “About time, too. I almost owed Clint $50.” 

Steve frowned, eyes drifting to Sam. “You bet on them?”

Sam shrugged and quietly laid down the flowers he had gotten you on the already full table. “It was Tony’s idea.” 

Dr. Bates entered last, holding a juice box. “Oh, visitors.”

“Sorry, Doc,” Steve apologized, moving to the side. 

“No worries, Mr. Rogers.” She set the juice box down on the table beside you. You needed the sugar before getting on your feet. 

Before Steve or anyone could respond, Bucky shifted and his eyes flew open. His spine snapped up and he blinked at the people in the room, a frown on his lips. He glanced at your sleeping face and momentarily, his eyes softened. 

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “She’s sleeping.” 

“Hey, you,” Sam cooed, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Before Bucky could growl in annoyance, you stretched your arms and yawned, your hand slipping out of his.

“I’m awake.” Then, “Don’t provoke him, Sam.” 

Natasha snorted and you opened your eyes, smiling at the people standing in front of you. Sam rolled his eyes before he moved closer and ruffled your hair, his eyes softening. 

“Hey, Y/n.” He picked up the juice box and poked the straw through it, handing it to you. “Glad you’re not dead. Don’t do that again.” 

You smiled in thanks and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Sam. Don’t plan on it.” 

Steve and Natasha moved closer too, soft smiles and softer words. They asked you how you were feeling, if you needed anything. Bucky stayed beside you, his fingers twitching, now that your hand wasn’t in his. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and leaned back in his chair, head falling back. 

He hadn’t slept properly in days. Figures that he’d find a moment of peace beside you. 

As you spoke to Natasha, your hand searched for his. You were okay, the pain was dull and the trauma wasn’t at the forefront. But, you still needed his comfort—no, wanted it. 

Bucky felt your fingers brush against his and, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he captured your hand in his. His heart fluttered when you squeezed and he looked away. He was in deep. 

Dr. Bates cleared her throat and smiled sheepishly when the conversations died out. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’re cleared to go.”

You sat up, eyes wide. “Really?” Steve’s lips quirked upwards at the excitement in your voice. Bucky felt his heart settle at the sound, at the way you had managed to light the room in a soft glow.

The doctor nodded. “All the paperwork is done. I’ve prescribed you some painkillers you can take, as well.”

You sighed in relief and turned to Bucky, eyes bright. You were glowing and he felt like a moth with the way he leaned in.

“Thank you, Dr. Bates. Truly.” 

She smiled at you before glancing at Bucky. “Of course, Agent. Take care. I hope I don’t see any of you soon.” With that, she turned and left. 

Natasha grinned at you and Bucky before she stepped back. “I’ll get your clothes, Y/n.” 

You smiled at her gratefully as she slipped out of the room. Steve and Sam stood by your bed and you looked up at them. “So, what’d I miss?” 

Sam clapped his hands together, instantly filling you in on all of the drama you had missed. Steve laughed quietly at his antics and Bucky snorted, the tension in his shoulders slowly fading and a real, genuine ghost of a smile on his lips. 

The elevator ride to your floor was quiet. 

Not in a cold, distant kind of way—but in the way people are quiet when there’s too much to say and not enough breath to say it. You moved slowly, one foot in front of the other, careful of your ribs and side. Bucky walked beside you, close enough to feel the heat of him, one hand a steady weight at your lower back. 

The metal was cold against your thin sweater, but there was still something soft about it. The way he stayed beside you, rubbed his thumb up and down your skin, absentmindedly. 

You could feel him watching you. 

Not like before. Not scanning like a soldier. Just…watching. Like a man trying to memorize every detail before it’s gone. He was desperate, soaking in all your warmth and all the time he got with you. You could feel it, his earnesty. 

Your floor was dim when you entered—peaceful, untouched since the mission. But, not entirely untouched. A folded hoodie on the couch. Your plants watered. A fresh pair of pajamas neatly laid across your bed, one you couldn’t see but knew was there. 

You turned to look at him, brows raised and a hint of a knowing smile dancing on your lips. 

Bucky’s jaw ticked. For a second, he looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I, uh, came by a few times. Brought you fresh stuff. Didn’t want your plants dying while you were—” He cleared his throat. “—while you were healing.”

Your insides felt all warm and gooey. He was making it so difficult to stay indifferent, to keep all your feelings and wants and needs hidden, like they weren’t about to bleed out of you.

You took a step closer to him. 

“Thank you.” 

His eyes flicked to yours, then away, like he couldn’t quite take the weight of your gratitude. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, a rare and endearing nervous habit, eyes scanning your space like it was unfamiliar now. Like he didn’t belong, even though he fit here so perfectly. 

You saw it clearly, the way he moved. The way his boots thudded soft against your rug. The way his broad body filled your kitchen doorway. He belonged here, in your space. With you. Not just for now, not suddenly. But always. 

You ached for it, for him.

Bucky hesitated near the door, shoulders stiff. 

“I’ll head out, let you settle in. Just…yell if you need anything. I’ll be around.”

You knew what that meant. It meant he would wander, hover. He’d be in the shadows, waiting and anxious. He had this habit, when he was worried. You first learned about it when Steve was injured on a mission they both went on. He never said it, but Bucky wanted to be there for Steven in case he wanted anything. 

You had run into Bucky late in the night. Steve had missed dinner so you were checking on him, making sure he was pushing fluids, when Bucky’s large frame obscured your path. 

Sometimes, and he’d never admit it, but when Bucky had nightmares about you, or anyone else on the team, he’d often seek them out at night. Just a moment, outside the door. All he needed was to hear you breathing, make sure you were okay. 

That the Winter Soldier had not gotten to you. 

“Stay,” you said softly. “Have a cup of coffee with me.” 

He blinked, his hands dropping. “I—yeah. Sure.”

You padded into the kitchen slowly, feeling him trail behind. He sat on the stool at the island while you made two cups. His eyes were heavy on you the whole time, tracing every moment. He watched you carefully as you brewed fresh coffee, getting both of your favourite cups from the cupboard. As you waited, you glanced back at him and to your surprise, he smiled at you; soft, crooked, and quick, but attractive and warm all the same. 

He loved you like this. In your space, as you carried yourself with no expectations. When he was new to the tower, years ago, he often found peace in just watching you to the most mundane tasks. It brought him a sense of calm, normalcy. How you moved with grace, carried yourself like you didn’t have skeletons in your closet. 

It made him have hope. Like he could one day be okay, or a semblance of it. 

When you turned to hand him the mug, his fingers brushed yours, a quiet jolt of warmth passing between you. 

“You okay?” 

He was quiet, eyes drifting across your face before he nodded. “Yeah. I am now.” 

You sat beside him on the stool, legs barely touching, cups between you on the counter. The coffee was simple—black for him, creamy for you—but it felt like a ritual. Something sacred. You couldn’t remember the last time you had shared a mug with anyone else. 

“Are you going on your run tomorrow?” Your voice was quiet, like you couldn’t dare to disturb the peace. 

Bucky hummed, drinking slowly. “Maybe. Why?” He raised an eyebrow at you, concern creeping in. “Do you need something? Tell me, I’ll get it.” 

You laughed, soft and breathy. “No, no. I was just wondering.”

His shoulders sagged and the edge of his lip curled up. “I’ll tell you if I go.” He paused. “I’ll run past that bookstore you like. Get you something so you won’t be bored.”

Your grip on your mug tightened and you lifted your gaze to meet his, warm and heavy. “You don’t have to.” He didn’t like small spaces and you weren’t even sure if he liked the bookstore, even though he always came with you, even when you didn’t ask. 

“I know,” he replied, meaning something else. He set the mug down. “That was good. Thanks.” 

You thought he might stay. That maybe, just maybe, he’d slide a little closer. 

Instead, he stood. 

“I should let you rest—”

“Bucky.” 

He stopped. In his tracks, and breathing. 

You stood too, slow and careful. You stepped towards him, giving him the chance to step back. He didn’t. Just stood still, frozen, like if he didn’t move, this dream might never turn to a nightmare. 

You said his name again, like a prayer. He was almost undone. He should have stepped back, should have done something, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He needed this, needed you. 

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him towards you. He stumbled slightly, caught off guard—but his hands went to your waist without hesitation. 

You kissed him. 

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate, full of years of tension—your lips crashed onto his, hands fisting his Henley. He kissed you back just as hard, like he’d been starving. He swallowed your gasp of surprise and kissed you ferociously, pressing his chest against yours, hand cupping your cheek. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him messily, teeth against teeth. He pulled you unbelievably close, flush against him. He was wrapped around you, or you around him. He slipped his tongue into your mouth and you moaned, your hands sliding up his solid chest and into his hair. 

When you pulled back, your chest was heaving, lips plump and bruised, face flushed. Your eyes fluttered open and you almost whimpered at the sight of him, hair tousled, lips plump. He looked completely undone, absolutely perfect. 

“Stay,” you whispered, borderline begging. “Please, Buck. I want you. You belong here—with me.”

He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer before the deep blue swept you away. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he rasped, breathless. 

“I do.” You pressed your forehead harder against his, kissed the edge of his mouth. “I do.” 

You kissed him again. This time, it was slower, sweeter. Your hands moved to cup his jaw, your lips soft against his. He melted into it, groaning low in his throat. HIs hands trembled against your waist. He pressed a sure, hard kiss to your jaw before he pulled away, breathing heavily, gasping. 

“Fuck, doll—fuck.” His arms pushed you into him further, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the skin under your eye. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He glanced down at your side before lifting his eyes. “Are you breathing alright?” 

You exhaled through your nose, a quiet laugh. So caring, so obvious in his love. You don’t know how you never saw it before. How it wasn’t painfully obvious to you. He was filled with love, all you had to do was let him feel it. 

Gingerly, you moved the hand on your waist to your side, slid it up to your abdomen. Then, up to your heart. It was beating incredibly fast, you wondered if he could hear it. His breath hitched and his eyes flickered to yours. 

“I’ve never been better.” 

He looked like he was a second from losing his mind. His throat bobbed and he tilted his chin. 

“You sure?” 

You sighed and fisted his shirt again. Nothing but pure honesty and desire and love in your eyes. 

“Just kiss me, Bucky.” 

He pressed his thumb into your skin, his pulse in his fingertips. He looked at you again, really looked, trying to search for the answers. You couldn’t tell what he was looking for so you stood still, smiled at him widely. 

Whatever it was, he found it. 

Bucky surged forward and captured your lips again, his heart beating rapidly against your chest as his arms circled your waist. In a rush of confidence, Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth, trached the crevices of your teeth and gums before sucking your tongue, guiding your hips into his. You clawed at his back, guiding him blindly through your apartment. His hands never stopped touching—your sides, your arms, your face, reverent and shaking. 

You barely made it to your bedroom. 

He laid you gently on the bed, like you were something fragile and breakable—but his body trembled with restraint. He hovered over you, breathing hard, his eyes almost black. 

“We don’t have to,” he whispered. “We don’t have to do anything. You’re still hurt.” 

“I want to,” you whispered back. “I need to feel you. All of you. You’ll take care of me, I know you will.” 

He kissed you again, tender and slow. Took his time exploring your mouth. Then, he kissed the edge of your lips, licked and kissed down your throat, nibbling and sucking. His hands brushed against your warm skin, your cheeks and neck and then slipped beneath your sweater. You lifted your arms carefully, letting him peel it off, revealing faintly bruised skin and healing ribs. 

He stared for a beat, his expression softening, endearing, filled with affection. You had never really cared about your appearance, but his attention, the heat of his eyes, made you feel wanted. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your scars. “You’re beautiful.” 

His lips immediately reattached to your neck, kissing down to your collarbone and your head fell back, trying to pry yourself open for him. “Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, “So fucking pretty.”

You smiled, pulling his shirt up. He let you strip him bare. His chest was covered in scars, blemishes, burns, healing wounds. 

You traced them with your fingers, touch as light as a feather. The lamp beside your bedside cast a low amber glow across the room and painted his skin in warm gold. He looked godly, absolutely stunning above you. 

He had one forearm braced by your head, the other cradled your cheek. He watched you as you watched him, anxiety swimming in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently. 

“Y/n,” he whispered, begging. You smiled at him and tilted your chin up, kissing a scar on his shoulder. He kissed you softly and your hands found home in his hair, fingers sliding through the thick, soft strands, tugging gently just to feel him melt. He made a sound in his chest, low and aching, and deepened the kiss, tongue flicking gently against yours. 

His body—muscles, scars, and heat—pressed closely against yours. You could feel it, though, he was holding back. Whether it was because you were injured or he was afraid, you didn’t know. You wanted all of him, his strength and roughness. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before he pulled back, eyes glassy and softer than you’d ever seen them. “This what you want?” His voice cracked a little. “Am I what you want?” 

You touched his cheek, feeling the rough edge of stubble and the quiet vulnerability just under his skin. “I want you, Bucky.” He held his breath. “I want the man who waters my plants and dusts my shelves. The man who carried me through a forest and saved my life. The man who learned how to play different card games for me, the one who learned how to make tea the way my mother used to.” 

He blinked, lips parting slightly. “Y/n…”

“I notice everything,” you said, voice trembling. “How you always walk on the outside of the sidewalk. How you breathe deeper when you’re trying to stay calm. How you always make sure you’re between me and danger. Regardless of what it is.” 

He let out a soft, stunned breath. His hand slid from your cheek, down to your shoulder, then your waist, clutching like he needed to anchor himself. 

“I didn’t realize…” His voice cracked and he bit his bottom lip. “Didn’t realize you watched me so closely.” He watched you closely, knew all of your habits and quirks. He hadn’t realized you were watching him just as closely. 

“I always have,” you murmured, as if you hadn’t just turned his world upside down. 

Something cracked open in him then. 

He kissed you hard—like the dam had broken, like every piece of love he’d locked away had finally burst free. His mouth moved with aching reverence across your lips, your jaw, your throat. He kissed down your collarbone, your shoulder. 

He pulled back only to help you undress completely. His hands were so gently—touching, peeling away fabric like it was sacred. He unhooked your bra and dropped it somewhere behind him, pausing when you were completely bare beneath him, worshipping. 

“You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, doll.”

You reached for him in return, pulled at the waistbands of his jeans. He let you, watched with a gaze so soft it made your chest ache. When he was finally bare, you ran your hands over his ribs, his thighs. He shivered under your touch, leaning into it. 

He kissed down your body, pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, swallowing the taste of your sweet sweat, memorizing it. You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pulled and scraped his hair and the nape of his neck. Your entire body felt like it was on fire. 

Under a trance, Bucky pressed a soft kiss on one of your breasts, his fingers brushed the nipple of the other. He kitten-licked your swollen, aching bud before he latched on, circling his tongue as if he could have convinced your body to submit to him completely. 

His other hand pinched and squeezed your other nipple, before he released your swollen and wet nipple with a pop, not even breathing as he latched onto the other one. All of your senses were going crazy, overwhelmed to the point of hysteria and tears. 

He pushed himself up, rested his forehead against yours as both of your chests heaved. You leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss to his swollen lips, licking his bottom lip. You both breathed in the other, bodies sweaty. 

“I’d kill for you,” Bucky admitted in a rush, hoarse. You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. 

“What?” 

“I would,” he said. “For you. I think I have, already. But you have to know. I’d kill anyone for hurting you.” 

You heard what he was saying—really saying. It was a clear day. His devotion. He was panting, sweat collecting on his forehead. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose. 

“I know,” you answered. “I love you, Bucky.” 

His arm trembled but he caught himself. He stared down at you for a second before his entire face softened. He brushed his cheek against yours, lips and breath warm, tickling. “I love you, Y/n.” It was soft, like it was still a secret, but it took your breath away all the same. 

He went back to kissing you. 

Everywhere. 

He took his time, dragging his mouth across your stomach, your hips, your thighs, murmuring soft praises into your skin. He kissed along the edges of your scars like they were maps that led him home. 

When he finally kissed between your legs, it was with awe. 

“Let me taste you,” he begged, voice gravelly. 

You nodded, breath catching as he settled between your thighs. He shifted downwards and pressed his nose against your cunt, holding down your hips as your legs twitched. You cried out and pulled at his hair but he was adamant, ignoring the pain and pushed your legs further apart. 

You squirmed under him as he stared at your cunt before blowing warm air on it, finding your agony adorable. You knew though, that he’d notice if you were in pain before you did. 

He spread your legs even further before he kissed your pussy softly. “Fucking pretty pussy,” he praised. His tongue was slow, teasing, reverent—licking up through your folds, curling just right against your clit. His hands held your hips, thumbs stroking circles into your skin as he worshipped you like you were holy.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “Please.” 

“I know, doll,” he nodded, his nose brushed against your slick folds. You grinded your hips against him, trying to get some sort of relief. “You taste like heaven,” he groaned. He licked a harsh stripe of your core. Pressed his face closer to your cunt as his tongue pushed in and out of your sopping hole, licking and sucking as if you were his last meal.

He traced his name, his devotion, into your gummy walls, his nose pressed against your clit. You moaned out a broken, gagged version of his name and arched your back as his nose dug further into your clit, rubbed it until he’s sure you’re all he’ll smell for weeks. 

His hand pressed against your cheek and you clutched his hand, brought his metal fingers to your lips and sucked. He groaned into your cunt and the vibrations had you seeing stars. 

He curled the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost screamed, tears fell down your cheeks at the pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” you chanted, words muffled by his fingers. 

Lifting his eyes, Bucky hummed at the sight of your pleasure, the way tears prettily fell down your cheeks, and lifted his fingers from your tongue. Before he could bring his hand back towards him, you grabbed it and settled it on your chest. His wet, dripping fingers pinched your nipples, teasing the sensitive skin.

“Bucky,” you panted, hips arching. “I’m close, please, baby.” 

Despite everything inside him telling him to keep going, he pulled up, releasing your clit with a messy pop. He kissed your folds and cooed as you cried out, licking you clean. “I know, Y/n, I know.” He kissed your inner thigh. “But if you’re gonna cum, I want it to be around my cock, pretty girl.” 

You stopped breathing. “Bucky…Oh my gosh.” He kissed up your body, licking the wetness from his lips, grinned like he’d never truly lived before. He hovered above you again and you cupped his face. 

“You’re insane,” you laughed, giddy. 

“I really like you, doll.” Bucky was grinning, and although his eyes burned into yours, you couldn’t tell if he was speaking to you or your pussy. 

You laughed and curled your fingers around his dog tags, pulling him close. “I need you,” you whispered. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. He kissed you softly before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. 

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised. “I’ll go slow.” He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifted your head. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation before he glanced down at your lips. 

Pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Bucky lifted your head, his gaze almost scoldering. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation, before he glanced down at your lips.

“You’ll tell me if it hurts, right?” Bucky needed you to know that you were safe with him. “I’m serious, Y/n.” 

“I know, Bucky.” You traced one of his dog tags. “It won’t. I trust you.” 

He wrapped one of his hands around his hard, leaking cock and slid up and down once. “I’ll make it feel good, doll.” Your pussy fluttered at his words and he could feel it against his legs. He almost, almost, lost it right there and then, instead, he brushed the back of his hand against your cheek, looking as sinful as ever. 

Slowly, he pushed himself in. 

The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls made you both moan in unison, your body lit up as he sunk in completely, the base of his cock hit your core. The stretch felt amazing, so good, and all you could do was tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob. 

“Fuck,” he groaned out, knuckles white with how hard he gripped your skin. “Fuck, so fucking tight and warm.” You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and he jerked his hips upwards, filled you to the brim, his tip reached parts of you no one ever had. 

When you licked a long stripe of his neck, sucked his adam’s apple until it was red, he collapsed on top of you, his cock leaking in your pussy, veins pulsing. 

You welcomed the weight of his body. He felt so warm; so real, so yours, you could feel the weight of his muscles against yours, the weight crushed the lingering loneliness that had crept into your bones over the years. 

You wrapped your arms around his body, scratched his back and pulled at his hair as you littered his throat and jaw with kisses.

Desperation clawed at Bucky and his thrusts became erratic as he pushed your body flush against him, forcing your hips to match his bruising pace as more slick poured from your legs and onto the sheets, your needy moans mixed with his broken ones. 

“Close–I’m, oh,” you stuttered out, eyes closing when Bucky’s fingers grazed your clit, his own eyes shut for a second when your walls squeezed him impossibly tight as he pressed his fingers against your clit. He could feel it, the dizzying feeling of euphoria building in his chest, the way it was running through his veins. He could tell you felt it too by your breathing, the way your pussy wept for him. 

Stars danced around in your vision and he knew his own vision mirrored yours, the tightness in his core was almost unbearable and he tipped his head forward and pressed his lips against yours, smiling briefly when your hold on him tightened. “Go ahead, doll. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock,” his voice was sweet, borderline crazed. 

You fell limp in his arms when he thrusted into you once, twice, right against your cervix, and you had come undone for him, release washed over you, body weak as your legs shook under his. His hands were all over your body, caressed your skin to comfort you as your body convulsed for him. 

His lips littered soft kisses to any skin he could reach, and when your walls tightened completely, coating his cock in your cum, he softly cried out your name as warm ropes of his cum filled you to the brim. 

You could barely blink, senses still overwhelmed as he kept kissing you, kept cumming, filling you up so well, until you could almost taste him. Quiet praises filled with love and encouragement were whispered against your skin as he remained buried up to the hilt in you, his hips still pushing his cum into you, almost as if he had no control over himself. 

Your entire body was shaking and he wrapped his arms tightly around you, rubbed your back gently until your whimpers turned into heavy breathing, until all you could mumble was some variation of his name. He forced his hips to still, forced himself to breathe deeply. 

“I love you, Y/n,” he said, devout. “You mean so much to me. I’ll protect you, always.”

Bodies sticky and sweaty, he ran his hands up and down your back, nails grazed your skin to ground you. He was sure he was still cumming but if he could distract you, keep your attention on anything other than your overly stimulated, stuffed pussy, he’d do so. 

“That’s it, doll,” he cooed lovingly, kissed the shell of your ear. “I got you.” He smiled when he felt you nod in the crook of his neck. “Did so well for me, pretty girl.” You simply hummed in response, unable to form any sentences at the moment. Bucky rested his cheek against your head, fought the urge to grind his hips against yours. 

You breathed in Bucky’s scent slowly, head safely tucked in the crook of his neck. The way he held you now, so soft, so lovingly, had your heart settling. You could barely feel your legs, moaning lightly when his cock twitched inside you. Wrapped around his body, you pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck, sucked softly when he tilted his head to give you more access. 

Your fingers tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck and he shuddered. You could have fallen asleep right there and then, with his cock stuffed safely in your pussy, sticky wetness fusing your both together.

Slowly, Buckley lifted himself off your body and you both hissed. He brushed your hair out of your face. You stared at him and his legs wobbled at the look in your eyes. You brought a hand up to his face and traced the length of his eyebrow, brushed your fingers down his nose, and along his cheek. 

“Pretty,” you mumbled, and he leaned forward and kissed you softly. 

It was different, slower, more intimate as he cupped your cheek and tilted his head, lips plush against yours. You moaned into his mouth at the intimacy of it; the way his cock was still buried inside you, the way your mixed juices still leaked out of you, the gentle caress of his hand as he whispered loving praises into your mouth. 

Gently, Bucky pulled out of your sopping cunt, biting back a groan. He shifted his weight and maneuvered your body until you were laying in his arms, your back pressed against his chest. He knew he had much to clean up, but your eyes fluttered shut occasionally so he put it off, knowing you needed him more. 

He ran his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he was right behind you. You snuggled into him, back pressed flush against his chest and he wrapped an arm around your waist. 

“Let me run you a bath,” he whispered, pressed a kiss to your head. 

You shook your head and waved him off. “Maybe later. I can’t feel any part of my body.” 

Bucky laughed, but he lifted himself a bit, looked down at you. “Do you need anything? Medicine? Water? Does anything hurt?” 

You snorted and slowly shifted, chest pressed to his. You wedged your leg between his, ignored the stickiness that coated you. “Only you could fuck me like this and be this worried after. Just hold me, Buck.” 

He smiled at the fucked-out look on your face, pride bubbling in his chest before his eyes skirted to the scars on your skin. He kissed your cheek and slowly pulled himself away from you and out of bed. 

“I’m going to grab you a glass of water and clean you up. I’ll be right back, doll.” 

You hummed and squeezed his bicep. “Okay, baby.” 

By the time he came back, you had fallen asleep. He placed the glass of water on your side and sat beside your sleeping body. His hand hovered before he cupped your cheek. “I don’t think I could survive ever losing you, Y/n.” 

"I love you," he whispered, the words flowing out easily.

Maybe it had always been easy, with you.