#its kind of like... its out of my hands now... i guess

[cherrycuppacoups]

Speed Champions 🏁...🏎💨 LN4

summary: when lando norris finds you torn between two LEGO F1 sets, he helps you pick—then sticks around long enough to find out you’re more than just a second favorite.

[word count] 1.6k

warnings: strangers to something more | fluff | insecure!reader | ferrari fangirl | second favorite driver but first to notice her | soft lando | mutual curiosity | comfort themes | feel-good one-shot | reader with self-worth struggles

author's note: this is my first f1 fic...i really hope yall enjoyed it, the story may seem sloppy cause its my first time writing something like this and its just a random idea that came up. enjoy!

The LEGO store smelled like plastic and childhood nostalgia. Y/N had been standing in the “Speed Champions” aisle for what felt like forever, arms crossed, brows furrowed, lower lip caught between her teeth. In one hand she held the Red Bull F1 car. In the other, the McLaren.

“I can only afford one,” she whispered to herself, as if saying it aloud would magically make the choice easier.

A reward, that’s all this was supposed to be. A little “well done” for surviving her final semester of university and crawling to the finish line of her internship without combusting. Just a small celebration for herself, from herself. Because no one else would. Not her so-called friends who always forgot to invite her. Not the boys who never once asked for her number, only her prettier friend’s. Not even her family who seemed to think “cute” was the most she’d ever be.

Her hands trembled slightly. Maybe she shouldn’t even be here. Maybe this was dumb. A silly plastic car to make up for—

“What’s a fine lady doing in the Speed Champions section?” a voice asked beside her, smooth and accented, with the exact kind of playful confidence that made her freeze.

She turned slowly, cautiously and nearly dropped both boxes. Standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, was Lando Norris.

Lando freaking Norris.

“I—uh—hi?” she blinked, eyes wide. “Just, um… browsing. For the F1 cars.”

He peered at the boxes in her hands, grinning. “McLaren, huh? Excellent choice.”

She laughed nervously, shifting her weight. “I was thinking about it. But I’m torn between it and the Red Bull car.”

“Ahh,” he nodded solemnly, like she was telling him something gravely important. “Tough decision.”

“I know right?” she chuckled, more at ease now. “I mean, I can’t buy both. I just finished my internship, and this is like… my little treat. You know, for surviving.”

“Fair enough.” His eyes sparkled. “Honestly, you deserve both.”

She snorted. “Tell that to my bank account.”

There was a beat of silence, comfortable and warm. She could feel him watching her but not in the way people usually did, eyes glossing over her like she was background noise but more like he was really looking.

“I’m Lando, by the way,” he said, casually.

She blinked again. “I know.”

He laughed at that, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Of course you do.”

She lowered her voice, nervous again. “Sorry if I’m being weird.”

“You’re not,” he said quickly, sincere. “I like weird. Honestly, watching you try to decide was the highlight of my day. Your thinking face is adorable.”

Her breath caught.

No one ever called her adorable and meant her, not something she said or did.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nope. Visiting a friend. Well… technically visiting. More like killing time while she’s out with her other friends.”

He tilted his head. “Sounds… familiar.”

She gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, I’m usually the last person to know plans anyway.”

“Then those people suck,” Lando said simply. “You seem cool. More than cool, actually.”

She looked down, cheeks flushing. “Thanks. I guess I’m just used to being… background. Not the kind of girl guys notice.”

He stepped a little closer. “I’m a guy. I noticed.”

Her breath hitched. Something in her chest fluttered.

He smiled, like it was no big deal. “So. Red Bull or McLaren?”

“…McLaren,” she whispered.

“Excellent choice! Max could wait he has 4 freaking championships already plus we are surely wining the championship this year” he grinned, taking the Red Bull car from her hand and putting it back on the shelf for her.

"Want me to buy it for you?" He asked casually.

Her eyes widened. “What? No! I can’t—”

“Not trying to be weird, I swear,” he said, hands up. “Just… call it my contribution to your final semester celebration. And maybe a thank-you for supporting us! The least thing I could do.”

She smiled slowly, unsure, but touched.

“…Okay,” she said. “But only if I get to say thank you with coffee?”

He beamed. “It’s a date.”

The box crinkled softly in her arms as they wandered away from the Speed Champions section, Y/N still not quite believing this was happening.

She clutched the McLaren LEGO set to her chest like it was sacred, her brain still trying to process that Lando Norris. Yes, the actual F1 driver Lando Norris had just helped her pick it out. And now he was casually strolling next to her like it was normal.

“So,” he said, eyes scanning the shelves, “since I saved you from the heartbreak of choosing the wrong car, think you could help me now?”

She looked up, surprised. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” he grinned. “I need to pick a LEGO set for Max's daughter P. She’s turning six, smarter than I am, and brutally honest. If it’s boring, she’ll tell me.”

“Well, no pressure at all,” she laughed. “What’s she into?”

“Everything chaotic,” he said. “Dinosaurs, glitter, cats, treehouses, science experiments… basically a one-girl tornado in sparkly sneakers.”

“She sounds amazing.”

“She is,” he agreed, fondness softening his tone. “But I’m losing my title as favorite uncle. This is my comeback attempt.”

Y/N studied the shelves thoughtfully. “Hmm… okay, how about this one?” She pointed to a colorful treehouse set with a zipline, mini figures, and a cat in a hammock. “Lots of chaos potential. There’s even a popsicle cart.”

Lando examined the box with exaggerated seriousness. “A zipline and a popsicle cart? You’re spoiling her.”

“She deserves it,” Y/N shrugged playfully. “Everyone does.”

He glanced at her sideways, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Including you?”

Before she could answer, her phone buzzed with a soft notification. She instinctively pulled it out and instantly regretted it. Another text from her friends bailing out on her cause apparently the car was full and there wasn't any space left. Nothing new.

However Lando noticed something.

Bright red case. Ferrari.

Big yellow 55 on the back.

And, of course, her lock screen? A candid shot of Carlos Sainz mid-laugh at the podium.

Lando squinted at it, eyebrows raising. “Wait… is that a Ferrari case?”

Her face flushed instantly. “Oh… yeah.”

“And is your lock screen—hold on—is that Carlos?”

“I—yeah, um—he’s my favorite driver,” she mumbled.

He mock-gasped. “You were debating between Red Bull and McLaren, and you’re out here walking around with a full Ferrari starter pack? What happened to loyalty?”

“I already have the Ferrari Speed Champion set,” she replied quickly, defensive but laughing. “It was the first one I bought when I started watching.”

He gave her a mischievous look. “So I’m your rebound after Carlos.”

She groaned, laughing. “No! You’re not—okay, fine. You’re my second favorite.”

He put a hand to his chest like he’d been stabbed. “The betrayal.”

“But!” she added, holding up a finger. “You are my mom’s favorite. Like… hardcore.”

Lando blinked. “Your mom?”

“She’s obsessed,” Y/N grinned. “She heard your name once during a race, said you sounded like a character in a teen rom-com, and now she never misses your interviews.”

He burst out laughing. “A teen rom-com?”

“She has a theory that you’d be the main character’s charming, funny best friend who’s secretly the love interest.”

“Your mom sounds like a genius.”

“She really is,” Y/N said sincerely. “She told me if I ever met you, I better get an autograph and a photo. She won’t forgive me otherwise.”

He grinned wide. “I’d hate to disappoint her.”

Y/N looked up, still holding her McLaren LEGO box, her heart unexpectedly full.

He glanced at her phone again. “Okay, so Carlos is your number one, and I’m runner-up. But hey… silver still gets a podium.”

She giggled. “Are you seriously turning this into an F1 metaphor?”

“Absolutely,” he smirked. “And I’m fully committed to moving up to P1.”

lando posted a story

ynusername posted a story

fin.

[mooningningg]

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (3)

about. you're flunking all your subjects. He’s a virgin. So you strike a deal—he tutors you academically to win a girl he has a crush on, and you tutor him in sex, simple.

parts. chapter 02, chapter 04

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.90k (???)

content. virgin!megumi + experienced!reader, Explicit sexual content – blow job, making out, handjob, semi-public tension, teasing, dirty talk, reader guiding Megumi through his first sexual experience. Power dynamics. Smug, experienced reader. Slight humiliation kink if you squint. Megumi is flushed and wrecked and learning. This is a part of an ongoing tutoring-for-sexual-experience fic. Reader is not kind. She is hot and she knows it. ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP I DON'T WANT NO SMOKE OR SOMEONE BEING A HATER IN MY COMMENTS.

notes. i've been missing for two days, I rlly hope you won't be bored with this long ahh. and please try to not skip some parts since its important for you to understand the thoughts behind the actions.

You were supposed to be past this, supposed to be untouchable, unshaken, unbothered. That was your thing—right?

You didn’t cry over boys. You broke them. You didn’t second-guess yourself. You walked out first. You ended things before they could ever reach the part where you might actually get hurt. But now, you were lying in your bed, legs tangled in your sheets, staring at your ceiling like it held answers, and for the first time in a long time, you felt… small.

You hadn’t cried since the fight with Megumi, not really. But now, everything was creeping in. Quietly. Slowly. Like the kind of pain that doesn't hit you all at once—but chips away at you until suddenly, there's nothing left.

It wasn’t supposed to matter, it was just tutoring, just a deal, just a boy with glasses and too many books and a sharp tongue who should’ve meant nothing. But why—why—was it his voice in your head? Not Noritoshi’s, not the boy who said he loved you.

Not the boy you gave everything to for over a year—the one who knew all the worst parts of you, the one who held every dark thing you never dared show anyone else. The boy who kissed you like possession, who yelled in hotel rooms and made you feel insane for asking to be seen, for asking to be loved properly.

The boy who said you were too much. Who slammed doors and then begged at them the next day, who hurt you and then convinced you it was love. Noritoshi had everything—your trust, your secrets, your body, your pride. And he still made you feel like you weren’t enough.

He knew you, but he never saw you, and now here you were, spiraling over someone who did.

Megumi. Fucking Megumi Fushiguro.

The one you swore you’d never even glance at twice. The one you called boring. The one who annoyed you with his quiet judgement and his folded sleeves and his constant reminders that you could be better—if you wanted.

You hated that.

You hated the way he looked at you like he expected more. Like you weren’t just some pretty, mean girl with fake lashes and perfect skirts and an Instagram full of filters. You hated that he listened.

That he remembered how you hated black tea and liked your pen to have a cap instead of a click. You hated how he looked at you during tutoring—like he was trying to understand you, even when you were being difficult. Even when you didn’t want to be understood.

Noritoshi never asked how your day was, but Megumi always noticed if it was bad.

Noritoshi made you feel crazy for crying. Megumi… made you want to cry just because he was kind when you didn’t know what to do with kindness.

Fuck.

You turned over in your bed, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. Your chest felt tight, like there was something inside it you didn’t want to name. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You didn’t even like Megumi. You couldn’t. That wasn’t the plan. And even if you did, how could you ever trust that feeling again? How could you let yourself get close after what happened with Noritoshi? After all the fights? The screaming? The apologies that meant nothing?

You thought Noritoshi would break you once. But instead, he broke you over and over again, in pieces so small they were impossible to hold. and you were still recovering from that.

So how could you let someone like Megumi in? How could you admit that he made you feel safe when you barely knew what safety looked like? How could you admit that in just a few weeks, he did more than Noritoshi ever did in twelve months?

It terrified you.

So instead, you clenched your jaw. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a weird reaction. A blip. Temporary insanity. You didn’t like Megumi. You couldn’t. You were just tired. You were just lonely. You were just angry, but none of those excuses explained the ache in your chest or the way your body still remembered the warmth of his hands on your waist.

You turned over again, you weren’t going to cry, you weren’t going to want him, you were going to forget it ever happened. Except you wouldn’t. Not really.

Because this feeling—the one clawing its way up your throat right now—it was something you hadn't felt in a long time. And that scared you more than anything else.

You leaned back in your chair, a groan escaping your lips as you stared at the pages in front of you. The words blurred together, a mess of historical dates and political concepts you could hardly care less about. If you were being honest, the only thing running through your head was the last few weeks. Megumi, and the words thrown at each other.

And now here you were, stuck at Nobara’s place, trying to study with her. She had a way of being productive even when she was too loud, her energy bouncing off the walls as she flipped through her notes with casual ease. You couldn’t even focus on the words in front of you.

"Are you even paying attention?" Nobara asked, voice laced with amusement as she glanced at you, catching you mid-eye roll. "You’ve barely looked at your book since we started, and I’m starting to think you’re just here for the snacks."

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. "I am paying attention, okay? I just... I hate civics."

She snorted, clearly unconvinced. "You say that about every subject, Y/N. But civics? Really? You hate it because it’s boring, or are you just avoiding actually trying?"

You threw her a look, already irritated. “I just don’t see the point. Why do I need to know how the government works? The most important thing in life is looking good and having fun.”

Nobara didn’t flinch. “You’ve got a warped view of life, you know that?”

“Hey, I didn’t get the memo about life being about politics and the will of the people,” you said, leaning back and crossing your arms defiantly. “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive just fine without knowing what a civil servant even does.”

"Well," Nobara began, flicking through her notes, "you might want to get it straight if you want to graduate."

You groaned again, ignoring her, but then she dropped the bombshell.

“So, tell me this, since you're so into skipping the whole responsibility thing," she said with a smirk, leaning in slightly. “Do you know what the kenpo means in relation to our government system?”

You stared at her, blinking. "What? What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Civics,” she replied flatly. "You know, the basics of how the government works. Japan’s constitution and all that.”

For a second, you were thrown. The question felt way too real, way too... serious. But more than that, it made you freeze because—shit—you remembered.

You blinked, trying to clear the fog in your brain. The words Nobara had just said echoed in your head, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. You shifted in your seat, leaning back, but then the memory of Megumi popped up—completely uninvited—and your heart stuttered a bit.

“The kenpo is a significant part of Japan’s post-war constitution,” Megumi said, flipping through his textbook. His voice wasn’t just calm—it was smooth, as though he'd memorized everything the night before.

You blinked. “Kenpo? What the hell is that?”

Megumi didn’t look up from his book. “The Constitution of Japan. Article 9, kenpo, which means the renunciation of war. It’s basically what keeps Japan’s military stance neutral.”

You stared at him for a long moment. “Are you on drugs? How the hell did you pull that out of your ass so easily?” You chuckled under your breath. “Like, are you secretly some government nerd who spends his nights reading about laws and shit?”

He didn’t react. Just flipped the page and kept going like it was no big deal. “No, just... you know, I study. Helps me understand shit.”

Now, back in Nobara’s room, you blinked as you realized the memory had pulled you in unexpectedly. You were so lost in thought that you’d almost missed her question.

“Did you hear me?” Nobara’s voice snapped you back to reality.

You looked at her. “Yeah, sorry,” you said, trying to shake off the mental images of Megumi casually schooling you in civics like it was nothing. “So… kenpo, huh?” you repeated, the word awkward on your tongue as it suddenly felt like a stupid joke.

“Exactly,” Nobara said, eyes narrowing a little, as if you should've known. “We’re studying this stuff for our shiken.”

You couldn’t help but wince. The term ‘exam’ had never felt so intimidating. “I think I need to study more than just government,” you muttered under your breath. “Maybe you’re right. I should try harder… and stop being an idiot about it.”

But as your thoughts drifted, you couldn’t help but think back to that tutoring session—how easy it seemed for Megumi to rattle off facts, making you feel completely out of your depth.

You suddenly felt the sting of your own inadequacies again, and it pissed you off. But then, you remembered his impassive face when he’d explained it all to you like it was nothing.

“Maybe I do need to try harder...” you said quietly, more to yourself than to Nobara. But of course, Nobara was quick to pick up on your mood.

“Exactly, don’t just sit there and whine about it,” she shot back, “You got this. You’re not dumb, just need a little focus.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

But as you sat back down, your mind couldn’t let go of how much Megumi had impressed you. No one else could’ve made civics feel like it was worth paying attention to, and yet... he did.

The day had barely begun when Gojo dropped his usual “important announcement” on the class.

It was a Tuesday morning, and as usual, you were walking the fine line between paying attention and planning your next social media post when he suddenly cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the entire class with a smirk that hinted at some ridiculous news.

"Alright, alright," Gojo’s voice boomed, loud enough for the entire class to hear. "Listen up. You’ve got an essay due next week."

You sat up straight, automatically feeling that familiar rush of anxiety that only came with the word essay. Everyone groaned in unison, and the collective energy in the room dropped a few degrees.

"Don't even think about it," Gojo continued, barely suppressing his grin. "It’s on a political topic in Japan. Your job is to research it, write your thoughts, and show me you actually give a damn about your grades."

He paused, looking around the room, gauging everyone’s reactions. "So, get ready to do some actual work. For once."

You felt a familiar knot in your stomach—mixed emotions all at once. The topic was nothing new. You’d been through political essays and assignments about Japanese government structures before, but this one felt different.

You had the tools this time. You had the resources. You had the chance.

It wasn’t like the other times where you’d half-assed everything or relied on cheating your way through. This was an opportunity to show that you could actually do something—for yourself. You had Megumi’s tutoring sessions to thank for that. Even if you hadn’t directly paid attention to every word, something had changed inside you. You were no longer the same lazy, apathetic person you used to be. You couldn’t go back to that version of yourself anymore. You refused to.

You glanced around at the other students, most of whom were still caught up in the collective sigh of dread. Some were already pulling out their phones, others frantically taking notes to pretend they were paying attention. But for once, you didn’t feel that sense of dread. You felt... determined.

This was your shot. You weren’t going to let this be another failure. You were done with disappointing yourself.

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you caught the tail end of what he was saying: “...and the topic? Something like the kenpo, the Constitution, or Japan’s stance on foreign relations. You choose, but you better make it count.”

You didn’t even pause. Your hand shot up without thinking.

"Yes, Y/N?" Gojo raised an eyebrow, amused by your sudden enthusiasm.

“I’ll take the Constitution,” you said with surprising confidence, not caring who heard you.

“Ah, the kenpo,” he mused, clearly impressed by your choice. “Alright. I like it. Maybe you’ll finally do something interesting with that brain of yours.”

You didn’t care for his praise, but his approval made something stir inside you. You didn’t need his validation. This was about you. For the first time in ages, you were doing something for yourself, not for attention, not for anyone else’s approval.

The class continued on, but your mind had already shifted. You had a purpose now.

After school, you couldn’t shake the feeling that today was different. That essay, that political topic—it wasn’t just another assignment. It was the first step toward proving to yourself that you weren’t the lazy, self-destructive person you’d been in the past. This was about growth. Real growth.

You walked through the crowded hallway, determined. As you passed by the lockers, you saw the usual faces—people talking, laughing, their lives unfolding without a care. But for once, you didn’t feel like you needed to be part of that world. You were doing something for yourself, and you could feel the difference already.

You were going to finish this essay. You were going to nail it.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d be one step closer to doing something that really mattered for you.

You stood there in the hallway, clutching your books to your chest like they were some kind of shield. The hallway was buzzing with the usual noise—people chatting, lockers slamming, the clatter of footsteps—but it all felt so far away. Like you were standing outside of it, looking in. You should’ve felt free after making the decision to focus on that essay. You should’ve felt confident, like you finally had something to prove.

But instead, all you could hear were the voices in your head.

You’re doing this for yourself. You’re not weak. You’re strong. You don’t need anyone...

But even as you told yourself that, the insecurity gnawed at you. It clawed at your thoughts like a persistent itch you couldn’t scratch.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you turned the corner, but it certainly wasn’t this.

There, across the hall, Megumi was standing, leaning against the lockers. His usual scowl was in place, though something about it seemed softer today, quieter. His gaze wasn’t on his phone or the floor like usual. No, today it was directed at something—or someone.

Miwa.

She was walking past him, laughing at something with her friends, not even noticing that Megumi was watching. You saw the way his eyes followed her, how his gaze softened just slightly as she passed by. It wasn’t a look of deep affection or anything dramatic, but the way he watched her… it made something twist deep inside you.

It shouldn’t hurt. It really shouldn’t. You weren’t even sure why it felt like it did. You barely knew why you were standing there, frozen, as the pieces of your chest started to break apart, slowly.

You’re just being ridiculous, you told yourself.

But your thoughts didn’t stop.

You didn’t want to feel jealous. You didn’t want to care. But there he was, your Megumi—your Megumi, in some twisted sense, right?—just staring at her from across the hall, like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment. And you hated it.

You’re so different from her, the voice in your head whispered. She’s sweet. She’s easy to love. You? You’re just… a mess. You’re tough. You push people away.

The voice hurt, but you couldn’t stop it. You weren’t soft. You weren’t gentle. You didn’t smile like that, not naturally.

And sure, you could walk away, pretend it didn’t bother you, but it did. It really fucking did.

Megumi had always been this person who kept to himself, never revealing much, never opening up to anyone. But when it came to Miwa, when it came to her effortless charm, his guard was nowhere to be seen. He just stood there, eyes locked on her, and something in you broke a little more.

Why does it matter?

But you couldn’t help but wonder:

Why don’t I matter like that?

He wasn’t even talking to her. Hell, she didn’t even know he was watching. But in that moment, you realized something. He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t looking at anyone but Miwa, and it hurt in a way you couldn’t explain.

You turned, walking away quickly, your heart pounding in your ears.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t hurt. He’s not yours.

But there you were—walking away from it anyway, pretending it didn’t feel like someone had ripped something from your chest. You told yourself you were fine, but deep down, it was all unraveling.

You weren’t supposed to feel vulnerable. You weren’t supposed to let things like this get to you.

But here you were, wondering why you’d never be the one Megumi watched like that.

The clock on your desk read 3:30 AM, but the words on the screen still seemed to blur together. You’d been at this essay for hours—struggling to organize your thoughts, to make sense of it all. Your mind kept drifting back to Megumi. To the way he looked at Miwa. To the disappointment that welled up in your chest every time you thought about how far you’d fallen.

But this? This essay? You had to do it. You had to prove to yourself that you were more than just a pretty face, that you could do something right on your own. Something that mattered.

The tears were just waiting to spill over, but you kept pushing them down. They didn’t fit here. Not with the pressure of your name. Not with the weight of your reputation.

You rubbed your eyes, groaning in frustration when your screen stayed stubbornly blank. Your mind wandered again, this time to your father. He always said the same thing—you have potential. But did you really? Or was it all just a fucking game of appearances?

And then, as if on cue,

your father’s soft knock on your door was the first thing that registered. It took you a moment to process it, and then another to look up from the essay you’d been trying to work on for hours. The blinking cursor on your screen seemed almost mocking in its silence, and you could feel the weight of your thoughts pressing down, suffocating you.

"Daddy?" You didn’t bother trying to hide the crack in your voice, the exhaustion. It wasn’t worth it.

The door creaked open, and there he was, standing in the frame with his usual casual smile, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. Even after all these years, he had that aura about him—the kind that made the world feel like it was all just a little bit lighter. But tonight? You couldn’t pretend to be the girl who had it all together. Not anymore.

"Hey, kiddo," he said gently, stepping into your room without hesitation. He always did this, always came to you when he knew something wasn’t right. "I heard the tap-tap of your keyboard from down the hall. What’s going on in here? You didn’t turn into a zombie, did you?"

You managed a small smile, even if it felt like it was painted on, too thin to be real. "Just a stupid essay, nothing major." Your eyes flickered back to the screen, but the words weren’t making sense. Nothing was making sense. "It’s... whatever."

He didn’t buy it for a second. He never did. He moved closer, leaning against the desk, glancing at the papers you hadn’t touched. "You sure? Looks like someone’s been fighting with a word processor."

You chuckled weakly, shrugging. "Yeah. Me versus an essay. Guess who’s losing."

"Ah, classic. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure essays are just a trap set up by the universe to make us feel like we have to prove we’re smart. Just a conspiracy," he added, trying to lighten the mood, his tone playful. He ruffled your hair a little as if to say it’s okay, even though the unease hung in the air like a storm cloud.

You pulled away from the touch, instinctively, and your stomach churned. The pressure inside you only seemed to build. "I don’t think that’s what it is, Daddy." You could feel the familiar ache in your chest, like everything you had worked so hard to maintain was slipping through your fingers.

He straightened up a little, letting out a small sigh. "Alright, alright, I get it. You’re not in the mood for Dad’s conspiracy theories."

His voice softened, but not with pity—no, he wasn’t the type to give you that. Instead, it was warm, steady, the kind that had always managed to make you feel like things weren’t quite as bad as they seemed. Even now, his presence was a comfort. But it wasn’t enough to silence the growing voices in your head.

"Hey," he said, nudging the chair next to you with his knee, "why don’t we take a break? You’ve been working at this for hours. Your brain’s probably fried by now."

You just stared at the screen. The cursor blinked, waiting for you to move. It wasn’t the essay that was bothering you; it was the constant pressure, the constant need to be more than just what everyone else saw. It was always about appearances. Never letting anyone see the cracks, even though you were the one who had to fill them every single day.

"I don’t know if I can do it," you muttered under your breath, voice small. "I keep fucking up, Daddy. I try, I really try, but it’s never enough."

He didn’t say anything at first, just waited, letting the silence hang in the room. You tried to ignore the tightness in your throat, but it only made it worse. The words came out before you could stop them.

"I thought I had everything figured out. That I could just coast through everything. But now… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’ve let everyone down, including myself."

His face softened, eyes full of understanding, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You cursed under your breath, wiping it away quickly, but it didn’t stop the flood that followed.

"Sweetheart," he began, his voice gentle but firm, "you’ve got to stop holding yourself to these impossible standards. You think you need to be perfect all the time, but no one expects that. Not from you, not from anyone."

You shook your head, the tears blurring your vision. "You don’t get it," you said hoarsely. "You don’t know what it’s like. Everyone’s always expecting something from me, and if I don’t deliver—if I fail—they’ll see me for who I really am. Not the ‘perfect daughter’ they want. And I’ll lose everything. My reputation, my place. I’ll be nothing."

He sat down next to you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "You’re more than just your reputation. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"No," he interrupted softly, "no buts. Listen to me. I don’t care about what other people think. I don’t care about how you’re seen. What matters is you. You have so much more inside you than this... this pressure you're carrying. And I’ll always be here, no matter what you do or how many times you fall down. You don’t have to do it alone."

You choked on a sob, your body shaking as you leaned into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you as if he could protect you from everything, even yourself. His heartbeat was steady beneath you, a rhythm you clung to as if it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

"I just want to be enough," you whispered against his chest, barely audible. "I want to be... something good. For once."

"You already are," he whispered back, pressing his lips to the top of your head. "You’re my daughter. You’re everything to me. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone."

Your sobs broke loose then, and you let them come. Let yourself fall apart in the safety of your father’s arms, not caring about the essay, not caring about the image you’d been trying to keep up for so long.

You didn’t need to be perfect. Not for him. Not for anyone.

You woke up late, the alarm blaring its usual obnoxious tune, but this time you didn’t hit snooze. You just… didn’t feel like getting up. Still, after the long conversation with your dad, a sense of calm had settled over you that you hadn’t realized you’d needed. It wasn’t the kind of calm that fixed everything, but it was enough to get you out of bed and, against all odds, to school.

You sprinted down the hall, your bag bouncing against your side, heart pounding as you dashed toward Gojo’s office. Missing the first period wasn’t ideal, but you’d already made a decision. You were doing this. Not for anyone but yourself. Not for Megumi—whatever that was. No. This was about you. You had your own shit to prove. You were sick of falling short.

You burst through the door of Gojo’s office without knocking, barely catching your breath, and locked eyes with him. The typical cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a soft surprise behind his glasses.

"You’re late," he said casually, but there was no judgment, just curiosity.

"Yeah, I know," you replied, already opening your notebook, the pages freshly filled with the essay you’d been working on all night. "Here. I got it done."

Gojo raised an eyebrow, the sudden seriousness of your tone catching him off guard. He took the paper from you and glanced it over. His eyes scanned the words, his lips moving ever so slightly as he read. He seemed focused—more focused than usual.

"Huh," he said, breaking the silence. "Okay… I’ll check this."

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You just stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of you. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, but there was something else now—something that felt like you were finally getting it right. The words on the page felt like you, like they belonged to you. You hadn’t relied on anyone else. You hadn’t slacked off or tried to get by with minimum effort. This was your work. And it felt good.

"Good work, Y/N," Gojo said, surprising you. His voice was softer, more genuine than you were used to hearing. "I’m impressed."

You blinked. Impressed? Was that really the word he just used? You hadn’t been expecting that. You wanted to feel smug, to let that adrenaline fuel a comeback, but… no. You actually felt something else. It was a quiet, simple sense of accomplishment. And it felt better than you expected.

"Thanks," you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips. The moment was brief but important, like the first small victory after a long time of feeling like you were just slipping by. But as soon as the pride started to settle, your mind wandered, as it always did, to him.

Megumi.

How would he react to this?

You almost scoffed at yourself for even thinking about it. It didn’t matter what he thought, right? You weren’t doing this for him. You weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone. But your mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at you, cold and angry—words you’d hurled at him like daggers, only to have them stab you in return. He had no right to make you feel like you weren’t enough.

So why did it matter so much?

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts. "You want me to grade it now? Or… are you heading back to class?"

You gave a quick nod, barely aware of your body moving toward the door. "Yeah. Sure."

"Don’t go thinking this means you’re off the hook, though," he added, a bit of that teasing tone returning. "You’ve still got work to do."

You waved him off, not bothering to look back as you left the office. But as you walked out into the hallway, the quiet thrum of your heartbeat was steady. For once, it wasn’t anxiety or fear—it was anticipation. You weren’t sure where this would lead, but for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were in control of your own story.

And maybe, just maybe, Megumi would notice.

You and Nobara were hanging out by the lockers, leaning against the metal doors while the noise of the school buzzed around you. It was one of those rare moments where you didn’t have to be the perfect, untouchable “bad bitch” everyone expected you to be. Instead, you were just… talking. And it felt weirdly nice.

“Well, I’ll be honest, I thought you’d be a little more chill after everything with, you know, Megumi,” Nobara said, popping a piece of gum into her mouth and flicking it with her tongue. Her eyes studied you carefully, like she was trying to read a chapter in a book she couldn’t quite finish.

You scoffed, flipping your hair over your shoulder, giving her a pointed look. “I am chill. I’ve always been chill.”

“Bullshit,” she grinned, “You’ve been a walking hurricane lately. Like, you keep acting all tough, but you’ve been so fucking quiet.”

“Not quiet,” you replied, eyes narrowing in a fake attempt at annoyance. “I’ve just been—occupied.”

“Occupied with what?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “With your grades? Or trying to pretend you don’t have a damn heart?”

You laughed it off, crossing your arms. “No heart. No problems.” You rolled your eyes dramatically. “And don’t go all psychoanalyst on me either. I know what you’re gonna say.”

“Oh really?” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

You scoffed again. “I don’t need to figure you out, Nobara. You’re pretty simple to read.”

“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow again, her grin widening. “And here I thought you were all mysterious and complicated. Guess not.”

You leaned back, hands on your hips as you gave her an exaggerated look. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like I’m some emotional wreck.” You smirked, acting all nonchalant, but the words stung. “I’m fine, alright? Totally fine.”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s why you’ve been disappearing every time someone mentions Megumi. Total ‘I’m fine’ energy there.”

You shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his name, but you quickly masked it with a snarky smile. “You think I care about what he’s doing? Please.”

“Oh really?” she said with a teasing grin. “Because I seem to remember you having a meltdown in the cafeteria like, a week ago. Pretty sure your ‘I don’t care’ act needs some work.”

“Stop acting like you know shit,” you snapped, but it was all a front. You hated that Nobara could always see through you. “I’m done with him, alright? So drop it.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you are,” she said, not buying it for a second. She popped her gum again, a knowing glint in her eyes. “But tell me this—what’s really going on with you?”

“Nothing,” you shot back quickly, “Everything’s fine. I’ve been busy. That’s it. Now, can we stop talking about this?”

Nobara opened her mouth to argue, but then she stopped, glancing down the hall as she caught sight of the clock on the wall. “Oh look,” she said, not missing a beat. “Ten o’clock.”

You rolled your eyes, not understanding why that was significant. “And?”

She grinned devilishly, her gaze flicking to a figure in the distance. “Guess who’s about to show up.”

You blinked. "Who?"

“The one, the only…” she paused dramatically, “Megumi Fushiguro.”

Your heart skipped in your chest, but you refused to show it. You hated how he still had that effect on you. “Oh, great. What do you want me to do, roll out the red carpet?”

“Pfft, I’m just saying, you’re still not done with this whole ‘I’m the bad bitch who doesn’t care’ thing. That shit’s getting old, you know?” she said, the tone of her voice softening for just a moment. “You’re only fooling yourself.”

You straightened up, feeling the familiar defensiveness bubbling inside of you. “I’m not fooling anyone.”

“Sure you’re not,” she said, her eyes narrowing, but she didn't push it further.

You hated that she could read you like a book, but you weren’t ready to admit any of that to her. To anyone.

And then, there he was.

You didn’t even need to look hard; Megumi was walking toward you, his typical hoodie and glasses hiding his expression, but you could feel the weight of his presence as soon as he entered your field of vision. You instinctively tensed.

You stood there for a second, unsure of what to do. There was this insane part of you that wanted to go to him, talk to him, maybe even try to make things less...awkward. But your pride? Your damn pride wouldn’t let you.

“Go on, talk to him,” Nobara said with a grin, nudging you gently.

You ignored her, walking up to Megumi, your heels clicking sharply against the floor as you tried to mask the nerves building up in your stomach. You kept your gaze steady, but when you finally reached him, you faltered slightly. There was something in your chest, like an empty, aching pit.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I handed an essay to Gojo today.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable as always. “Good for you.”

You blinked, the words stinging more than they should have. “Yeah, well... It was a little late, but I tried.”

He nodded once. “Try harder next time.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway, feeling stupid and small.

“Good talk, huh?” Nobara muttered, glancing between you and Megumi as he walked off, his back turned without a second look.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to hold your composure. But it was hard, so damn hard to pretend it didn’t hurt. It hurt more than you wanted to admit, and you hated yourself for letting it sting.

“Yeah,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Great.”

The soft hum of the lamp in your room was the only sound that filled the space as you sat at your desk. You’d somehow managed to grab one of the materials Megumi had made for you, the one with the little notes scribbled in the margins. The ones he’d given you after that one tutoring session that—well, now that you looked back on it—felt like a turning point.

The paper felt heavier than it should have, as if each mark, each word, was weightier now. His handwriting, a scrawling mess in some parts, neat and careful in others. But what hit you wasn’t just the content. No, it was the bits of comments he left here and there, like he was trying to break through his own usual, distant shell.

"Try connecting this with the main idea." "You're overthinking this, just read it carefully." "Good effort. I’m not totally convinced, but it's a start."

It wasn’t like he had to leave these notes. He didn’t need to care. He didn’t owe you anything. But there they were. Tiny pieces of advice, encouragement, frustration. And the one that made you smile for a second: "I know you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for."

For just a moment, your heart ached at the thought.

He didn’t have to say that. Megumi could have dismissed you like everyone else did. He could’ve walked away, let you fail, but instead... instead, he chose to give you a chance. And now? You were sitting here, staring at it all, because you knew deep down you had to prove him right.

But how could you do that now?

Your eyes flickered to the small sticky note stuck on the top corner, where he’d written a single line in the same pen, his handwriting barely legible: "You can do this. Just try."

You exhaled, biting your lip, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

You remembered that day—his quiet, reserved voice telling you not to give up. It wasn’t a normal pep talk. It was more... personal. Like he was giving you something fragile, trusting you with a little piece of him. And somehow, you'd been too busy pretending to not care, too afraid to admit how much it affected you, that you fucked it up.

You remembered how he’d looked at you that day, his shoulders tense but his eyes softer than usual, like he was on the edge of saying something more, but he kept pulling back. And you? You were too wrapped up in your own self-image, too proud to let yourself show any weakness. So you made a joke, cracked a smile, pushed it away.

But now? Now, you wished you hadn’t. You wished you’d let him in. Wished you hadn’t been so fucking scared to be vulnerable for once.

Because if you’d been honest with yourself, you'd realized—just then—that Megumi had started to become someone you didn’t want to lose. Not just a tutor. Not just a guy you kept pushing away. But someone who saw past all the shit, all the walls you’d built around yourself.

You remembered when he opened up to you, just a bit, about the shit he was dealing with. About how much he hated being treated like he wasn’t enough—like a fucking robot in the eyes of everyone else. How he was constantly forced into situations where he had to be something he wasn’t.

You saw it. You saw that flicker of vulnerability in him that he hardly ever let anyone see. And you? You shut it down. You shut him out.

Your hands gripped the paper a little harder, and you exhaled slowly, frustration building up inside your chest.

"Why the hell did I have to be so goddamn stupid?" you muttered, slamming the paper back onto the desk. You leaned back in your chair, letting your head fall back to stare at the ceiling.

All that shit with Noritoshi. With the way things always went wrong. You’d shut yourself off from everyone, including Megumi, thinking you could handle it alone. And you did handle it... but now, sitting here, you realized how empty that felt. How lonely. How cold.

He thought you could be someone to trust. And what did you do? You let your pride, your stupid fucking pride, tear that down.

The thoughts swirled in your head—self-hatred mixed with the anger you had at yourself. You slammed your hand down on the desk, frustrated with how badly you’d messed up. You could feel the tears starting to burn at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away.

It wasn't just Megumi you were angry with anymore. It was you. You’d fucked it all up. And now, you had to live with that.

But what hurt the most? What really fucking hurt was knowing he wasn’t going to just come back and fix it. No. You had to fix this. You had to make it right, because if you didn’t, you’d lose whatever fucking chance you had with him.

And somehow, as much as you hated it, you realized that wasn’t a possibility. You didn’t want to lose him.

Maybe it was time you admitted that.

So, with a sigh, you pushed the paper back in front of you, knowing that this was more than just about a grade anymore. This was about proving something to yourself. About showing Megumi that you were worth the trust, worth the time, he’d invested in you.

And for the first time, you didn’t want to fail, not this time.

You stood there, staring at the building in front of you, your fingers clutching the crumpled piece of paper that seemed to have mysteriously found its way into your hands again.

It was Friday, the day Megumi had always made clear he wasn’t free. He’d said it casually enough back then, like it was something so ordinary that there was no reason to question it. “I’m not free on Fridays,” he’d said, voice flat and unaffected. But now? Now, you were standing here, outside what looked like an abandoned gym, the same address scribbled on the paper he’d let slip out of his textbook once.

What the hell is this place?

The paper hadn’t meant much then. It was just an address, a scribble, nothing more. But now, the fact that you were standing outside of it felt like something more—a revelation, maybe? Or just a damn mistake.

Was this where he goes? The thought kept pushing at you, refusing to stay buried. The building in front of you was weathered, the windows cracked, and the doors? Rusted. It didn’t look like a place Megumi would spend his time. Not at all. And yet, here you were.

You could almost hear his voice in your head, telling you he wasn’t free on Fridays, reminding you with that cold tone that he had other things to do. Other things that didn’t involve you.

But then why?

You didn’t know what had made you follow that scrap of paper, but somehow, here you were, your heart hammering a little too loudly, the nerves making your hands shake. You had no idea what you were hoping to find. What were you looking for, exactly? An explanation? A reason?

You inhaled sharply, trying to pull yourself together, pushing back the mix of doubt and curiosity that gnawed at your insides.

It’s none of your business, you told yourself, but the words felt empty. Because it was your business. Megumi was your tutor—your reluctant tutor, but still, he was the one you asked for help. The one you asked to let you in. And now you were standing outside, on the edge of some kind of answer, but you weren’t sure if you actually wanted to know what it was.

Is this really the kind of guy you want to know?

You stepped closer to the door, the sound of your shoes crunching against the gravel beneath you. Hesitation lingered in every movement, but your legs carried you anyway. There was something pulling you forward, an urge to know, to break down whatever wall he’d built between you.

The door creaked open as you reached for the handle, the scent of dust and old leather filling your nose as you stepped inside.

The gym was empty.

The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and old wood. The lights overhead flickered in a slow rhythm, casting uneven shadows across the worn-down equipment. Punching bags hung in the corner, their leather faded and cracked from years of use. Rusted weights lined the walls, a neglected space that felt like no one had cared for it in a long time.

What was Megumi doing here?

You looked around, feeling more and more out of place by the second. This was nothing like the Megumi you thought you knew—the quiet, reserved guy who seemed like he didn’t care about anything. This place was rough, tired, forgotten. So was he.

You didn’t expect to see him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t Megumi.

The man sitting on the bench had a relaxed, confident posture, like someone who belonged in a place like this—worn-out gym flooring, cold lighting, walls sweating the weight of discipline. His eyes flicked up as you stepped in, and when they landed on you—miniskirt, tank top, lip gloss still glossy—it wasn’t judgment you felt.

It was scrutiny.

Like he was sizing you up for something you didn’t know you were auditioning for.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, shit.”

Your brows pulled in. “What?”

He stood slowly, broad frame shifting with ease, cracking his neck before he stepped forward just a bit, boots heavy against the floor. “Didn’t think a girl like you’d actually show up.”

You stepped back, fingers tightening around the crumpled paper in your hand. “Excuse me?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite mocking either. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite. You’re the one Megumi’s been tutoring, right?”

You blinked. “How do you—?”

He shrugged. “He doesn’t say much. But ‘m not stupid. Kid’s been dragging home worksheets and stress for weeks. Took a guess.”

Your heart stuttered, embarrassment bleeding into caution. “Why would he be here?” you asked sharply, voice a little too defensive. “And who the fuck are you?”

The man gave you a low, amused look, voice loose and grounded. “Friend of his dad,” he said, vague but intentional. “Used to run with the old man. Name’s Yoshinobu.”

He offered no last name, no further details. Just a beat of silence between you before he nodded toward the bench across from the ring.

“You came this far. Might as well sit down.” You didn’t move.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Then he turned back toward the ring, where the lights were dim, but movement flickered behind a mesh curtain. You could hear it faintly—dull sounds of something hitting leather. Gloves. Skin. Breath.

Your fingers twitched around the paper. You glanced at the exit behind you. You could still walk away.

But instead— You sat, "Where's Megumi?"

Renji said nothing more. Just leaned back, ankle over his knee, arms sprawled against the bench like he’d done this a hundred times.

“You'll see,” he muttered eventually, almost too casual.

And so you did, no answers. No explanations.

Just the heavy, humid stillness of a worn-out gym. And the echo of fists hitting something hard in the distance. Over and over and over again.

The sound came before the sight.

The sharp thump of gloves hitting canvas. The squeak of shoes on the floor. And then— Megumi stepped into the ring.

And you—holy shit.

You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe a hoodie, a scowl, more of the same stiff, buttoned-up Megumi Fushiguro who tossed study packets at you like you were a charity case. Not... this.

Not him. Shirtless.

Sweat-slicked skin, broad shoulders flexing as he rolled out his neck. Arms defined. Stomach lean and tight, with the kind of abs you only see in boxing anime or underwear billboards. Veins along his forearms. Knuckles wrapped. A thin scar near his rib you never noticed before.

And his hair—still messy, still unruly, but wet and spiked, falling into his face in that way that made your jaw clench because— What the fuck.

You were drooling. You were actually drooling. And the worst part?

He didn’t even look surprised to be here. He didn’t look embarrassed or shy or like he was hiding. He looked like he belonged in that ring—like it was the one place he let go.

Yoshinobu chuckled next to you, like he caught the twitch in your lip or the way you were suddenly sitting very, very still.

“Yeah,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the ring. “Kid’s been doing this for years.”

You tore your eyes away just long enough to hiss, “He’s been hiding that body under those crusty-ass sweatpants?”

Renji smirked. “Not the only thing he’s been hiding, I’d bet.”

You gave him a side-eye.

“Relax, I’m not saying I know your business.” He leaned back. “But I’ve seen a lot of fighters. That kid? He’s sharp. Holds back too much sometimes. Always thinking five steps ahead. Got that from his old man. But when he lets loose?” He shook his head. “It’s brutal.”

Your gaze snapped back to the ring.

Megumi was facing down a taller man across from him—thicker built, more muscle, maybe even more experience. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Megumi didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down.

Then the bell rang. And just like that— He moved. Fast. Clean. Deadly.

You could hardly keep up. He dodged the first punch with a low slip, twisted his body, came up with a hook to the ribs so fast it barely made sense. His form was perfect—like he wasn’t even thinking about it, like it lived in his bones.

Another hit. Another pivot. A sweat-slicked arm. You actually let out a noise. A soft one. Embarrassing.

You crossed your legs tighter and leaned back on the bench, trying not to show it, but your face was burning.

Yoshinobu glanced over, clearly amused. “Not what you expected?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, eyes still locked on the ring. “I’ve seen better.”

You hadn’t. But you’d die before admitting that.

Megumi’s opponent landed a jab. He shook it off like it was nothing and came back swinging—faster, stronger, sharper. His entire body snapped with every motion. Power in every movement. Rage in every breath.

He wasn’t just fighting. He was working through something. And God, it was hot. You hated yourself a little for thinking it.

But you couldn’t look away, even if it burned, even if it hurt.

He was relentless.

The guy he was sparring with was taller, broader, probably stronger by weight class—but Megumi?

He was smarter.

You watched as he moved around the ring like the ground bent to his will—his footwork barely audible, shifting weight like water. He let the other guy swing wild—miss, overextend, pant like a dog—and Megumi waited. Studied. Measured.

Then he snapped.

A lightning-fast left jab cracked against the man’s cheek. The sound echoed across the room. You flinched. But Megumi didn’t.

He followed through without hesitation—hook, uppercut, block—his body twisting and coiling like a loaded spring, punching through the air with enough force to make you wince.

Every time his fist connected, sweat flew off his knuckles like it was vapor. Every time he exhaled, his jaw flexed, sharp under the bruised light. Every time he moved— You swore it did something to your chest.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You just sat there frozen, pulse thudding in your ears, mouth dry, lips slightly parted like an idiot.

Yoshinobu let out a long whistle next to you, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“I don’t know what your deal is with him,” he muttered, tone unreadable. “But don’t hurt him.”

You blinked, dragged out of your haze. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. He was still watching Megumi. “He’s a good kid. Stubborn, quiet. Doesn’t care about much. Not money. Not praise. Not even winning, sometimes.”

You stayed silent.

He continued, voice low, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “So when Toji mentioned he’s tutoring some attractive girl—his words, not mine—so imagine my surprise when he started to ramble about asking me certain things."

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, and?”

“And then,” Yoshinobu said, barely hiding a smirk now, “he starts taking longer showers in the locker room. Like ten, fifteen extra minutes.”

Your jaw dropped.

“What—?” you blurted. “Are you—? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

He shrugged. “Just saying. Maybe you’re not just his tutor project.”

Your face burned. You whipped your head away, cursing under your breath.

“I’m not—he’s not—” You scowled. “He doesn’t even look at me anymore.”

Yoshinobu tilted his head. “No?”

“No,” you snapped. “He’s probably still mad about the fight. Whatever.”

But your eyes said otherwise.

They dragged back to the ring—because even now, even when your heart was still sore, when everything inside you screamed you should hate him for how he talked to you, yelled at you, shut you down—

He still moved like he was carved from stone and fire. Still burned like something you couldn’t stop watching. Still made your stomach flip when he shifted and the sweat slid down his back, over the cut of his waist.

And he didn’t look at you once. Not even once.

Yoshinobu must’ve sensed the shift in your silence. “He fights like this when something’s in his head.”

You said nothing.

The match kept going. The guy threw another heavy swing, but Megumi ducked, moved so fast you almost missed the counter jab that sent the man stumbling backward. His chest was heaving now, face red, breath ragged.

Megumi didn’t gloat. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t say a single word.

He just reset his stance. Chin down. Eyes sharp. Fists up.

Focused. Controlled.

It hit you all at once.

That was the boy who sat beside you with textbooks and red pens. That was the same boy who rolled his eyes at your dramatics and still added notes in the margins. That was the same Megumi Fushiguro who kissed you with inexperience and slow-burning want—and still let you break his heart before he ever admitted it.

You hated this.

You hated the way your chest ached. You hated the way you wanted him to look at you—just once. You hated the way he didn’t. And still, you couldn’t look away.

The fight was over. But the tension still lingered in the air like smoke—thick, clinging, inescapable.

Megumi stepped off the mat, bandages undone, hanging in strips from his wrists like ghosts of the fists he'd just thrown. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was still coming down from the adrenaline, but even from here, you could tell how calm he looked on the outside. Unbothered. Still. Like none of that meant anything.

You wanted to scream at how easy he made it look.

Yoshinobu watched from beside you, arms folded. “That was clean,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even use his full weight.”

You swallowed thickly, unable to tear your eyes away from Megumi. He was wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt now—that shirtless torso lifting, exposing the bruises on his ribs, the scars on his waist.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Yoshinobu’s voice cut through again. “You planning to keep gawking, or are you gonna go talk to him?”

You flinched slightly. “I’m not—”

He gave you a look. The kind that saw through all your usual bullshit, the kind that made your spine straighten.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on between you two,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking between you and the boy across the room, “but he’s not gonna make the first move. Not when he’s like this.”

“Like what?”

Yoshinobu shrugged. “Closed off. Pissed. Hurt. Take your pick.” Your throat tightened.

He turned away with a quiet sigh. “Go.”

You watched him kneel by the guy Megumi had just knocked down, murmuring something low, like a check-in, a reassurance. The other boy nodded slowly, rubbing his ribs.

Megumi, meanwhile, started walking to a bench. He still hadn’t seen you.

But you’d already disturbed so much, hadn’t you? You took a breath, and walked.

Every step echoed too loudly in your own ears. The gym felt cavernous now, like it was holding its breath, waiting for this exact collision. Him and you.

You stopped a few feet from him. His head was still tilted back. Eyes still shut. Bandages slack against his thighs. He looked peaceful.

God, you hated him for that.

You weren’t peaceful. You were a hurricane pretending to be a person. You were mascara smudged in the dark, whispers behind lockers, a reputation clinging to your throat like perfume. You weren’t someone who stayed.

But you were here, he didn’t see you at first, or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

His back was to you, chest rising and falling, fists still flexing at his sides. His bandages were half-off, peeling from his knuckles like scorched paper, sweat dripping down the slope of his spine. The gym lights weren’t kind, but on him, they didn’t have to be — they only carved the lean muscle of his back in harder lines.

You stopped short. Because goddamn, he looked— shut up. You shut it down. Now wasn’t the time.

You opened your mouth to speak— He turned around.

Slowly. Deliberately. And the second his eyes landed on you, the air shifted. His voice cut through the air like a blade. “What are you doing here.”

Not a question. A warning.

He was shirtless, breathing hard, chest streaked with sweat and god knows what else. His black shorts hung low on his hips, legs braced wide as he flexed his wrist slowly — as if shaking off the last of the fight. He sat down with a quiet thud, legs spreading carelessly as he leaned forward on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like you weren’t even worth the effort.

You swallowed.

This was worse than cold. This was indifference, and it felt like hell.

You held up the paper in your hand, voice shaking despite everything in you trying to sound composed. “I found this. Once. It fell out of your notebook when we were—”

“Leave.”

He didn’t even glance at you.

You blinked. “I—I didn’t even know what it was back then, okay? I didn’t know what this place was.”

“I said leave.” His tone dropped. Sharp. Clipped. You flinched. But you didn’t move.

“I remembered what you said,” you rushed, stepping closer. “About not being free on Fridays. I remembered, and I—I was curious. That’s all.”

He stood suddenly, and you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes, he was taller like this. Broader. Angrier.

And even now, when he looked like he wanted nothing more than to get away from you, he still looked stupidly good.

His chest heaved once as he scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Then he turned, and walked.

Not toward the ring. Not toward Yoshinobu. Toward the locker room. You panicked. You followed, because you weren’t done. Not this time.

“Wait—wait!” you called, footsteps echoing as you chased after him. “I’m not here to fight, I swear—just listen to me!”

He shoved open the locker room door, and you didn’t even hesitate before slipping in behind him. The slam echoed through the tile like a slap. He didn’t face you. Not at first.

He yanked a towel off the bench, wiped his face, cracked his neck. Like you were just noise behind him.

“Megumi,” you tried again, voice thinner now, fragile around the edges. “Please.”

That made him freeze.

“Please?” he repeated, quietly. He still wasn’t looking at you.

You nodded. “I need to talk to you.”

“And I need you to get the fuck out.”

You stepped forward. “I need you.” Silence. That got him. He turned, finally, eyes sharp and hard and fucking exhausted.

“For what?” he snapped. “To be your emotional punching bag again? I am just a emotionless virgin to you after all."

“No. I'm sorry.” He stared at you like he didn’t believe a word.

“I just—” You exhaled, chest tightening. “I need you to know I’ve been trying.” He said nothing. You pulled your bag around and yanked out a wrinkled paper. “Gojo gave us an essay about constitutional rights. I finished it.” Still nothing. “And today, Nobara asked me a civics question and I—I remembered what you said. About the electoral process. About proportional representation in the Diet. And I said it right, I think. Mostly.” Megumi blinked, jaw twitching.

You pushed on. “And yesterday, I tried answering a question about Newton’s third law. You said, ‘equal and opposite reaction,’ right? I think I got it.” Still, he didn’t speak. He was looking at you now. Really looking.

“And physics? I remember... I remember you said momentum equals mass times velocity, and I tried—” Your voice cracked. “I tried. I’m still trying.”

You laughed a little, bitter. “I don’t even know why I care. Why I wanted to get better. It’s not like anyone expected me to.”

Megumi’s hands were braced against the locker behind him, shoulders still tense, like if he moved, he’d explode.

You lowered your voice. “But I did. I do. Because I wanted to prove you wrong. I wanted to show you that I’m not just some spoiled, shallow bitch who uses people.”

Your throat tightened. “And maybe at first, it was just about spite. But it’s not anymore.”

The locker room was too quiet now.

You bit your lip. “You made me feel like I was capable of more. Of being someone better. You were the first person who made me want to stop coasting.” Still, he said nothing.

You swallowed. “I know I said things I can’t take back. I know I hurt you.” Your voice broke again, softer. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I wanted to.” You waited. His face didn’t change. He just… stared. And you didn’t know what that meant yet.

But you’d said it. You’d fucking said it. And now it was up to him.

You didn’t know what else to say.

You’d poured it all out—your voice raw, your throat aching, your pride shattered at his feet. And still, he just stared at you. Silent. Stone.

So you filled the silence the only way you knew how.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you muttered, eyes falling to the floor. “But I need you to tutor me again.”

That caught his attention.

Your breath hitched as you pushed forward—too fast, too vulnerable now to stop yourself. “I meant it. I remember everything you said. All those little examples, your stupid metaphors, even that time you made fun of me for not knowing what a veto was—”

Still nothing. His hands were still braced behind him. Still staring.

“I don’t care if you think I’m a mess,” you whispered. “I just… I just want to be better. And you’re the only one who ever made me believe I could be. I need you to help me get there.”

You looked up finally. “Please.”

Silence.

Then—

He moved.

Fast.

A blur of heat and muscle and fury, Megumi was in front of you before you could even blink, grabbing your face in both hands and crashing his mouth to yours.

You gasped, and that was all the invitation he needed—his tongue slid deep between your lips, hungry, slick, and fucking claiming. There was no hesitation, no sweet slow burn. Just raw, unforgiving heat. Teeth and breath and everything you’d both been swallowing for weeks.

His hands dropped to your waist, yanking you flush against him like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies a second longer. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, tugging hard, and he growled—actually growled—into the kiss.

He kissed like he hated you for making him want this. Like he was punishing you and punishing himself all at once.

His palms slid down to your ass, gripping hard, forcing you closer as he slotted a thigh between yours and shoved you against the nearest locker. The cold metal hit your back, but you barely noticed—your brain was too fogged, lips bruised, hips grinding down instinctively against the heat of his thigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered into your mouth, voice cracked open, wrecked. “Why do you have to do this to me?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, breathless, dazed. “I don’t know, but don’t stop.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your waist, dragging over your ribs, up under your shirt, fingertips scorching against bare skin. You could barely breathe, barely think. His mouth found your jaw, your neck, biting hard enough to bruise before sucking the pain away, tongue hot and wet.

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs squeezing tight around his.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” he breathed against your skin, voice full of heat and hurt and everything in between. “But I can’t stay away.”

You kissed him again—desperate, wet, open-mouthed—and he groaned deep in his throat, like he was starving for you. His hands cupped your ass again, lifting slightly, grinding you down against his leg so good it made you gasp.

Your hips moved on instinct. The friction was dizzying.

You tangled both hands in his hair now, tugging, pulling him deeper, and he let you—let you own him for a second, just like you always tried to do. But this time, he gave in.

No more rules. No more distance.

Just heat. And tongue. And teeth.

And the crashing, furious kiss of two people who’d tried so fucking hard not to want each other—and failed.

You were still gasping against him when he broke the kiss, chest heaving, lips slick and red from how hard he’d kissed you. His hands gripped your waist like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

Your hand dropped to his shorts.

His breath hitched.

You looked up at him with wide, daring eyes. “Can I?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything—just stared at you like he couldn’t believe what you were asking. And then he nodded.

Slow. Tight. Jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fuck. Yeah.”

You sank to your knees.

He watched the whole thing—eyes dark and blown, hands falling to his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. You tugged his waistband down, and his cock sprang free—and holy fuck—you were right.

So right.

Big. Thick. Heavy. Veined. The flushed tip already slick, like he’d been aching for this longer than he wanted to admit.

You bit your lip, fingers wrapping around the base as your throat tightened with anticipation.

“Fuck me…” he breathed.

You glanced up.

He was staring straight down at you, hair messy, sweat dripping down his chest, jaw flexing like he was trying so hard not to lose it already.

“You look so pretty like that,” he muttered, voice low and cracked. “On your knees. Fucking perfect.”

You smiled, wicked. “Gonna let me make you feel good?”

He groaned—half growl, half prayer. “Please.”

You licked a stripe up the underside, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing every ridge and vein. His hips twitched. Your lips wrapped around the tip, suckling lightly as your hand stroked the rest, wrist twisting gently.

“Oh my god,” he hissed. “Your mouth—fuck—”

You took more. Inch by inch, pushing down until your throat clenched around him, spit pooling, mascara probably already smudging. He was so thick your lips were straining around him, jaw aching—and still you kept going.

“Jesus—fuck—just like that,” he gasped. “Shit—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

Your tongue licked under the head as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks, letting him hear how wet and messy it was. Slurping. Gagging a little when he hit the back of your throat—but you didn’t stop.

You moaned around him instead.

His hand shot out, threading into your hair—gripping, tight, controlling.

“Fuck—fuck,” he growled. “You were made for this, weren’t you?”

You blinked up at him, tears starting to prick in your lashes from the stretch.

“You like this?” he bit out. “Like choking on my cock?”

You moaned again, harder this time—vibrating around him.

His hips thrust forward suddenly, and he groaned deep, watching your throat bulge, your jaw stretch wide around him. You gagged a little again—but fuck it, you loved it. The way he cursed. The way his legs trembled.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “All pretty and ruined, just for me.”

You sucked him harder. Faster. Spit dripping from your chin, his cock slick with your saliva, your fist pumping the base while your mouth worked him with obscene, wet sounds.

He was shaking now, barely holding back.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he warned, voice cracking. “Fucking hell—don’t stop. I’m so close—shit—”

You sucked him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat one more time, and that was it.

“Fuck—fuck!”

He came hard—hot and thick, spilling down your throat in long, shuddering pulses. You swallowed around him, gagging again as he groaned so loud, hand still tangled in your hair as his entire body trembled.

You held him there until he stopped twitching, until he was completely empty—then finally pulled off with a slick pop, licking your lips, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

He was still staring down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild and fucked-out.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

You grinned up at him, ruined and satisfied. “That good, huh?”

He just groaned again and tugged you up by your wrist—dragging you into another kiss, filthy and full of spit and tongue and everything you didn’t say.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open.

You barely had time to adjust your shirt when a voice called out—lazy, amused, and way too casual for the situation.

“Yo, Megumi.” Your heads snapped toward the entrance. Yoshinobu stood just outside the locker room, one brow raised, arms crossed, clearly trying not to smirk.

“Toji’s gonna walk in any second,” he added, voice like a warning wrapped in a grin. “If you still want to keep that pretty little lady around for your tutoring sessions, you better hide.”

Megumi groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. You wiped your mouth, slow.

Yoshinobu winked at you. “Hey, no judgment. I’d let her tutor me too.”

Megumi slammed the locker door shut hard enough to echo. “Get the fuck out.”

Yoshinobu just laughed and walked off, muttering, “You’re welcome, Romeo.”

As soon as Yoshinobu disappeared down the hallway, the panic kicked in.

“Shit,” you muttered, already bending to the floor. “Where the fuck—where did half my notes even go?”

Megumi was beside you in seconds, shirtless and flushed, sweat still clinging to his chest as he reached for your crumpled worksheets. His hand was still wrapped in bandages, movements tight and clipped as he grabbed a page and shoved it at you.

“You seriously brought all this to a gym?”

“Don’t start,” you snapped, snatching it from him. “Not when your dick’s the reason I dropped half my life on the floor—”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, eyes wild. “Do you want him to hear us?” Your mouth shut instantly.

You scrambled to shove the rest of your notes back into your tote bag—history quiz key, Gojo’s half-legible assignment sheet, your favorite black pen.

Megumi cursed under his breath. “Where’s your phone?”

“Under the bench—fuck—” He dropped to his knees, grabbing it just as the locker room door creaked again.

“Megumi?” came the voice. You both froze.

Toji. Your blood went ice cold.

Megumi’s eyes darted to yours, and without a word, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you hard toward the showers, around the tiled wall, and straight into the small, grimy private washroom stall. He shoved the door closed with his hip and snapped the lock shut in one motion.

The second the lock clicked, you were pressed together. Tight space. Too tight. Your back hit the tile. His bare chest brushed yours.

His hand was still wrapped around your waist. Warm. Big. He didn’t let go. You didn’t breathe. Toji’s footsteps echoed into the locker room like gunshots. Closer. Louder.

“Megumi?” he called again, annoyed now. “The hell are you hiding for?”

The stall was dead quiet. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Megumi’s chest rose against yours. He was breathing slow, controlled, but his eyes were locked on yours—burning.

His thumb moved once against your side. You swallowed, lips parted.

Outside, Toji’s boots scuffed the tile. He moved past the benches. You could hear him pause, like he was scanning the room. Listening.

“Thought I heard voices,” he muttered.

The air in the stall was thick. Hot. Oppressive. Your thigh was brushing his. His hand was still at your waist, tighter now, like if he let go, something would snap.

You looked up. He was already looking at you.

And fuck, that look—like he wasn’t just thinking about getting caught. He was thinking about what would happen if he didn’t stop. Right here. Right now.

Toji scoffed outside. “Brat probably bolted. Whatever.”

Footsteps. The creak of the locker room door. Then a slam. Silence.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You glanced down at it. Then up at him. Then cracked a grin.

“God,” you breathed, still half-giddy, “we really just sucked each other’s souls out and hid in a locker room washroom like porn extras.”

Megumi snorted, wiping a hand down his face. “I knew Yoshinobu was up to something the second he opened his mouth.”

“Uh-huh. And yet you still let me drop to my knees.”

He groaned. “Don’t start—”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you teased, voice syrupy and smug. “You were into it. You were talking, Megumi. Like, actual dirty talk. I almost dropped dead.”

His ears went red instantly. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Oh no, babe,” you said, drawing out the syllables like velvet. “You called me pretty while I was choking on your cock. I’m gonna hold onto that forever.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like kill me.

You laughed. The air lightened, just for a moment. But then Megumi’s face shifted. Softer. Serious.

“I… I meant it,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck with his bandaged hand. “The pretty part, yeah. But also—” His voice caught for a second. “I’m sorry. For what I said before.”

The words hung between you. Still. Gentle.

Your chest tightened.

He kept going. “I was angry. But not at you. Not really. I was pissed at myself, and I took it out on you. I called you shallow, I said you didn’t try, and that wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

You stayed quiet.

“And I shouldn’t have…” His eyes flicked to yours again, raw around the edges. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. To you.”

Your breath hitched.

To you.

He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered. Not just because you kissed. Not just because you gave him head in a locker room. But because, somewhere in all of this—he actually gave a shit about you.

You blinked fast.

“Well,” you said softly, trying not to sound as shaky as you felt, “you were kind of right.”

He frowned. “That’s not the point—”

“I know. But it’s true.” You shrugged. “I didn’t try. I was mean. I used people to feel powerful. But… I didn’t want to be that around you.”

Megumi’s mouth parted, like he didn’t know what to say.

So you added, with a wry little smile, “Guess we’re both disasters.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Speak for yourself.” You rolled your eyes—but the moment lingered.

You didn’t say anything else. But to you echoed in your mind. And you knew, without question, you’d remember it.

You leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting toward the floor. The heat had simmered down. Your pulse was slower now.

But the words were still in your throat.

“…I’m sorry too,” you said quietly.

Megumi looked up.

You didn’t meet his eyes. “For what I said. The virgin comment. That was…” You sighed. “It was mean. And low. I was just mad and stupid and lashing out like I always do.”

He was quiet.

Then, “It’s okay.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s not. I knew it would hurt. That’s why I said it.”

A pause. You looked at him again.

He didn’t look upset. If anything, he looked… calm. Maybe a little sad.

“I get it,” he said softly. “You were angry. I was, too. I didn’t even care what I said until after you left.” He shrugged. “I don’t really care about the virgin thing, to be honest.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“I mean,” he said with a weak laugh, “not anymore.”

That made you smile—just a little.

A warm silence settled. The kind that felt… earned.

Then you cocked your head, eyes drifting down his chest.

“So…” you said slowly, lips curling into a smirk. “Nerd boy’s a boxer? Way to break the stereotype, Gumi.”

Megumi groaned. “Here we go—”

“No, seriously,” you said, pushing off the wall, circling him a little. “All this time I thought you were just some uptight know-it-all with no social life, and now you’ve got this—” You gestured to his body. “—situation going on.”

“Please stop talking,” he muttered.

You ignored him. “If you really wanted to bag Miwa, you should’ve just taken your shirt off in front of her. Instant success.”

He frowned. “I don’t—what?”

You raised a brow. “You’ve got arms, Fushiguro. Do you even know that? Should I start a fan club? The Biceps for the Blue-Haired Girl campaign?”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the faint pink in his ears.

“I don’t box to impress girls,” he said finally. “It’s not about that.”

You blinked.

He shifted, eyes dropping for a moment before he spoke again. “My dad’s really into it. He used to box when he was younger. I think… I think it’s his way of keeping me grounded. Especially since things have been rough with Tsumiki.”

Your teasing faded.

He continued, voice low. Honest. “It helps. Clears my head. Makes me feel like I’m in control of something. And he knows I’ve been struggling, so he’s trying to… I don’t know. Connect. Without pushing too hard.”

You stared at him, a little stunned. That wasn’t something Megumi usually said. Not something anyone usually said to you.

“…That’s really sweet,” you murmured.

He shrugged, looking away again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” you said softly.

He glanced back at you, and you held his gaze this time.

There was still a teasing spark behind your eyes, sure—but it was quieter now. Warmer. You saw him. Really saw him, and you liked what you saw.

You leaned your shoulder against the tile again, biting back a smile of your own.

“So…” you said, voice light but curious. “Does this mean the deal’s back on?”

Megumi blinked at you. You raised a brow. “Tutoring. Both kinds.”

He scoffed, looking away like he wasn’t about to smile—but you saw it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Then curled.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Deal.”

You saw him by the lockers before he saw you—hair a little messier than usual, collar loosened, black glasses perched on his nose like he was born to judge the IQ of everyone passing by.

God, he looked insufferably smart. Pen behind his ear, shirt sleeves rolled neatly past his forearms like he had an oral defense due in five and a girl to make cry right after. No bandages today. No bruises. No gym sweat.

Just Megumi.

Back in his clean-cut, honor roll disguise.

You walked up slow.

Like prey turning into predator.

“So…” you said, voice lazy, teasing. “Your place free later?”

He didn’t even flinch. Just closed his locker like a professor finishing his office hours and looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

He looked almost amused at your expression, but of course, didn’t smile. That would be too easy.

“My dad’s got people over,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Old friends. Loud. Crude. You wouldn’t like them.”

“Oh,” you said. “And what? You’re worried they’ll scare me?”

Megumi looked you up and down—slow, unimpressed.

“No,” he muttered. “They’ll annoy the hell out of you. And then you’ll start insulting them and I’ll have to explain why my tutor is verbally assaulting grown men.”

You snorted.

“I wouldn’t even raise my voice,” you said sweetly. “I’d just call them broke and unimportant and move on.”

He sighed, looking away like he was trying not to laugh. “Exactly.”

The silence between you crackled. People passed by in little clusters—some staring, some pretending not to—but Megumi didn’t care. He just stood there with his sleeves rolled and his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, like he wasn’t the one ruining your concentration.

You hesitated.

Just a beat.

Then: “My house.”

His head tilted. Just slightly. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Megumi’s gaze lingered, like he was trying to read between the lines.

You lifted your chin. “It’s quiet. It’s clean. My dad’s out. And I’m not about to wait another week because your trashy relatives want to drink beer and yell at the TV.”

There was a long pause, then Megumi nodded once.

“Alright.”

That’s all he said. And then he walked off like he hadn’t just accepted an invitation into your damn world.

You stood there, watching him go, and tried to get your face back to neutral.

It didn’t work. You were smiling. Ear to fucking ear. Like a clown in Prada.

You could already feel the whispers behind your back as people glanced at you from the corner of their eyes, because yeah. Yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro? The nerd in the glasses? Him?

He was tutoring you, and now he was going to your house.

You caught one girl staring too long and raised your brow with a sharp little smile.

“What, bitch?” you snapped. “Yes, it’s Megumi. No, you can’t have him.”

Then you turned on your heel and strutted down the hallway like the queen you were, mentally rearranging your bedroom and maybe—just maybe—deleting the playlist labeled for fucking.

Because if he showed up? You wanted to be ready.

You barely made it ten feet before a voice you didn’t ask for slithered up from behind.

“Well, well,” Aiko purred, her tone all sugar and spite. “The queen bee herself. Slumming it now, huh?”

You turned slowly.

She stood there with her knockoff handbag, fake tan peeling at the collar, and a smirk like she thought she mattered. Her eyes flicked toward your retreating hallway glance—right where Megumi had gone moments ago.

“Him?” she said. “You’re really hanging around him now?”

You didn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” Aiko grinned wider. “Tell me this is, like, community service or something. Please say you’re not actually with Fushiguro.”

You blinked at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean…” She scoffed. “Come on. He’s a loser. Always has been. Total social suicide.”

You just stared.

Aiko kept going, not seeing the cliff she was running toward. “Like yeah, he’s tall and all, but what else? He’s got zero presence, always alone, and he wears glasses, babe. Not even the hot kind. He looks like he’s allergic to sunlight. And you—” she waved a manicured hand toward your outfit, “—you’re you. Everyone watches what you wear, who you’re seen with. And now you’re doing hallway strolls with fucking Fushiguro?”

Silence. Dead, heavy silence.

Then, You took a step forward. “Say that again.”

Aiko’s smile faltered. “Say what?”

“Call him that again.”

Her face twisted with something smug. “What? A loser? I mean, sorry, but he is.”

That was it.

You closed the distance, grabbed a fistful of her hair so fast she gasped—and leaned in close, voice low and sweet like venom in champagne.

“You listen to me, you crusty, clearance-rack bitch. The next time you open your mouth about him like that, I will ruin your life in ways you can’t even spell.” Aiko’s eyes went wide, terrified. She didn’t dare move.

“He’s more of a man than anyone you’ve ever begged to text you back. So watch your fucking mouth. Or I’ll show you what social suicide really looks like.”

Then you let go—slow and deliberate. Her breath hitched. Her lip trembled. You gave her a tight, pitying smile. “Now run along. Before I start listing your body count in front of the juniors.”

She practically bolted.

Nobara wandered up from behind, chewing gum like she’d just witnessed a crime. “Jesus. You need to be arrested for that one.”

“She called him a loser,” you said flatly.

Nobara blinked. “You yanked her hair like she owed you money.”

You shrugged. “I was being nice.”

And as you walked off, flipping your hair and smirking like you didn’t just threaten someone into silence?

You felt proud. Let them all whisper. Because yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro is tutoring you. He’s also making you lose your goddamn mind.

What the fuck about it, bitches?

The car ride over had been quiet.

Not awkward—just charged. You didn’t speak much, and Megumi didn’t ask questions. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook the whole way, like he was trying to remind himself this was still tutoring.

Not… whatever it had started to feel like lately.

When you pulled up to your house—gates sweeping open with the click of a remote—he blinked. Slowly.

“This is where you live?”

“Disappointed?”

He shook his head. “Just… surprised.”

You could see it—how he clocked the driveway lined with luxury cars, the fountain in the center, the perfectly-trimmed hedges that cost more than some people’s rent. You led him up the steps, pulling open the door with a toss of your hair. “Come on.”

The marble floor echoed under your shoes as you stepped inside, Megumi trailing close behind. His eyes flicked to the chandelier, the high ceilings, the art lining the walls.

“You can say it,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s…” He cleared his throat. “Nice.”

You scoffed. “You don’t have to lie. It’s ridiculous.”

He let out the ghost of a laugh. “Little bit.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Gets lonely sometimes,” you said, quieter.

Megumi looked at you—but before he could say anything, a familiar voice called out from deeper in the house. “Sweetheart? That you?”

Your heart dropped. You turned toward the hall. “Shit.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you called, plastering on a smile as footsteps echoed.

Megumi stiffened beside you, And then your father appeared—tie loosened, whiskey in hand, and a brow raised when he saw your companion.

“Well, well,” he said, amused. “Didn’t realize tutoring came with the full door-to-door package now.”

Megumi immediately straightened. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Your dad eyed him. “Polite. Proper. Is this the boy who’s keeping you from flunking out?”

You groaned. “Daddy, don’t start.”

“What?” he said, smirking. “Can’t I be impressed that he’s not an airheaded jock or one of those weird artsy types who cry during movies?”

“He’s standing right here,” you hissed.

Megumi didn’t say anything, but you could feel the tension in his shoulders.

Your dad just sipped his drink, eyes still on Megumi. “Relax, son. I’m not grilling you. I’m just happy she’s letting someone else use her brain for once.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing Megumi’s sleeve. “We’re going upstairs.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” your dad called after you.

“That leaves nothing,” you shot back, dragging Megumi up the grand staircase.

“You wound me, princess!”

“Go work or something!”

You didn’t stop until you were on the second floor, yanking Megumi down the hall toward your bedroom.

He was quiet—still a little stunned, maybe. You didn’t blame him.

“Sorry about him,” you mumbled. “He thinks he’s funny.”

Megumi adjusted his glasses. “He kind of is.”

You shot him a glare.

He shrugged. “In a terrifying way.”

You rolled your eyes and opened your bedroom door. “Come on, nerd boy. Let’s get this tutoring shit over with before he comes back up here and starts quizzing you on wine pairings.”

He walked in after you, looking around your room, quiet again. But there was something different in his silence now.

Not nerves. Not intimidation. Just… awareness. Of where he was. Of you.

Of the way you leaned against the edge of your desk, arms folded, watching him like you weren’t even trying to pretend this was normal.

Megumi sat cross-legged on the floor of your bedroom, textbook open, notepad ready. You were lying on your stomach across your bed, skirt flipped up just a little too high, feet kicking in the air while you squinted at the words like they personally offended you.

“…So mitochondria is not the nucleus.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Correct. They’re two different organelles.”

You frowned harder. “Then why the fuck do they both sound important?”

“They are.”

“That’s dumb. Why not just combine them into a super organelle and call it the brain of the cell?”

Megumi blinked, sighed, and scribbled something. “Because that’s not how eukaryotic cells work.”

You groaned into your pillow. “I hate this. Biology can suck my dick.”

“You barely passed chemistry. Don't give bio a reason to hate you too.”

You flipped over onto your back, glaring at the ceiling. “I’m trying, okay? I actually remembered that thing you said about ribosomes last time.”

“Which was?”

You hesitated. “They… do shit.”

He stared.

“…Protein,” you muttered, pouting. “They build protein. Calm down.”

Megumi finally cracked a smile, just a small one. “I’m genuinely shocked.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean it. That’s the first time you’ve remembered anything correctly without pulling it out of your ass.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Watch your mouth, nerd boy. I’m fragile.”

“…Okay, um… ribosomes build protein. And lysosomes are… the trash guys? Or whatever.”

You were laying flat on your back now, textbook propped on your stomach, one sock half-off your foot, a pencil in your mouth like a cigarette. You were trying. Sort of. Even mumbling the definitions to yourself like they might actually stick.

Megumi was still sitting on the floor, but he wasn’t reading anymore. Wasn’t even looking at your notes.

Just at you.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too busy frowning at the page like it had insulted you.

“...Endoplasmic reticulum. That’s the… protein highway thing. Right?”

Silence.

“Megumi?” You looked up.

He was staring.

“What?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted like he was chewing on the words.

Then, finally—

“I want to do something to you.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

His voice didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, softer now, but still steady. “Right now.”

Your lips parted. “What—like—?”

“I want to go down on you,” he said, low. “I want you to teach me.”

The air left your lungs in a slow, involuntary exhale. The room felt suddenly warmer. He wasn’t even touching you, and still—your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You… you serious?”

He nodded once. “You said you’d teach me. Right?”

You just hadn’t expected this. “Gumi…”

He exhaled through his nose when you said that. Quiet, but full of tension. “I want to know what you like,” he said. “I want to get good at it.”

You blinked, mouth dry, trying to find your usual smug tone—but it didn’t come. He leaned forward, kneeling beside the bed now, hands flat on the mattress.

“I think about it a lot,” he admitted. “What you taste like. How you'd sound.”

Your breath hitched. Heat rushed between your legs. “Shit…” You bit your lip. “You’re really fucking serious.”

He just looked at you. Still calm. Still intense. And fuck—you were wet already.

You swallowed and smirked, finally finding your voice again. “You want me to walk you through it? Like a lesson plan?” He nodded again, eyes hooded.

You dragged your finger slowly up your thigh. “Then get up here, Gumi.” His fingers curled over the edge of the bed. And he did.

Megumi climbed onto the bed, moving slow, like he didn’t want to startle you—like he was worried you’d change your mind.

You didn’t.

Not when he settled between your legs, arms on either side of you. Not when he looked at you like he’d waited for this—quietly, patiently. Not when he leaned down and kissed you.

God.

You weren’t expecting the kiss.

Not one like that.

It was soft. Intentional. His lips brushed yours once, then again, warmer the second time. He kissed you like it was something he needed to learn too, and he was determined to get it right. No sloppy tongue. No teenage teeth. Just slow, sensual pressure—like he was studying your mouth the way he studied your notes.

You made a soft sound against his lips. One that caught him off guard.

He pulled back. “Okay?”

You swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah. Just—kiss me again.”

He did.

Deeper this time. His hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek. Then your neck. And then—when he felt you shift under him, breath hitching—he let his hand trail down your chest.

“You’re warm,” he murmured.

You scoffed. “You’re laying on me, Gumi.”

But your voice broke halfway through.

His hand stopped at the hem of your shirt, hovering.

“Can I?”

You lifted your arms without speaking.

He peeled it off slow, letting his eyes take you in. And you didn’t hide. Not this time. Not when he kissed down your chest, not when his hands slid over your waist like he was memorizing every dip and curve.

When he got to your skirt, you reached down—silent—and helped him pull it off.

Your panties stayed on.

He stared at the damp patch darkening the center.

You turned your head away, suddenly flushed. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

Megumi leaned down, lips against the inside of your thigh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I was.”

You shivered.

His hands slid up your legs, gentle but confident. He moved slow, kissing from one thigh to the other, tongue grazing your skin like he already knew how sensitive you were there. Like he wanted to worship, not just fuck. You’d had boys go down on you before—but it was always a means to an end. Messy, fast, mechanical. You never came. You always faked it.

But this?

This felt different.

“Are you nervous?” you whispered.

He shook his head, pressing a kiss just above the hem of your panties. “No.”

You looked down at him. “You’ve never done this before.”

“I want to get good at it,” he said. “I want to make you come.”

Your throat went dry.

Megumi hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and looked up at you one last time. When you nodded, he pulled them down slow.

He stared.

You wanted to squirm under the weight of it—how intense his gaze was, how quiet he got. He wasn’t gawking. He wasn’t blushing.

He looked hungry.

“…Can you tell me what you like?” he asked, voice low. “What feels good?”

You exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. I don’t—I haven’t really…”

You didn’t finish. But you didn’t have to. Megumi understood.

You felt his breath first. Warm, right where you needed it. Then his lips, brushing so softly over your folds that your hips bucked before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just gripped your thighs gently and leaned in.

The first swipe of his tongue was cautious. Testing. He moved slow, tasting you. Then again. Deeper. He moved his tongue in long, languid strokes, growing bolder as you gasped, as your thighs trembled against his shoulders.

“Gumi—” you whimpered. “Fuck—oh my god—”

He hummed, low in his throat, and the vibration made your back arch. It wasn’t perfect—he didn’t know how to flick just right yet, didn’t know your tells—but god, the way he tried. The way he moaned quietly into your pussy like he liked the taste. Like he liked how messy it made you.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. “Right there—fuck—yes—”

He latched onto your clit with a soft suck, tongue swirling, and your whole body locked up. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready to feel that pressure building, hot and dizzy in your belly, like something was going to snap.

You grabbed at the sheets, mouth falling open. “Wait—wait—Gumi—fuck—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t. Not once.

His tongue was relentless now, sloppy and eager, spit and slick coating your thighs, chin soaked, hands digging into your hips like he needed to hold you together while you came apart.

And then you did. Hard.

You came with a cry, louder than you meant to, your legs trembling and your chest rising in jagged gasps. It felt real. Raw. Like it had been buried inside you for months, untouched. No fingers. No toys. No faked orgasms in the dark.

Just him. You collapsed back onto the mattress, heart racing, breath shattered.

He stayed between your thighs, kissing them gently, like he wasn’t ready to stop. You looked down at him, dazed. Megumi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looking up at you like he hadn’t just rocked your whole fucking world.

“…Did I do it right?”

You let out a hoarse, shocked laugh. “What the fuck—”

He blinked. “You came.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Megumi crawled up the bed slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Teach me more,” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Please.”

You dragged him down into a kiss. Tasting yourself on his tongue. And for once in your life—you didn’t feel like the one in control. You didn’t mind.

The old gym echoed with the steady rhythm of fists against canvas.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Megumi didn’t say much when he was focused like this—wrapped hands hitting the punching bag with precise, brutal timing, sweat gathering at his hairline. His school shirt was ditched somewhere on the bench, tie loosened and hanging off one corner of the bag like a casualty of war.

You were parked cross-legged on a mat near the ring, textbook open in your lap, highlighter in hand—but let’s be real. You’d read the same sentence five times now.

“Hey, Gumi,” you called, flipping to the next page like you weren’t totally checking him out. “How do I remember which cranial nerves are motor and which are sensory?”

“Mnemonics,” he said between punches. “Or just don’t fail.”

You threw a marker at him.

He dodged without even looking. “Try ‘Some Say Marry Money But My Brother Says Big Brains Matter More.’ First letter tells you if the nerve is sensory, motor, or both.”

You blinked. “…Wait. That’s actually smart as fuck.”

He smirked, still striking the bag. “Glad you’re finally using that oversized head for something.”

You gasped. “Oh, so you do think I’m smart.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I think you’re loud.”

You grinned. “Loud and sexy. It’s the full package.”

He didn’t reply—just shook his head, a breathy laugh slipping out as he went back to punching.

You closed the textbook with a dramatic sigh. “You know, watching you box is kinda hot.”

He didn’t stop. “You say that about everything.”

“Not true. I didn’t say it about that weird Gojo lecture where he compared thermodynamics to heartbreak.”

“That’s because Gojo’s an idiot.”

You snorted. “Takes one to know one.”

“I think I could take you in a fight.”

Megumi wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, chest rising slow and steady as he looked over at you. “You getting in or what?” he asked, nodding toward the open ropes.

You raised a brow, still sitting on the edge of the ring mat, textbook half-closed on your lap. “You think I won’t?”

He didn’t even blink. “I think you’ll talk more than you’ll swing.”

You stood up immediately. “Bitch.”

He just stepped back, giving you space. You climbed in, fixing your skirt, cracking your knuckles like you actually knew what the fuck you were doing. Megumi tilted his head. “That serious?”

You flexed both arms in the most unserious way possible. “I think I could take you in a fight.” He stared.

You grinned. “Better watch out, nerd boy.”

He stepped forward, slow, that usual blank expression curling just slightly into something smug.

“Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

You didn’t react. At least not outwardly. Your heart? That shit didn’t know how to act.

You narrowed your eyes, tossing your hair back like it didn’t affect you. “Hope you’re ready to get embarrassed.”

He just smirked. “You first.”

And fuck, you were in trouble. Real trouble.

You raised your fists like you knew what you were doing—which you absolutely did not.

Megumi stared at you, unamused. “That’s not even a stance.”

“Eat shit, Fushiguro.”

He sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, completely relaxed. “Keep your hands up. You’ll get decked first swing.”

You tightened your fists, legs bouncing. “I am up.”

“Barely.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, stepping closer. “You talk like I won’t lay your ass out right now.”

“You’re five-two,” he said flatly.

You lunged anyway, throwing a punch directly at his side. He dodged, clean and fast.

You jabbed again, wild and reckless, and Megumi dodged like he was bored. That just made you madder.

“Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Dodging! That’s fucking cheating!”

He snorted, stepping just out of range like it was easy. “I’m literally just not letting you hit me.”

You lunged at him, swinging fast—and missed again, nearly tripping when he twisted around you.

And then— smack. His palm landed hard on your ass.

You gasped. “Megumi!”

He blinked, deadpan. “What?”

You turned, jaw dropped. “Did you just spank me?!”

He looked completely unfazed. “It’s a good ass.”

“You absolute slut—” You tried to swing again, but he caught your wrist and spun you with zero effort, stepping behind you and bending a little—

“Don’t you dare—” And then he hoisted you clean off your feet.

“MEGUMI!” Your body flipped over his shoulder, hair falling in your face as he held you with one arm like you weighed nothing.

“You’re insane!” you shouted, punching his back. “Put me down, you fucking bastard!”

“Nope,” he said, too smug for someone carrying a feral gremlin over his shoulder.

“You perverted little freak—!”

He smacked your ass again, harder this time. You shrieked.

“I WILL BITE YOU.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. That warm, deep, rare laugh that you only heard when you caught him off guard.

“Fucking nerd boy with muscles, I swear to god—!”

“I told you I boxed,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world while you kicked your feet like a goddamn cartoon character.

“YOU NEVER SAID YOU’D THROW ME AROUND LIKE A DUMBELLLLLL—”

And then— A voice. Lazy. Loud. Horrified.

“Oh what the fuck—” You froze. Megumi did too.

“Oh my god.”

You twisted—still slung over Megumi’s shoulder like a dramatic, designer handbag—and craned your neck as the voice echoed through the gym’s open doorway.

Yoshinobu stood there, a water bottle in one hand, towel slung around his shoulder, his brows lifted like he just walked in on a goddamn soap opera.

“I’ve seen a lot of sparring in this place,” he said, casual but amused. “But I’ve never seen that boxing move before.”

Megumi didn’t flinch. Just slapped your ass. Hard.

“Fushiguro!” you shrieked, legs kicking. “You absolute bastard!”

He had the gall—the straight-faced, gorgeous nerve—to act like nothing happened. Just hauled you up and dumped you like a sack of attitude flat on your back in the middle of the ring.

“You’re insane!” you coughed, sitting up and shoving your hair out of your face. “Feral! I hope you get athlete’s foot!”

Megumi just wiped the sweat off his chest with a towel like you weren’t actively losing your mind right there.

“Hit the showers, kid,” Yoshinobu called, half-laughing as he crossed his arms.

Megumi flipped him off without looking and strolled off toward the back, slinging the towel over his shoulder, his back flexing with every step.

And then— Silence.

You sat on the mat, breathing hard, heart still thudding, every part of you aware of just how deeply he’d rattled you. Then—

“You gonna tell me what that was?”

You turned your head.

Yoshinobu was leaning against the ropes now, one brow raised, his smile gone.

You rolled your eyes. “It was him being a dick. What else is new?”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t smirk.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit in this gym,” he said slowly, “but that wasn’t just a dumb joke.”

You scoffed, grabbing your water bottle and avoiding his stare. “Don’t start.”

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Yoshinobu said. “And I saw the way he looked at you.”

Your breath hitched. You stood abruptly, brushing invisible dust off your skirt. “He doesn’t look at me like anything. Okay?”

“You like him.”

You scoffed. “He’s just my tutor.”

“Right.” Yoshinobu nodded like he believed you. He didn’t.

“I’m serious,” you bit out, annoyed at how hot your face felt. “He likes—” You stopped. You didn’t even know who he liked. It didn’t matter. “He doesn’t like me like that.”

“I don’t care what’s happening between you two,” Yoshinobu said finally. “That’s none of my business.”

He took a step back from the ropes, grabbing a clean towel from the rack.

“Go easy on him..”

You blinked. “What?”

Yoshinobu turned, half-glancing back at you.

“He doesn’t talk much, y’know?” he said, voice a little quieter. “Doesn’t let people in easy. And when he does—he doesn’t have backup plans.”

You folded your arms, trying to look annoyed. “What makes you think I’d hurt him?”

“Because you’re scared,” he said simply. “And scared people bite.”

Your jaw locked. He gave you a last look—measured, unblinking. “He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.”

Then he walked toward the back, leaving you in the middle of the ring, staring at the mat beneath your feet, heart in your throat.

You didn’t know how long you stood there.

But the echo of his words didn’t leave.

He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because somewhere deep in your chest—you already knew.

parts, chapter 04

taglist, @crispycatt @littlevoidfairy @bookfreakk @1-rxse-1 @starzfaerie @zephyairies @moonmaiden1996 @simonexxx1 @pinkmeatball218 @evii1e @xavisbabie @maeviees @justanotherasiangirl @tiasd1ary @shioribuns @allysainz @mwrgwt @cookies-assemble @tiasd1ary @blu3-l0v3r @camy-yh @pinkmeatball218 @chokismom @01elle-sherlock @oidloid @holymolyyikes @haithamsbb @mysteriaqueen @fxngsfxgxrty @meiyinnaise

[mercy-burning]

Off-Road

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Pulling over on the side of the road to pee has never been so satisfying... (18+/MINORS DNI) Content: Piss drinking, munch!Spencer, fingering, heavy petting Word Count: 1.5k EXACTLY according to Google Docs. It was fate.

MASTERLIST

NOTE: ...sorry not sorry <3 barely proofread. I wrote most of this on my lunch break today fjlfksdjflk

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

No woman likes to be on the side of the road at one in the morning, but when nature calls, you do what you must.

Still, it helps that Spencer is with you, waiting in the car.

Well… He should be waiting in the car, but for some reason he’s hopped out of the passenger seat and followed you into the dark, just behind a large patch of brush a few feet away from the car and out of sight.

“You gotta go, too?” you ask through a laugh, not quite ready to get to work without clearing it with him first.

“Uh, no, not really… But I don’t like the thought of you being alone out here.”

You can believe that, but there’s something odd in his voice that you can’t seem to place, so you cross your arms and will yourself to hold on a moment longer. “Well, I’m gonna pee. Like, right now. So look away or don’t.”

“Actually… I was kind of hoping… Um…”

Something warm flutters in your chest at the potential direction this is going, but he keeps dancing around it. You’re not even sure if that’s where his mind has gone, but now that the thought is in your head, the full press of your bladder is blending into a sharp pleasure that makes it harder to keep holding it.

“I really gotta go, Spence, so spit it out already.”

Your fingers are undoing the button of your pants as soon as the words leave your mouth, figuring he’ll either say what he’s going to say or look away and give you privacy at the quick course of action. It’s not like you hadn’t warned him you were going, after all.

Maybe it was cruel to force him to make a decision so soon, but again, when nature calls, you do what you must.

“I want to taste you,” he blurts out, his eyes widening at the confession. Then, he quickly adds, “I mean I totally understand if you think that’s weird and I’m sorry. But I don’t know, I guess I’d just been thinking about it for a while and right now seemed like the perfect opportunity to ask, but like I said, I—“

You’ve already slid your pants and underwear down in one swift movement, stepping out of them to take a step towards him as he rambled, but now you cut him off, feeling warm and tingly all over with anticipation.

“Get on your knees.”

That stops Spencer in his tracks, a deer frozen in headlights… Like he can’t believe that you’d agreed and even seemed eager to go along with his unusual request.

“Wait really?”

“Yes, Spencer, but I really have to go, so get on your knees if that’s what you really want.”

Eyes still wide, he does just that. He falls to the ground with a soft thud, the grass and dirt beneath him giving way to his urgency.

You stride over to him in just a few steps, ready to ask him if he’s really sure about this, but the words die on the back of your tongue the second you reach him; Spencer’s hands come out to gently grip your thighs and bring you flush to his mouth. The immediate contact sends a jolt of excitement through your body, and before you can process the relief, you start to release into him.

It only takes about a second to fully comprehend the situation at hand, your brain questioning your decision while your body has a mind of its own. Still, you clench and hold back, whimpering when he groans into you, his tongue lapping up every bit of you that he can.

Spencer’s mouth slows, his lips gently closing around your clit with a soft smack before whining into you. “Please…”

He goes in for a slow, wet kiss to your cunt, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. “More…”

Another sinful kiss, and then… “I need more…”

Any reservations have gone completely out the window, hearing and feeling him beg for you like this… You don’t dare deny your sweet boy what he so desperately needs, and so through a long groan of relief, and determination to please, you grind your hips down softly into his mouth, crying out into the open air as he opens wide for you.

You take your time, relishing in the gentle pulse of pleasure that cuts through the gradual reprieve to your bladder. It hits you in waves that build stronger and stronger each time Spencer’s nose bumps your clit, and it takes everything you have not to hold him there while you ride his face to completion.

There will be time for that later, but now, your focus is on letting him get his fill. You go slow, nearly buckling every time he closes his mouth around you to swallow before opening up again. His tongue is magical, as it always has been, working you in new ways that have you in shambles.

And then, he takes a messier, more indulgent approach to his worshipping you, relying less on the task of swallowing his sustenance and taking you by surprise.

Now he’s being downright animalistic, holding onto your thighs like he’ll die if he lets go. His tongue is relentless over your clit, letting the last few gushes of your golden nectar cascade down his chin, and the sensation is breathtaking. Pretty soon you’re chasing after an orgasm, relieved by an empty bladder but restless for a different, more familiar type of satisfaction.

Your hips have a mind of their own as you reach down to grab his hair for balance, crying out at how sensitive you are over each long caress of his tongue. He devours you like he’s starved, groaning into you and taking no care to be polite about it.

Finally he brings a hand up and slips two fingers into your heat, fingering you steadily as his lips close around your clit and suck.

You come hard and fast, almost positive that you’re ripping out his hair with how tightly your fingers are curling through the strands. Still he doesn’t slow, and it drags on forever, supernovas dancing behind your eyelids as you try not to scream too loud into the night.

Even as you start to stumble, Spencer removes his fingers from you and grips your thighs again, keeping you steady and he licks and licks and licks.

“Baby, you need to stop,” you gasp at last, once you’ve realized that there’s not much more you can take, pulling yourself away and hearing him whine in protest.

“Sorry…” he pants. “I didn’t mean to get carried away…”

He kisses the inside of your thigh, then drags his tongue along a drop of wetness that hadn’t fallen completely yet, up and up and up until he’s almost to your cunt again. “But I can’t help it… You taste like heaven.”

Your body has a visceral reaction to his words, clenching around nothing as you pull him up to stand.

Without a second thought, you grab the sides of his face and kiss him with a hunger that only barely rivals his. He groans into your mouth, the sound going down deliciously in contrast to the heady taste of your juices on his tongue.

He’s hard against you, jolting his hips forward in pursuit of friction, and once again you find it hard to deny him.

Pulling away from the kiss, you bring a hand down to palm the front of his pants and take a second to look him over.

His hair is unkempt and his eyes just as wild, chin resting perfectly in your other hand… Pouty glistening lips, taking a moment to recover yet yearning to get back to work…

You sigh and squeeze the bulge in his pants, working him to the best of your ability as the soft features of his neck finally catch your eye; He’s glistening everywhere, thoroughly covered in you…

Truth be told, you don’t think you’ve ever loved him more than right now.

“My beautiful boy,” you muse, taking him by the chin and leaning in.

The moment your tongue makes contact with his neck, he’s coming, whimpering incoherent sounds that could be mistaken for your name but are beautiful all the same.

You clean him up as sensually as you can, not quite sure if you really enjoy what you’re tasting. But the way Spencer holds onto you and unravels under your presence makes the experience all the more enjoyable.

If anything, it’s strong worthwhile evidence of the pure emboldened devotion he has for you, a truth that has you craving more adventure the longer it sits with you, coating your lips and laying heavy on your tongue.

Unfortunately, you start to believe maybe he’s awakened something within you just now.

And by the shit-eating grin on Spencer’s face when you’ve finally parted, you think he might have been able to tell.

[xhmeusworld]

heart vs. head | lee jihoon

genre: smut, established relationship

pairing: lee jihoon x gender neutral reader

warnings: blowjobs in studio, slight dirty talk

word count: 1.2k

note: i’ve been thinking about jihoon nonstop for days now, so i guess this is the product of that lmao, but haha heart vs. head (get it👀)

jihoon was a perfectionist and absolutely everyone around him knew that. some days he was less uptight and more than willing to give the rest of the seventeen members grace during recording sessions. other days, it was like everything being done was not how he liked it.

today was one of those days.

you watched jihoon as his hands tightened around the lip of the desk in his studio, his knuckles turning white, the veins in his arms being more prominent. minghao was currently in the process of recording his parts of seventeen’s tenth anniversary comeback within the booth, the rest of the performance team surrounded jihoon in his producer chair as you were lounging on the couch your boyfriend kept specifically for you in the limited space.

to your ears, minghao sounded fine, but based on the tension in jihoon’s entire body, it wasn’t what he envisioned. you couldn’t say you were surprised. soonyoung recorded before minghao and jihoon made him re-record at least ten times before he was satisfied with the finished product.

the song came to an end as jihoon slipped off his headphones. it felt as if everyone on the room was holding their breath, waiting for the backbone of seventeen to crush their hopes and dreams.

instead, the boy sighed, running a hand over his freshly buzzed hair. “okay, everybody go get dinner, go home, just do something other than be here.”

the boys didn’t need to be told twice. they didn’t even hesitate as they fled out of jihoon’s studio like they were being chased, chan sending you a look of concern on the way out.

you moved to the edge of the couch, a soft smile on your face as you surveyed the love of your life. “babe, you’re being too critical on yourself. you’re doing great.”

jihoon turned his chair toward you, a frustrated sigh leaving his lungs. “i just needed a break.”

moving to your feet, you positioned yourself between jihoon’s legs, wrapping your arms around the boy and resting your cheek against the top of his head. “what can i do to help?”

jihoon let out a breathy laugh, grabbing your hips, causing you to step back and look down at him. “i have a couple of ideas.”

at his stare, you could feel your body temperature rise. “babe, we’re in your studio. what if one of the boys comes back?" you reasoned, "i don’t think we want to scar them for life.”

"don’t worry about them," jihoon replied, voice firm. “just get on your knees and suck my cock.”

the boy’s words instantly sent heat to your core. with seventeen’s anniversary coming up and your boyfriend’s pending military enlistment (which you did not want to think about), it had been rare that you guys have had time for a moment to think let alone please each other. and you knew jihoon well. you knew that when he got frustrated or upset, he needed some kind of release. the bulge in his shorts did look uncomfortably tight, you had to admit.

your voice was faint as you spoke as blood roared in your ears at the thought of what was to come. "fine, but if the boys come back, you can’t blame me.”

"trust me, babe, anyone would love to see such a beautiful sight on their knees for me.”

upon his final remark, he moved his arms up to grip onto his headrest, granting you better access to him. you slowly lowered yourself on your knees, resting your hands against his thighs as you got comfortable.

slowly, you slipped your fingers under the waistband of his shorts, pulling them along with his boxers down just enough for you to pull his throbbing cock out from its constraints, a sigh of relief emitting from your boyfriend who's eyes were trained on you, full of hunger, but you could see all the love he held for you as well.

god, you were going to miss him when he’s gone.

shaking those horrid thoughts away, you teasingly began to pump your hand up and down, relishing in the sounds that slipped past jihoon’s lips with every stroke. you bent your head down a little further, swiping your tongue across his tip just enough for his breath to hitch in his chest and his fingers to curl ever so tighter into his leather headrest.

you took a little bit more of him into your mouth, your cheeks hollowing out, tongue swirling. you began to bob your head up and down, taking in more of him each time, until finally, you could feel his tip hitting the back of your throat. jihoon groaned loudly, his hands moving from his headrest to tighten and pull at your hair, helping guide your movements, causing you to move a bit faster.

"your mouth feels so good, love, you’re doing well. god, i needed this,” he grunted.

you hummed around him, one of your hands finding its way to the rest of his cock that you couldn't fit into your mouth, simultaneously pumping up and down while still lightly sucking around him. pleasuring jihoon was one of your favorite things to do. everything he did in life, in music, were for the benefit of other people, but when he was with you, that’s why he got to take and receive everything he wanted. you were able to make him feel loved and cared for in a way that no one else could.

a breathy grunt came out of jihoon’s lips as your tongue swirled his head, his teeth sinking into his lip so hard to the point where he might draw blood if not careful. it was easy to tell that he was trying to hold back, make this moment last as long as possible.

"i'm so close," he panted, a sheen of sweat glistening against his forehead.

with a few more strokes of your hand and swirls of your tongue, he was coming undone in a matter of seconds, to which you swallowed every last drop as you didn’t want to cause a mess in his pristine studio. you pulled away from him, lips swollen and pink from the actions you'd just done and your hair a mess from jihoon’s fingers tangled in it.

he glanced over at you, a groan escaping his lips at the sight, "my god, you look stunning."

you could feel your cheeks heating up at his remark, surely the shade of a fire engine. jihoon had a hold of you within seconds, knocking you back onto the couch and immediately pinning you under him.

his hand was immediately between your thighs, his fingers causing flames to lick up and down your skin and eliciting a surprised gasp from you.

"how about i take care of you now, my love?"

[8ft]

QUICK GO

THOUGHTS ON TOWER/ APOTHIOSIS?

tower they could never make me hate you. this got really long. it's going under a readmore. word of warning... this is kind of just about tower. i haven't gotten every apotheosis ending, so i don't feel like i'm ready to dissect her just yet. sorry!

tower was one of my original favorites when i picked the game up. a really fun fact is that i just... thought fury was her only chapter 3? i didn't clock how to get to apotheosis for a while and i had violence in my heart. she presses a lot of my The Character buttons, though. the ego. the ruthlessness. Big Woman.

her whole superiority thing makes her a bit hard to pick apart, but that's part of the appeal. we're the reason she's like this now. we're curious enough to listen to her, but apparently so intimidated by her that we roll over and cave the second she presents an actual threat. we've shown her that we'll follow. of course that's what she expects of us.

now, she's been given the power to actually force us to act against our will. and she's playing touys with it! (bffr if you were locked in a basement at the mercy of some giant bird with a knife and suddenly You were given the power in the situation would you not do the same) the first thing that comes to her mind to punish us for our defiance is to force us to slit our own throat. #girl. it's notable, though, the way she "eyes us with soft contemplation" beforehand. she really gave it a good ponder. made sure that it wasn't just a suitable punishment, but one that'd reinforce her position over us- dying by our own hand at her command. making us stab ourselves in the lungs after that is just overkill. barely even punishment anymore, moreso just a display of her own power. reinforcing to us- and to herself- that she is our god.

something i love to point out, though... the cabin and stairs being reflective of the princess' mental state isn't exactly the world's biggest revelation, but tower's accomplishes a few things. it dwarfs us, naturally, makes us feel Lesser... but it also establishes her viewpoint of Herself and Her destiny being the top priority. its size is built around Her comfort, everything else be damned.

her ability to get into our head and hear the voices / the narrator without actually needing to enter our body like the other vessels is also pretty fun! LOVE her dominating will. this appears to be unique to tower, too! apotheosis only remarks on the presence of the voices during a goddess unraveled, when you share your pain with her.

... actually going back into the scripts it's debatable whether or not she can hear the voices. she does kill the narrator and start piloting him, but the one interaction she has with any of the voices...

i don't know. it could just be a lucky guess, sans style. i choose to believe the first option if only because it reinforces her divine image. anything for women!

ANOTHER fun thing... to get to the fury from her- (i pause for tomatoes to be thrown at me)- you, of course, have to try and slay her. that's not what gets her to break, though... it's the fact that she was brought to use her hands against you. THAT. is interesting. what's also worth noting is that, while she's admonishing us, she doesn't immediately start in the scary red text voice.

(line 1 + line 2)

she doesn't even have the echo.

the genuine disbelief is just... awesome. and hilarious. she's so utterly stunned by our insolence that she can't even put on the Scary Goddess Voice. so much of her is empty bluster. we've reminded her how small she actually is. she might be inches away from godhood, but she still exists in meatspace.

it was her own decision, after all. if she's so above it all, she could've easily, like, blown us up with her mind or whatever. cough. but she returned our violence. she not only smacked us so hard we bounced, but doubled down and ground us into the floor like an insect. twice in a row, she brings herself down to our level, and then blames us for forcing her hand.

the image tower presents is beautiful and overwhelming. that's what she needs to be to maintain her position. inside, she is childish and petty and cruel and i would not have her any other way.

uhhh... go listen to a few songs. THANKS FOR THE ASK!!!

night club - precious thing

cloudeater - hardly wait

night riots - nothing personal

[riaa-moony]

The day everything changed- j.miller (8)

masterlist, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, (part 8)

summary this is a series that follows the show some, the game some, and some scenes are from my imagination. everyone is aged down, sarah doesn’t die.

warnings death of a child, guns, mentions of blood, grief, crying, panic, cussing, flashback. tell me if i miss anything!

pairing joel miller x f!reader

this is the part that’s supposed to make you cry, i guess. it’s shorter. have fun!!

The fire had burned low.

Just soft crackling now— like the house was exhaling.

Upstairs, the girls were finally asleep. Amara curled around that stuffed rabbit like it still had a heartbeat. Sarah tucked in close behind her, one arm over her sister’s waist, their breathing matched like they’d practiced it. Ellie had passed out reading again, comic book open on her chest, mouth open in a half-snore.

Y/N moved quietly down the stairs.

Her steps slow. Careful.

In her arms, she held Jordie’s flannel. Folded now. Pressed against her side like it might disappear if she let it go.

Joel was on the couch, sitting in the dim light. One hand rubbed at his tired eyes. The other held a chipped mug full of something he hadn’t touched.

He looked up when she stepped in.

Didn’t speak. Just watched.

Y/N didn’t need to explain.

He saw it in her eyes.

And in the way her arms wrapped tighter around that little bundle of fabric like it still had weight.

Joel stood without a word.

And when she reached him, she didn’t speak either. Just dropped her forehead to his chest and held on. The shirt crushed between them.

Joel wrapped his arms around her— slow, steady. One hand found the back of her head, the other anchored her close. He didn’t say I’m sorry, or he’d be proud, or it’ll be okay.

He just held her.

And she let herself be held.

Minutes passed like that. The kind where time doesn’t feel real— where grief doesn’t look like falling apart but just… standing there. Breathing. Existing. Remembering someone who used to be loud and warm and real in your arms.

Finally, she spoke— so quiet, he barely caught it.

“I found it.”

Joel looked down at the flannel crushed between them.

“I couldn’t leave it,” she whispered. “I couldn’t.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. And that was all.

She nodded against him. Silent tears tracked across her cheeks, soaking into his shirt.

And for just a little while, the world stopped spinning.

Joel leaned his cheek against her hair.

“He used to say he’d glue us all together,” he murmured after a while. “So we’d never get lost.”

Y/N let out a small, broken laugh. “Super glue. The strong kind.”

They stood like that until the fire gave its last crackle. Until grief settled into something softer— still sharp, but livable. Something they’d carry. Together.

Outskirts of Boston, 2020

The Day Jordie Died

They were on the road. Raiders had hit a nearby settlement, and word traveled fast. Joel didn’t trust anyone anymore, and when he said it was time to move, they didn’t ask questions. It was supposed to be safe— Joel had cleared it before. He always cleared it before.

The sun was low, bleeding orange through skeletal trees as Joel, Y/N, and the kids moved along a narrow, overgrown path that used to be a service road. Grass sprouted through cracked asphalt. Birds chirped softly in the distance, as if unaware the world had ended.

Y/N had Jordie’s hand in hers as they walked along the old trail. He was ten. Big eyes, a smile that turned people soft without trying, all limbs and laughter, racing ahead to pick wildflowers for his sisters. Sarah had teased him that morning about the dirt under his fingernails. Amara had braided his hair. He’d been giggling all afternoon.

“Jordie, stay close to Mama,” she called, glancing behind to make sure Sarah and Amara were still together.

“I am close!” he shouted. “I’m just practicing my Batman moves.”

“You’re the flashiest Batman I’ve ever met,” Sarah muttered, but her voice was warm, teasing.

Joel glanced at his boy and smiled without even realizing. “Five more minutes, then we rest. Sound good?”

The boy looked back and grinned, pockets full of wildflower stems.

Amara laughed, “even Batman has to rest!”

Y/N had just opened her mouth to call him over again—

Then the shot rang out.

Loud. Sharp. Final.

Jordie jerked mid-step like a puppet’s string had been cut. The flowers fell from his hands. He staggered, blinked, looked confused for half a second— and collapsed.

“JOEL!” Y/N screamed. She was running before Joel could grab her. Sprinting, stumbling, falling to her knees beside her son, splitting them open on the asphalt.

Joel whipped around, rifle up, eyes wild. “Get down!” he barked to the girls. “Both of you— stay down!” His hands trembled as he loaded a round.

Jordie lay in the dirt, a bloom of red spreading across his shirt. He was clutching his side, mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out.

“No. No—no, no, no—” hands already on him, pressing, shaking, trying to stop the blood. “Baby, stay with me. Stay with me.”

Joel was behind her in seconds, voice thick. “Let me see— let me see—”

The blood kept coming.

Jordie blinked up at them with glassy eyes. “Mama…”

His voice was small. His hand curled into hers.

“I got you, I got you,” Y/N said, trying to hold him together, trying to stop the bleeding with her bare hands. “You’re okay, baby, stay awake, I’ve learned this, I’ll fix you, just stay with me—!”

Joel took his hand, clutching it tightly. “Hey, buddy, it’s okay. Daddy’s right here. You’re so strong. You’re the bravest kid I know.”

She ripped off his top, assisting his injury, “It’s high. I think it hit the lung— he’s spitting blood— shit—Jordie, baby, look at daddy!”

She tore her backpack open, yanking out the pressure bandages, the tape, the gauze. Blood was everywhere. On her hands, her thighs, in her hair. Joel was pressing around the wound with his free hand, trying to slow the bleeding. He looked up at her, desperation in his eyes.

“Can you do it?”

“I don’t know!” she cried, voice breaking.

She tried anyway.

She stuffed gauze into the hole, tried to seal it off. Jordie screamed— an awful, wet noise that shattered something deep inside Joel.

Y/N wrapped the bandage tightly, so tight she worried she might crush him— but there was so much blood. It wouldn’t stop. Jordie started shaking, little fingers curling against the earth.

“I’m cold,” Jordie whispered. “Mommy… I’m really cold.”

“No, no, no,” Y/N breathed, “Not yet. Not now.”

His voice was barely a whisper. “Hurts…”

Y/N leaned close, pressing her forehead to his, both of them trembling. “I know, baby. I know. Just breathe with me, okay? One breath at a time.”

He tried.

God, he tried so hard.

Joel was crying now— silently, fiercely. He couldn’t stop the bleeding. He couldn’t take the bullet out. All he could do was hold his son’s hand as it grew colder.

“Mama?” Jordie whimpered.

Y/N pressed a kiss to his temple. “Yeah, I’m right here.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.”

“Love Sarah… ‘Mara…”

“They love you, too. We all love you so much, buddy,” Joel said, clutching him.

“I don’t want to go away.”

Y/N felt her heart break even further. “You won’t, sweetheart, you’re gonna be okay.”

“Will you sing it…?” he whispered. “The cowboy song…”

Joel’s voice caught.

Y/N froze.

Joel’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Please?” Jordie asked again, smaller this time.

Joel looked at Y/N, eyes full of devastation.

She nodded, tears pouring silently down her cheeks. “He wants you to.”

Joel bent low, forehead touching his son’s. And then— through the trembling in his throat, the burning in his chest, the splintering crack in his heart— he sang.

“Goodnight, you moonlight sleeper…

Rockabye, sweet baby boy…”

His voice was uneven. Frayed. But Jordie smiled.

“Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose,

Won’t you let me go down in my dreams…”

Jordie’s eyes started to close.

Joel’s voice broke, but he forced the last line out anyway.

“And rockabye… sweet baby Jordie...”

“Sing it again?” Jordie murmured.

But by the time Joel opened his mouth to try, Jordie was gone.

His chest went still beneath Y/N’s hand.

His fingers loosened in Joel’s grip.

And just like that— their boy, their wild and brave and silly boy— wasn’t there anymore.

The only thing left was the song, still hanging in the air, unfinished.

And Joel’s voice, cracked open in the middle of it.

Y/N was sobbing, her hands shaking uncontrollably. The gauze was soaked. The bleeding hadn’t stopped. She had done everything right, everything the FEDRA med training taught her in the QZ. It hadn’t mattered.

She begged. Pleaded. Cried into his shirt like if she held him close enough, she could force life back into him.

Joel sobbed silently beside her, one hand pressed over his mouth. His boy. Their boy. He pulled her back, holding her even as she screamed. Her body shook so hard she couldn’t see straight.

Sarah was crying behind them. Amara’s face was frozen, unreadable, eyes full of tears that wouldn’t drop.

Joel lowered his head to Jordie’s chest. The air was still. Cold. Silent.

That night, they buried him under an old oak with his wildflowers tucked into the dirt. Amara placed the drawing he’d made the week before— a stick figure version of their family, Joel with his guitar, Y/N with flowers in her hair, and Jordie with a dog they never got.

Joel dug the grave. Hands torn open, knuckles raw. Y/N sat with Jordie’s body the whole time, her voice long gone, her tears dried to salt. She didn’t let go of his shirt until the last second. She kissed his cheek.

Amara didn’t speak for three days.

Sarah never went near a city again without shaking.

And Joel— Joel never sang in front of anyone after that.

Not until the night Y/N heard him on the porch, whispering:

Rockabye, sweet baby Jordie.

Taglist: @issieruby @staley83 @princess76179

[pittsick]

hii !!! can i request like a city boy rafe x cowgirl reader? like maybe he got lost and his car broke down or something but he's being stubborn about getting help

── LOST BOY.

summary: texas. the sun’s too fucking hot and rafe was only here because of his father. something about papers about tannyhill. he had no idea. but what he knows is the fact that he’s fucking lost and too proud to ask for help when you find him.

pairing: rafe cameron x cowgirl!reader.

taglist: @imperishablereverie, @userhotd, @lvve-talks, @prismozo, @bluestrd, @shahabaqsa0310, @222col, @yardofbrunettes, @lexiiscorect, @nonbeliever1, @hrtfilm, @peachyparkerr, @tinythebunni, @cestdommage (join here)

The road was too damn long and too damn hot.

It twisted out behind Rafe in endless miles of nothing—just sun-baked asphalt, yellow grass swaying in the kind of breeze that didn’t cool so much as stir the heat around. His hands were filthy from the busted engine, fingers stained with oil and sweat, and the white button-up he wore—pressed and clean this morning—was now crumpled and clinging to his skin.

The car had died half an hour ago. Some rental with cheap tires and a weaker engine, not built for backroads or Texas heat. He’d popped the hood, looked inside like he knew what he was doing, and had stared at the mess of metal and belts like it might fix itself if he stared hard enough.

It didn’t.

There was no cell service. No gas stations. No air conditioning. And most of all—no one around.

Until the truck.

He heard it before he saw it—a deep, rumbling engine, steady and slow, like someone not in a hurry. Then it appeared through the shimmer of heat: a faded red pickup, tall on its tires, dust clinging to every inch of it. The kind of truck that’d been through storms and brushfires and long drives with nothing but country radio.

And behind the wheel—her.

The door swung open with a creak and a thud as her boots hit the dirt. Worn leather, scuffed to hell. Her flannel sleeves were rolled to her elbows, revealing her skin and rope-burn scars. She wore cutoff jeans, a low-brimmed hat that shaded her eyes, and the kind of stillness that came from knowing you didn’t owe anybody a damn thing.

“You alright?” she asked, voice low and slow like molasses.

“I’m fine,” Rafe said, too fast. Too defensive. She tilted her head, one hand resting on her hip. “You don’t look fine.”

“I don’t need help,” he snapped.

Her brows lifted. “Didn’t say you did.”

There was something about her that knocked the words out of his mouth. The way she stood—calm, solid, like she belonged to this place. She was the kind of woman the dirt trusted, the kind of woman who could break a man’s jaw and not spill her beer doing it.

He looked back at the engine.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You thought you’d take a shortcut. GPS dropped out. Now you’re stuck and sweating through a shirt that probably cost more than my saddle.”

Rafe turned toward her, ready to argue, but paused. Her eyes were shining under the shadow of her hat—amused, but not mocking. She was reading him like an open book. “Something like that,” he muttered.

She stepped forward, slow, boots crunching gravel, and peeked under the hood like she gave a damn. “She’s cooked. Radiator’s shot. You’ll need a tow, unless you’ve got a miracle in your glovebox.”

Rafe didn’t answer. He hated this—being stuck, being helpless, being watched. He hated her seeing him like this.

“You gonna keep standin’ there like a proud little rooster,” she said finally, “or are you gonna let me give you a ride before you melt?”

He exhaled. Looked at the truck, then at her. “You always stop for strangers?”

Her lips curled. “Only the pretty ones.”

The inside of her truck smelled like cedarwood, worn leather, and the faint sweetness of cherry chapstick. The AC worked—barely—but it was better than nothing. Rafe sat stiff in the passenger seat, knees brushing the dash, trying not to look like he didn’t belong.

She drove one-handed, lazy and confident, like the road bent for her. Her hat sat on the dash now, tossed without care. Her hands on the wheel looked like they’d rebuilt fences, not just fixed flat tires. “You from Dallas?” she asked, glancing over.

Rafe blinked. “Outer Banks.”

She nodded like she’d heard of it, even if she hadn’t. “Figures. You talk like a man who never had to pump his own gas.”

“I know how to pump gas,” he muttered.

“Sure you do, sweetheart.”

The word hit his spine. Sweetheart. He wasn’t used to women like her. Women who didn’t care who he was, who didn’t ask about his last name or his money or his father. She didn’t offer him anything and didn’t need anything from him, either. She wasn’t impressed, and that threw him off more than anything.

“What do you do?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Work with horses. Fix what breaks. Ride when I can. Sleep when I’m tired.”

“Sounds simple.”

She laughed. “That’s ‘cause it is. City boys always think everything has to be complicated to matter.” He looked out the window, unsure whether to be insulted or impressed.

The truck bounced over a dip in the road, and his hand caught the side of the seat to steady himself. She didn’t even flinch. “You’re not used to dirt roads, huh?” she teased.

“I’m used to… roads with lines.”

She snorted. “You’re lucky I picked you up. This stretch goes on for forty miles with nothin’ but buzzards and busted radio signals.”

He didn’t say thank you. Not because he wasn’t grateful—but because he didn’t know how to be. Not without sounding like some lost little rich kid out of place in the world.

But she seemed to understand. She didn’t push, didn’t pry. She just turned the radio up and tapped the wheel in rhythm with the song—some old outlaw country tune, rough around the edges, like her.

They stopped at a diner on the edge of a ghost town—one of those places with cracked vinyl booths and pie that tasted like memory. She parked out front and turned the engine off. “Come on,” she said. “You look like you need a burger and a gallon of sweet tea.”

He followed her inside, the door creaking behind them. The waitress greeted her by name and slid her a menu without asking. Rafe got a nod and a raised brow.

They sat across from each other. She peeled the label off her iced tea glass bottle while he scanned the menu like he was decoding it. “You ever had chicken-fried steak?” she asked.

“I… don’t think so.”

She grinned. “You’re in for it, then.”

They talked while they waited—just a little. She told him about growing up on land so flat you could see your future in the horizon. About bar fights she didn’t start but sure as hell finished. About mornings that started before the sun and nights that ended when the coyotes stopped howling.

Rafe listened, silent, caught between admiration and disbelief. She was something else—tough, funny, quiet in a way that made you want to fill in the blanks.

“I think I was supposed to meet some lawyer in town,” he said eventually. “Something about land. My dad sent me.” Her brow arched. “You don’t even know why you’re here?”

“I don’t ask questions anymore.” She studied him for a second, then nodded. “That’s sad.”

He looked up. “What is?”

“Living a life where you stop askin’.” And he didn’t have an answer for that.

She dropped him off at a little roadside motel just before sunset. He stepped out, unsure what to say, still tasting cherry from her lip balm even though he hadn’t touched her. “You gonna be alright?” she asked, leaning one arm on the window, her hat back on.

“Guess I have to be.”

“You ever break down again, try asking for help sooner,” she said. “Your pride don’t do well in a heatwave.” He smirked. “And what about yours?”

She grinned, full teeth this time. “Mine learned when to bend.”

He hesitated. Then: “Can I see you again?” She tapped the wheel. Thought about it. “Maybe. If you ever stop drivin’ in circles.” Then she pulled away, truck disappearing into the sunlit dust, her silhouette sharp in the rearview.

And Rafe stood there—sweaty, tired, lips parted with things unsaid—already wishing he’d asked her name.

[luciemggio]

Before They Screamed Your Name

Pairing: Austin Butler! Elvis Presley x f’reader

Setting: Los Angeles, NBC Studios, June 5th, 1956

Summary: Elvis: 21 years old, on the verge of stardom, still tender, still humble. You: visiting from Tennessee, caught in a moment that feels impossible.

Warnings: slight mention of smut

The air backstage at NBC smelled like sweat and ozone, still buzzing from the energy that crackled through the studio moments ago.

You hadn’t planned on coming to California.

It was Mary Lou’s idea — your loud, fast-talking cousin who worked as a typist for the studio. You were only in town for a week, meant to help her pack before she moved back to Memphis. But she pulled you out of the house with a red lipstick grin and a fluttered, “C’mon, they’re filming some Southern boy who just made girls faint on TV.”

You stood in the hallway near the soundstage, watching the chaos after the taping. Men in suits paced with clipboards. Makeup girls rushed with towels. Someone shouted about phones lighting up downstairs. Your palms were sticky. You weren’t used to this kind of heat.

And then—

He walked out.

Tall. Sweating through a navy shirt that stuck to his chest. His mouth slightly parted, breathing hard like he’d just run a mile. The spotlight still clung to his skin. His dark hair curled at the ends like it was trying to escape its pomade.

And when his eyes met yours — clear blue, sharp like lightning and just as dangerous — something in your stomach dropped clean through the floor.

He was so young.

And already burning.

“You ain’t press, are you?”

You blinked.

Elvis stood in front of you now, brow raised, thumb hooked in his belt, voice honeyed and curious.

“Sorry?”

He pointed at the sketchpad in your hands. “Saw you drawin’ backstage. You with the newspaper?”

You clutched it to your chest, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Oh, no. It’s just… habit. I draw when I’m nervous.”

His grin curved slow. “You nervous around me?”

You blinked again. “No. I mean—well—not because of you.”

He laughed, soft and genuine. “That’s a first. Girls usually scream when I walk into a room.”

You gave a small smile. “I guess I’m not like most girls.”

He stepped closer. “You got a name, not-like-most-girls?”

“Y/N.”

He said it once — quietly — then again, slower. Like he was memorizing it in his mouth.

“Pretty,” he said. “Real pretty.”

Later that evening, you found yourself sitting beside him on the edge of a low brick wall behind the studio, under a flickering streetlamp.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, damp with sweat. He’d rolled up his sleeves and kicked off his shoes. He looked human now. Not a god. Not a scandal. Just a boy with restless hands and a voice that wouldn’t leave your head.

“I swear, they think I’m gonna light their TVs on fire,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “One twist of my hip and the country goes nuts.”

You snorted. “Well. You were kind of… suggestive.”

He looked over at you, feigning shock. “Suggestive? I was singin’ about a hound dog!”

“You were grinding on a mic stand.”

He laughed, shoulders shaking. “Hell. You sound like my mama.”

You tilted your head. “She must be smart.”

“Oh, she’s the smartest woman I know. Woulda whipped me if she saw what I just did on national television.”

You paused, watching the way he picked at the fabric of his cuff.

“What made you do it?” you asked quietly.

He looked up. “Do what?”

“Move like that. Take the risk.”

His voice was low. “Felt like I had to. Like I had too much in me to stand still.”

You nodded. “I get that.”

He studied you for a moment, eyes soft. “Yeah. I think you do.”

“Come on. Let’s go somewhere,” he said suddenly, jumping up and offering you his hand.

“Where?”

He smiled wide. “Anywhere we can see stars.”

He borrowed a Chevy from a stagehand, promising to bring it back with a full tank. The two of you drove north into the hills above Hollywood, past the palm trees and glittering city lights. The windows were down. The radio played Little Darlin’ and his fingers tapped the wheel with nervous rhythm.

He glanced sideways at you.

“You ever kiss a boy on a hilltop, Y/N?”

You looked out at the endless sky. “I’m not sure I’ve kissed any boy worth remembering.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “Would you remember me?”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw past the glitter and rebellion.

“I think I’d remember you even if I tried to forget.”

He pulled the car over under a grove of eucalyptus trees. The cicadas sang in the silence. And then, slowly, he reached across the seat, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“May I?”

You didn’t answer with words.

You leaned in.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t a wild kiss. It wasn’t rushed. It was young and hopeful and full of all the things neither of you knew how to say. His lips were soft and a little unsure, and he held your jaw like he was afraid you’d vanish.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want this night to end,” he whispered.

“Then don’t let it.”

You sat on the hood of the Chevy until almost dawn, your legs draped across his lap, his hands resting on your thighs.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” he said quietly. “Everyone’s talkin’. The Colonel wants more shows. RCA wants a full album. My daddy’s just glad we paid the bills.”

“What do you want, Elvis?”

He was silent for a moment.

Then: “Somethin’ that feels real. All this… this noise? It’s like sugar water. Goes down sweet but leaves nothin’ behind.”

You traced the vein in his forearm. “So find something solid. Someone solid.”

He looked down at your hand on his.

“I think I just did.”

But mornings always came.

You had to leave. You’d promised your mama you’d be back in Tennessee by the weekend. You stood beside the train platform with a bag in your hand and too much in your heart.

He cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing your cheeks like he wanted to memorize them.

“I ain’t never met anyone like you, Y/N.”

“Don’t forget me, Elvis.”

He smiled sadly. “I don’t think I could if I tried.”

And then he kissed you — once, long, deep — the kind of kiss you only get once in a lifetime.

He pressed a folded piece of paper into your palm.

“If you ever find your way back out here… come find me.”

—E

Five Years Later

Las Vegas, 1961 — Backstage at the International Hotel

You used to draft letters to him.

After that summer night in 1956 — when he kissed you like he was afraid of the future — you wrote and rewrote words on yellowed paper.

Dear Elvis,

I still hear your voice in the quiet.

Dear Elvis,

They play your songs on the radio now.

Dear Elvis,

I wonder if you remember the girl on the hill.

You never sent them.

He went to the Army in ’58. And the distance between you stretched like a slow heartbreak. You moved to Chicago, worked at a record store. You tried dating. You tried forgetting.

But no one had his voice.

No one looked at you like you were a song he’d never finish.

And five years later, on a humid June night, your friend Emma handed you two tickets to a private show in Vegas.

“He’s back,” she whispered, knowing exactly who he meant.

“You should see him.”

You told yourself it was curiosity.

It was closure.

But the truth was — it was hope.

He walked out in a navy suit, crisp and glittering under the lights.

You forgot how to breathe.

He was older now — more polished, more poised. He moved differently, with the grace of someone used to being watched.

But his smile?

That still hit like a punch to the ribs.

He sang “Can’t Help Falling in Love” and your throat closed. You wanted to leave. You wanted to run.

But then, just before the last verse, his eyes flicked to the crowd. And landed on you.

And he froze.

Only for a second.

But you saw it. The way his mouth parted. The tremble in his fingers. The ghost of your name behind his lips.

He finished the song with a hollowed sort of warmth — like he was suddenly somewhere else. Somewhere green. Somewhere quiet.

Somewhere five years ago.

You tried to leave after the encore.

But a man in a suit intercepted you by the hallway.

“Miss? Mr. Presley would like to see you.”

You blinked. “I think you have the wrong—”

“No, ma’am. He saw you.”

He led you past the velvet ropes, past wide-eyed girls and reporters, down a corridor heavy with cologne and electricity.

When the door opened, he was sitting in a chair, one hand gripping a glass of whiskey, the other rubbing his temple.

He stood the second he saw you.

“Y/N,” he breathed.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t trust your voice.

He took two steps toward you. “Is it… is it really you?”

You nodded, mouth dry. “Hi, Elvis.”

He laughed — not loud, but sharp and breathless, like it hurt.

“Five damn years.”

You swallowed. “You look… different.”

He glanced at himself. “More sequins.”

You smiled, despite the ache. “More… something.”

As you walked in his trailer, the room felt full of ghosts.

You walked in slowly. Looked around.

Guitars. Flowers. A mirror smudged with fingerprints. A dressing table with a Polaroid of his mama.

He noticed your stare.

“Still talk to her,” he said quietly. “When it’s real quiet.”

You nodded. “I talk to you. In letters. I just never mailed them.”

He looked like you’d slapped him.

“You wrote to me?”

“Sometimes,” you said. “When I missed you. Or when I was mad.”

He took a shaky breath. “I tried, Y/N. I wanted to call. But it was always… the timing was wrong. Or I was scared. Of what you’d say. Of hearing you say you didn’t wait.”

“I didn’t,” you said honestly. “Not really. I dated. I tried. But…”

You looked at him.

He was watching you like you were a memory he wasn’t sure was real.

“But no one ever touched me the way you did. Not even close.”

He closed his eyes. “God. You have no idea what that means.”

You sat down on the worn couch. He followed.

There was a long pause. Not uncomfortable — just heavy.

Then:

“Do you remember that night?” you asked. “In the field. You told me not to forget you.”

He nodded slowly. “I lied.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I told you not to forget me. But truth is, I knew I’d never forget you. You were my first good thing. The first thing that felt real.”

You stared at him. “So why didn’t you write?”

He looked at you with grief carved into every line of his face.

“Because I didn’t know how to be half a man in front of you.”

You reached for his hand.

And he let you.

It was warm. Calloused. Familiar.

Like five years had only been five minutes.

You stood up.

He did too.

The room felt too small. The air too thick.

And then — with no words, no prelude — he kissed you.

Slow.

Devastated.

Grateful.

Like someone trying to memorize a feeling before it slips away again.

When he pulled back, his voice broke.

“You still taste like summer.”

You smiled with tears in your eyes. “You still kiss like a promise.”

He held your hand in both of his, pressing his forehead to it.

“Come back with me,” he said softly. “Just for tonight. I don’t know what happens tomorrow, or if this life makes sense anymore. But right now, I need you.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

The icon. The heartthrob. The boy who played you a love song in the dark.

And the man who still, five years later, knew you.

“I’m not the same girl you kissed on that hill,” you whispered.

He leaned in.

“No. You’re more. And I’ve been waitin’ for you to walk through that door since the day I let you go.”

The desert outside Vegas was still warm even after dark. Lights from the Strip flickered in the rearview mirror like a thousand voices trying to pull him back.

But he wasn’t listening.

Elvis drove with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped gently around your fingers, resting on the bench seat between you. His thumb stroked the top of your hand absently, like he couldn’t believe you were real and needed to keep reminding himself.

The windows were down.

The night air smelled like dust and gasoline and something distant you couldn’t name. You didn’t talk much. You didn’t have to.

But you did glance over at him when he tapped the steering wheel to a song humming softly from the radio — not one of his. Someone else’s voice for once.

He caught your look.

“What?” he said with a smirk.

You smiled. “Just… it’s strange. You, out here. No screaming fans. No spotlight.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I like the silence better.”

“Even now?”

He looked out at the road ahead. “Especially now.”

He didn’t take you back to a hotel with crystal chandeliers and floor-length mirrors.

He took you to a dusty little roadside motel an hour outside the city — tucked between two hills, lit only by a flickering neon VACANCY sign.

It was quiet.

Safe.

You stood in the doorway while he fumbled with the key. His hair was slightly mussed. The tip of his tongue pressed to his upper lip while he jiggled the lock.

You chuckled softly. “Still can’t open a door without drama?”

He grinned. “Hey, I ain’t used to real keys anymore.”

The door finally clicked open, and he stepped aside with a sweeping bow. “After you, darlin’.”

You walked in.

The room smelled faintly of desert air and motel soap. There was a double bed with a floral bedspread, a chipped nightstand, and a buzzing wall light.

Elvis closed the door behind you and leaned against it for a moment, just looking at you.

You turned to face him, unsure where to stand, what to say.

He crossed the room in three slow steps and gently reached for your face, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“I’ve thought about this moment,” he said softly. “Too many times to count.”

“And?” you whispered.

His thumb rested just under your cheekbone. “It’s better than every version I imagined.”

You sat on the edge of the bed.

He knelt in front of you, his hands on your knees. The leather of his stage suit creaked slightly when he moved, but his eyes never left yours.

“Why didn’t we make this work the first time?” you asked.

He sighed. “’Cause I was a fool. And the world moved too fast.”

You reached down, your fingers curling around his.

“Are you still running?”

He looked at you for a long time.

Then he stood slowly and began unfastening his jacket.

“Not tonight.”

He shed the glitter and glamour like he was stepping out of a costume — leaving behind Elvis Presley, The King. What was left was just him.

Vulnerable. Bare. Yours.

When he lay down beside you, it wasn’t rushed.

He took his time, like he was learning the shape of you all over again. His hands were warm as they traced the slope of your back, the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw.

He whispered your name like a secret, over and over again, between the kisses.

It wasn’t about sex — not really. It was about presence. About five years of silence collapsing between you with every breath, every touch, every sigh that left his mouth against your skin.

He held your face in both hands after, forehead to forehead, voice barely a breath:

“I didn’t know what I was missing… until I had it again.”

The sun had barely begun to rise when you woke.

The room was bathed in soft amber light. Elvis was still asleep beside you, one arm thrown across your waist, lashes casting long shadows across his cheeks.

You traced the edge of his shoulder with your fingertip. Memorizing him.

He stirred.

“Mm…” He blinked slowly. “You still here?”

You smiled. “Still here.”

He let out a relieved little breath and buried his face against your shoulder.

“Was scared I dreamt it,” he murmured. “Or scared you’d disappear again.”

You pulled his hand to your chest, resting it over your heart.

“I’m here.”

“For how long?” he asked — soft, but serious.

You looked at him.

And then, with a breath you’d been holding for five years, you answered:

“As long as you don’t ask me to disappear.”

He drove you back to Vegas just after breakfast.

Neither of you spoke much.

Your fingers were laced on the seat between you, and every now and then, he’d lift your hand to his lips without a word.

When you reached the city limits, you turned to him.

“What now?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And for once, he didn’t give you a charming line or a dreamy promise.

He gave you something real.

“I want to try. I don’t know how this works — with the tours, the cameras, the damn pressure — but I know I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I let you go again.”

You studied him.

And finally — you nodded.

“Okay.”

A slow smile crept across his face. One that started in his eyes and bloomed like sunrise.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He exhaled. “Then come with me.”

You leaned in. “To Hollywood?”

He grinned. “To wherever they’ll let me keep you.”

[vibratingskull]

I adore Thrawn. I've read all about him, and I especially liked both of the new trilogies. I'm very attracted to his problem... detachment, some kind of eternal longing and sadness, loneliness. Even hopelessness or lack of life prospects. Why is he like this? You remember how he is described in the Ascendancy Trilogy - quiet, humble, shy... Practically ignorant of social interactions. And what does he say about himself? His words about Ascendancy - "It is my home, the only home I only know" - give me the feeling that he did not feel at home in his biological family, or in any family either... The whole state as a home is not a home... His words about himself are generally painful - "My job - the sole reason for my existence - is to defend the Chiss Ascendancy and protect my people". The only reason for existence? Well, what is it? Didn't anyone need him? He sees himself as a weapon, as a tool. For some reason, it seems to me that Thrawn was not loved by his parents, that he had no friends, or even worse, he could have been bullied... Only his sister was an outlet for him, he remembered her all his life, even though he lost her at the age of three... How sad it gets for Thrawn when you think about it like that... I feel so sorry for Thrawn… Sorry for the emotions, I just wanted to share…

Man... Thrawn is self-sacrifice personified, like the man needs a plaid wrapped around him, a warm soup, and a big kiss on the cheek.

I do not think he was not loved by his bio parents? We know literally nothing about them, but Thrawn shares nothing about his personal life except under certain circumstances (like it takes him to be blocked in a container with someone for +24h to open up)

But Thrawn is heavily autistic coded so maybe the way he expresses love and whished love to be expresse to him was different than what he received at home. I do not think his parents did not love him, but maybe they were unprepared to emotionaly take care of an autistic child and it defintely left a mark.

His sister was close to his young age and more malleable at this stage so she must have understood how to take care of her baby brother and they grew very attached to each other ( which is dramatic considering the outcome of the final ascendancy book)

So his autism coupled with the early loss of his dear sister must have been a traumatic experience for young Thrawn and he litteraly carries this cross for the entirety of his life from then on.

You notice how everyone he ever loved get systematically remove from his life ? Parents? Out of the picture early. Sister? Abducted by the Gov. Brother? Gets killed by ""his"" fault. Bestie Lani? He get exiled, see her once in ten years and get exiled a second time even farther. Thalias? Samakro? Baby Che'ri? Never heard of them for decades

Like thats a curse at some point. The man can't form a single joyful relationship without it being ripped away from his hands cruelly. No wonder he dedicates himself to the entirety of the Chiss and not single close indiciduals, what are the odd of the entirety of the Chiss getting wipped out and leaving him all alone for ever? If he does that, soemone will always need him, he will always be useful to someone, he will always have a home to return to.

WELL GUESS WHAT?!

That goes to shit too

The very last time he sees Lani its for her to say "Everything sucks at the Ascendancy, we are on the verge of civil war, we are surrounded by ennemies, if you dont come home now, you'll never see your people ever again."

He doesn't follow her back

AND GETS EXILED ONCE MORE TO ANOTHER GALAXY

He extended his definition of family to englobe every single member of his species AND EVEN THAT GETS TAKEN FROM HIM

He cant catch a single break, he keeps collecting Ls.

Now i never considered the hypothesis of bullying but it is strangelly fitting, poor social cues and autism, mutism and extreme interest for very, very specific topics? Recipe for a disaster in his early years. Now strangely i think he already had his shields up back then and as a tall lad, i dont think it ever degraded into physical violence territory, but mental pressure and forms of isolation.

And we all know he wont bother others for """just that"""" (smh 🙄)

So i dont think he ever considered this problem like serious enough ( in his opinion) so he did not care that much but he DEFINITELY got the message "we don't want you around" and... Yeah, that hurts no matter who you are, no matter how strong you are.

Thrawn personnal life is. A. Mess.

And that is tragic.

But despite all that, everything that happened, everything that he went through and lost, he still chooses to nurture hope.

And that's some fucking resilience if I ever saw some!

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[astranauticus]

Director of the False Last Act

[nabaath-areng]

It's kinda funny looking back on old screenshots and edits I made 3-5 years ago because in a way they have changed a LOT yet at the same time also not all although the fact that my old computer could barely handle having FFXIV installed is kinda evident in hindsight lol

[massive-ass-bird]

You have got to learn about the mundane wildlife in your area. The world becomes so much bigger and more exciting when you do. Start looking at the birds that show up in the backyard. Look up "backyard bird *my area*" and find out what they're called. If you live in the city, start looking at the pigeons and seeing how many different color morphs you can pick out. Look at the tops of buildings and see what kind of raptors are looking for a mouse to scuttle by at the right time. Look a little closer at the corner spider in your bathroom and try to identify it. Find out what type of trees you pass on your daily walk. Look at the patch of flowers you normally ignore. What kind of flowers are they? What's pollinating them? Are there squirrels in your region? How many different colors can you find them in? It almost becomes a game. You'll start looking for these things when you go out. You'll get excited when you see the rare black squirrel with the orange tail. You'll spy a bright yellow bird and go oh that's my friend goldfinch! One day you'll look at a patch of dandelions and want to squeal when you see an iridescent blue bee. You'll get to smugly correct your friends when they point out a "red headed woodpecker" and you get to say no, actually that's a red breasted woodpecker, you know because it's got the faintest blush of red on its breast and here let me show you an actual red headed woodpecker and- yeah yeah that's why that one gets to be the red head. No I don't know why they went with red breasted and not red capped, I didn't name the damn thing.

The world just gets a little more exciting when you learn about the little plants and animals that live right beside you. You'll see ants crawl in and out of flowers and think wow that must be so cozy. You'll watch the winter birds migrate in and kick snow out of the way to get to fallen seeds and watch the year round birds learn and repeat the behavior. You have to learn about and appreciate the little things, I promise, it's so worth it.

[mizzyislost]

fuckin. cowboy?? themed session??? when?? i dont even know anymore

very heavily inspired by this awesome piece by chamy-melo!! definitely go give it some love would not have made this. without it.

much better version in case you didnt want to look at the freaks and instead appreciate. the wonderful cowboy crew. so sad they got stuck next to those disgusting weirdos

also complete with head in hands i drew while making this. sums up my process pretty well

[cuttledreams-bugs]

me trying to hype myself up to posting online again despite The Horror

[bmpmp3]

post ankle-twisting clarity