#fencing fic

[theidiotwhowrites]

Cold Hearted Aristocrat

Byakuya Togami x Fencer Reader

Equals

(Story is related to this post I made, lol Togami won by a landslide)

Warning;

Rude comments, Classism, Pre Despair Arc, Reader comes from a financially unstable household (broke), Rivals to lovers (slow burn), Reader with a fencing background, Slow start, Fighting (not with fist), Multipart. Kinda petty Reader (Aren't we all tho?)

You have been warned

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Hope's Peak Academy

was the most prestigious private institution were anyone could go to, fortunately, you we're accepted but for you, it was a bittersweet moment.

Everyone praised you you all you could think about was leaving your life behind

Fencing is what you had that didn't let you down and now it would have been thrown aside.

You finally felt like you did something, made your family proud but it didn't feel right.

All those days you've practiced for your upcoming tournament felt like a waste.

Sleep, School, Fencing, Rinse and Repeat It was routine, the thought of breaking from it didn't sit right with you.

It wouldn't for anybody yet. You were supposed to be grateful and not "whine" about it but how could you when what you held dear was getting stripped away you weren't an Ultimate with a mind-blowing talent; Ultimates are what the school called their most gifted and breathtaking students,

(Your fencing skills weren't all that)

Unlike them it didn't change lives, it didn't inspire hope and technically you also weren't a 'Proper Reserve Course' student by definition, being that you didn't pay your way in.

Maybe the school's leader board took pity on you and accepted only because of your academics.

Maybe they have an ulterior motive.

Nobody Knows.

Standing in front of the tall building, blue pillars from behind peak out catching the corner of your eyes.

You walk through the gates but that was 2 months ago..

Now you lie awake in your dorm, boring and plain are the decorations. The only spark it has is what you added which wasn't much since you weren't able too.

The days passing by started turning into mirrored images of the last.

It is better than wondering about what you were going to eat today or if there's any water or something added to the unpredictable chaos of poverty .

You weren't your classes top student.

(mostly given that the one's that were bribed the teachers into giving them better marks)

Or had close friends of any kind from the school.

You simply laid low. Invisible.

Staying in the background, with the spotlight never gracing your face for no longer than a second...

...Till

The speakers called your name. Echoing throughout the empty halls. The stares from the others you didn't see, you felt, buried in the back of your skull.

All eyes were focused on you while you packed your things and said your temporary goodbyes.

Sprinting, you rush towards the headmaster's office. Slowly knocking on the door, opening it with shaky hands.

"Don't worry, you're not in trouble" Says the headmaster; Jin Krigri, next to his right sits another man one that's quite unfamiliar,

"Before your arrival, the school did a background check on you as we do with all our students."

He shifts his chair

"And I was informed that you had done extra curricular activities so too make you feel more welcomed and I took it upon myself to give you that chance again".

Endorphins filled with excitement lace through your veins. This was your redemption, a second chance. The thought of it makes you wanna shout for joy. You felt like you were overflowing with bliss and swimming in happiness.

If you signed up, another competition would be in your grasp. To be able to do what was taken from you. Being awarded, adored, standing infront of a stage whilst the crowd cheers for you, holding a medal you earned.

It's almost to much to bare.

Almost.

"Why?" You question. I didnt make sense, there has to have some repercussion. Opportunities like theses don't come without them. There is something that looking lurk beneath such a pretty offer.

A faint smile crosses the stranger's lips as Mr Kirigri speaks up again.

"I did expect that, you, are a smart student after all. In return all I ask is if you continue your fencing journey with a new coach..." He gestures to his right.

"Coach Tsukuda" The man interjects, standing up from his chair before calmly walking over, putting one of his hands in front of him.

Hesitantly, you shake it.

Mr Tsukuda's, hands are rough to the touch, lacking any moisture with it. Bumpy like an unrepaired road, It's an unpleasant feeling against your own but you don't feel the need to decline.

To not be impolite, of course.

"It's is pleasure to meet you" He remarked.

"Ahem" Mr Krigri clears his throat, drawing attention back to him.

"As I was saying, if you choose to make the conscious choice to accept this proposal by joining our fencing club, all ask in return is if you compete in a tournament overseas with your fellow members, you as well as them to talk about the school in a positive light. Too nudge our reputation in the right direction."

He puts heavy emphasis on the word right.

In other words Mr Krigri wants you to make the school look good. It was nothing short of unsurprising. Playing only a pawn in the time consuming game of social climbing.

You agreed to such conditions. Being the schools talking puppet for a moment in time is better than the constant agony of boredom and longing for excitement. Some may disagree but it is a price willing to be payed.

The next day painfully went by.

Seconds turned into minutes.

Minutes turned into hours and at this rate you felt like you were going to rip your hair out by the roots as the hands of time perceived to moved slower and slower and even slower.

The bell rings, ending your torment.

Lazily, you turn the metal handle mounted on the wooden door, walking inside.

Yanking the strap of the duffle bag, destined to be forgotten before today, pulling it over your shoulder, leaving from whence you came.

Hope's peak was undoubtedly beautiful. A perfect muse for photography. However it's only flaw are the stairs, You trance your index finger over the matte black railing. It is such a tedious experience but how else were you going to get there?.

After what felt like forever, you stand before the Gymnatorium.

The temporary room for the fencing club. It calls your name like a siren song.

Spacious

It's the first thing you notice, the room is elegant yet simplistic. Gym equipment neatly placed in the corners of the room.

Everyone talked in there own flock, mingling with their friends. Selectivity amongst others. Everyone except one.

Silently reading on a bench with a scowl on his face. Blonde hair falls to his face as a white gloved hand fixes his hair. For a second they looks up, his eyes connecting with yours.

The door behind you creaked behind you, ripping you from your thoughts. Making you look at the at the source of the sound

Coach Tsukuda stands in front of the door, he signals you to come closer. A sense of unease washes over you.

"You're here" He says, his voice lacks surprise, simply pointing out facts. He pauses to think of his next words.

"How good would you say you were at fencing before now?" Odd.

You shrugged. Doubt clouds your next judgement.

You thought you were good but are you?. Are you actually or were the people you were surrounded with weren't any better?. Questioning your abilities.

"I don't know, good I guess" Was your response. Being humble about your talents. Maybe they were good but I didn't earn you a title. You still weren't an ultimate.

"Why do you ask?" You added. Not really sure where he was going with this.

"I've been thinking. That's our best fencer-" Coach points at the blonde on the bench, who continues to read. Not noticing that he is the object of your conversation.

"He thinks he lacks any competition and truth be told he's not wrong and you haven't show cased your skills to me, go and put on your gear, I'll be back to you in a second"

You oblige. Putting on your gear you notice, it's tight.

You are still able to move somewhat comfortably but it's feels strange. Perhaps it's from the length of time you haven't worn it or you just need a new one. You toss your uniform in your bag.

Out of the changing rooms. You see Mr Tsukuda who stands next to the boy on the bench, signaling you to come towards them. Well he's off of the bench now so you can't call him that anymore. You should ask what his name is.

Standing on the safety mat, it's a peculiar felling under your shoes.

Mr Tsukuda's gestures to you

"This is who you will be fighting against, nothing drastic, best of five hits. "

The coach steps to the side and get step forward, to the boy.

He looks you up and down. Sapphire eyes studying your body. Judging every inch of you.

The tension is thick. To distract from it, you try to introduce yourself.

"Uhhh, Hi my name is-" Try, he cuts you off.

"I know who you are, I have not the energy to entertain this discussion you plan on conjuring with me, commoner. Let's get this over with. You will lose either way."

His tongue is razor sharp, cutting into you, deep. Dripping with distain.

What is his problem? Did he wake up on the wrong side of life or something? He had not only rejected your advances but as well as insulted you in the same breath.

Tough Crowd.

So sure that he's better. It doesn't matter t you who does but now you want to, to win, simply push it in his face. To mess with his sense of arrogance.

You scuff at his remark. Glaring at his monotone expression.

He grabs a what seems random to be a random épeé however it has a interesting design, one you haven't seen before.

Like any sport fencing has rules, mostly with its equipment. Every fencing sword has it own set of rules. Foil, only being able to touch your competitor torso. Saber, allowing to hit your opponent waist up, only. However the Éppé is the easiest to remember, having free range.

Grabbing your éppé, you get in stance. He makes one last swift movement he puts on his mask.

"Start!" The words echo through your ears. With quick pace he lunges towards you. You raise your blade. Swords clashing together, stepping back. Maintaining momentum, dodging his attacks. The tip of the blade touches you chest. "I suggest you give up, to prevent the shame of your inevitable loss."

"Shut up...." You mutter under your breath, he seemed to be getting to you. "En garde!"

The contrast of your outfits becomes more clear. A dry taste fills your mouth. Adrenaline rushes through your brain. Under your gloves, sweat drips from your palms. Your next moves are calculated. You swung, A slash against his waist stops him in his tracks. Gaining you a point.

"Wanna give up?" You taunted, mocking his previous statement.

You can hear his teeth clench under his mask as he made his next attack. You move your blade. Determined. Both blades swing left to right.

Your eyes scan over the room, glassed over. The sleeves feel like they dig into your wrist.

Faces close to each. Weapons stranded against each other. Looking for an opening. A thud rings out, as he lands to the floor. The sound of heart beat fills your ears.

You hit him with one final strike, simultaneously the metal of sword hit your leg with force.

"Take break" Coach says.

He gets up from the floor, brushing the dirt off of him. Dropping it without a care, leaving.

Your hands feel sore to the touch. He comes to a sharp halt. Standing there before he utters. For the first time in his life he has met and equal. A person on the same level as him.

"Byakuya Togami...."

"Excuse me?" You says, taking off your mask.

"Byakuya Togami.....it's my name, considering you asked earlier. However do not think for a moment this means I am willing to fraternize with you."

Oh.... So he's not so cold after all?

... To be continued ...

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Should I continue this?

I can't believe this took me a month, it feels like nobody write about fencing even though it's such an interesting sport and I say this purely off research. Where I live we don't have that so I have no prior experience.

And when people write about fencing in media, it's very overlooked. It's kinda like a place holder for time rather than the main plot point but whatever.

Also shout out to the people who supported me on this long adventure. (You know who you are)

Thank you for reading, it is really appreciated. (◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍)⁠ﾉ⁠♡

[ecstarry]

The One in the Olympic Villa - full fic here

“You know nothing you do today will change tomorrow.” James started gathering his things and getting ready to leave the gym. They had been at the Olympic Villa for less than a week, and every night, at the same time, he saw the dark-haired guy working out.

The first day, James simply stared in awe at the most handsome man he had ever seen but didn’t even get a side-eye in return.

The second day, he learned his name: Regulus. He was there with another athlete from the French delegation, and James overheard the blonde guy calling him that. He returned to his room and Googled him.

Regulus' good looks were far from his most interesting characteristic. He came from a long line of Olympians and was returning to the games already carrying two gold medals in both men’s fencing events from his first Olympics.

On the third day, James dared to smile at him. What he received back was a confused look, as if the other man couldn’t comprehend James’ polite gesture.

Today was the fourth day. Everyone had left, and for the past hour, it had just been the two of them. James had finished his set fifteen minutes ago, but he couldn’t keep his mind off this man. He wanted to be noticed by him. Today, hopefully, Regulus would finally talk to him.

“James, don’t bother me.”

How did he know his name? James thought. As if Regulus had read his mind, he pointed at James’ ID card that hung from his neck. Oh, there’s that, right. An embarrassing blush warmed his face, but he was determined to take advantage of the one moment they had alone all week.

“I just mean, everyone knows you’ll win.” He allowed himself to get closer to Regulus’ treadmill. The athlete started slowing down his pace, and James waited patiently.

Regulus finished his cardio and took a step closer to James.

“Are you going to my match tomorrow?” Regulus opened his water bottle and drank it all in one big gulp. Instinctively, James handed him his own, and their hands brushed. An almost imperceptible pink hue colored Regulus’ cheeks for just a moment.

“Do you want me to?”

Regulus laughed. “That way, you can stare for longer, James.” With his bag on his shoulder, he walked towards the exit.

James couldn’t wait for tomorrow to arrive.

[uponthebarricade]

ok but what's even the point of the olympics being in paris if we don't get some les mis olympics au fics out of it. ignore all prior commitments let's get those pens to paper stat.

[luvrgreyy]

THE AMERICAN DREAM

leon kennedy x f!reader

word count: 2.4k summary: living the picture perfect marriage with leon. masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

18+ MDNI. DEAD DOVE. typical american marriage, mentions of abuse, throwing up, drugging/use of drugs, gaslighting, leon being mean and condescending — he’s very ooc in this one, non-con, basically somnophilia, unprotected sex, p in v, choking, slapping, spanking, spitting, fingering(vaginal and mouth), degrading language.

a/n: 100 FOLLOWER SPECIAL !! thank you so much everyone <3 sorry if the writing on this ones a little sloppy, this one’s mostly self indulgent and i was half asleep when making this so i didn’t really know what i was writing down. anyways, hope you guys enjoy this, love you all xx.

you loved your husband. your relationship was everything you’ve ever wanted. a nice house in a beautiful suburb — white picket fence and all — a doting husband, and an idyllic life that seemed straight out of a hollywood movie. each day was laced with domestic bliss.

everything was perfect, living the dream with the perfect husband. you don't even remember the fact that he took you away from your family. or that he was systematically drugging you, slipping small doses of amnesiacs into your food and drink to keep your memory fuzzy and prevent you from remembering the fact that he was basically abusing and raping you on a daily basis. the drug kept you docile and unquestioning.

sometimes, you have nightmares about it, though you can’t really remember anything, and you think they’re just things your brain like to make up.

you woke up with a start, your hands clenched tightly into fists in the bed sheets as your breath came in sharp and fast. the room was quiet, except for the soft ticking of the clock. it’s the same nightmare, the same thing that leaves you feeling disoriented and unsettled, but you can't recall the details.

you felt your husband shift behind you, his warm body pressing against yours. "mm, baby," his groggy voice rumbled sleepily, his hands slipping around your waist to pull you closer against him, a touch meant to be soothing. his chin rested against your shoulder, his lips trailing languidly across the nape of your neck. “you okay?”

“another nightmare?” he murmured lowly, sensing your unease.

"i— i'm gonna throw up,”

a slight pause and then leon sprung into action. he immediately rolled over and gently pulled you into his arms, cradling you against his chest while he carried you towards the bathroom.

“it’s alright, sweetheart. let it all out,” he soothed, his voice a soft, comforting murmur as he cradled you closely. he leaned you over the toilet, holding your hair back as you wretched and retched.

he held you close to him, gently massaging your back with one hand, stroking your spine soothingly with his fingers, all while using his other hand to hold your hair back.

“i’ve got you,” he whispered softly, pressing gentle kisses on the crown of your head, his arms holding you firmly yet gently as you hunched over the toilet. his free hand reaches over to grab a clean towel and wiping away any remnants of vomit from your lips.

after a few moments, your body slumped and you gasped for breath, leaning against him for support. he continued to hold you gently, running his fingers softly over your clammy skin.

"tea?" you looked up at him with hazy eyes, still feeling queasy. the room was spinning and your stomach churned at the mere thought of food. but the idea of drinking something soothing sounded nice.

"yes... please,"

he ushers you into the kitchen, fetching a tea bag and a cup from the cabinet and pouring in some boiling water from the kettle. he sets the cup on the table and takes a seat across from you.

“here,” he hands you a steaming mug of tea, his large hand brushing against yours for just a moment. you take a sip and it tastes strange — slightly bitter and with a weird aftertaste. but it does seem to ease the churning in your stomach.

he sighs in relief as you take another sip of your tea, not noticing the small pill dissolved in the cup.

“there we go, sweetheart. i know you've been feeling a bit under the weather lately. that’ll help you relax and feel better in no time,”

he smiles warmly, pretending to care about your wellbeing, when in reality he's just trying to keep you sedated so you don't realize what a hellish existence you're living.

you blinked slowly, the warm tea feeling good as it slid down your throat. the room was still spinning a bit, but you felt yourself starting to relax. leon watched you carefully, relieved that the nausea seemed to be subsiding.

“feel dizzy,” you mumble slowly.

he reached across the table to pat your hand gently. "there, there sweetheart. why don’t i take you back to bed so you can rest? you’re clearly exhausted,"

without waiting for a response, he helps you to your feet and steers you towards the bedroom. you stumble and sway on unsteady legs, unable to resist as he guides you. once you're on the bed, he covers you with a blanket and tucks you in snugly.

"oh, my poor baby.. i’ll join you in a few minutes, just gonna wash up the dishes in the kitchen."

you can barely keep your eyes open as the drug pulls you under. your last thought is wondering why you feel so tired all the time, before slipping into a deep, medicated slumber. you snuggle deeper into the blankets, your eyelids growing heavier by the second. leon lingers by the bedside, watching you with a mixture of amusement and anticipation.

soon, your breathing evens out and your body goes limp, succumbing to the drug's effects. leon smiles, satisfied. he knows he has a window of opportunity before you wake up again. without wasting any time, he quietly slips up your nightgown, exposing your tender flesh to his hungry eyes and eager touch. his hands roam freely over your body, groping and squeezing as he pleases. he reaches up and cups one breast with each hand, weighing them appreciatively.

he leans down and starts planting wet kisses across your neck and chest, staying close so you don't stir.

then he's on top of you, shoving his pants down and mounting you roughly.

your moans and protests are muffled by your sleep-addled state as he ravages you mercilessly, using his big, strong hands to hold you down and shut you up.

“l-lee—leon,” you manage to mumble.

leon silences you by reaching down and forcing two fingers into your mouth, thrusting them between your lips.

"shh, ‘ts okay baby," he hums into your ear, giving your cunt a light slap that makes you yelp around his fingers. "such a good girl, taking it so well," he praises you with a growl as he works your mouth open with his fingers, stretching your jaw wide for his invasion. your protests are swallowed by your own gag reflex as he fucks your face with no regard for your well-being.

your mind is hazy and you can't seem to rouse yourself enough to push him away. he's just too strong, too overpowering. you're at his mercy, helpless to resist as he takes what he wants.

his fingers finally slip free from your mouth, coated in saliva. he uses that same hand to roughly spread your legs further apart, pleased with how easily he’s able to violate you in your vulnerable state.

he flips you upright and pulls your hips back, exposing your pussy to the air. he runs a finger along your slit, feeling how wet he's made you.

"look at you, getting all worked up over nothing," he chuckles darkly, spreading your lips and poking his big finger into your entrance.

“so wet f’me,” he coos, sliding his finger inside you and starts to pump it, scissoring it to stretch you. you moan and wriggle against him, still only semi-conscious.

leon ignores your attempts at protest, too focused on his own pleasure. his hips start rocking, his hard cock rubbing against your thighs as he uses you like a doll. “fucking slut, getting off to this," he growls, giving your clit a harsh pinch that makes you whine. his words are thick with insincerity, a mocking edge to his voice as he uses the pet name he knows you love. in reality, he despises you and views you as nothing more than an object to use at his leisure.

you try to push him away with your sleepy hands, clawing and flailing your arms, but he pins them to the mattress easily. he's too strong, and you're too weak from the drugs coursing through your system.

“be good and stay still," he growls, smashing his mouth down on yours to muffle any screams that might escape. his tongue probes aggressively at your lips, seeking entry. you cry out as he thrusts his thick cock into your resistance, splitting you open and making you scream. his hips start pounding into you with renewed vigor, bouncing off your ass as he breeds you hard and fast. the bed creaks and shifts with each brutal thrust.

"so fucking tight," he groans, starting to piston his hips, using your throat for leverage.

he grunts and growls as he ruts into you like a beast, your body sloppily pressed against his. your head is forced to bob up and down on his cock as he thrusts, drool streaming down your chin. your muffled whimpers and protests are lost around his shaft. “look at that, you take my cock so well baby," his filthy words are punctuated by sharp smacks to your ass and thighs, keeping you off-balance and unable to fully rouse. he's relentless, using your mouth and body for his own sick satisfaction.

your struggles weaken further as the air gets cut off from your lungs. he pauses to spit in your face, the slick substance mingling with your tears and drool. “what’s the matter sweetheart? can’t breathe?" he taunts, smacking your face. "just relax, you can take it." he punctuates his words with a sharp smack to your inner thigh, making you gasp and squirm beneath him.

the bed frame creaks ominously with each powerful thrust, threatening to give way and spill you both to the floor. his hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, pulling your hair, slapping your ass. he's completely lost in his own pleasure, using you as a means to an end. you try to squirm away from him, but it's futile. he's too strong, and you're too drowsy. he simply reaches up and clamps a hand over your mouth, muffling any cries for help.

"quit fucking squirming," he growls. but somehow, he’s lying. he wants you to fight back, to struggle and make it harder for him. it's more exciting that way. your throat burns as he continues to use it as leverage, twisting your head with every brutal thrust. tears stream down your cheeks, your eyes squeezed shut in fear and pain.

saliva and juices run down your thighs as he slams into you without mercy. your mind is fuzzy and disconnected, unable to fully process the assault on your body. all you can do is endure, a ragdoll for leon to use and abuse as he sees fit.

"atta girl," he hisses. "take it, baby." he punctuates his words with another sharp smack to the ass, the sting adding to your growing pile of discomfort.

you can only moan and mewl in response, too far gone to resist. your body is numb, your mind foggy and detached.

you try to nod, too weak to do anything but comply. he loosens his grip on your throat and moves his hand back to your hip, pulling you against him roughly. his cock throbs inside you, swelling up further as he gets close to coming.

"fuck, gonna cum," he warns, his hips redoubling their pace. you moan helplessly as he breeds you hard and fast, the bed creaking and shifting under you. he slaps your ass hard twice, the sound echoing in the room. he groans, coming with a loud grunt. your body is wracked with shudders as he fills you with his cum, your cunt clamping down on his shaft to milk him for every drop.

when he finally pulls out, you're left gasping and sputtering, drool dripping down your face. you lie there in stunned silence afterwards, sprawled beneath him in a puddle of your own fluids. leon collapses on top of you, pinning you to the bed as his chest heaves with exertion.

you're still drifting in and out of consciousness when leon rolls off of you and onto his side, facing away from you. your mind is a fog, struggling to process the events that just transpired. a small sob escapes your lips as you try to make sense of the pain, confusion, and shame that's flooding through you.

after what felt like an eternity, leon reaches over and pulls you into his side, pressing your body close to his. you can feel his warmth, his heartbeat, away his arms are uncomfortably resting atop your skin.

slowly but surely, the fog in your mind starts to clear. you become aware of the dull ache in your throat, the soreness of between your legs, and the disgust you feel for yourself.

fresh tears spring to your eyes as the reality of your situation comes crashing down on you.

"shh, calm down baby," he whispers, stroking your hair soothingly. but his touch is cold and clammy, sending shivers down your spine.

your body feels heavy and numb, your mind hazy and disconnected. slowly, your eyes flutter open. the room is blurry, the edges fuzzy. you try to move, but your limbs feel like lead. leon's face swims into view, his features distorted. "you had a bad dream," he murmurs, his voice sounding distant.

"just another nightmare, sweetheart. it’s okay, i'm here." his words are slurred, his face wobbly. you try to focus, but it's impossible. your vision starts to tunnel, fading to black. the last thing you hear is leon's gentle humming, lulling you back to sleep.

when you wake again, you'll have no memory of the nightmare, no recollection of the way he violated and degraded you. the drug will ensure that. all you'll know is that you slept fitfully and woke up feeling unwell.

tags: @crowleyco @arcane5019

[thesummerstorms]

"Percy held the sky to save Annabeth"

No he didn't?

Look I will give you literally everything else on that quest being for Annabeth. 100%, she's the reason he invited himself along to begin with.

But at the moment he took the Sky, Annabeth was not in any direct danger from it. She was elsewhere on the battle field. He was not rescuing her from the sky. She wasn't even actively being attacked by anyone.

He was rescuing Artemis because he had just nearly been killed by Atlas and correctly realized that they needed the power of a Goddess to defeat Atlas.

Atlas was taking his time coming toward me. My sword was gone. It had skittered away over the edge of the cliff. It might reappear in my pocket—maybe in a few seconds—but it didn’t matter. I’d be dead by then. Luke and Thalia were fighting like demons, lightning crackling around them. Annabeth was on the ground, desperately struggling to free her hands.

“Die, little hero,” Atlas said. He raised his javelin to impale me.

“No!” Zoë yelled, and a volley of silver arrows sprouted from the armpit chink in Atlas’s armor.

“ARGH!” He bellowed and turned toward his daughter.

I reached down and felt Riptide back in my pocket. I couldn’t fight Atlas, even with a sword. And then a chill went down my back. I remembered the words of the prophecy: The Titan’s curse must one withstand. I couldn’t hope to beat Atlas. But there was someone else who might stand a chance.

“The sky,” I told the goddess. “Give it to me.”

That was a moment of him being strategic and clever and I honestly hate the way it gets run through the fandom telephone.

It isn't that he wasn't being brave or putting himself at risk! He was!

But it was a battle-oriented decision, it was strategy, it was calculated. Reducing it to a moment of "he's so loyal he did it to save Annabeth" actually does his character a disservice here as well as hers.

Percy is famous for his loyalty, but what makes him a hero and a leader is his ability to make decisions like these.

[gummytea]

*intense heartbeat*

Rockstar!Nicholas and Fan!Seiji inspired by @applesandbannas747 's fic ( ˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵ )

[schneiderenjoyer]

A few of the many fic WIPs I have in the back log excluding TWTR and TATA. Yes, I draw my ideas first before writing them down, haha

[takaraphoenix]

Craving a specific type of fic that I thought I would find en mass, but since my searches turned up with... only a small handful...

Anyone know any post s05e09 Lies of Omission after that cursed scene where Stiles isn't believed about Donovan Sterek fics, where Derek does believe him/comforts him? Most preferably with Alpha Derek and a pack-switch.

Please leave me recs.

[moonpascal]

PSA: in the nicest way possible

If you comment or ask to be tagged in upcoming fics

1. did you like the post?

2. comment anything about it?

3. reblog it?

No?

Then there’s your answer.

I would be more willing to tag if 1/3 of these were done. It is very discouraging when I get messages or comments only saying

“when’s part two” “can i be tagged” “are you doing a tag list” when you made no indication you even liked/enjoyed said post.

even turning on notifications for blog or seeing if other blogs have separate accounts for their fics and turn those notifications on

thank you for others that do comment and reblog, it makes my day and i constantly go back and read them! 🤎

[marcelineuntitled]

fanart for This Is Not The End by @kings-highway

potentially my favourite fic ever!! <3

[mify-verdac]

Drew Cassandra to try and motivate myself to write for my accidentally ignored fic

[undertheopensky]

Sleeping By The Gravestones 2

Whumptober Day 28: Sacrifice

Characters: Legend, Hyrule, Four

Trigger warnings: Presumed character death, violence, blood, I am dead serious about the blood warning on this one

Read on Ao3!

Missed the first instalment? Read here!

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As they race down the narrow stone staircase, all Legend can hear is the screaming.

It’s close to the worst thing he’s ever heard. High pitched and wailing and agonised, the kind of sound no Hylian throat should ever make. The echoes make it otherworldly, reflecting back on itself until it seems to go on forever without a breath.

His eyes blur. He wishes he could just not listen but the sound reaches claws straight through to his brain and his spine and he can’t even cover his ears because he needs his hands free there could be enemies at any corner –

Instead the bottom of the stairs ends in a massive, iron-bound door. It’s so big they’ll struggle to move it even on the off chance it’s not barred, and the screaming is still so loud even with the muffling it makes Legend’s chest hurt. How are they going to get in? They don’t have time, what does he have, could he burn away the wood –?

Time hauls up his monster of a sword and Legend has a stunned moment of he’s not really going to – before the man brings it across the barrier with a thunderous crash.

The doors splinter and sag. Time hits them once more before one tears away from its hinges and they’re through, into a wide stone chamber that’s lit by too-pale torchlight and all Legend’s thoughts go to static.

The tiny smithy looks like a child laid out on the altar. Hands bound at the wrist and stretched over his head, ankles tied to the other end of the stone slab. Crimson flows off the edges in macabre waterfalls; blood soaks his tunic and floods the stone, pooling almost as far as the nearest bundle of linen. The nearest body. There’s at least a dozen, cultists in dark robes scattered around the room like windblown chaff, all of them as still as tiny Four.

Hyrule catches sight of Four – throat laid open too still and too pale – and gives a low, wounded cry.

Legend realises later that the screaming had never paused at all, but when Hyrule calls out it rises in pitch and volume into a shriek and the hazy darkness at the ceiling crashes down on them.

Legend’s thrown to his hands and knees by the force of it. It feels like a weight, there and gone again, and he’s scrambling back to his feet and laying sticky-wet hands on his sword as the others shout and grab their own weapons. But when he scans the room, there’s nothing to fight. No monster, no villain, no sign of whatever is still screaming. He knows now it isn’t – it can’t be Four.

He takes an unthinking step forward, towards Four’s body, and something sweeps him off his feet and sends him sprawling.

There’s more shouting as Legend rolls to his feet, ignoring the blood now coating his back and half his side, and tries to spot what had hit him.

The sconces lining the walls don’t stop the room from being dark. Shadows hover menacingly in every corner, drape themselves from the ceiling and gather on the floor. None large enough to hide a monster larger than a keese, but – foreboding, all the same. Like the shrieking that still hasn’t let up, muddling everyone’s voices, the echoes making the inside of this small stone room ring like the inside of a bell.

On the other side of the room – Time is moving to block the doorway, face grim. Hyrule’s already darting over to Legend. Warriors and Sky are starting to circle around the edges of the room, after a shouted conversation Legend can’t make out. He can’t even read their lips.

The light sources are magical, giving off a pale and smokeless light. There’s no reason for the room to be this hazy. Legend narrows his eyes.

When Warriors has to step around a supporting pillar, it puts him one step closer to – to the altar, and something moves and –

This time he sees it.

It’s not solid. It moves too fluidly for that, folding in on itself and spreading outwards without a care for such mundane things as bones and structure. One part of it can be so thin as to be see-through, fine fabric draped over an ever-changing shape, while another is thick and black and smoky as it lurches forward. Warriors staggers under the force of it.

Without thinking Legend steps forward, a shout on his lips that turns to a curse as the shadows whirl on him. Smoke and cloth and the heavy weight of dark magic, a hundred thousand tiny black birds wheeling through the sunset sky. They scatter to either side of the blade of his sword, untouched, to stream at his unprotected face –

Legend flinches back. His boot slips.

Warriors yells as Legend goes down again. His knees burn with the impact; his shoulder throbs, pain radiating up his arm where he’d caught himself one-handed, needing the other free to fend it off –

But it’s doubled back. Folded back in on itself to lurk in a shapeless mound between Warriors and the altar. As Legend watches, it rears up, flares gauzy wings in a threat display and screeches.

They’re too late, they’re too late, these bastards summoned something using Four’s life as the spark –

The Tempered Sword slips in his hand; Legend doesn’t drop it, but it’s a near thing, and he steps back to clean off.

There’s blood on his hands, cooling and sticky and thick. He’d known it was there. Known he’d fallen in a pool of Four’s blood. But it’s worse, somehow, seeing it; there’s a yank in his gut and a squeezing around his heart and his eyes have gone hot and blurry again –

He scrubs the blood away with his other hand, coming free in a slimy red film that makes his stomach turn. There’s still blood in the creases of his palm and between his fingers – but with the bulk of it gone –

Legend grabs the hilt of his sword and ignores the fact that the leather is wet and cold.

Sky and Wars are taking turns to dart in and cut away a few strands of smoke – though they’re making no headway. Anything that separates from the main body either falls to the floor and crawls over the stone back to the centre, or scatters to rejoin the soot cloud hanging fine and choking in the air.

Legend’s not the only one to see the problem. Sky sets his feet, and with the next swing of the Master Sword, light blazes along its edge and rushes free, cutting a path through the black haze.

It shrieks.

On the altar Four lies pale and bruised and lifeless.

Legend jolts forward, too late; the darkness is already closing in again, getting darker and more ominously solid by the second where it’s pooling over the stone. But it didn’t like the light – if they can drive it further – he shifts his grip on the Tempered Sword, calculating –

“Wait,” Hyrule calls, and Legend hesitates.

Stone splinters under Sky’s downwards strike.

It spatters away from the impact like dark blood. Splashes on the floor and pools there at the base of the altar between them and Four. Dark smoke comes streaming in from shadowed corners despite Sky’s best efforts, until it’s larger, thicker, just as powerful as it was at the start.

How do they fight it?

Hyrule steps in front of him.

The darkness screeches again.

“Four,” Hyrule calls, “it’s me, it’s Hyrule. You know me. Please, let me help you.”

The darkness hisses. Legend feels like he’s falling.

“I know,” says Hyrule, voice shaking. “I know. I’m sorry. Please, Four. You know me. You know I can help.”

There’s a moment where the world holds its breath. The screaming’s gone silent; the only sound is that of five heroes breathing hard, a shift of leather on stone as Warriors pushes himself back to his feet from the last time he’d been thrown. The cloud of dark particles sways back and forth.

Then, wavering, draws itself inwards.

The inky black takes a shape that’s almost familiar: the right height, the right silhouette, but featureless, all the detail lost in the void. It hurts, to see Four like this, and Legend lets out a sob that’s too loud in the suddenly-quiet basement. They were too late, and now Four is –

The blackness wavers; silver flashing across its surface in tiny streaks.

Then, warped and warbling and inhuman:

“I won’t let you hurt him.”

Hyrule swallows. “I’m not going to hurt him. I just want to help.”

“Don’t know you. They hurt him.”

“I know,” says Hyrule, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it!” the shadow screeches, fizzing at the edges. It steadies, reforms into something near-solid. “Won’t let you hurt him. Won’t let anyone hurt him. Not anymore.”

“But that won’t fix it either.” Hyrule edges closer.

“No! Stay back!” It lashes out, dark magic bursting into existence and cutting a slash in the stone inches from Hyrule’s feet.

“I’m a healer,” Hyrule says. He doesn’t baulk at a second flash of blackness, another furious hiss. “I know you don’t know me, but Four does. Link does. I’m a healer. I don’t know for sure what I can do, but – will you let me try? No matter what, I swear I won’t hurt him.”

The darkness wails, all grief and rage and wordless pain. It’s losing cohesion; going from a clearly-defined mirror of Four to a loosely person-shaped cloud.

“Please let me help.” At some point Hyrule’s abandoned his sword. He’s standing there empty-handed and earnest, one hand outstretched. Entreating. Please let me help you.

“Hyrule,” Legend hisses uneasily. If this – thing isn’t Four, then – what is it? Taking his shape, and fighting them so fiercely, and – it can’t really be protecting him, not when Four is already –

Already dead.

You were too late.

But Hyrule’s not listening. All his attention is on the darkness as it spreads back into that thin, gauzy veil. “Please,” he repeats.

The haze ripples; black silk in the wind, a flock of darting birds.

“Only you,” it cracks out, the words strange and warbling.

And Legend has to watch, as Hyrule walks fearlessly into the haze.

The second he makes it past the veil he breaks into a run. Blood splashes under his feet, drips from the altar; a faint and fading hope. Four’s throat is slit so deeply there’s a flash of bone as Hyrule slams his hands down on his chest and his head lolls. From all around him there’s an eerie keening sound; he blocks it out as best he can and focuses on the golden-green power streaming down his arms.

Please, he thinks. Please.

Four is so cold. Under the bruises on his face his skin’s near-translucent, too blue and too pale. His eyes are glassy. His chest is still.

All he needs is a spark, a single stubborn spark he can fan back to life. It doesn’t take much and Four’s a strong soul. Please. Please, Goddesses, if they’ve never granted him anything, give him this –

Then Four’s chest jolts. That first breath is short and strained; the second deeper, noisier, as air reaches his lungs and he starts to choke on blood.

Hyrule doubles his efforts, his own heartbeat screaming in his ears – or maybe it’s the darkness howling in relief. His arms burn under the strain. Lightning crawling down his fingertips, a spark he doesn’t need but he can’t let up now, not when Four is struggling for air, twisting weakly in his bonds while the massive wound at his throat slowly seals. His mouth gapes; his chest heaves with effort.

“Just a little longer, Four, I’m sorry,” Hyrule mutters. He hauls back on the lightning, feeling the shards of it under his fingernails, but it’s fine, it’ll be fine, Four is gasping underneath him as his windpipe seals closed against the blood that’s flowing free again, from all the vessels cut and crushed by the blow that nearly killed him. There’s a drain he doesn’t often feel. His magic is having to replace all the blood Four had lost – or at least a significant portion of it, because without it Four will die again, but magic’s not the best at creating something from whole cloth.

Some things, there’s just no substitutes.

When he slumps back, Four does too; weak from blood loss. His breathing stutters. But he’s breathing.

Almost as an afterthought, Hyrule cuts his hands free. His arms go slack, but after one brief moment of effort Four just lets them lie where they are, too weak to pull them down from above his head himself. Shit. He’s probably stiff after being bound for so long, too. “Here, let me help,” Hyrule murmurs. Desperation had scraped his soul dry of magic, but his support eases the way as he lowers Four’s arms, one at a time. “Just take it slow.”

Four winces at a particularly sharp cramp.

At some point the darkness had gone quiet. The malevolence that Hyrule had sensed, that had so frightened Wolfie – it’s gone, faded away to nothing. Or – almost nothing. The gap torn in the weft of the universe isn’t so easily healed, not when a Hero had come so close to death on this spot.

Not when there’s still shadows lingering close.

The veil around Hyrule had faded as he worked. Legend can see them now. Instead of hovering tight and defensive, the shadows are sort of – creeping up the sides of the altar, like a child peering fearfully over the edge. When Four whimpers in pain, it – it warbles back, and lurches up and over.

It trickles up Four’s form like a sunbeam in reverse; then as it gets to his chin and Hyrule is reaching with a hand covered in sputtering light, it peels itself off to hover above him. The form it takes is blacks and greys and reds, an inversion of the smithy – but clearly, definitively different to a dark.

His skin is a much darker brown than Four’s, with no sign of a dark’s ashen undertones. His eyes are red, yes – but they’re not the bright pools of malice they’re used to seeing. They’re just eyes, coloured red.

And his hair –

Instead of lifeless black or eerie white, it’s a shade of purple only slightly less vivid than the patch on Four’s tunic.

He’s looking at Four like he hung the moon and stars, and Legend realises – he’s never seen a dark with any expression other than fierce hatred or sneering, malicious glee.

Four draws up a slow smile and folds his fingers around the shadow’s grasping ones. “Hey,” he whispers, and there’s no fear in him at all.

“Hey yourself,” the shadow whispers back, and nudges close enough that their noses bump.

Four doesn’t even flinch. Just smiles a little harder so his eyes crinkle.

“Four?” He seems happy, but Hyrule has to double check. “Do you know him?” Do you trust him?

“Mm-hm. This is Shadow.” His voice is slow and wispy. Almost slurred. “Missed you,” he adds.

“Missed you too,” Shadow says, so close now his forehead is pressed against Four’s. Four’s eyes flutter contentedly shut at the contact. “Hey, no, don’t do that. You still gotta explain how the fuck you got into this situation. You’re supposed to be smarter than this, Rainbow.”

Rainbow? Legend mouths to himself, and thinks of Four’s tunic, all bright colours when it’s not covered in blood. Rainbow. What the fuck, that’s cute.

Four hums. It takes him a long time to get the words out – he’s still talking slow, so slow, and has to keep pausing for air. “It’s not… that complicated. I mean, if someone’s… going to do your dirty work anyway, you might as well… let them do it.”

“Wha – Rainbow, no, that’s so risky! Don’t you ever listen to the braincell??”

“The braincell… thought it was a great idea,” says Four, starting to grin.

“Vi, no.”

“Vi yes.”

The shadow muffles his groan in the crook of Four’s neck. Four giggles, honest-to-goddess giggles, and gets one trembling hand high enough to rest on his back. Tangles his fingers in the dark tunic with another soft hum. “Missed you,” he says again.

“We are going to talk about this later when you’re less loopy,” Shadow informs him. Four just smiles.

From outside their little bubble, Sky puts up a tentative hand. “Is that a conversation we can have somewhere else? That’s not covered in my brother’s blood?”

“Oh fuck yes, let’s get the fuck out of here,” Shadow says, head coming up from where he’d been all-but lying on Four. He swings himself off the altar, seeming not to notice the splash his boots made in the still-cooling pool of blood as he turned back to Four. “Rainbow, here, c’mon, I’ve got you.”

He’s the same height as Four, the same slight build. It should look ridiculous when he takes him into his arms. Hell, he should be struggling – Four’s small form is all muscle, and heavy with it. Instead, it looks all but effortless. Shadow nearly floats over the flagstones.

Four’s eyes flutter closed. With a soft sigh, he lets his head fall against Shadow’s shoulder, and stays there, still smiling. At his throat, a new scar shines silver.

[callioope]

EN GARDE

A rising star in youth fencing, Jyn Erso once hoped to compete at the Olympic level, until a change of circumstances compelled her to quit unexpectedly. Three years later, she still refuses to discuss the subject, even with family and former teammates. But it’s fine. She’s found other purpose. She’s even met a guy — he’s kind, smart, talented. There’s just one problem: he’s also an Olympic-level fencer. When she breaks off their burgeoning relationship, she’s forced to confront the truth about what she’s really running from and what she really wants.

Read on AO3

[hitlikehammers]

POV: when your boyfriend accidentally overhears you spilling all your (very misplaced) insecurities about him leaving you for the white-picket-fence love he ‘deserves’

aka: CONCLUSION ☄️ hold me oh so close (you’re the sanctuary) 2/2 (and still 100% for @pearynice on her birthday🎉)

✨previously: “I just gotta believe that loving, even for just a short time’s worth it, when it feels like this,” and Eddie does believe that. Deep down, even if it’s alongside doubting and hurting. Eddie believes it, else he’d have run ages ago. Loving Steve Harrington is worth it. “Ed,” Wayne starts his tone a little off, a little…probably tied up in the something Eddie doesn’t have a clue as to what he nudging at, still, but whatever it’s— Eddie thinks he about shoots his head up through the ceiling of the trailer—which would be a goddamn shame because again: new trailer, still a draft, doesn’t need a hole—when he hears the clatter of something heavy not more than ten paces behind him. Which places it still in the kitchen, where he is but only just. Eddie whirls, heart pounding, ready for the worst— And his eyes lock with Steve’s. Steve, who it appears has placed one of his mother’s fancy-ass pie plates covered in aluminum foil near the phone in the corner by the door. Which he’d have opened, y’know, with his key. Because they lock the doors now, still, just in case. But Steve has his own key, and— Oh. Oh, that might have been what Wayne was nudging toward.

“You,” Eddie barely breathes out, and if his heart was pounding for fear a second ago it’s…it’s doing a thing he’s pretty sure isn’t normal, maybe is wholly unprecedented in all of human history of some shit, and he, he—

“Unintentional,” Steve grins a little sheepish at the plate he’d set on the counter, clocking that’s how he’d given himself away, why Eddie was panting a little for the adrenaline rush and the also not just or even primarily about the adrenaline rush; “but like—“

But like then Wayne’s scraping his chair against the linoleum instead of his spoon against his mug, standing up and dropping both into the sink before he clasps Eddie’s shoulder, squeezes, then crosses over toward Steve, does the same and asks low don’t eat it all without me, yeah? and Steve laughs, matches the fondness Wayne aims at him as he lobs back like we’d start without you and Wayne hums his approval before grabbing his truck keys, muttering something about needing cigs—which Eddie’s knows damn well he doesn’t—and then he glances at Eddie with that look, and, and…

Oh, Jesus.

The door’s barely closed behind Wayne before Eddie turns in his chair, knows his knees aren’t gonna hold him just now if he stands, there’s this under-the-skin kinda trembling he can feel that might be his heartbeat or might be his bones quaking apart because, like, Wayne had been looking at him the whole time like that and—

“How long have you been standing there?” Eddie barely squeaks out, it’d be a weirdly humiliating sound either way but it’s not because Eddie can barely process anything over the raucous thunder of his own goddamn pulse because how long has Steve been standing there and, and—

How much did Steve hear?

“Long enough,” Steve finally answers after spending a little time playing with his lips between his teeth in a way that normally drives Eddie a little crazy, but right now he’s a little too nauseated for it to hit.

“Longer than I’d have liked, because the things I heard,” Steve’s voice cracks as he shakes his head, and he looks so crushed, so pained and Eddie feels both sensations wash over him and settle in deep and at ten times the intensity, the weight because Eddie’s caused it. Eddie’s own words fucking made this and he—

“But it was at least as long as I needed, so that I could hear ‘em,” and Steve’s crossing to him, now, crouching a little so grip Eddie at the forearms; “because I needed to hear them.”

Eddie turns, hides his face which makes him feel sick because this is Steve, there are no moments he doesn’t want to see him, to drink him in, to refresh the permanent etching of the whole of him on the insides of Eddie’s eyelids, the ephemeral tangle of Eddie soul so he’ll remember for always what this felt like, what love can be.

For when it’s gone.

“Eddie,” Steve reaches, gathers Eddie’s hands so strong, but sure and so gentle, like he wants to…preserve. So as to keep.

Eddie barely keeps down the seizing tremble to sob, but the cost of doing so cuddles in his stomach to the point where it settles even worse.

“Babe, I needed to hear it,” Steve’s hands tighten on him, thumb stroking back and forth against the pulse in Eddie's wrist; “but now I need you to hear this, okay? Really hear it, please,” he brings Eddie’s hands closer so one of his own can hold both of Eddie’s so he has one free to grasp Eddie’s chin and lift it up, catch his eyes:

“Can you do that for me?”

And that’s the silver bullet: there’s nothing Eddie wouldn’t do for this man.

So he nods. And if a tear he didn’t notice falls when he blinks, Steve’s hand darts immediately to wipe it clear.

“You still think I want a Nancy,” Steve breathes, a lament and a realization rolled into one, that clenches tight in Eddie’s chest.

“You still think it, don’t you, still have this idea of what that was and what that meant, when the real-life Nancy wasn’t even this idea you have of a Nancy and, and then fuck, then the reality of it, like when me and her were anything?” Steve huffs something…bitter out, not toward Eddie and that’s the thing, isn’t it: Steve and Eddie aren’t perfect, and they fight loud and hard sometimes but they’re never bitter, they don’t swipe dirty.

They love—

“God, we were stupid,” Steve shakes his head and oh, well, yeah, maybe Eddie was stupid to fall so far and so deep fucking knowing the lines and limits and flipping them all off nonetheless but—

Then he looks, and Steve’s regretful. Nostalgic in that way where you think of a thing from the past for the lessons you learned for it, the ones you’re grateful for.

And oh.

Oh, Steve didn’t mean them, he meant himself, and…and her.

“You still think that,” Steve bends his chin to press lips where his thumbs have been, and to hold, and to speak against the delicate skin: “after everything.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not disappointment. Eddie feels both, though: from himself, toward himself.

“Steve,” Eddie doesn’t mean it to come out like a moan. He swears. He swears he doesn’t mean it.

And yet.

“Come here,” Steve’s springing to his height and drawing Eddie first against his middle, tight to the low-center of his chest where the pulse of him echoes like a bell to toll and the he sinks into the comfort in that sound runs through him like cool rain for just an instant before hands are lifting, guiding him to stand and he stumbles a little but he goes nowhere, because Steve won’t let him, won’t ever let him.

All that perfectly placed trust in this man, never proven wrong.

“Will you come here?” Steve murmurs, watches Eddie’s feet and glances up through his lashes to his eyes, down and back, down and back as he leads them to the couch; knows this space like his own, like his home and that shivers through Eddie’s body—it feels right. Like it could’ve been forever, in another world.

But in this world? Steve asks if Eddie will come with him.

“Always.”

Forever the answer. And so he does.

Steve pulls him close, so close, almost in his lap as he curls against Eddie and gathers his hands again, squeezes to conduct his attention—like it could ever stray.

“I need you to listen to me,” Steve breathes so close to Eddie’s ear, hit on his neck; “I need you to listen, and believe me when I say it.”

All Eddie has in him just that moment is to nod, but fuck, does he nod, nods until Steve kisses the side of his head and tucks him under his chin, where Eddie can feel his blood move along by accident.

But it doesn’t feel like an accident.

“I used to think I fucked up with Nancy,” Steve’s saying, and Eddie can hear it as a whisper as well as he can feel it rumble under Steve’s throat; “and I did, but it was like,” he swallows hard, and Eddie feels that too; “it felt like I was the only guilty one, like I had take to all the blame, that it meant,” and Steve’s breath catches, he tenses, his heart trips a little, speeds a little and Eddie can’t not kills at the swell of his Adams’s apple, then the bump of his pulse, to nuzzle the tip of his nose in between, and Steve’s hand threads in Eddie hair: holds him near.

So fucking near.

“That it meant I was the problem, that I was built wrong,” and Eddie sucks in a breath that hurts but not nearly as much as those words, the implication that Steve ever; “that I was like my parents,” and no, fucking no: Steve is ten times most people in the whole world but in comparison to his fucking parents? Jesus fuck, numbers don’t go high enough to compare how much he outstrips them—

“That my love was only ever gonna be bullshit.”

And Eddie can’t help it. He whimpers when he wants to be still, be quiet and let Steve say what he needs to, let him ease Eddie down gently and make the end of this feel softer than it should, than it will with time but with a kindness no one in the world would ever show Eddie Munson—he wants to respect Steve’s space to say his piece but bullshit—Eddie’s come to trust and care for Nancy Wheeler, wonder of wonders, but fuck if he isn’t tempted to slash her tires and shred her drafts right before her deadlines for at least…ever. For fucking ever, because that’s not even in the same reality of enough of a punishment for saying, for doing what she did to this man’s precious fucking heart and if anyone here is bullshit, she’s—

He doesn’t realize how heavy his breathing has gotten, or how tunneled his vision, until Steve reaches a palm out and cradles his neck: an anchor. He’s quiet, and breathes like a light in the dark to follow home until Eddie can see straighter.

He is such…such goodness that it’s hard to do anything but reorientate the whole of him just…just to Steve.

“And I wondered, for a little while, if I put Nancy on this pedestal?” Steve speaks so soft, pressed now against Eddie’s brow, forehead to forehead. “Like she was something better, above me, and could…balance me out. Make the wrongness better. Worthwhile.”

Impossible. Impossible because she couldn’t, she’s not sufficient. Impossible because there’s no wrongness in Steve Harrington. Impossible because Steve’s more often than not the most, if not the only, worthwhile anything Eddie sometimes knows at all.

“But the reality,” and Steve’s tone, it’s…it’s different now. More…sure, maybe; “the real truth,” and yes, yeah, more sure, it’s a certain thing: “is we were stupid kids who saw horrible things, and we were hurting,” and Steve’s head turns just enough to brush lips against Eddie’s temple before bowing back against Eddie’s forehead, both of them breathing the other’s breath now.

Unbearably intimate. It always is but…but like this—

“Sometimes you lash out when you’re hurting,” Steve says simply, leans trusting into Eddie as he does, so forgiving of things that scarred him so deep; “sometimes hurting back, whatever way you can, is the only thing you’ve got.”

Eddie almost can’t comprehend it; is almost infuriated by its dismissal. But there’s…finality that feels like comfort.

Eddie doesn’t understand why, though, or, or how.

“And she was never, above me,” there’s this almost-smile in Steve’s voice then; “her love wasn’t better than my love,” and that’s the true thing, the most true thing maybe, the thing Eddie knew all along without a single shred of doubt:

“And my love didn’t need to be evened out. It was fine. I was fine.”

Then the pièce de résistance:

“My love’s enough just as it is.”

And Eddie wants simultaneous contractions, so deep and so much he can feel them tearing apart something vital in his chest: because he wants to rail, wants to push back on it because that’s not true, that’s too small: Steve’s love is perfection. Steve’s love is the only evidence Eddie’s ever seen that there might be a benevolent god in the universe somewhere, to allow for the tingly giddy joy that floods him under the warm beat of Steve’s love and if Eddie gets that from this love, limited-time-only though it’s offer might be, then Jesus H. Christ, Steve’s love? Enough?

That’s a fucking insult of the kinds Eddie’ll go account a hill tall enough to die on in defense of that love’s—this man’s—impossible, ineffable worth.

“Especially now,” Steve’s easing Eddie’s grip on him finger by finger—he must have grasped hard, squeezed so so tight when Steve shortchanged anything about himself as only just enough but it s a soft loosening, and he’s not letting go in the slightest, and his lips are set soft with a curve at the corners like maybe he knows that underneath Eddie’s indignation, he’s fucking proud of Steve for getting this far, for making progress that big: the know it clear enough to say it like the foundation fact it is when it took so long to unwrite the lies of a lifetime: yes.

Fuck yes, Eddie is proud of the man he loves who is more than fucking enough, who deserves the whole world.

And Eddie’s not the whole fucking world; Steve deserve so much mo—

“Because now,” Steve’s speaking again, and Eddie promised to listen, to believe like either was ever in question, like the cells in Eddie’s body don’t reorient themselves specifically to be near Steve, to cluster closer to Steve to soak in all of Steve—

“Now, this time, it’s this, this totally sincere thing, it’s this wholly honest, this absolutely genuine, like, timed in the rhythm of your heartbeat kinda thing I’ve never felt before and,” Steve rambles a little but it’s so earnest, so heartfelt where Eddie, or Robin—often their ramblings are just tangled-up tangents but this, from Steve: this is intention atop intention, a mountain of certainties vying for dominance to get the first foot out his mouth and into the world to make itself known.

“My love was always enough, but,” Eddie doesn’t like the ‘but’ on instinct, must scrunch his face or fail to catch a little whine for it because Steve’s hand in his own—still there, still there—but Steve’s still-there hand knows immediately to strokes Eddie’s knuckles, to soothe and to ground because Steve does love him in his way for as long as he’s willing, as long as he wants and it’s perfection, so far exceeding enough.

“But this is different from that other love,” Steve’s speaking it low, like the sound waves at that pitch will sync with something elemental inside Eddie’s DNA, inside the cadence of his blood—like he’d want that for some reason, like he does want that, here and now:

“Because it’s so much bigger, and stronger, and real in this whole new way,” and Steve’s lifting Eddie’s hand to his lips, doesn’t have to look to know the way anymore, presses them dead center to the middle and oh, oh it’s everything, Eddie melts a little and his heart’s still pounding almost painfully but it’s singing a little, forever weak and willfully so for Steve, Steve’s touch, Steve’s love—whatever kind, for however long, this real and tangible thing Eddie can see and feel that’s more than he never dared to conceive of, to think he could hold and—

“I love you, Eds.”

And Eddie’s brain does him the courtesy of stopping before his heart does. Y’know: undercuts the capacity to panic where your blood stops pumping and it’s all just white noise inside the whole of you. Because your brain’s already offline anyway.

Helpful little trick of timing, really.

“I thought maybe it was too soon, and I was waiting to say it until you were ready, maybe,” Steve’s looking at him with this potent swirling mixture of apprehension and hope but all of it bundled up in that patent resolve of his, the thing that slays the monsters and corrals the children and reached that first time cup Eddie’s jaw and draw him all the way in; “maybe in case it ended up that you never were ready, but fuck,” and Steve’s breath huffs out of him like something pushes it, like something’s swelling up inside and squeezing on his organs, making the basic necessities of living a struggle and Eddie feels included to reach, to help and soothe but Steve might still look a little hesitant, but, but—

More than anything, the hope’s shining bright enough in the cracks to start winning out.

“Fuck,” Steve exhales with maybe the last of what’s left of his oxygen before he lifts his gaze and goddamn if those eyes are big enough, golden enough and swimming full enough to drown Eddie by default in something so much bigger than what he understand even the concept of love to be but it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make sense, Eddie isn’t the dream, he’s not what’s Steve waiting on, but Steve’s hands aren’t just on his anymore, Steve’s hands are tangling with his hands and drawing Eddie’s up under his chin and Eddie can feel him breathing, thinks maybe he can feel his pulse against the skin but it’s hard to tell when Eddie’s own is such a riotous thing, and—

“If I was ever waiting for love, the real thing, the thing right here,” and he squeezes Eddie’s hands tighter, almost nonsensical; “right here,” and he kisses the pads of Eddie’s fingers and holds there close, long and warm like there’s something magnetic there, something worth staying to savor before he leans, holds eddies hands in the bare space between them as his gaze meets Eddie’s and locks there: Eddie couldn’t look away if he tries and then Steve breathes—

“It’s you.”

And Eddie must have heard wrong, same as his lungs, which tighten up to stalling, to causing real goddamn pain behind his bounding heart now because that’s not right, that’s not right—

“Up and down, through and through, forever and,” and Steve’s breath catches, and his eyes fly to Eddie’s, wide not like he surprises himself but like he’s unsure of something, when Eddie’s unsure he’s not fucking dreaming, or maybe goddamn dead and this is his afterlife, his undeserved reward; “umm,” and Steve licks his lips, but never wavers from looking at Eddie like hes the center of the universe, and more than that: some universe Steve wants:

“Always,” he breathes; “forever and always.”

Then he cups both of Eddie’s cheeks and and frames his face, cradles him like he’s dear beyond reason, like every word he said is law and love and light:

“It’s you.”

Eddie cannot fucking breathe.

“So, yeah,” Steve huffs, breathless himself; “that’s, umm,” and he pulls back a little, enough to run a shaky hand through his hair for nerves, and Eddie’s wants to stop him, wants to catch him and bring that hand to his lips but he’s frozen, he’s shaken, he’s stunned because he’s been so sure, he’d been so sure there was an expiration date but Steve had never spoken of one before, then here he’s said always and forever, over and again and both words, every time, were truths where Eddie’s knows Steve’s tells for anything less—these were truths but Eddie’d been sure—

“Guess that’s me pulling my heart out, too,” and Steve gestures between them, chest to chest and Eddie shudders, feels the motion move in his blood somehow: facts. Truths. This man, right here, being brave—having heard Eddie’s words he thought were confessions aimed elsewhere and not shying from them, put handing them back, offering his heart now and how, fucking, fucking how—

“And you can do whatever with it,” Steve sounds sure of that too, almost resigned but mostly resolute; “but Eddie?”

And then he smiles. Soft. Warm. With so much love.

“That’s been true from the start.”

That—

You can do whatever with it.

Like…as if Eddie’s had that heart from—

“Because it took like a second to know it was yours,” Steve spells it out plain, like he knows Eddie will struggle to take it it; he grabs Eddie’s hand and flattens it to his chest, lets him feel the frantic flutter as he exhales fierce:

“That I was yours.”

And between the words, and the certitude; the passion and the pulsing heart under his palm—all of Eddie’s conviction that that this was slowly creeping toward and end, it just…it’s like he held it in that hand.

And the steadfast pump of Steve’s heart breaks it to dust, banished far to nothing.

Eddie’s breath comes back in an incredulous laugh that’s no without tears.

“Mine?” he breathes, hand still on Steve’s heart, eyes trained on Steve’s own, unblinking. Still so close to disbelief.

“Yours,” Steve nods, covers his hand again and presses in. “All of it. Long as you want it.”

“Always,” Eddie answers almost before the last word fades; “always,” and it’s in claiming forever on offer beyond all imagining that it starts to register, to bleed into him full as he chokes out: “I never could have,” then he shakes his head, stacks another hand to Steve’s chest, needs the grounding. The assurance.

And then—

“Mine?”

Steve’s voice is small, but he’s leaning to Eddie’s pulse at his jaw, just the brush of his lips and Eddie shivers, but he turns a hand to drag Steve’s own to his heart, too, because good fucking god—

“Oh fuck,” Eddie breathes, arranges Steve’s fingers to every points around the beating so it’s complete, and fucking proprietary:

“Only yours,” he vows, wholly and complete; “past the day I goddamn die, Stevie,” and he means it, he means it: “only ever been yours.”

And it’s true, and not only because Eddie didn’t really understand love before loving Steve taught him. It’s that, but then: somehow beyond the size of words—it’s also more.

And when Steve leans to kiss him full on the lips, nothing they haven’t spent these last months doing every goddamn day, more chaste even than they’ve been for ages: it doesn’t shift the plates of the planet, or the motions of the tides.

It shifts the way the solar system rotates, the way the universe expands.

Steve tastes like what it means to be alive.

And they stay that way, they lower onto the cushions of the sofa and hold so fucking close, kiss so fucking sure like promises and their celebrations, their renewals and their rebirthings all in one. They kiss until air becomes meaningless, until their lungs burn as much as their eyes, until kisses tears away is commonplace and then spent entire, the moment held close and ushered through as a softness, a commitment to come another unwavering, and then they’re getting the, their breathing is calm and their bodies are pressed like they were made to mould into one perfect shape. They smile stupid at one another, the relief eclipsed in pure fucking joy, now, as Steve nips around Eddie’s face, down how next, to his collarbones: playful. As Eddie twists the soft strands of Steve’s hair and caresses beneath where they fall when he lets go, they start again.

“What kinda pie did you bring?” Eddie asks idly after minutes, probably not hours—they’re still alone and yeah, Wayne knew what he was doing when he left but it’s his day off. And he does love Steve’s baking.

Gets to love Steve’s baking now forever, and Eddie’s not settled enough to resist burying the full width of his grin in Steve’s shoulder for it: another forever-privilege he’s still acclimating to the marvel of.

“Apple,” Steve answers, stretching his neck back so Eddie can fit more fully, more close. “Wayne just said pie, but, I know the deer got your tree,” which they definitely did, the cute little woodland-terrorists, Eddie bought them a salt lick and everything to try and sway their violence. No dice.

“We should look at what it takes for a fence, man,” Steve muses before he reaches, grabs Eddie’s hand to pull it to his lips for a kiss so he can keep Eddie’s face burrowed safe in his neck but still love on him this way all the same as he adds with a knowing grin in his tone, tangible where Eddie’s hand lingers on his lips:

“Plus I know apple’s your favorite.”

And Eddie, he can’t help it, it’s all so fucking much so he, he kinda has to—

He giggles. He giggles, and he tucks himself a little lower, straight to Steve’s chest so tight and he wraps his arms around this man he gets to love, and love with everything, with no end in the cards at all, not ever: he laughs as Steve wraps his arms around him in kind without hesitation, fits around him with no intention of sifting anytime soon, because, because…

An apple pie life. A picket fence love.

Eddie’s heart cartwheels in his chest and he pulls Steve closer, wills him to feel it too, to know what it holds.

All that it holds.

Steve’s arms find some magic way to hold him tighter in kind, like he wants his chest pressed into Eddie’s to share permanent real estate, to meld into one single beating-breathing symphony and…yeah.

Yeah: Steve fucking knows how far this goes, can’t see the end either.

And he somehow wants that, relishes it, smiles so fucking blinding when the lift their heads again and kisses even fucking deeper right up until they hear the gravel rumble and the engine cut and it’s time to slice the goddamn pie, and brew another pot of coffee to go with it, and, and…

And talk about how hard it might be—or how amazing, maybe, even—to put up a fucking fence around an apple tree for the long haul.

also on ao3 🖤

✨permanent tag list (comment to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme

[sweetsuo]

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐬

Toji Fushiguro x F!Reader

Cw. afab!reader. Cheating. Infidelity. Dacryphilia. Temperature play. Burning. Fingering. Smoking.

 Genre. [ fic. Smut. See tags for notes.] You're Megumi's girlfriend and his father is not someone you thought you'd catch the eye of in the kitchen.

Wc. 3.6k

This was fucked up. It was fucked up and you knew it was. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but it’s the only way your heart squeezed in that sickeningly pleasant way – the only reason you wanted to sleep over any more.

You looked up at him, eyes dancing over the serenity in his features. Handsome. Somehow boyish in the length of his lashes and the way his lips parted in a slight laugh. He made you feel like an endangered animal – preciously encaged for safety and sanctuary yet never letting you see home again.

Your breath fluttered and you were completely certain he could hear the way your heart swirled in your eardrums. It was evident in the way his head tilted slightly as his deep gray-blue eyes went from your chest, to your lips, to yours eyes. You held your breath, rolled your lip between your teeth, and averted your eyes.

The tile of the kitchen floor was cold against your bare feet and Megumi’s shirt was big enough to graze your knees. The chill of the counter against the side of your hand reminded you of everything outside of the one in front of you.

“W-what?”

“Can I have the milk?”

Toji leaned his hip on the black marble countertop, hand laying over yours on the cardboard milk carton as he took it from you. It was a slight graze of a touch, but you felt the calluses of his fingers trickle across the delicate skin of the back of your hand. You repressed a shudder. Your chin dipped down. Your hand let go of the carton.

“Thanks. What’re you doing up so late, Princess? Gumi kick you off the bed again?”

You felt the warmth of his body as he shifted, bicep grazing onto your upper arm as he poured the milk into the coffee. The nickname always peeved Megumi in a way he couldn’t fully explain. You would reassure him it was fine, it’s just because his dad was a dick. Toji said it was because Megumi spoiled you.

“No,“ you watched as black espresso turned to a pretty caramel. Suddenly your tea wasn’t as appetizing anymore. For a moment your brows furrowed and you were aware that it was 3:15am, “why are you drinking coffee?”

Toji laughed. It’s deep and gruff and sounds like tires over a gravel driveway. This time you can’t suppress the shudder. It’s been this way since Toji came back from his business trip. You never met him up until the last semester. At least not in person. He was usually away. Megumi never knew what he did or how he afforded the house. 

Either way, whenever classes let up or between semesters, you’d come to his suburban home and basically live with him. You loved Megumi very much and you have for the year and a half you’ve been dating. You’d kiss him goodbye whenever you left to see your parents, but there was something about his dad that kept you coming back.

Maybe it was the first night you woke up in the middle of the night. Megumi had kicked you off the bed by accident. There was only so much room for two 20-years-olds and a large dog. It was bound to happen one day or another. It was simply unfortunate that you scraped your arm on a bent piece of metal from his bed frame, leaving a long scratch that pebbled red. You traversed down the steps and having forgotten your glasses on the nightstand, had to rummage through the drawers to find a band aid.

Toji was there, leaning on a counter by the sink, gazing out the window. The sweet scent of cherry tobacco lingered despite the open air. At first, your throat cinched around your thumping heart. You thought he was an intruder. You couldn’t see his features, but the way the moon abstractly bounced off them, you immediately knew who he was just by shape. Megumi got his good looks from someone and that someone was right in front of you.

“You’re bleeding,” he stated blandly, only taking a second to look at you from the corner of his eyes.

“I am?” You knew you were. That’s why you had your arm up like an injured paw and a hand in a drawer full of homeless kitchen appliances, “I am.”

“So you are,” he chuckled. Toji stood at full height and you swore you nearly gasped. The corner of his scarred mouth curled then flattened as he turned to you. He grabbed a paper towel, fingers grasping onto the tips of yours. His palm was warm, soft, tender on the flesh of your arm. The paper towel pressed to provide a temporary fix as he guided you along to the bathroom to pull out a bandage.

You remember every moment of that night; how the sink felt pressing against the small of your back and how his thigh leaned almost too heavily onto yours as he meticulously took care of the minor cut. In his defense, the bathroom was small – one of the ones that fit awkwardly under a staircase and only had a toilet and a sink. It didn’t excuse the way his hand brushed your hair back when everything was settled. You still felt guilty that you tilted your chin to better feel the backs of his fingers against your neck.

For as often as you felt guilty, soon to follow was an echo of his parting words.

“Mr. Fushiguro takes care of his guests – especially Gumi’s Princess.” His smile was strangely sweet when he exited the bathroom, leaving you to collect your staggered breath.

It was that night, and plenty of nights after, that you woke Megumi up by putting his hand on your cunt and asking if daddy could take care of you. The kisses he’d press to your forehead lingered warmly, lovingly. Bitterly.

Brought back by the metallic thwip of a bic lighter, Toji cupped his hand to the flame, lighting the cherry cigarette you would smell when you were lonely in your dorm. It overpowered the familiar scent of eucalyptus you’d once loved.

“For the same reason everyone drinks coffee,” He laughed once through his nose, expression slackening as his gaze lingered on yours. He dragged on the cigarette and exhaled for longer than usual. The swirl of smoke passing over the curve of his lips was beautiful. He quirked a brow, curiously entertained, “Withdrawal?”

You dry swallowed. He offered you the cigarette with an offhand comment you couldn’t quite hear. The end of the cig faced you and you leaned, wrapping your lips around it. The subtle graze of his fingers on your lips tickled. You never smoked before. Through thick lashes, your gazes met and you swore something passed over his. You sucked. You coughed. You secretly loved the taste of burnt cherry.

“That’s not how you do it,” his voice was dark navy and for a moment, as small tears welled from the remaining spasm of your lungs, you thought he would scold you for lying. Hushed, he pressed the cigarette back to your lips, “Try again.”

Obediently, your lips found their way around the stick. You had Toji’s attention on you in the same way a starling bird had a peregrine falcon’s. You felt wanted by something hungry.

You waited patiently for his order, looking up to him with those pretty, expectant eyes. You barely noticed his hand slowly pulling the cigarette. Your lips stayed connected. He felt your breath fan the backs of his fingers.

“Are you going to suck it, or what?” There was a bite to his voice and you took a long, nervous drag. The crackling burning paper filled the space between you. You tried to inhale it all and the burn made your eyes water. Toji’s head tilted by a minuscule as your lips detached, leaving a small string of saliva attached to the end. Bleary eyes matched his, desiring his approval. His free hand cupped your cheek, giving a slight tap, “I’m not going to spoil you like Megumi does, Princess.”

Strong hands grabbed under the thickest part of your thighs, hoisting you up and onto the cold marble counter. Megumi’s shirt was disregarded and hiked up to the crease of your hip. The hiss of hot ash sprinkled on your thighs matched the heady hiss your tongue made against teeth. Toji smirked. The burn was replaced by his rough hands smoothing over the supple flesh. He gripped your ass, hauling you to the edge of the counter.

This was wrong.

Your heart throbbed in your chest and even more between your legs. Your Thighs squeezed together as Toji leaned into your neck, biting hard. His thumbs dug into the junction of your thigh and hip, keeping you sat firmly on the counter top.

Megumi was upstairs.

Toji’s mouth trailed down your neck as the tips of his fingers traced up along bare skin. You could feel him smirk against your neck. Surely the warmth of his lips could feel how fast the blood pumped through you. You felt light headed, impatient for the touch of his chilled fingers. The man before you nudged his cheek onto yours and you felt the subtle graze of his spudding 5 o’clock shadow.

He said nothing, but you heard the change his breathing. Hiis middle finger slipped between your glossy lips - the touch was so cold, you gasped and your cunt clenched on nothing at all. The pad of his middle finger moved slowly in a circle, then traced down. It was so slow that your body writhed for more. To try and coax the digit in, your entrance throbbed. He headed to call to its beck. Rather than satiate your starving sex, Toji brushed up to your clit. Totally in control of you, his fingers dance in cruel repetition.

His spare hand trailed up your torso, pulling his son’s shirt up to expose you bit by bit. The shirt never came off, no. It’s not like he needed it to when you wore nothing underneath it. He’d be lying if he didn’t notice how your nipples perked and your stance shifted when he entered the kitchen. He felt your eyes on his back when he opened the fridge. Deliberately (and with the goodness in his heart), he allowed your longing gaze to linger on him. It was laughable that you were pressing your bare chest into the palm of his hand, The tissue malleable and molten under his touch. It was euphoric. You gave into his touch so desperately.

Toji’s grin widened, Cheshire-like against you. His breath was hot against your ear and the baritone of his voice was enough to make you swallow a whine, “Maybe Gumi doesn’t spoil his Princess like I thought. You’re really this cock hungry? I barely touched you,” his finger tapped on your swollen clit and you jerked in response, curling forward and trembling digit gripping onto his impossibly tight shirt. Practically on the brink of tears from the way he teased you, you wondered how hands so cold could feel like they burned like the ash on your thighs.

Fuck. Fuck.  

The hands gripping his shirt slapped the cold counter when you pulled your torso away to back on your forearms. Your brows knit and your chin tilted back. Megumi’s shirt draped over your tits like fine silk. What a fucking delicious sight. Desperate. That’s exactly how you looked with your nose scrunched and lips drawn in a tight line. Your fists were balled and legs spread wide, separated by his body. He admired that the first thing spilled on the freshly installed black marble was the drool of your cunt.

Toji persisted despite the painful ache of his cock. He wanted you to grovel for him, prove his suspicion that his son lacked the same skill to make you a drooling mess. Why? The answer was simple instinct to him. The aftermath of his divorce left him in shambles. But then again, papers were filed the second he fucked his sister-in-law on wifey’s new BMW (and doubled down on when she found the recording of him with the couple’s therapist). Validation, maybe. He had nothing to prove or no need for it. He just wanted to know that he could fuck anyone he wanted anywhere he wanted, no matter who they were.

You opened your mouth to scream in frustration. Your legs shook, every part of your body wanted something to fill you. Empty. Empty fucking. Empty satisfaction. The slap was followed by the sound of skittering upstairs.

You paled and your heart threatened to burst with anxiety. Complete silence took over the kitchen and your mind emptied, listening for the familiar sound of your boyfriend’s footsteps. Eyes looked over your shoulder and suddenly you were very aware of the fact that every entrance leading to the kitchen was an open walkway.

The man between your legs had paused then, lips slack as he listened. He had good hearing. Good senses. His fingertips sprawled on top of your mound, palm pressing against your fluttering entrance absent-mindedly. It was merely the dog. He trained it to only bark or alert of certain triggers. This was certainly not one of them. Your reaction though- he could work with that.

His fingers circled your clit and you feared he would continue his cruel tease. Toji could see through your expression like the Bermuda seas. He leaned forward, hand slowly tipping over your entrance as his words filled your mind, “What happens if you’re caught?”

Your breathing stopped completely. Dread, excitement, and two long digits filled you. Just as you had expected, every second of teasing coated your walls. Every nerve ending had been meticulously prepared for something to touch them, trigger them to ignite. Your walls spasmed readily and your knees gripped the sides of Toji’s hips. He experimented with you for a while, salivating when tears pinched past your lashes. In the back of his mind, he needed you to break before you got his cock. He was getting slightly impatient. His hands were cold and you could feel every single motion of his fingers in you. Your mind could paint a picture of every ridge his digits had to offer simply from his temperature.

He leaned over. His tongue was hot. With a single broad, strong, and long open-mouthed lap along your clit, you unwound. A free hand slapped over your mouth, muffling the near animalistic yowl you let out. He smirked.

Bet Megumi never heard that sound.

As soon as your walls slowed and your voice died out, Toji shoved the band of his sweats under his cock. He could tell by your blissed out glaze that you weren’t entirely processing what was to come. He could fix that.

Hands pulled you half-way off the counter. You yelped, shivering at the slick on the surface beneath you. Toji held you under your knees, practically forcing you to prop yourself up on your elbows. He cooed, “Good girl.” The way you stared at his cock like it were god itself had a dribble of precum roll down his length. A bare minimum of 8-9 inches stood at attention, positioned right under you. Your arousal drizzled over him and if your mind worked, you would’ve offered to lick it off like one would a warm sugar glaze.

He adjusted his arms so that the underneath of your thighs were supported by his hands and your knees hooked over his arms. Your own arms wobbled and shook. The muscle ache was blunted by his thick tip pressing onto your entrance. You had no option but to give him the reins. His focus was entirely on the junction between his tanned cock pressing into you. It was almost endearing, how this look of fascination came over his harsh features, enrapturing your gaze like a renaissance painting.

He guided your hips in a circle, bending his knees slightly to swirl against you. The scar at the corner of his lip twitched in gratification when you throatily let out a long high note. He lowered you onto him in bit by bit. Slight thrust in. Draw back. Slight thrust in. Draw back.

Every. Single. Time. He drew out, you wanted to cry out. You could take it. Toji continued to carefully make his way into you. He was large and he learned from mistakes of drilling in too soon. Sure, he slipped in easy enough, but he still met resistance to the stretch. He didn’t want to hurt you. Or at least that was until you opened your pretty mouth.

“Stop fucking around. I can take Gumi’s dick, I can take yours.”

Your lips formed into a pout and the words backhanded his ego. So this is what Megumi dealt with. Oh no, he couldn’t have that. You were obviously trying to get a rise out of him like the brat you were. Toji darkly chuckled, “So this is what’s got him around your finger, huh? You want me to ‘stop fucking around’?”

He pulled your right leg across his chest so that it rested along his left shoulder. The left leg was guided around his waist. “By your command, Princess.” He thrust in hard, shoving his cock through the tightness. The pace was relentless. Harsher, meaner, heavier than even Megumi’s was at his roughest. Your mind erased the fact that you were in the kitchen of a house. It erased the fact that your arms felt like they were going to tear. It erased the sweat under your palms as you white-knuckled the edge of the marble. It erased Megumi, peacefully asleep upstairs.

All you felt was the hot vibration of your clambering walls and the searing hot brand of his cock burning into your core. Everything fuzzed, scattered with every near full pull, then came crashing back with every push. The position itself allowed for the force of your own weight to freely bounce back on him without him needing to do much. He still gripped your limbs with such force there would be bruises.  He wrapped your other leg around his waist patting your thighs to grip him as he changed his thrusts to slow, deep. Toji peeled off the shirt, a glisten to his every muscle under the dim light as it reached over his head. Arms were up high as it was shimmied off, but his thrusts were controlled. Abs worked, tensed in a motion so beautiful that you were absolutely certain that this was and would be your only religious experience.

The shirt hit the floor. Toji licked his thumb. The palm of his hand rested along your pubic bone, tilted so that he could graze your clit in such a gentle, yet effective way that you reeled. You bucked with him, using your legs to draw him in more until you felt a sharp pleasure rake your cervix, claw down the up-side of your walls. He dragged out. He thrust in.

He was close and was grappling for why the hell it was taking you so long. He felt how you squeezed his cock over and over. Your breathing slowed whenever it happened and there was a certain flicker going off in your half-lidded gaze. Your walls got tighter each time, but never released. For once in his life, Toji Fushiguro thought he had met his match in stamina. There was a click of his tongue, “What the fuck are you waiting for? Are you a dog? Only can cum on command, bitch?” His words came from annoyance and impatience.

You nodded.

Trained her like a bitch, didn’t you?

“Cum.”

There was finally release. The hot iron brandish pressed hard into your walls, your abdomen, your throat. Your walls shuddered so violently, Toji nearly lost grip. A beat behind you, his cock thrusts jerked. You’re mouth opened with a silent moan, all muscles tensing in response. Hot. He was hot and fast and you felt each rope melt along your walls and drip off.

Pulling out his softened cock, Toji looked to the dark tile ground beneath you coated in a mix of a translucent glaze and thick white. He took mercy on you then, leaning and looping an arm under your back and pulling you to him. Your arms wrapped around his neck and for a sprinkle of a second he could see what Megumi saw. One hand held you up under your ass while the other pulled his sweats up. The house was quiet once more as he grabbed paper towels to clean you up.

After all was said and done, Toji sat on the couch with you on his lap, nestled into the crook of his neck. His hand supported your back as you sniffled your way back to the present day. He wasn’t great at aftercare and if he were being honest, any quick fuck had ended when he came (which was usually last). He was indifferent to the sniffles and indifferent to the way you made little sounds of comfort to yourself. You were doing what you needed to to keep yourself together. If that included reliving each moment Megumi placed a loving hand to your cheek and cooed at how well you did, then so be it. Who you craved at the end of the night wasn’t him. 

Toji wasn’t one to be possessive - yet he rubbed small circles on your back, believing that he could be. 

[gummytea]

A messy Seiji I made based on @glowingvenus 's fence fan fic (x) ✨