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sweetlemontart · 4 months

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nocturnal | choi seungcheol [M]

summary ⇾ tipsy from after-work drinks, seungcheol returns home on friday night to find you asleep. he tries not to look, but his wandering eyes keep drifting over to your slumbering figure, and he knows rest won’t come easy when you seem to be tempting him even in your sleep. seungcheol could resolve his little predicament all by himself, but shouldn’t you be the one to take responsibility for making him feel this way?

PAIRING // choi seungcheol x fem!reader

GENRE // some fluff, mostly smut, pwp (i mean it, I'm warning u), sub!reader, dom!seungcheol, fiancé!seungcheol

WARNING // 18+, explicit sexual content, established relationship, unprotected sex, somnophilia, consensual voyeurism, male masturbation, slight size kink, oral (m&f receiving), creampie, fingering (f receiving), edging, choking, thigh riding, talks about having kids, cheol is a teasing little sh*t

WORD COUNT // 13k

AUTHOR’S NOTE // 13k of just smut lol btw have yall seen GDA cheol? the all black fit and rolled up sleeves and the dark hair... moving on, happy new year to everyone who reads this, may 2024 bring us endless happiness and love ( ˊᵕˋ )♡.°⑅ do reblog if u enjoy this fic. I'm working on a wonwoo fic that has ten times more plot than this so pls stay tuned for that :) song rec is rock your body - clara la san

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You're already in bed when your fiancé returns home from work, drifting in and out of sleep, wanting to wait for him to come home but unable to fight your weariness. Friday is always the busiest day at work, and the idea of being able to stay in bed until noon the next day only makes you want to wait up for him even more.

Seungcheol must think you're already asleep. It's reasonable that he thinks that way—you're a light sleeper and often go to bed early. He tries his best to stay quiet as he moves around. You had barely heard him enter the apartment, and only faint thuds of his sock-clad feet can be heard as he meanders around the house.

When Seungcheol enters the bedroom, he's a little sceptical as to why the bedside lamp is still on, casting a dim, yellow glow across the room. His eyes search for you, finding you cocooned under the covers, lying on your left side with your back turned to him. He knows you can't sleep with any light on, but he deduces you must've been waiting for him and inevitably succumbed to sleep.

Seungcheol moves toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom. He's slightly tipsy from downing a few beers with his co-workers after work. He feels light on his feet, and his once-gelled hair is no longer slicked back, some unruly strands now falling over his forehead. He hears you shift on the bed as he loosens his tie, but he doesn't think much of it, proceeding to unbutton his dress shirt.

Two buttons in, he hears movement from the bed again, and this time, he looks in your direction in the mirror, taken aback when his eyes meet your bleary ones. He turns his head to look at you, his mouth curling into a lazy smile. "I thought you were asleep," he says in a low voice.

You say nothing, propping your elbow up on your pillow and leaning your head against it to get a better look at your fiancé. He turns back to the mirror, and you notice the rosy tint colouring his cheeks. You sigh dreamily, admiring him from the bed. Seungcheol is tall—that much is obvious—but those dress pants do his legs wonder.

When he reaches for his belt, you can't help but stare. His dress shirt is still tucked into the pants, the first few buttons open, baring the soft skin of his chest. Your eyes wander, and you think Seungcheol does notice. The man does not miss a thing when it comes to you.

The sound of his belt unbuckling makes your legs curl closer to your body, and Seungcheol definitely notices this time because he stops his movement, fingers hovering over the button of his pants. When he turns on his heels, your eyes finally snap back up to look at his face. He doesn't say anything as he approaches, coming to a stop beside the bed, towering over you.

He reaches one hand out to caress your cheek with the back of his fingers. It's a feathery touch, and your eyes naturally flutter close, head tilting into his touch just the slightest. Gentle fingers thread into your hair, brushing it back and tucking loose strands behind your ear.

Your eyes snap open when you feel his thumb against your bottom lip. At first, it's harmless, and he's only dragging the pad of his thumb across your lip, but then he starts to dip further into your mouth. He lets out a soft sigh when your lips part, allowing his thumb to rest against your tongue. Then, your mouth wraps around his finger, suckling at it softly, and his breath catches in his throat when he feels just how warm and wet your mouth is.

It's over before you want it to be. Seungcheol smiles a little too innocently, removing his thumb from your mouth and patting your cheek. "Get some rest, baby. I'm going to take a quick shower."

You don't stop him as he walks into the en suite bathroom, surprised that he hadn't immediately taken his clothes off and taken you right then and there. Seungcheol's self-control has always been immaculate when it comes to sex, but refusing to do it on a Friday night when neither he nor you have work tomorrow morning? You chalk it up to his exhaustion after working overtime, so you lie back in bed, eyes refusing to close even though your body is screaming at you to rest.

Seungcheol emerges from the bathroom not even a minute later, shirtless, belt discarded, pants unbuttoned. He takes off his silver Rolex, carefully setting it down on the bedside table near his side of the bed—as always. To your disappointment, he doesn't spare you even a glance before walking back into the bathroom.

You find yourself sighing, anticipating what seems to be an uneventful Friday night. You and Seungcheol usually spend Friday nights together— going out for dinner or unwinding with a movie on the couch. But if your lover is too tired to do anything other than sleep, you understand. You also have days when you feel too drained to do anything other than lie in bed and mull over your thoughts. Besides, it isn't like you don't have the entire weekend to make up for it—hell, you have your whole life to make up for it.

Seungcheol leaves the bathroom door open behind him. It's not strange for either of you to keep the bathroom door open while showering. Privacy isn't much of an issue for both of you.

You fall back asleep relatively quickly, not thinking much about the fact that the shower hasn't started running even though Seungcheol has been in the bathroom for at least five minutes.

You awaken again soon enough to the sound of soft sighs and some rustling from the direction of the couch placed near the bedroom door. At first, you try to ignore it, thinking Seungcheol might just be getting himself ready for bed. Then another sigh follows, and you peek an eye open to take a quick look. What you think will be a quick look turns into so much more.

Your beloved fiancé sits with his legs spread on the white couch, still shirtless and wearing his dress pants. This time, however, his boxer has been pushed down just slightly, and he's lazily stroking his cock in his hand, his other arm splayed across the backrest of the couch. His skin is pale and milky, glowing in the golden light. He smiles when you prop yourself on your elbow, blinking blearily as if trying to comprehend what you are currently seeing.

He's rock hard, shaft glistening with pre-cum. You and Seungcheol have always loved trying new things in bed, pushing yourself to the limit, testing just how far each of you will go before you tap out. But this... the thought that Seungcheol was touching himself to the sight of you asleep—it stirs something in you. You've always loved waking up with Seungcheol's cock inside you. The drag of his cock feels especially good when you're still drowsy, trying to pull yourself together but failing each time because your lover just feels so good inside you. But this is different.

Seungcheol's hand speeds up, and the way he groans makes you lose your train of thought. The silver ring sits snugly on his little finger—the coolness of it must feel so good on his cock. You don't break eye contact, shifting onto your stomach and folding your arms underneath your head as you watch him. You wouldn't be able to look away even if you wanted to.

Seungcheol grits his jaw when he sees you smile. It's the last thing he expects. You look so sweet, and he starts to wonder about the sight he would be met with if he were to pull the covers away from your body. Are you wearing the sheer nightgown he always loves seeing on you? Or maybe you're wearing nothing, and he'd be able to spread your legs apart and slip himself right into the warmth of your needy cunt.

Seungcheol straightens his posture just a little, cock twitching in his hold at the sight of your smile. You look so at ease, enjoying this more than he had anticipated. He was half expecting to get an earful from you, thinking you would probably scold him for his bizarre behaviour, but this, he wasn't expecting at all, and that makes his cock harden, balls tightening almost painfully. Seungcheol feels as though he's about to burst from the inside. Your smile—as if you're taunting him, teasing him.

"Fuck, fuck..." he breathes out, head tilting back, eyes closing, savouring the feeling of his rough, calloused hand moving up and down his cock. The fact that you're most likely still watching him makes his abs tense up, trying to hold back from finishing too fast. It has barely been ten minutes since he started, but the sight of your smile feels like it's burned into the back of his eyelids. It makes his brain go haywire.

He risks another look at you and immediately realises he has made a grave mistake. Instantly, he's cumming hard, unable to hold himself back because you're looking at him so prettily—slow blinks and a sleepy smile. A loud groan rips from Seungcheol's chest, fist wrapped around the tip of his cock, stroking it just barely, trying to milk everything out. His cum trickles down his knuckles, down his shaft.

The intensity of your gaze, fixed squarely on his leaking cock, spurs Seungcheol to stand up. He rids himself off his dress pants and boxers, using the latter to wipe off most of his release before walking closer to you. Seungcheol stops on the side of the bed, stroking his softening cock almost languidly. He doesn't have to say anything, and you're already sitting up against the headboard, reaching a hand to grab at his wrist to pull him even closer. Seungcheol perches one knee on the bed, watching as you lick your lips at the sight of his cum. You're still fucking smiling, and he feels himself growing hard again.

"Enjoyed that, did we?" he says quietly, trying not to break the peace and quiet too much in case you feel like going back to sleep after his little 'show'.

"Very much," you reply, voice slightly scratchy from sleep.

Seungcheol is so thick everywhere, and it makes you dizzy. Your eyes roam over his chest, bulky arms, and firm thighs. Your lover has always been strong and filled in all the right places, and you love it. He has no problem picking you up, tossing you around, manhandling you into different positions. He doesn't struggle with keeping you steady when he's fucking you against the wall or any other surface.

You brush aside his hand from his cock, tongue lolling out to lick at the excess cum on his knuckles, cleaning it off his skin. The salty, bitter taste floods your tongue, and you immediately take him into your mouth. Seungcheol hisses when you do, loving the way your mouth envelopes him. You don't waste any time trying to take all of him in, mouth stretching almost painfully around the heavy girth that's starting to harden again, your thighs pressing together to get some friction. You must look pitiful to Seungcheol, trying to fit all of him in your mouth in your sleepy state, hips shifting slightly on the bed, trying to get some relief.

Breathing in, you look up—right into his eyes—before moving forward until the tip of your nose presses into his lower stomach. He breathes out a chuckle when you gag, throat constricting around his cock. Your eyes fill with tears, but you don't pull away until you're sputtering and the droplets of tears trickle down your cheeks. Seungcheol's quick to cup your jaw, thumb brushing against the pearling teardrops on your cheek. "Easy, baby... I know you're tired. Don't force it..."

Hearing Seungcheol's instructions, you stick to shallow motions, using your hand to stroke the rest of his length you can't fit in your mouth. Seungcheol's hip jerks forward a little when you drag your tongue along the underside of his cock, tracing the veins and circling the tip. Seungcheol mumbles an apology as he weaves a hand through your hair and starts to thrust his hips forward little by little, lost in the feeling of your mouth.

His cock glistens with your spit in the low light, and your eyes fall shut naturally, basking in the quiet noises Seungcheol is making. He doesn't force you to take all of him, pulling his hips back before the tip of his cock can reach your throat. You appreciate his sentiment, even if you feel awake enough to take whatever he gives you.

Your eyes snap open when you feel the cold air against your bare legs. Seungcheol has yanked the blanket away from your body and is now peering down at your exposed form, clad in his grey shirt and a pair of white panties. Your panties are nothing special, but Seungcheol feels his cock twitch in your mouth when he sees the wet patch on the crotch of your underwear.

He can feel the vibration of your moan against his cock when his finger grazes over the damp spot on your panties. He can't resist using the tips of his fingers to rub over your clothed pussy, teasing up and down the slit, watching the way the drenched fabric sticks to your dripping cunt—thoroughly soaked and ruined before he has even done anything to you.

When you pull away from his cock momentarily to take a much-needed breath, Seungcheol immediately leans down to capture your lips with his in a bruising kiss. He swallows all your moans, rolling his tongue over yours, dragging it against your lower lip. He doesn't pull away, even as he tugs the crotch of your panties to the side and starts to circle your clit with his fingers, which makes your legs snap shut, trapping his hand in between.

Seungcheol pulls away from the kiss, glancing down at his trapped hand before looking back at you almost expectedly. "Open," he commands. You don't need to be told twice, immediately parting your legs.

"Good girl..."

Seungcheol prods at your hole with two fingers, slipping both in only halfway. They slide in easily, slick from the wetness seeping out of your pulsing hole and the remnants of precum messily smeared all over his cock as he was jerking himself off.

"You got this wet from watching me? Or were you touching yourself before I got home?" Seungcheol grunts, gazing down at the way your pussy is fluttering around his fingers. The squelching sound is obscene, resounding throughout the bedroom. "Messy little thing..." he mumbles quietly, lost in thought as he lets his fingers dip into you right down to the knuckle.

You gasp, pulling your mouth away from his cock to look up at his face. Seungcheol doesn't meet your eyes, seemingly entranced by the sight of his fingers between your legs. Bending one of your knees, you spread your legs wider. After dating Seungcheol for two years and being engaged for one and a half, you don't feel the need to hide from him nor the embarrassment of presenting yourself to him like you're his to own and use as he pleases. In all honesty, he possesses every part of you—your heart, your soul, every inch of your body. He is yours as much as you are his.

When Seungcheol adds a third finger, he finally looks back at your face, not wanting to miss how your eyebrows furrow and mouth gape open at the tight fit. His fingers are thick—much more so than yours—but his cock is even more so, and he definitely needs to stretch you out to get you ready, or he will risk hurting you. There are occassions when a little bit of pain is most welcome, but tonight, his main objective is to give you pleasure.

With a trembling hand, you reach up to grasp at his cock, stroking him slowly, matching the pace of his fingers as they dip in and out of you. You know you won't be able to use your mouth properly, not when he's touching you so earnestly and looking down at you as though he hasn't ever seen you in such a position in your years of being together.

"You touch yourself before I came home, sweetheart?"

You're quick to shake your head, slumping further down the headboard as he continues to play with your pussy. "No..." you whimper, jolting when he suddenly curls his fingers, tips of his fingers firmly pressing up against the spongy spot inside you that sends a current of pleasure darting up your spine. "I got so wet from watching you, Cheol," you sigh out, hips canting up to match the movement of his hand. "I love watching you..."

Seungcheol hums, grinning down at you, pleased with your response. "Aw, my baby always loves watching me, isn't that right?"

His free hand envelopes the hand around his cock, urging you to keep stroking him. The ring on his middle finger glints in the light—it's the ring you gave him a week after his proposal. It serves as a reminder that no one else but him has the privilege to have you like this. No one else will ever get to touch you, kiss you, make love to you, and fuck you the way he intends to tonight. You're his, forever, and the idea has him grunting out your name breathlessly.

With his hand atop yours, he guides your hand up and down his length at a pace that makes him hiss. Your hand is much smaller than his, fingertips barely meeting around his thick girth. His skin prickles whenever you tighten your hand around him just slightly every time your hand reaches just under the head of his cock, squeezing him just the way you know he likes it.

"Fuck..." he exhales, sweat beading down his temple. "So good, sweetheart..."

"Cheol..."

"Hm? Tell me what's wrong."

You glance down at the hand between your legs, feeling short of breath from watching the way your slick seems to coat Seungcheol's fingers, some staining your thigh, some smeared on the palm of his hand. You suck in a big breath, stomach caving in. When you return your gaze to him, you're surprised to find he's already looking at you, the tip of his pink tongue peeking out to rest against his bottom lip. The way he's looking at you makes you feel sweltering hot.

"My shirt, p-please," you stutter out, feeling suffocated in only one layer of clothing.

Seungcheol immediately understands what you're asking, but he makes no move to take your shirt off. You whine when he suddenly retracts his fingers from your pussy, leaving you feeling so empty. He peels your hand off his cock, leaving you baffled and so goddamn frustrated.

"Cheol, why'd—"

He hushes you, lowering himself onto the end of the bed. He grabs both your thighs, pulling you down from the headboard. His cock nudges against the back of your thigh, so close to where you want him the most.

"Oh, God," you breathlessly pant. "Need you inside me," you tell him, feeling frenzied. You move to pull off your shirt, but he grunts, shaking his head.

"Don't," he orders, using his grip on your thighs to spread your legs wide enough for him to be able to get a good view of your sloppy cunt, all slick and puffy from the onslaught of his fingers. "I like seeing you in my shirt," he says in a faraway voice, distracted by the sight of your pussy, hole clenching around nothing, almost inviting him to dive right in.

You groan, propping yourself up onto your elbows, chest heaving. You lick at your dry lips, sending Seungcheol a pleading look, but he doesn't meet your eyes, too absorbed with the mess in between your legs. "Cheol, baby—"

Without warning, Seungcheol leans down, shoving his face into your pussy, mouth hungrily devouring your heat. You fall back onto the bed with a startled shout, jaw hanging open as you try to comprehend the sudden onslaught of pleasure that threatens to consume you whole. Seungcheol is good with his mouth and familiar enough with your body to know how to bring you close to the edge in only minutes.

He's sucking at your clit noisily, manic with his movements like a starved man getting his first taste of food after days without it. He's greedy and ravenous, offering you no respite—not even a moment to catch your breath.

You try to tell Seungcheol to slow down, to give you even a second to compose yourself, but only garbled moans of his name come out. By now, sleep is the last thing on your mind—only pleasure clouds it. You're trembling under him, helpless against the relentless assault of his mouth.

When Seungcheol groans, the vibration on your most sensitive part makes you choke on air, lowering a hand down to grab the strands of his dark hair. When you try to move away from him, he clutches onto your thighs tighter, tongue teasing at your hole, swirling but never diving in. You're still trying to get away, overwhelmed. He notices this, and he brings both his arms around your thighs, hugging your legs close around his head. There's no room to move—he has you locked in.

"Fuck, please, please, s-slow down! C-Cheol!"

He doesn't, lapping up all your juices, groaning at how your taste coats his tongue and how your smell overtakes his senses. He trusts you to say the safe word if it becomes too much. He also knows that you can take this—he has done far worse things to you before.

The tip of his nose presses against your clit when he delves his tongue into your pussy, earning a rather rough pull of his hair from you. The pain shoots down his spine, making him slump down onto the bed to grind his bare cock on the bed. All of it makes him so light-headed. Your legs are tightening around his head, trapping him, but he doesn't mind, not even if your moans sound muffled this way. He'll get to hear you later when he fucks you silly into the mattress anyway.

Tears brim in your eyes. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, dry from moaning so much. It's almost too much—how he is so ruthless with his mouth and tongue. He doesn't let up once, breathing in and out through his nose, delighted to be suffocated between your plush thighs. It's pure fucking torture, but it feels divine.

"Cheol... C-Close," you whisper, hoping he can hear you.

He doesn't hear you, but he knows you enough by now. He knows the telltale sign of your orgasm approaching, knows how tight you get when you're about to cum, knows how your back arches and your toes curl. He looks at your face and reads your lips, repetitions of his name spilling past it.

Then he's pulling your legs away from the sides of his head, ripping his mouth from your pussy. Your orgasm is brutally stolen from you, and the sheer frustration that surges through you makes you howl out his name. To make it worse, he only chuckles at you, hands rubbing comfortingly at the side of your thighs. The touch should be soothing, but it only leaves you angered.

The sheer audacity of this man—

"You asshole," you spit out with all the venom you can muster, chest rising and falling rapidly. Tears of frustration trickle down your cheeks, and Seungcheol thinks the sight would be so lovely if he hadn't just been devouring you like you were his first meal in months.

"Aw, don't be like that, baby..." he coos sweetly, lips and chin glossy with your juices. He wipes his face with the back of his hand before swiftly grabbing at your soiled panties, pulling them off you and tossing them somewhere in the room. He adjusts your legs, straightening both and letting them dangle over one of his shoulders. Holding his cock in his hand, he strokes it twice and then runs the tip up and down your slit.

"Choi Seungcheol, you're—you..." you trail off, finding yourself drawing a blank, still shocked by how he so meanly robbed you of your orgasm when it had been right at your fingertips. That, combined with how his cock is lightly dipping into your hole, leaves you feeling an untamed emotion, a sensation of chaos where you feel completely out of control, an experience both terrifying and exhilarating.

"Did you just call me Choi Seungcheol? We've been together for years, baby—let's not use full names now," he warns you before he sinks into you in one fell swoop, stuffing you full of every inch of him. There's a brief flash of pain as you try to adjust to the sudden stretch, hands tugging at the bedsheets and eyes rolling back. You hear him chuckle, prompting you to look up at him. You regret it almost immediately because the sight of him makes your hips lift off the bed, a strangled moan leaving you.

Your orgasm crashes into you like a freight train, sudden and jarring. You don't even register it yourself at first, at least not until the overwhelming ecstasy makes you go stiff in Seungcheol's hold, sobbing at the surge of pleasure that has striked you so abruptly. You had not had time to prepare yourself, so you try grounding yourself by grabbing his biceps and clawing at the smooth skin, leaving tender, red marks.

"G-God, oh God, Cheollie," you whine, pinching your eyes shut because everything feels too fucking good, and you're struggling to bring yourself down from this euphoria and anchor yourself in the present.

Seungcheol doesn't realise what's happening right away. He feels the way you clench hard around him, walls squeezing him so tight that he can't help but let out a small groan. He's caught off guard when he feels your nails digging into his arms. You're writhing underneath him—quivering, shaking—and finally, it dawns on him what has just unfolded. You just fucking came, all because he had eased his cock into your warm cunt.

"Oh, baby..." he mutters, snickering quietly to himself. He coaxes you through your orgasm, pressing soft kisses on the side of your thigh. "Shh, good girl, that's it, ride it out for me, darling..." he murmurs against your skin, fighting back the urge to start moving his hips and fucking you through your orgasm. You've never been this sensitive before, and he knows he needs to approach this situation carefully. He doesn't want to overstimulate you too much and too soon, both for your sake and his.

Seungcheol is equally perplexed and impressed at how little it had taken you to cum. All he had to do was slip himself into you, and you were coming undone under him? He feels his cock twitch at the thought. Seungcheol's only a man, and what you did has inflated his ego tenfold. He thinks nothing could ever top this moment, and he doesn't intend to let you live it down.

You're not sure just how long it takes you to collect yourself. A gentle palm smoothes down your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. The soft voice is murmuring your name, pulling you back down, down, down from your drunken daze.

"I'm sorry," you say, still a little disoriented, gaze unfocused. You see Seungcheol's outline and see his lips moving, but you don't hear anything except the pounding of your heart in your ears. You blink a few times, forcing yourself to adjust and snap out of whatever trance you were momentarily stuck in. "I'm sorry," you repeat after finally regaining your awareness. Your eyes zero in on Seungcheol—you can see him clearly now.

"Darling, believe me, an apology is the last thing I need," he says, slightly relieved that you seem to be returning to your senses now. He carefully sets your legs to the side, leaning down and hovering over you with a leering smile. He has you caged in his arms, looming over you with his broad frame, making you feel small. "All I need—" he begins, nosing at your jaw, breathing in your smell, "—is for you to beg."

You let out a shuddering breath, feeling the tip of his cock nudge at the back of your thigh. Somewhere in the middle of your orgasm, Seungcheol had pulled himself out of your pussy, knowing he would most likely reach his own climax if you kept clamping down on him the way you did.

"Beg?" you echoed back, tilting your head up, giving him more access to litter kisses on your neck.

"Mhm..." He lets his teeth graze over the sensitive skin under your jaw, not biting, just gliding over your pulse point. "Beg me to make you cum again." He ends his sentence with a playful nip on your jaw, loving how you jolt under him in surprise.

His request isn't unusual or odd in any way. Seungcheol has said worse things to you before—things so filthy and obscene it would make a sailor blush. His words carry an unfamiliar weight this time, provoking a shyness in you that you never anticipated would be caused by his words alone.

Warmth begins to creep up your neck, and a lump forms in your throat as something akin to humiliation washes over you. The weight of the situation starts to dawn on you. Seungcheol hadn't even had the chance to move before you were creaming all over him like a bitch in heat. The thought of it makes you want to curl into yourself and hide until morning.

Seungcheol must feel you tensing up because he's immediately pulling away from the crook of your neck, searching your face with his eyes. You avert your eyes to the side, unable to meet his gaze with the wild embarrassment coursing through you.

"What's wrong?" he asks you. "Look at me, baby..."

You sigh, knowing he wouldn't just let this go. Still, as you drag your gaze back to his, you can't help the shameful furrow of your eyebrows.

Seungcheol immediately knows. "Are you... embarrassed?" he asks, the corners of his mouth curling up just slightly.

You groan, pushing at his chest to get him to roll over to his side of the bed. He doesn't resist, moving over to give you enough space to sit up on the bed. "Ugh... 'm not embarrassed," you grumble, tucking your feet under your legs so you're sitting cross-legged on the bed. You feel Seungcheol's hand on your back, palm warm over the shirt you're still wearing as he rubs up and down to soothe you. The gesture only makes you feel even more ashamed, especially since you can hear the quiet laughter he's emitting beside you.

Seungcheol finds it so endearing when you press your hands to your face, hiding yourself from him. His grin widens when you whine into your hands. "What are you so embarrassed for?" he asks, fully knowing the answer but still baffled about how you're so flustered from doing something that he wants to keep stored in his memory until the end of his days. The way your bewildered face had morphed into one of pure ecstasy as your orgasm washed over you is something he wants to be able to replay in his mind again and again.

His cock jerks at the memory, and he swiftly hauls the comforter up to the middle of his torso to cover himself up. He calls out your name softly, but you don't answer him, still hiding yourself with your hands. He lets out a small sigh, knowing he'll have to get your attention some other way.

He soon notices your engagement ring sitting on the bedside table. He knows you avoid wearing it to bed, too worried that it might slip off during the night due to your restless sleeping habits. Then, he comes up with the perfect distraction.

Reaching over, he swiftly grabs the ring from the table before settling back into his previous position. The movement makes you retract your hands from your face, curiously glancing at him.

Seungcheol is smiling, dimples on full display. You resist the urge to poke at the little dents on his cheeks, still feeling bashful about the incident. Then, you notice the small object he's fiddling with in his hand. He's tinkering with your ring, turning it over with his fingers, fitting it around his index, grinning when it doesn't even reach halfway down his digit.

Seungcheol's eyes seem to darken when he returns his gaze back to yours. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he grabs your left hand, fitting the ring on your finger. The way it fits so perfectly around your supple finger evokes something primal within him. How such a small thing can symbolise the commitment and love you both have for each other is such a wonder to him. He knows that no wealth or material possessions could ever encapsulate the depth of affection he holds for you, let alone this piece of jewellery.

"If this is your way of distracting me so I don't think about what happened earlier..."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes playfully. "You're welcome to forget about it all you want, but it's gonna keep playing in my mind like a broken record whether you like it or not."

You release a sigh but refrain from arguing because Seungcheol's words ring sincere, and you're aware he wouldn't acknowledge your embarrassment anyway.

He brings your hand to his mouth, tenderly kissing the ring. The gesture is intimate, even if he feels something entirely more carnal stirring in his stomach. "You're so much smaller than me. Could barely even fit the ring on my finger," he comments, thumbing at the small diamond sitting prettily atop the ring.

Through your blush, you manage a reserved smile. "That's because you're so thick everywhere."

You don't mean the sentence in a weird way, but judging from Seungcheol's booming laughter, he definitely misinterpreted your words. He squeezes your hand once before tugging you down to settle half of your body on top of his. He lets you join him under the covers before cupping your cheek, urging you to look at him.

"I'm thick everywhere, hm?" he teases you, watching how red immediately stains your cheeks.

"Don't be gross," you grumble, letting him trail kisses from your wrist, then up to your palm, and settling on your ring. "What's with you and the ring anyway?" you ask him, finding it sweet but slightly odd that he seems so fixated on it.

"I just had a thought, that's all," he responds, kissing each of your fingertips.

"Go on."

"That one day—" he says, eyes burning into yours heatedly, "—there'll be a wedding band beside this one, and you'll finally be mine forever." He says it airily, as if it's the most natural proclamation, with unwavering certainty in his emotions.

Your heart sings at the declaration. "You're wrong on the last part." You press a fleeting kiss on his mouth, smiling when his eyebrow raises questioningly. "I don't need to be married to you to be yours."

Seungcheol grins, one of his hands skimming down your back, grabbing a handful of your ass over the oversized shirt you're wearing. "You don't know half the things you do to me, do you?"

"I do, actually, and I plan to abuse that power," you jest, beginning to sit up, throwing one leg over your lover's hips to straddle him.

Seungcheol is awestruck at the sight of you on top of him. You, all beautiful and celestial, and all his. He wants to worship you, ruin you, and defile you all at the same time. He's not in the right mind to say anything yet, so he only watches, both hands gliding up and down your thighs, getting higher each time, hiking the fabric of your shirt higher up as well.

He breathes out a sigh when he allows himself to look down. Your pretty pussy is on display, all for him, with remnants of your juices on it and some smeared on your inner thighs. He's about to touch when you grab his wrist, slowly guiding his hand towards where you need him the most. He knows what you're asking of him, and he'd be stupid to deny you your wish.

You gasp when Seungcheol starts running two of his fingers up and down your slit, coating his fingers in the wetness of your cunt, unafraid to get messy. When he sinks both fingers into your hole, you can't help but mewl, one hand grabbing onto his bicep and the other still wrapped around his wrist.

"So wet for me, darling... You're fucking dripping all over my fingers," he says once he finally regains his voice back.

Seungcheol is much stronger than you, and he could easily rip away the hand on your wrist and finger fuck you to oblivion the way he usually does it. This time, however, he lets you guide him, allows you to move your hips to match the rhythm of his movements, and allows you tug his hand closer to reach deeper into you each time he buries the digits. He's still holding the reigns, and he knows that—even if you're the one sitting on top of him—but seeing you try to handle and manage your pleasure all by yourself is so fucking—"Cute."

"Oh... fuck," you breathe out, swallowing hard when Seungcheol folds his free arm and tucks it under his head. He's pretty—bicep bulging and veins crawling up his arms.

He grins when your pussy tightens around his fingers. "Think you could cum like this?"

"Mhmm..." You sit up straighter, balancing yourself with both hands firmly planted on Seungcheol's shoulders. Slowly, you switch to bouncing on his fingers instead of rolling your hips, wincing slightly at the burn of your thighs. Still, you push through the pain, aching for release, pressure in your stomach tightening at the way his fingers seem to reach deeper inside you at the new angle.

"Pretty, pretty girl," Seungcheol mumbles, more to himself than to you, but you still hear it anyway. It makes you light-headed. You love Seungcheol degrading you during sex, but hearing his compliment brings out a visceral reaction in you. It makes you giddy and scatterbrained—as though every coherent thought in your head simply just... wilts away.

You bite your lip at his praise, eyelids drooping slightly, a dreamy look settling over your gaze. Seungcheol thinks this is his favourite look on you. You're not saying anything, but your eyes tell a story of themselves. He can see it—the way you're practically begging for him and his cock.

"Please," you whisper, continuing to fuck yourself on Seungcheol's fingers, moaning wantonly at the mix of pain and pleasure. You're squeezing his shoulders with your hands, nails occasionally digging into his skin whenever the pleasure becomes a little too much. You're so close, and you think Seungcheol knows it as well.

"That's right, baby. Is my pretty girl close?" he asks, shifting slightly underneath you, cock throbbing at the lack of attention, hard as rock at the adorable sight of you bouncing on top of him. He loves the way you look in his shirt, but he thinks he'd much rather see your perky tits jiggling in his face as you ride him instead.

"Mhm, c-close," you profess, hands restless, wandering down to his smooth chest before settling around the base of his neck. You don't squeeze, only letting your hands linger as you chase your high.

Seungcheol chuckles when he notices the delicate grasp of your hands around his neck. He knows you won't put pressure—you're too meek for that. And no, he's not underestimating you. In fact, you might be the only person in the world capable of reducing him to his knees with a glance. But between the two of you, it has always been him who would dare to do such a courageous feat.

Seungcheol does exactly that. He slips his hand from under his head and clasps it around your neck, watching your eyes widen when he applies the slightest pressure onto the sides of your throat. You always cum so much quicker when he has at least one hand around your neck.

Your whole body stiffens at the contact, pussy fluttering wildly around his two digits. "O-Oh, f-fuck, fuck!" You let your head tip to the side, eyes fluttering close as you near your high. Your legs are starting to go numb, but that's the least of your concerns when your climax feels like it's looming right around the corner.

"Attagirl... that's it," Seungcheol drawls, applying more pressure when he feels your pussy squeezing tight around him. At this point, you must be growing dizzy from the lack of air and blood. He's careful not to apply any more force than he currently is. "What a pretty necklace," he taunts, awed by how perfectly his hand wraps around your neck. You're so much smaller compared to him. "Pretty necklace for my pretty girl..."

"Ungh, 'm cumming," you manage to slur out, movements growing more frantic, rhythm getting more sporadic the closer you get.

"Look at me, sweetheart."

It takes you a few seconds to register what he is asking. Your eyes drag over to his face. It's torture knowing you could be riding his cock instead of his fingers, but you know he'll want you to finish what you started. His fingers are doing a heavenly job, but the stretch isn't quite enough. You don't say that to him, though, knowing he'd probably give you hell for voicing it. He'd say you're insatiable and edge you until there are no tears left for you to cry.

"There you are..." he says once your eyes meet his. There's a hunger in his stare—an unspoken promise of the things he will do to you once you've finished fucking yourself on his fingers. Your whole body tenses, cheeks burning when he nods as though urging you to let go. "Can you look at me when you cum? Can you do that for me?"

When Seungcheol adds the smallest amount of pressure on the grip around your neck, you can't help the unadulterated moan that spills past your lips. You're so fucking dizzy, vision blurring on the edges. It's getting increasingly difficult to keep your eyes locked onto his when the world feels like it's about to crash down on you.

You still have your hands on his neck, and for a moment, you're distracted by how your engagement ring sits on your ring finger. The fat, silver diamond is a stunning contrast to his golden complexion.

"Come on, don't get distracted now. Cum for me so I can finally get you on my cock, hm?"

You come apart with a broken shout of his name, soaking his fingers with your cum, milky slick trickling down his knuckles and dripping on his stomach. At the height of your pleasure, Seungcheol decides to release his hold on your neck, letting the air and blood rush up to your brain. The sudden surge feels exhilarating, rendering you frozen in bliss as the feeling rips through you.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he remarks, his free hand coming up to brush back the hair from your face, letting your head loll into his hand sluggishly as it braces the back of your head. You look exhausted, back slouched and chest heaving. Still, he notices the way you're slowly grinding on his fingers. He knows you need more. "That looked like it felt good."

You nod, letting him slip his fingers out of you, sucking in a sharp breath at the sudden emptiness. "So good. Thank you..." Everything feels like it's aching—your legs, your back, and your pussy most of all. You're far from done, but you allow yourself to rest, lowering yourself to lie on top of him, face buried into his neck. You breathe his scent and allow it to root you in the moment.

Seungcheol wipes his stained fingers on your shirt, tsking you when you whine in protest. "It's literally your cum—why are you so grossed out about it?" he teases.

"Because..." you say slowly. When you realise you have nothing to say, you pick your head up, blinking at him.

Seungcheol hums, eyes amused when he looks down at you. "Mhm?"

You don't have an answer, so you kiss him instead. Seungcheol welcomes the kiss, letting his tongue meet with yours in a feverish kiss that makes your hands cling fervently to his hair. You're shifting on top of him restlessly, letting your pussy settle over the length of his cock, sighing heatedly into his mouth and letting his tongue swirl around yours sloppily.

Seungcheol grunts at the way you let your pussy slip up and down his throbbing cock. Your cunt is hot and so fucking wet, and he feels like he might combust from how good you feel against him.

Two orgasms should've been enough for you, but you know you won't feel fully sated without Seungcheol's cock dipping in and out of your pussy, leaving it all messy in a mix of your cum. You're not sure whether you can cum again, but you do know you want Seungcheol's cum inside of you, and soon.

"Inside," you whisper against Seungcheol's lips, not letting him respond before you smash your lips to his again. Reaching down to grab at his cock, you're just about to line the tip with your hole when he shoves you away with a harsh grip on your arm.

You yelp in surprise, the world turning into a blur, hardly comprehending that you're no longer sitting on top of him. You're now lying on your back, staring wide-eyed up at Seungcheol as he hauls your shirt off, leaving you just as naked as him.

Seungcheol can't help how his eyes gravitate towards your tits, all on full display for his eyes to feast on. "Fucking perfect," he mutters, one hand jerking up and down his cock as his eyes roam up and down your body, taking everything in. The sight isn't foreign to him, but all the blood still rushes to his dick the same way every time. You're too fucking perfect. If ever comes a day that he ever sees a single flaw in your body, he'll fault his eyes instead.

When you sigh, it comes out half a moan. "Hurry, Cheollie," you tell him, spreading your legs wider, holding yourself open with two hands on the back of your knees, baring yourself to him unashamedly. You're too desperate for his cock to worry about self-dignity now.

Seungcheol groans, stomach flipping at the sweetness dripping from your lips when you say his name so endearingly. "Alright, alright..." He presses one hand on the back of your thigh while the other hand grips his cock, running the leaking head up and down your sloppy cunt. "Just don't cum on me too soon like last time, yeah?"

"Why are you bringing that up!"

"Actually... maybe I wouldn't mind. You always shut up so good after you cum." He chuckles at the deathly glare you give him, choosing that exact moment to sink into your awaiting heat, amused when your glare twists into an expression of utter bliss. Oh, he could die happy like this—cock snug in your warm, tight pussy. He allows you a few seconds to adjust, letting his hands travel all the places of your body that he can reach, leaving your skin prickling.

"Move, Cheol...Please."

Seungcheol smirks at your pleading, watching the way you spread your legs even wider for him—inviting and beckoning him to take you like you're the sweetest and ripest forbidden fruit. "How do you want it, pretty?"

Your eyebrows knit in frustration. Surely , he's trying to tease you, purposely prolonging whatever this is when he could already be fucking you into the mattress by now. Still, you humour him, hoping he will give in. "Any way you want, I'll take it."

Seungcheol nods with a hum, nibbling at the insides of his cheeks as he glances down at the point where his cock disappears into your pussy. "Any way I want, hm?" he echoes back, swiping a thumb at your swollen clit, snickering when your hips jump, causing his cock to slip out, heavy girth springing up to smack against his stomach.

You reach down with one hand, guiding his cock back to your pussy, desperate to be filled again. "Please, just please." The words come out frantic, almost distraught. "I need you."

Eventually, Seungcheol relents to your pleas. You look so pretty when you're begging for his cock, and that look you're giving him—you look delirious already, and he has barely done a thing.

"Shh, I've got you, sweetheart," he mutters, slipping back inside. Much to your delight, he doesn't dawdle this time. Although he does start off slow, pressing forward until his balls are pressed firmly against your ass each time he sinks in, earning a quiet sigh from you every time. "Pussy taking me so well, princess..."

At this pace, you're able to feel every slide of his cock against your pussy, the way the veins along his length rub against your walls so delectably. "God, f-fuck, fuck, Seungcheol..."

Your lover is watching your face closely, groaning now and then whenever your walls tighten around him, but amused for the most part. He doesn't want to seem arrogant, but he thinks it's incredibly flattering that you still react this way to his cock after years of being together. You're always so eager for him, shivering under his caresses as if you're starved of his touch, as if he has never sunk himself into your tight pussy again and again, only to come back for more.

Even now, as he hooks his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to him, you're sighing out his name so exquisitely, the syllables rolling off your tongue effortlessly. Your pussy drips for him, the sweet nectar leaking onto his cock, staining your inner thighs.

A frustrated groan bubbles in your throat as you prop yourself up onto your elbows, scowling at the man who is currently not fucking you the way you both deserve it. The drag of his cock feels good, but you need more, and you know he does too. "Cheollie," you mewl in your sweetest voice, one hand grasping a handful of your breast, squeezing it in the hope of enticing him to go faster. "Need you to go faster, please..."

Seungcheol doesn't try to hide his smirk, stopping the movement of his hips entirely. He knows you're trying to lure and tempt him, just like the seductress you are. He would be lying if he said your siren gaze and the sultry lilt of your voice don't make him feel as though he's spellbound. It's hard not to give in when you're looking up at him like you want him to wreck and pillage your body until you are practically ruined for everyone else but him.

When you flash him a saccharine smile, it's as if there is a magnetic pull drawing him down closer to you, mouth hovering over yours. He breathes you in, painfully aware of how his cock twitches inside you when you peer at him through your lashes.

"I thought you said you'd take anything I give you," Seungcheol mumbles, hot breath fanning against your lips. He pecks your lips once, angling his head to the side when you try to lean in for more, rejecting your kiss. He coos when you pout at his rejection. "So take what I'm giving you. That's what you promised me, isn't it?"

Then he swoops down lower to trail kisses down your jaw and neck, nipping at your collarbone. You're scowling at his statement, irked that he's using your words against you. Seungcheol doesn't seem to care about your current predicament, licking his way down to the slope of your breast, biting down on the skin with enough force to make it hurt.

"Don't you want to feel good, Cheollie? Why are you making this longer than it should be?"

"Oh, don't you worry about me, darling. I'm very much enjoying myself," he murmurs, pressing tender kisses on the side of your breast.

You're opening your mouth to retaliate but decide against it at the last second. Instead, you press your mouth together, saying nothing as you lie back on the bed. You'll let Seungcheol have his way with you for now. Whatever game he's playing right now won't last long, and his control will crumble eventually—at least, that's what you're hoping.

When Seungcheol wraps his lips around your nipple, you let his name escape you in a sigh. His mouth is warm as he gently suckles, tongue circling the pebbled bud. You don't need to look down at him to know he's looking up at your face, taking in your reaction. "Feels good..." you pant when he stretches his jaw open further, taking more of your breast into his mouth, teeth skimming over tender skin.

Your arms wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him in closer as you arch your back. The slight shift makes your brain short-circuit for a moment as his cock seems to burrow deeper inside of you, sending a flash of heat through your body. "Fuck, so big..."

Seungcheol hums against your chest, still sucking earnestly, lapping at your nipple with his tongue, pulling back now and then to look at the way your chest glistens with his spit. After some time, he switches to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment, making sure it's covered in his spit just the same as the other one.

You're not sure whether Seungcheol realises it, but his hips have started moving again, cock pushing in and out with no precise pattern, only seeking the warmth of your cunt as it sinks in repeatedly. It's addicting but agonising as well because you want more, and you're not sure whether you can hold out any longer. "Cheol," you softly call out, hoping to gain his attention. You don't wait for him to respond before speaking again. "Need you to fuck me, please..."

He pulls back slightly, blowing cold air on your damp chest, making you shudder. "Aren't I already?" he asks as he litters kisses on the valley of your breasts, fucking into you less distractedly this time, the force of his thrust growing harder.

You nod, breath stuttering when he finally gains speed, not as fast as you'd like but enough for your mind to go hazy. "Y-Yeah, just need—fuck—just need more..."

Seungcheol's laugh comes out a little shaky. He pushes himself back onto his knees, ignoring your whine at the loss of his warmth. "Are you being greedy, princess?" He gathers both your legs together, letting them dangle over one of his shoulders, rubbing his hands up and down your thighs soothingly when he hears your sigh of relief from the switch of position.

"I'm not being greedy," you grit out, looking up at him, hissing when he delivers a notably hard thrust. "Please, please, just... faster..."

"See, what'd I say? That was you being greedy." Seungcheol admires you from this position, drinking in the quiet sounds you're emitting, savouring the fluttering of your pussy around his cock.

Your eyes begin to brim with frustrated tears. You love the man with all your heart, but this is taking it a little far, even for you. You're yearning for him, blood pounding in your ears, skin aflame with desire and an insatiable hunger that threatens to swallow you entirely. How much longer do you have to wait?

"I can't, Cheol," you sniff, tears spilling onto your cheeks. "P-Please, I really can't—"

Seungcheol shouldn't feel so satisfied with how you're crying from how overwhelming it is, but an undeniable sense of fulfilment washes over him at the sight of your tears. This is what he wanted, after all—to test your limit and push you to the edge. "Alright, sweetheart, don't cry, I've got you..."

With a kiss to your calf, Seungcheol finally grants you what you've been begging for all night, quickly finding a rhythm that immediately garners a loud cry out of you. He sighs, cock finally finding relief at the friction. He enjoyed the game while it lasted, but this—it makes him think that maybe he should've given in sooner. You could've been filled to the brim with his cum by now if it hadn't been for his stubbornness to see you pushed to your breaking point. With this thought in mind, Seungcheol fucks into you even harder, trying to make up for lost time.

More tears escape your eyes, but it's not out of frustration this time. It's incredible how quickly the tiny sparks of pleasure can become something mighty—an unreckonable force that racks through your whole body, vicious and ruthless, almost cruel in a way.

"Still with me?" Seungcheol asks, gritting his teeth at how well you're taking him, his hands squeezing onto your thighs roughly, the hold almost painful. But you're too preoccupied with your own pleasure to care about whether or not his hands will leave bruises.

"Baby, you still with me?" he repeats.

"Hmm..."

Seungcheol shakes his head, not satisfied with your answer. "Talk to me, sweetheart."

"Y-Yeah," you respond, breathing in sharply. "With you..." Your words trail off into a low moan, a sound that makes Seungcheol's eyes flutter shut as he ruts into you faster.

The sound of skin slapping against skin resonates through the bedroom. It's lewd and unmistakable. His balls slap against your puffy folds with each thrust, sending your slick splattering everywhere—on your ass, on the bed, some droplets even landing on his thighs. He loves it when you get all sloppy for him like this.

Your hand claws at his own, nails digging into his wrist. Seungcheol lets you remove his hand from your thigh, a growl ripping in his chest when he realises your intention. Before he knows it, he has his palm splayed on your breast, one of your smaller hands resting atop his, guiding him to squeeze. He squeezes once, then twice, relishing the way you moan for him when he does. "That's it, always so good for me. You deserve this, yeah?"

"Don't stop, C-Cheol..." When you look up at him, he seems torn between looking at your face or down at the spot where his cock meets your pussy. He doesn't settle on one, letting his eyes flicker back and forth, breathing growing ragged when he notices your eyes on him.

"Why would I stop, baby?" He lets his free hand settle on your unoccupied breast, kneading gently, enjoying how you writhe underneath him at the contact. Both hands pinch at your nipples, twisting just barely until they harden in his ministrations. "Why would I stop when you feel this good?"

You hadn't been sure at first whether you still had it in you to cum another time after doing it twice in a short span of time, but a single glance at Seungcheol has you disoriented. Something is churning in your stomach, coiling and winding like a tightly wound spring, poised to release if twisted a little further. The more you look at Seungcheol, the less focused your gaze becomes. Tiny beads of sweat trace a glistening path down his temple, and fine strands of hair cling to his forehead—a testament to the strenuous effort he has exerted thus far.

"Cheol..." you whine, tensing your thighs together, arching your chest up into his rough touches.

"I know, I know... I can feel you tightening around me," he grits out, veins in his neck jutting out as he continues to strain himself through his thrusts, beginning to lose himself in the feeling of being buried inside your heat. He retracts his hands from your chest to grab each side of your hips. This way, he has more control of your body, able to pull you down onto his cock every time he thrusts in, pressing into you deeper. "Shit, you feel so good, princess. So fucking good, taking me so well. You love this cock, don't you?"

You don't know whether Seungcheol knows how much his words affect you, but you certainly feel the tingling shudder lick a path from the base of your back to the nape of your neck. You let him grapple at your hips and move you however he pleases, using you for his pleasure.

"Say you love this cock, princess."

"Love it—fill me up so well, love your cock..." you slur.

"That's right, always so needy for it."

Seungcheol has been holding himself back for some time now, his balls heavy, ready for release. With the way your pussy envelopes him so nicely and the way you're moaning and whining out his name, he knows it will only be a matter of time before he finishes. "You close, baby?" he asks you, chest heaving with every laboured breath he takes. His eyes are screwed shut, afraid he'd cum too soon if he catches a glimpse of your fucked-out face and bouncing tits.

"Mmph, feels s-so good..."

Seungcheol brings one hand down to the space between your legs, slipping his thumb through the tight press of your plush thighs, quickly finding your clit. He doesn't take into account, however, the way your pussy would tighten around his dick as soon as he starts drawing quick circles around the sensitive bud. He doesn't have the time to warn you, only letting out a strained growl of your name as he is thrown over the edge, emptying himself inside you, filling you up in ribbons of cum that seem never-ending.

Taken by surprise, you can only squeal, wide eyes searching for his as you grab onto his wrist. Seungcheol keeps his hips pressed to yours, balls smearing slick over your ass as he fills you to the brim. You keen at the feeling, toes curling as you savour the warmth of his cum as it paints your walls white.

He shudders as the last spurts finally spill inside you, his hips rocking gently on their own, riding out the last few seconds. "Fuck, baby," he groans. He's panting, trying to suck in as much air into his lungs as he can with each inhale, the impact of his orgasm hitting more forcefully since he had been unintentionally edging himself for the past hour or so.

He knows you will eventually ask for more, but he's relieved you're giving him time to recover. He leans his head against your calf and closes his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. It's hard because the thought that you're still in front of him, naked, dripping his seed, makes him feel winded in a way that is obscene.

"Cheol..."

"Yeah?" he grunts.

"You okay?"

He lets your legs fall from his shoulder, gently setting it down onto the bed, easing you to lie on your side. "Mhm... m' fine," he swallows, "just give me a minute."

When he slides out of you, you let slip a squeak that makes Seungcheol crack a small smile. He splays a hand on the back of your thigh, leaning back slightly to catch a glimpse of the mess between your legs. He can't help the stirring of his cock as he watches driblets of his cum leak out of you, seeping into the bedsheets.

Seungcheol finds it difficult to tear his eyes away from the glorious sight of your ruined cunt. He suddenly finds himself in a predicament. He knows he needs to take a breather, even if there is a part of him that aches to bury himself into you and fill you with his cum for the second time tonight.

Finally, he settles himself beside you, positioning himself so that he's spooning you from behind. He brushes his hand down from your shoulder to your arm and then down the enticing curve of your waist. Your skin is soft and supple against his palm. His caresses must tickle because your giggles fill his ears as you writhe away from his teasing touch. "Cheol..." your whine of his name makes a rush of affection wash over him.

Seungcheol grins, pushing himself up onto his elbow to lean over you just enough to nestle his face into the crook of your neck. When he nips at your jaw, you let out a breathless sigh, and he knows it won't be long until you ask him for more. He would give you more if only he hadn't just finished twice over the course of an hour. He will have to find another way to satiate your hunger.

Your eyes flutter shut, humming when you feel Seungcheol's lips on your shoulder blade. You don't say anything as you push your lower half into him, which earns a grunt from the man as his sensitive cock comes into contact with your ass. Much to your dismay, his hand immediately flies to your waist, gently moving you away from him.

"Baby," he rasps, the strain discernible in his voice. He pecks your lips when you tilt your head to pout at him. "Turn over and face me, hm?"

Slightly confused, you do as he says anyway, gasping when he pulls you into him with a hand on your lower back. With your chest pressed into his and face only inches away, you give him a questioning look, circling your arms around his neck and pressing a brief kiss to his lips. "Now what?"

Seungcheol responds by kissing you. His kiss is hard and fierce, stealing your breath as he sinks his teeth into your lower lip, soothing the stinging bite with a fleeting sweep of his tongue. You arch into him, moaning into his mouth when you feel his free hand trail up your chest to settle on the nape of your neck, allowing him to have a better reign.

Something presses against your aching cunt, and you have to break away with a dazed gasp, peering down between your bodies. Seungcheol has shoved his leg between yours, angling his thigh upward to press against you.

The hand on your back moves to the dip of your waist, encouraging you to roll your hips back and forth. The realisation of what he wants you to do makes you whimper. "Oh, God—"

"Shh, just focus on me, sweetheart. You can be a good girl and ride my thigh, yeah?"

When you try to respond, nothing comes out except a garbled moan. You must look so salacious to him—moving your hips back and forth like a desperate whore, dragging your wet pussy against his thigh, eyes rolling back from the simulation on your clit. You swear you see stars dancing in your vision, skin prickling as every thought in your mind withers into nothing.

"That's it, I can feel how warm you are... So fucking warm and wet."

You try to kiss him again but find yourself pulling away shortly after, too dazed to keep up with the force of Seungcheol's kisses. His thigh is drenched and sticky from the mixture of your juices and his cum that has leaked out of your hole, but he keeps you stable with a firm grip on the back of your thigh. Whenever you roll your hips, the squelching sound from between your thighs is distinct, and it makes your whole face burn.

With a sigh of his name, you weave your fingers through his hair, tugging when the stimulation becomes too intense for your liking. It feels fucking euphoric—the way his solid thigh feels against your soaked pussy as it drags up, down, up, down—but it's somehow not enough at the same time.

Seungcheol thinks your moans sound like angels singing in his ears, and he eagerly drinks it all in, watching your face intently at the same time, relishing the way your eyes roll back during moments when the pleasure washes over you in waves. "So cute."

"Fuck, Cheol, 's not enough..."

Seungcheol's mouth stretches into a grin, letting a few seconds pass in silence as he watches you rut desperately against his thigh, so keen to reach your long-awaited high. "Not enough? You're dripping all over me, though?" To prove his point, he withdraws his thigh from between your legs, shushing you when you whine in protest. "Let's see..."

Two of his fingers swipe at the sticky residue on his thigh. He lifts his hand to your face, showing the glossy remnant on his fingers. To further taunt you, he spreads the fingers apart, allowing a stringy thread of the creamy slick to bridge the gap between the two digits. He doesn't bother concealing his smirk when your sheepish face comes into focus, cheeks red from a combination of arousal and shame.

You huff when he sticks his fingers into his mouth, tasting the slick that clings to it. The deep hum that rumbles in his chest kindles a fire in you that you know can only be doused by Seungcheol's touch alone. You can only watch, stunned, mind teeming with a flurry of wild thoughts as he finally removes his fingers from his mouth.

"Now you choose, princess. It's either my thigh or nothing at all."

It takes you a moment to decipher his words. "But that's not fair..." you whine.

"Just choose."

"I don't wanna..."

"Time's ticking."

You give in—of course you do. Knowing Seungcheol, he probably would stay true to his words. He wouldn't have any problem leaving you high and dry as he excuses himself to the bathroom to clean himself up. Then, he would come back to bed as if nothing had happened, and he wouldn't give in no matter how much you cling to him and beg for even an ounce of his attention. Then you'd have to wait until the morning to finally get some relief, either by his fingers or tongue, because he always insists on fucking you only after he has had his dose of morning coffee. It's infuriating, but it would be a lie if you said you didn't enjoy his pesky games.

"Fine... Your thigh is fine."

"Use your big girl words."

"I need your thigh, please, Cheol. Pretty please..."

Seungcheol pauses briefly, letting your words sink in before he nods in approval. "Alright, if you insist."

When he slots his thigh between your legs again, it's as if you've stumbled upon an oasis amid a scorching drought. The pleasure is liberating, and you're sighing his name against the crook of his neck, melting into his touch, going putty in his hold. You're grasping at both his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as the tautness in your stomach gradually builds again. It's slow, almost torturous, but the mounting tension from before has you trembling, and Seungcheol notices. He always does.

"Breathe," he reminds you, tapping your cheek gently to ensure you hear him. "Take your time and breathe, 'm not going anywhere."

"Unghh, I don't know if I can—"

"You can, baby," he encourages softly.

Seungcheol pulls you even closer by your thigh, hitching your leg a little higher against his hips, spreading you open a little more. He can feel you throbbing against him, and the warmth emanating from between your legs makes him feel heady.

"Fuck," he cusses, wishing so badly it was his cock that was making you writhe in his embrace and cry out his name so sweetly. "Stay with me. Are you close?"

You sob at the question. "I don't know. God, C-Cheol..."

"Hey, look at me, princess." Seungcheol nods when you finally compose yourself enough to look at him. "Breathe, and focus on me."

The movement of your hips doesn't stop as he mutters his instructions.

"Uh-uh, keep your eyes on me," he reprimands when he notices your gaze flittering down to the glistening mess on his thigh. "That's right, keep those pretty eyes on me. That's it..."

You're sure you've lost all your ability to communicate effectively or conjure up a coherent sentence. The only word you manage to babble and stutter out is Seungcheol's name. No matter how much you try, you can't help the shaking of your legs or the ragged rise and fall of your chest as you try to gulp in enough air. It feels so fucking good—you want to tell him—but nothing comes out except choked moans and whimpers.

"Don't worry about anything else. Just focus on the feeling..."

"C-Cheol, 'm close... I don't—I'm—"

"Shh, just relax. It's going to feel so good when you let go," Seungcheol says, hand still secure on the back of your thigh, helping you grind down against him. He thinks he might need a long, cold shower after this is all over.

When you breathe in, the smell of Seungcheol's tantalising cologne fills your nose, and you can't help but cry out. The mix of patchouli and bergamot combined with the natural scent of his musk makes you tense against him. He smells heavenly. He smells like home. "Oh my God, ungh—"

"It's okay, you can cum. No one's stopping you."

Your eyes drift over his face, focusing on every feature and every detail, no matter how minuscule. Ultimately, it is precisely the look in his dark eyes that throws you over the edge. His eyes have an allure to them—filled with desire and longing that dance wildly in the shadows, luring you into their mysterious depth.

The pleasure doesn't hit you all at once—it starts from the end of your toes, trailing up your legs, erupting into flurries of flames in your stomach, winding up your spine like an electric current that singes at every nerve. The euphoria builds like a crescendo, like a warmth that blossoms into an inferno and sweeps through your whole being. Your skin burns, but you feel as though you're drowning—chest tight, eyes glassy, mouth agape in a silent shout. Blood roars in your ears, and each heartbeat feels like a drumbeat, pounding against the confines of your ribcage, a relentless rhythm that drowns out every other sound.

When the pleasure finally subsides, it leaves a lingering warmth that seems to simmer under your skin. It's a pleasant buzzing, one that makes you feel drowsy. You slump against Seungcheol, hiding your face in his bare chest, trying to hide your bashful smile that would give away how blissful you currently feel. You breathe in his perfume, grounding yourself, soaking in the heat of his body as he gently brushes a palm up and down your back.

Seungcheol tenderly clasps your hand, lifting it delicately to plant a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist. His kisses trail down, mouth caressing each fingertip before turning your hand gently. With utmost reverence, he presses his lips against the glimmering engagement ring on your finger, bestowing it with two tender pecks, a silent promise sealed in each kiss.

"I love you," he whispers against your temple, nosing at your cheekbone. "But do you think you could cum that fast again?"

Still recovering from your high, you struggle to grasp his words. "What do you mean?"

"Like before. I mean, I was barely in you, and you were cumming all over me so fast I almost didn't realise—"

Your loud gasp cuts him off. "You are such a dick! Stop talking about that!"

"Never!" he objects, dimples showing when he grins. "It's going to make for the perfect story to tell to all our friends—"

Deciding your words won't effectively shut his blabbering mouth, you're left with no choice but to resort to slapping his arm instead, not stopping until he seizes your wrist, effectively thwarting your assault on him.

"Okay, okay," he concedes with a laugh. "I'm just kidding. That story will forever stay with me and me only. I'm sorry, okay?"

"You don't look sorry."

"You're right, it was just so fucking hot—"

"You're insufferable. Break off our engagement right now."

The faux horror that overtakes his face is hilarious. "Alright, I'll stop. I really am sorry. Seriously."

You giggle at the admission. "You're stuck with me, you know? There's no backing out of a marriage with me."

He playfully sighs. "Hm, I'm not so sure about that.. I mean, it's not like we're already married—"

"Nice try, but I've already picked out my dress, and it's non-refundable."

"True, and I've just put a baby in you as well, so..."

You lean back, flashing him an incredulous look. "Again, nice try. Still on the pills, dummy."

"And what if they suddenly just... vanished?"

Snickering, you sit up, feeling unbearably icky and sweaty. "Why don't you marry me first, and then we can try having children. Deal?" You don't wait for his response, pushing yourself off the bed and shuffling your way to the bathroom. You can almost feel his eyes burning lasers into your bare ass.

"Why don't you start calling me daddy from now on? You know, for practice?"

"Absolutely not."

"What do you think about having four children?"

"I love you too, Seungcheol."

"Is that a yes?"

"You're cute."

There's a pause. "So, yes?"

"What should we do this weekend?"

You hear him get off the bed, his thundering footsteps drawing nearer. "Stop changing the subject!"

3K notes · View notes

ceilidho · 1 month

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 8)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

Now a nocturnal animal emerges into the daylight hours.

A week becomes two and your shoulders untense. It’s not something you notice at first because you’re used to an ever present strain between your shoulder blades and an ache in your jaw from grinding your teeth at night. Then a fortnight goes by without so much as a missive with your name on it floating across John’s desk or a stranger appearing in town after tracking you down, and you wonder if maybe the world really is big enough to hide in.

It sure feels that way at times. The woods beyond the bounds of John’s property stretch out farther than the eye can see and even walking it feels like you could disappear into another realm. Old spruces shoot up high into the clouds, and deeper into the woods, huge rock formations grow more and more prominent as you near the mountains. John takes you through the woods on horseback, following the rough trails carved into the dirt by a century of wagons and carts using the same path. The footprints of a different time.

Up in the trees, birds warble and chirp, talking to one another in songs that you’ve never heard before. A woodpecker drills into the side of a tree. Pinecones snap out of the upper branches and drop to the forest floor.

There is only a single trail and it’s easy to lose. You grow a bit nervous when John takes you off the trail and deeper into the woods, but he does so with the confidence of a man that knows these woods like the back of his hand. You go quiet when he stops Buttercup to let a herd of deer wander by, the stragglers hurrying to catch up with the group, throwing the two of you nervous glances before they disappear into the thicket.

“Should we be out this far?” you ask in a whisper, reluctant to disturb the silence. Though the woods are full of animals that bleat, chirp, chatter, and hoot, the sound of your own voice feels preternaturally loud and shrill.

“We won’t get lost, darlin’. I know my way around,” John reassures you, curling an arm around your waist to hold you to him. These days, you hardly worry about tumbling off the horse. Not with him at your back anyway.

“That wasn’t really my worry,” you mumble, trailing off.

“Then what’re you getting all worked up about?”

“Aren’t there wolves out here? Or bears?”

He snorts, the sound making you jolt. You don’t topple over because he has such a firm hold around your waist. “They don’t usually come this close to town. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“That sounds like something mothers tell their children to stop them crying,” you say flatly. You draw your legs up automatically when John directs Buttercup through a shallow basin, a shortcut back home. It makes you anxious for a moment, but the water barely goes up to her ankles, so you relax when you realize that you’re in no danger of being swept away by the current.

“That doesn’t mean a bear or wolf can’t wander by, but it’s rare.”

“And there it is.”

You can feel the heat of his glower on the back of your head. “We could spend the night out here if you want to see for yourself.”

At that, you shut your mouth. Even if he were to prove his point, you have no interest in camping out in the woods now that you’ve become accustomed to the luxury of a soft bed. Granted that you’re forced to share that same bed, still you’ve never slept half as well as you do these days. You wake up rested after nine hours of blissful shut eye, a sleep so deep that your dreams only come in half-remembered flashes. Often they involve the man you wake up wrapped around, and for that you’re grateful that they remain submerged.

A new desire has started to burrow its way into the back of your mind in recent days. It starts out as a thought so brief that you hardly notice it before it skitters away.

And then it lingers.

You wake up in the middle of the night hot, sweat dripping down the nape of your neck and a fire burning in your loins, a red-hot coil wound around itself, fit to burst. Pulsating. At some point throughout the night, you must have thrown a leg around John’s waist because it rests there now, your hand planted in the middle of his chest and your sex all but rubbing up against his thigh. Under your hand, you can feel his heart pump strong and steady.

You hold very, very still, waiting for him to wake. But John sleeps on, his palm loose where it rests along the curve of your hip, fingers curling into the flesh of your backside.

You can hardly look at him these days without shaking. You’ve come to fixate on the sway of his hips when he walks and the flecks of silver in his beard. The grooves in his weathered hands. The way your head fits in the palm of his hand when he cradles it to his chest. The fond glimmer in his eyes that shines the brightest when he puts his hat on your head and it slips past your eyes, too big for your head.

When you tip it up in order to see, the folds around his eyes become more pronounced with the force of his smile.

“There you are, bug,” he says, taking the hat off your head to set it back on his and reeling you in for a kiss.

Bug, love, honey, darling. The constant flux of endearments makes your head spin. John never calls you by the name on your marriage license. It’s like that name means nothing to him, cast away at the first opportunity and replaced by an endless stream of pet names.

He hasn’t touched your sex since making you come on the porch swing the week before. He pulls you into a chaste embrace at night, the only evidence of his own desire being the stiff shaft nestled against the small of your back in the early morning hours, which he takes care of on his own in the bathroom downstairs after pressing a kiss to your cheek. You feel robbed of something, though you don’t know quite what.

You’re tempted to offer your help, but you don’t know exactly what that would entail. Inexperience and fear of rejection hold you back, stay your tongue. In the two weeks you’ve been married, he hasn’t once tried to pin you down and rut between your thighs like you expected and dreaded that very first night.

Now that that time has passed, you don’t know how to initiate that moment again.

John promises to teach you how to ride a horse. You can’t see a reason to protest, much to your chagrin. Despite your apprehensions, even you can’t deny that it would be a helpful skill. A train only goes one way after all, confined to a single track. A horse has no such laws to obey.

The thought stays nestled at the back of your mind as the days continue on.

You flounder around in the kitchen on the day that John invites his deputies over for supper. You’ve met the big one—Simon—now a small handful of times, each encounter marked by a silence that sucks the air out of the room when he turns his gaze on you and holds it. Perhaps you’ve simply ascribed too much importance to his person, given that every time you’ve seen him, your life has changed irrevocably. His presence is always followed by revelation it seems. The archangel of vicissitude. A harbinger of uncertain times.

The other two are new. John introduces you to them when you bring out the cutlery and crockery to set the table, and you nearly go cross-eyed when they reach across the table at the same time to offer their hands. You go to meet them halfway, but flinch when John brings his hand down on the table with enough force to make the silverware jump.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he apologizes to you first before turning his glare on the other two. “That ain’t proper, boys. You wait for the lady to offer her hand first—you don’t treat a woman like she’s a mutt you’re teaching to shake.”

“Ah, sorry, hen,” the one on the left says, his voice a thick Scottish brogue like a purr. He’s possibly the handsomest man you’ve ever met, but there’s something dangerous and wild in his eyes. When he smiles, it curls up in a roguish sort of way that makes you falter, like he’s in on a joke that you aren’t. “Dinnae mean to offend. No’ often we get ta meet such a pretty lady.”

“Sorry—” the one on the right apologizes in a voice far more earnest than his counterpart’s. “And sorry for him. We think he was raised by wolves.”

“What’s yer excuse then?” the Scot sneers, knocking his knee into the other man’s under the table. “Dinnae see ye waitin’ for her fuckin’ hand like a gentleman—apologies, hen.”

“Christ,” John sighs, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling.

Simon stays silent at the other end of the table, but the whole table jumps when he aims a kick at the Scott’s leg. He hisses and blurts out a word in a language you’ve never heard before, the word unmistakably vitriolic. He clutches at his shin and shoots a nasty look at Simon, though he doesn’t make a move to retaliate.

“Name’s Kyle. Kyle Garrick,” the other introduces himself, and you finally reach across the table to offer your hand. His hand is warm against yours when he takes it, dark skin burnished in the candlelight. There’s something inviting about him; something about his eyes, so dark that you almost fall into them. Thick lips curl up into a smile. “And this here is Soap.”

You frown. “Soap?”

The man in question runs a hand down his front, emphasizing the cut of his shirt and the way it clings to the muscle of his chest. “‘Cause of how well I clean up.”

Simon barks out a laugh at that. The sound comes so sudden and sharp that it startles you. “You got it ‘cause your mum had to wash out your mouth with soap.”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard out of him and you can only stare wide-eyed at the lot of them as they dissolve into bickering and squabbling after that. It’s almost a relief to head back into the kitchen to finish cooking.

Dinner is a similar messy affair, punctuated by the sound of Soap practically gnawing the meat off the bone. He only apologizes when John barks at him for making a mess, more food on the floor around him than on his plate, but his table manners don’t last very long. John doesn’t seem so much embarrassed on their behalf as annoyed, but it’s an annoyance that comes with an aftertaste of warmth. You can tell without asking that they’ve known each other for years.

There’s room enough in you for food and envy. Back home you had friends. Never close friends, but acquaintances at least. Maids you could recognize by face. Small talk while ascending single-file up the servants’ staircase. Perhaps little more than that. You’d never been particularly close to any of them, but how could you? You worked from morning ‘till night, up and down the stairs, moving in the shadows. Never making too much noise lest your employers take notice of you.

Like he did.

You shake it off. That’s no matter now. You’re hundreds of miles away and living under a new name. A married woman, to the county sheriff no less. It only sometimes hurts your heart to think of how lonely you’d been.

When they leave, you stand at the window and watch as they disappear into the black of the night, Simon at the front of the pack, his torchlight leading the way. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt recedes the farther they get.

His hands warm your shoulders. You don’t know how long he’s been there, standing behind you while you stared out the window after the boys. All you know is that his hands are warm, and the kiss he presses to the back of your head makes you arch back into him, unconsciously gravitating closer to him. Needing to be near.

In bed, you curl your fingers against his chest. On a rough exhale, you wake. You dream still of something terrible that happens somewhere else, in another city, in an old life. His heartbeat lulls you back to sleep.

John takes you to the local seamstress to have you fitted for a pair of pants and suddenly you’re out of excuses. They fit you comfortably, like a second skin, and you find yourself pulling at the legs at your final fitting as if to stretch out the material. The seamstress nearly jabs you with a pin and glares up at you until you stop fidgeting.

You come to terms with it when he brings you into the stables and makes you fetch the saddle from where it rests on its stand. It’s heavier than you expected. You stumble back over to where John now has Buttercup standing in the middle of the stable, holding her by the lead fixed to her bridle.

“I don’t know if—” you start, trepidation climbing up your chest until it grips you by the throat. For as many times as you’ve ridden her, you’ve never done it alone.

John fixes her lead to a post and walks over to you, taking the saddle from your hands and letting it drop to the ground. He cups your face in both hands to tilt your head up. “Hey, honey. We’re not doing much of anything today, alright? Just a walk around the paddock so you get used to sitting on Buttercup on your own. I’m not gonna smack her ass and send you down the trail at full tilt..”

That gets a laugh out of you. “You promise?”

He smiles. “Promise, darlin’.”

And he keeps it. The only thing you do that day is learn how to tack a horse and how to properly mount and dismount her. The latter part of the lesson is devoted to you trying to find your balance while John leads the two of you around the pen at a leisurely pace. He calms you down when he sees you grow too stiff, stopping to coo and rub your thigh until you gradually relax. It’s heartwarming until Buttercup begins to tense up too for a reason unbeknownst to you and you watch in righteous fury as John calms her down the same way.

John gets you a hat to keep the sun from beating down on you, but there’s little he can do about the soreness between your thighs and the stiffness in your legs the next day. All you can do is hiss and moan in pain, hobbling around the house until he forces you down into a chair and hikes up your dress in order to apply an arnica salve to your inner thighs.

It’s a relief and an affront at the same time. The duality of man. The salve soothes much of the ache, but you twitch nervously around John for the rest of the day, the memory of him pinning you to the chair and forcibly spreading your thighs haunting you. The lingering ache in your core is just the salt in the wound.

It rains another day. A light drizzle while the sun is still out.

Every day you sit and you think, will it be today? And then the wash basins are emptied out in the field, the horses are taken out to the paddock, you pin the laundry up on the line to dry, and John presses a farewell kiss to your forehead when he leaves you with Kate and nothing happens. Every inch of you waits for more, anticipates more. Throbs when he leaves you wanting, only a chaste kiss and a squeeze around your waist before he’s off.

You can feel it coming to a head. An itch you can’t shake.

That day comes with another ache you can’t shake.

“Please,” you beg, clasping your hands in front of you. “One day of rest. That’s all I’m asking. I can’t do this anymore, John.”

John snaps the lead in his hands. “Let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”

You hang your head low on the march over to the stables, John taking up the rear like he expects you to bolt. An executioner’s walk. The thought of escape has never seemed further away—not even because of its feasibility, but because all you want to do is lie down and rest.

“You can quit your moping,” he says as you tack up Buttercup, a pout on your lips. “Got something special for you today.”

That makes you perk up, regardless of the fact that he doesn’t specify what that is. Anticipation mounts in you when he helps you up onto Buttercup and then climbs up behind you himself. He steers her away from the paddock and towards the trail leading into the woods, the sun at its zenith now, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see.

You’ve ridden this trail before. A week ago, with John at your back as he is now. Through the fields and over the hills until the trees start to number in the tens and then the hundreds, no clear delineation between plain and forest. Simply there and then everywhere.

By now, after hours of sun beating down on the path, the trail is mostly dry, yesterday’s rain long since having sunk into the earth. You think it’d still be a tough hike on foot, but on horseback you cover acres of land at a brisk pace, Buttercup hardly breaking a sweat. You cross paths with a small group traveling by horse and wagon, but John breaks off from the path not too long after that, steering Buttercup deeper into the wilderness, where the only gullies are the ones carved out by years and years of rainfall.

You only see it when the land begins to dip and you’re forced to hold onto the horn and tighten your thighs around the fenders to keep steady. At the bottom of a hill, a small stream opens up into a larger river, narrowing out at the other end where the land rises again and the water can only trickle over the pebbly riverbed. On the other side, a rocky outcropping cuts the stream off from view.

“Is this where you used to come to bathe?” you ask, recalling an earlier conversation.

John sighs. “Thought I’d take you for a swim as a treat, but if you’d rather just tease me—”

“Well now, let’s not be hasty,” you say, already trying to dismount on your own, eyes glued on the stream glimmering in the sunlight. John chuckles, keeping you pressed to him until he guides Buttercup under a tree for shade and dismounts first, helping you down after him.

All you want to do is wade in the stream up to your ankles, so that’s what you do. Boots kicked off, Buttercup relaxing in the shade of a tree, John standing by the water’s edge with his hands on his hips and watching you tiptoe over the smooth rocks below. You roll up your pant legs, but eventually you feel the ends grow damp as you venture farther out. At its deepest, you would probably sink up to your waist.

“Don’t you want to swim?” John asks from somewhere behind you.

You splash around a bit, kicking your feet through the water. “Hard to do that with clothes—”

When you turn back around to face him, your eyes dart down momentarily at the sight of skin before you squeak and whirl back around, sending up an arc of water. Twice now you’ve seen him naked.

“You’ve no clothes on,” you state, bluntly enough that it almost sounds stupid.

You hear the water splash and ripple when he takes his first step in. “Right—you better think about doing the same if you don’t want to ride home soaking wet.”

“I was perfectly fine just getting my feet wet,” you say indignantly.

“We came out here to swim, not get your feet wet,” John laughs. You stiffen when his hand comes down on your shoulder, conscious of the fact that your husband is standing right behind you, entirely divested of his clothes. “So best get to steppin’.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh, honey,” he says pityingly. “Yes, I can.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you make your way back to shore, careful not to allow yourself a glimpse of him. Your boots are stacked beneath the shade of another tree, John’s clothes folded neatly beside them. You strip slowly, attentive to the world around you; though unlikely, it’s not impossible that someone might wander by. Your only consolation is that John is still within sight, though you keep your back to him because in recent days, you’ve developed a hunger for him that even now makes your stomach hurt.

Though the air is warm, you shiver. When you turn around with your arms crossed over your breasts to hide them from sight, you find John wading in the river up to his waist. You’ve seen him like this once before, the hearty body of a man in his prime. Sturdy and strong. The hair on his chest is darker than that on his head, wet too from the dip he must have taken when your back was turned. His hair is slicked back too, a wet hand combing it back.

“Come on, darlin’,” he calls, beckoning you forward with his hand.

The water is a cold shock when you step in past your ankles. Ice cold tendrils wrap up your legs, sucking the warmth from you.

You suck in a soft breath when he pulls you into his arms and heaves you up, big hands gripping under your thighs. Your breasts press against the wet skin of his chest, nipples already pebbled. The river is deeper than you assumed; John pulls you deeper in until it pools around your waist and then your chest. Cold enough that you shiver until John dips his head down and the kiss he presses to your lips melts you from the inside out.

You can’t escape the intimacy of water-slick skin. When John drags you up his chest, your nipples brush over his and the shudder that passes through you is violent, toe-curling. You know that he can feel the heat of your core even underwater. With your legs wound around his waist, every inch of you is plastered to his front. Even your fingers play with the ends of his hair, arms draped over his shoulders. You can’t look away.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, breath hot on your face. “Eyes on me.”

As if you could look anywhere else.

He reaches down under the water to readjust himself and you gasp when his shaft is suddenly right there, trapped between his belly and your heat. It’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to coitus, his glans nestled between your folds. You’d only have to shift slightly for him to slip right in. The thought makes your breath quicken.

He doesn’t make a move to take you though, even knowing that he could. How easy it would be. How it’s due to him. Your husband that’s waited a fortnight to take you as his own. John kisses you until each slick pass of his lips grows sloppier, clumsier—his lips barely parting from yours before they’re on you again, rendering you a creature of base needs.

But his hands don’t shift from your backside where he holds you in place. His fingers dig into the flesh hard enough to bruise, but they don’t move to part your folds to make room for his manhood. You expect him to—practically yearn for it and squeeze him around the neck all the harder when he subverts your expectations, doing no more than letting you grind your heat against the base of his shaft.

“John—John, please,” you beg, mindless for what. You don’t know what you’re asking for.

“What d’ya need, darlin’?” he asks into your mouth, stealing your answer with another kiss.

You fall under the swell of another wave. When the root of his cock glides over your clit, your core clenches on nothing, a sob half-bitten off in your mouth, ripped from your chest.

It doesn’t matter how close to him you get—he gives you nothing. The heat could very well burn you from the inside out. Cold water caresses your skin as it flows past, but the center of you runs so hot that you hardly notice it.

When he hikes you higher up against his chest, you clench your fingers in his hair, whining when he takes your nipple into his mouth. Your gasp comes out sharp and hurt when the coarse bristles of his beard rub rough against your breast. He sucks at your breast tender at first, gentle, eyes half-lidded like his mind has gone somewhere else, but there’s a glint in his eye that grows wild and dark, that turns him rough. You don’t know what to do except shake and let him use you how he wants.

Desperation nips at your heels, urging you up the length of him. If you had more nerve, you’d reach down and grasp him under the water, notch the head of his member against your sex and sink right down on him. You need him like you've never needed anything before. Every part of you aflame, searing hot under the sun at its highest point; right overhead, right on top of you.

His teeth sink delicately into your areola, tongue lapping over your nipple to soothe the hurt, and suddenly, you break.

“Please—” you gasp, wrenching his mouth away from your breast and whimpering when he resists at first, glaring up at you like he might bite. “Please, John—I can’t take it. I need you.”

His eyes darken, the pupil swallowing everything up. “Need me where, wife? Here?”

A hand dips between your thighs, pointer finger gliding over your sex, plump with blood. So tender that your mouth hangs open on a whine when he touches you.

“Y-yes,” you whimper, gaze swimming.

John’s breath comes out in a harsh, ragged pant. Completely undone in a way you’ve never seen before. “Get out, darlin’. I’m taking you home. Gonna give you what you need.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #price/reader #john price/reader #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader #john price

1K notes · View notes

alpaca-clouds · 7 months

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How Nocturne uses Music

Alright, one thing I found endlessly fascinating in Nocturne is how it uses music. Honestly, to me that is one of the biggest differences to the original show, that had a really great soundtrack but never used any diagetic music at all.

In comes Nocturne in which every episode involves at least one scene of people singing. Most of the time Edouard (and yes, I will go through the songs he is doing - admittedly I am not that well versed in opera stuff, but a friend is), but there are also two other instances: The slave songs in Haiti and the Revolutionary songs sung in the tavern.

And you have no fucking clue how important this is. Especially because it builds up one theme throughout it: Singing as a form of resistance. Which it basically is within all of the scenes.

Songs were always used in rebellion and revolution to tie people together. Music is both an emotional outlet, but also something that builds a strong sense of community. (I am not even kidding here: Singing together with people can at times release oxytocin. You know, the same stuff that gets released during sex. It helps you build a relationship with people and build trust with them.)

There is a reason why so many authoritarian regimes forbade a lot of songs, while pushing for their own. Because this stuff is fucking powerful.

And I just love, love, love how the show is playing with that. Especially with Edouard inspiring the other night creatures through music! OMG! This is perfection!

#castlevania #castlevania nocturne #castlevania netflix #music #opera #castlevania nocturne spoilers #castlevania edouard

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cheriecelestial · 2 months

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Angel Pt.1

pairing*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Red Hood!Jason Todd X fem!reader

disclaimer*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ fluff. slight suggestive content (?). swearing. canon typical violence. kinda long. not proofread !

a/n*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ based on that one prompt “Wow ! You’ve grown so much since I last babysat you” “I want to rail you so bad”. Reader is like 26 and Jason is 19-20. Set in the WFA verse + joyfire are a team. Kinda non canon complacent. Smut in part II

Part II

Under the nocturnal skyline of Gotham perched on a towering building was the vigilante anti- hero Red Hood watching, observing the city like a hunter stalking its next prey. His jacket whipped against the wind of the boisterous and animated city. He closed his eyes and listened to song of wailing sirens and the distant cries of people, ready to respond to the city's calls for help.

Gotham was a city that, much like its vigilantes, thrived in the night. The city was hued in the rapturous and vivacious of the nightlife. Neon signs flickered casting flashes of colours across the pavements of the night clubs. People scattered across the pavements like ants, some making their way home from a tiring day of work, others more aimless and leisure - their destinations less defined and indulgent. He pulled out his grapple hook gun and shot to a building a few blocks away from where his bike was parked.

In the shadowed alleyways, Red Hood felt a sinister presence stir. He kept walking without letting them know that he noticed their presence. By the footsteps, he could tell six no.. seven. Four of medium build and three a bit more burly. Judging by their lack of ability to mask their footsteps, he could guess they're amateurs. Well in all honesty, almost everyone was an amateur compared to him. Slowing his pace, Red Hood's hands instinctively moved to his holster, anticipating a potential confrontation. Nothing beat the thrill of beating up bad guys. However, amid the approaching group, he discerned another set of footsteps — urgent, lighter, tinged with fear, and most importantly heading directly toward him.

He felt someone clutch the lapel of his jacket desperately. "You're a vigilante, aren't you ? Please help me sir. I think there are bad people following me." Red Hood looked to his side and saw a woman much shorter than him and shaking like a leaf in wind. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her. It had been almost a decade since he had gazed into those warm large eyes—a fragment of his childhood that he had long relegated to oblivion. Jason Todd had what most would call a troubled childhood. Abandoned by his birth mother and the only other one he had dead from drug abuse and an even worse father who died the hands of Two Face. Tossed through the foster system, he eventually found himself on the unforgiving streets of Gotham. Amid the darkest moments of his youth, one saving grace remained —his angel,Y/N L/N. One he completely forgot about when he assumed the mantle of Robin.

"Help me please." She implored, her voice trembling and on the verge of breaking - the same one who would calm his raging storm on bad nights and tell him that he was going to be okay, and in the moment he swore he was. Her gaze shifted between the men and the vigilante, moving closer to him without realizing to shield herself from the villains in the shadows. Almost as if in a trance, he raised his gloved hand to caress her cheek as if to check if she was real or not. "Just follow my lead." He spoke in a low tone and the woman nodded frantically. His hand encircled her wrist and he started running, dragging her behind him the second he heard the thugs charge. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't think twice before starting a fight and having it his way. But he couldn't bear endangering her in the slightest so getting her to safety was the only viable option.

Her breath came in rapid gasps, and beads of sweat glistened on side of her forehead as they navigated the maze of alleyways in their path. The flickering glow of distant streetlights created fleeting glimpses of their pursuers. Her heart pounded in her chest like the strumming of a frantic drum as adrenaline pumped poisoned her veins. Jason noticed that she couldn't run fast enough to outrun the thugs with her stamina. "Sorry about what I'm about to do”,he warned in a hushed whisper and without hesitation, he lifted her over his shoulder and began running. Y/N gasped, clutching onto the vigilante for dear life. Wind ruffled her hair as she watched the vigilante leave behind their pursuers effortlessly. "You know if this vigilante thing doesn't work out you could try out for the Olympics." She muttered not realizing she said it out loud. Red Hood let out a gruff laugh, "I could but I like beating up bad guys and saving people such as yourself just a tad bit more angel." Y/N blushed at the nickname but waved it off as commonplace banter.

He set her down next to his bike. And took off his chocolate coloured jacket and draped it around her shoulders. "How could I ever thank you?" The h/c haired woman smiled at him with a smile so infectious that the corners of Jason's lips curled up without his realising under his mask. "Don't thank me just yet princess. They aren't near done." Y/N blinked in confusion and followed Red Hood's line of sight where she saw three black cars racing towards them. Her features morphed from relief to horror and alarm in the blink of an eye.The vigilante revved his bike and looked at her,"What are you waiting for?" The woman looks at the approaching cars and back at the vigilante, contemplating her options and got on the back of his bike. His hand envelops her and plants it onto his waist as if silently asking her to hold onto him. Y/N flinches at the contact as it she touched something really hot and retracted her hand.

The masked vigilante plucks a helmet out of the saddlebag and strapped it on her head."You might want to hold on angel." Y/N hums in acknowledgment and holds the grab handle behind the seat. Jason rolled his eyes at her refusal to hold onto him and revves the engine making her lurch forward and crash into his back. Realising that doing this any other way apart from his was futile, Y/N timidly encircled her arms around his waist.

The vibrations of the engine shook her whole being as he raced down the streets. The streets, trees, people blurred in her peripheral vision and she started feeling light-headed. Gathering all the morsels of courage she could find, she looked behind her to see the thugs chasing them. They hadn't lost the three cars and things just got worse when she saw a man peek his head out of the window with a fun in his hand. I'm so dying today. She clasped her hands tighter around him and pressed her face against his rigid muscular back in fear.

Sensing her unease, he looped his arm around her waist and pulled her infront of him. Y/N let out a yelp from the suddenness of the contact.

"What are you -"

"You don’t want your back facing them when they start shooting soon." Y/N looked over his shoulder to the thugs and then sunk back into and then sank back against his chest.

"You know if it makes you feel better just know this is an average Tuesday for me." Y/N blinked at him incredulously and in a small voice muttered,"It's Thursday today." A nonchalant shrug was all the answer he decided to give her. How the hell does he manage to remain calm through it? I'm on the verge of a panic attack and he's swerving as if this is a joyride in his kingdom. And in that moment if someone said that he was the king of Gotham, Y/N would find it hard to refute it.

The bike picked up speed causing the h/c haired woman to crash against his chest harshly. It was as if the pressure of the wind glued her against him. To calm herself, she decided to try concentrating elsewhere. Absentmindedly trailing the ridges of his armour and the red bat symbol on his chest. She heard whispers and rumours about Red Hood, the prince of crime, the scourge of the underworld—an outlaw employing more lethal methods against crime than Batman. Despite initial conflicts with Batman, he was acknowledged as a Bat vigilante some time ago. This man was dangerous and unpredictable then why did he feel so familiar to her ?

“I know I have god-tier pectoral muscles but I’d appreciate if you stopped distracting me like that.” Red Hood quipped, sounding almost smug at her fascination. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly withdrew her hand, realising how inappropriate that must’ve felt and hastily clarified,“ I’m so sorry, I’m not a pervert I swear.” Y/N felt his chest rumble with a chuckle.

“Hold on.” Red Hood skidded the bike across the road with a loud screech, making Y/N wince at the sound of the metal scratching against the gravel. He loaded his gun with one hand still wrapped around Y/N protectively and aimed at the tires of the approaching car. “I’d suggest for you to not look at it.”Y/N averted her gaze and moments later, she heard a series of crashes and explosions.

“Jesus Christ I thought I was going to die !” She exhaled in relief. Red Hood turned his face towards her slowly and looked at her as if deadpanning through the mask,“ I’m here you know. What makes you think I’d let you die ?” He retorted taking full offence of her words. “I- I didn’t mean it like that -” she stammered, partly scared to offend the vigilante.

"Whatever I'll drop you off." Jason rolled his eyes and patted the seat behind him. Y/N hesitated, remembering her mother's warning about getting on bikes with strange men, but given her current situation, she realized it was too late to dwell on that now. With no one pursuing them, the ride felt much more pleasant. The speed and the wind against her hair seemed to turn her blood to gasoline as the air dissipated from her lungs. Adrenaline fueled activities weren't for her, at least that's what her sense of self preservation told her. Y/ N pressed her cheek against Red Hood's back. Vigilantes had a symbiotic relationship with the city and as was a common saying in Gotham "The less bats you run into the happier your life is." She knew that this encounter might be a fleeting one, so she decided to relish the moment for now.

Feelings and thoughts were long forgotten, where everything faded into the background and only her physical self exists and the dancing lights at the hazy edges of her vision offered an intoxicating taste of freedom that was indescribable — stripped of obligations, responsibilities and consequences.

Y/N almost doesn’t notice when he stopped the bike. “Do you plan on holding onto me for long ? Not that I mind but we’re here.” Red Hood hopped off the bike and Y/N took off her helmet and hung it onto the handlebar. She scanned her surroundings, they were in front of a five star hotel with sports cars parked on either side of of the road. “Why are we here ?” The woman asked following behind the masked vigilante. “Well for one I don’t know your address so I can’t drop you home and second it’s too late so you should stay the night at a hotel and go home in the morning. It’s safer that way.” Y/N stared at him in disbelief,“ But I don’t have the kind of money to rent a room in a place like this.” Red Hood retrieved a key card from his pocket and placed it on her palm,“Who said anything about paying ?” The h/c haired took it reluctantly and slowly walked to the entrance of the hotel, looking back at him again and again. It wasn’t until she was inside the hotel that she saw him drive off. Y/N walked to the concierge desk and showed her the card. The receptionist eyed her with suspicion considering how she looked so out of place compared to her opulent setting. “Please fill this form. It’s for security purposes.”

The form asked things like her address and her phone number. As reluctant as she was, the receptionist looked like she wasn’t letting her through unless she filled it. Wary of the dangers of misuse of information, Y/N tried to keep her responses as brief as possible. Paranoia was the best friend of a Gothamite considering everything that went down in this hellhole. It was good to always assume the worse and subsequently prepare for it.

The receptionist offered her a tight smile and walked her to the suite. Calling it a suite was an understatement since it was the penthouse on top of the hotel. Just how rich is this guy ? Y/N assumed that the house was a property he didn’t live in because the place lacked personal touch. Either that or he was a real minimalist which was unlikely considering bat vigilantes’ love for theatrics. Y/N wondered if all the bat vigilantes were like a huge family with Batman as papa bat. Where would Red Hood fall in the hierarchy ? If she were to guess, she’d say he was probably the black sheep of the family. Y/N looked around the house, it was one straight out of architectural digests with its high ceilings and cool grey and white interior. She looked at the time and decided it was best if she hit the shower and go to bed and finally put an end to this crazy day.

Jason Todd checked into the hotel the next morning and was greeted by the overly friendly receptionist, personally he didn’t mind fangirls but anyone with even half a braincell knew the risks of being a vigilante groupie. She passed him the form that Y/N filled. He couldn’t help but smile at the form. Filling her work address and a phone number both which were most likely false give the conspicuous number of 7’s in the number ? She’s smarter than most civilians, he’d give her that. The penthouse looked almost unhampered with. His jacket was neatly folded on the dining table with a note reading “Thank you so much for saving me. Regards.” The tone of the note was clear ‘I appreciate you saving me but I hope we never meet again.’ Jason pocketed the note and left the penthouse. Fates had been kind enough to reunite him with his angel and he’d be damned if he let her get away .

“Yoohoo Y/N to earth. Anybody home ?”Y/N’s coworker snapped her fingers in front her face, snapping her out of her reverie. “Sorry about that Steph.” Y/N apologised with an awkward laugh. Stephanie Brown, albeit several years younger, was one of Y/N’s closest friends. She was a bubbly and cheerful soul anyone could tell that by the first impression she projected.

Since the night almost a week ago with the mysterious vigilante, Y/N often found her thoughts plagued by him. Curiosity of where he would be or what he would be doing right now. Her eyes often looked for any news of him while watching the news. I really have to stop thinking about him, even though they lived in the same city, the odds of them running into each other were minute.

The door opened and the bell on top of it clanged, announcing the arrival of a customer. “Mornin’ ladies.” The customer greeted. Y/N turned her attention at the newcomer at the counter. “Good morning detective !” she greeted the customer with a bright smile.

Dick Grayson served as a police officer under the GCPD and was one of the cafe’s frequents. From experiences of her own childhood, Y/N consider the police nothing but corrupt individuals on payroll of powerful people who bullied those weaker than them. But detective Grayson was one of the good and honest ones. He played a massive role in restoring Y/N’s faith that there were those in the police force who could be relied upon and ones that fought for a better Gotham.

"I'll go with the..." he glanced at the menu, a ritual he often performed. "the regular?" Y/N finished his sentence. He responded with a smile, revealing his dimples. "I never understand why you bother with the menu when you always order the same thing," she remarked. He shrugged nonchalantly, as if saying 'who knows.' A smile crept onto her face as she made his order.

“So how’s everything with the family ?” Y/N asked, making small talk. Beyond his consistent ordering and punctual 9:00 AM café visits, he frequently shared his sibling issues. "Oh, where do I begin? My brother is acting up, yet again. He pulled some crap about a week ago. He broke one of Dad’s rules, even though he said he did it to help someone but Dad was just not having it."

“ Which one ? The cool rebellious one or the little gremlin one ?” Y/N laughed sympathetically. She didn’t feel the need to probe and ask much but she always lent an ear to a friend so naturally she knew them by characteristics and not by name. From what she knew, Dick Grayson had three younger brothers - the broody rebellious one, the caffein addict smartass and the 4 foot gremlin edgelord from hell.

“The rebellious one.” he sighed wearily. Y/N placed his order on the counter, including a small pack of cookies. “On the house. You could use some sugar anyway. They’re free testers before we put them on the menu.” Dick accepted the coffee and cookie packet, flashing a bright smile. “Thank you so much. You’re an angel.” An odd feeling resonated within her when Dick called her that. That’s what Red Hood called her. Somehow the way the word rolled off his tongue seemed so different compared to when anyone else said it.

“Hey Dick do you mind if I ask you something ?” Dick nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “What do you know about the Red Hood ?”

Dick choked on his drink and burst into a fit of coughs. It took him a while to compose himself. “He’s alright. I mean he does help the GCPD I guess but he’s too unpredictable and we don’t exactly approve of his methods. He doesn’t hurt innocents but he’s bad news. Why do you ask ?”

“No reason.”Y/N brushed off the inquiry, and although Dick seemed skeptical, he left after leaving a tip. There. Is your curiosity satiated ? Even Dick said he’s bad news now can we stop thinking about him ? Her inner conscience reprimanded her.

Y/N's weary steps echoed in the quiet street as she walked home from work at night. The flickering light from the street lights streetlights casted long almost sentient looking shadows. Her thoughts — a mix of the day's challenges, the longing for the comfort of home blurred into oblivion when a strange chill crept up her spine with a sense of foreboding. Cautious of her surroundings, Y/N constantly kept watch around herself. Just a few yards before her apartment building, she heard their neighbourhood strays agitatedly hiss to something near the dumpster. Not wanting to get involved in whatever trouble Gotham had brought to her feet, she fastened her pace. Suddenly, a flash of vibrant red —the same shade she had been secretly craving to see in the past week, caught her eye.

“Red Hood ?” Y/N stepped into the shadows cautiously as if ready to flee at the first signs of trouble.

“Angel ?” He asked gruffly. Y/N walked closer and found him against the wall, clutching his side. His wound wasn’t a death sentence but needed to be tended to quickly. Her eyes widened in horror when she noticed the crimson coating his fingers,“You’re hurt !”

“ ‘Tis but a scratch m’lady.” He let out a pained laugh seeming to ease her nerves. “We need to get that treated.” Y/N urged. She knew that vigilantes couldn’t just walked into hospitals to get patched up because of the whole secret identity thing. And she also knew that taking it upon herself to treat him would go against every plan of self preservation she had. But she owed him his life. I’ll pay off my debt and we’ll never meet again. Y/N mentally decided and looked at him with newfound determination in her eyes. “My apartment is just upstairs. I have a first aid kit. Come with me.”

Red Hood gazed at her, momentarily lost in thought, then lifted his other hand to gently stroke her cheek. Y/N flinched at his touch, making him withdraw his hand. “Sorry I thought I was hallucinating you because from the blood loss. ” He admitted meekly. Y/N sighed and placed his hand over her shoulder. “Can you stand?” The masked vigilante nodded, rising slowly with a grunt.

Swallowing her rising concern, she brought him to her house and beckoned him towards her couch. Red Hood’s every step betrayed a hint of discomfort, his grimace almost visible even behind that signature mask. The second he dropped on her couch, she disappeared. He caught flashes of her running around the house like a busy bee at work. In seconds, she produced a first-aid kit and knelt next to him. “Lift your shirt.” She maintained her clinical tone, but the concern was evident with her eyes trained on the wound.

“Angel you know if you wanted to –” Jason started with a cheeky tone but was cut off by a stern glare, “Ahem yes ma’am”

Y/N breath hitched every so slightly when she saw the injury. It didn’t look like a bullet wound, the malformed spindle shape resembled a stab wound. “I’m sorry I don’t have any anaesthetic.” She didn’t look up from the wound as her cotton swab glided over the grevions injury. Shifting her elbow to his other hand on his thigh, Red Hood tilted his head seemingly questioning her,“ You can hold my arm and squeeze it if it hurts. I’ve heard that helps.”

“Appreciate the gesture angel but I’m pretty sure I’d snap your arm in half if I did.” His tone was both dismissive and endearing. Y/N didn’t insist, given his strength what he said was probably true. Vigilantes were exceptionally trained, surpassing conventional human limits. Unlike the caped metahuman from Metropolis, the bat vigilantes were more cryptid in nature. None would be where they came from and where they went. Invulnerable and insurmountable. Despite him being in a position that would render others vulnerable, he appeared unfazed, akin to a wounded yet formidable beast. There was a natural aura of dominance and power about him. They don’t call him the Prince of Gotham for no reason that’s for sure.

“You’re good at this. Like one of the best I’ve seen.” He spoke up, seemingly trying to come off as capable of being civil. “Well three years of med school. Some stitching is the least I can do.” She explained. Red Hood visible froze for a good second and inquired,“ You’re a doctor ?”

Y/N scoffed,“ Look around. Do I look like one ?” Red Hood looked around her apartment. Although well maintained, an ode to her efforts, the apartment was old and almost pitiful . Most of the furniture looked second hand and cheap. The curtain rods were rusted and the paint was peeling off from the walls with damp spots on the ceilings.

“You dropped out ?” He guessed. “Yeah. Couldn’t afford it.” She chuckled bitterly.

“Didn’t they offer scholarships or something ?” Jason was aware of Wayne Enterprises’ scholarship programs for talented students. When Bruce took him in, he assured Jason that if Y/N met the criteria, she would be enrolled in the program. Y/N’s intellect had always impressed Jason since childhood, he remembered that she would often sneak into libraries and memorise books worth of stories to recite them to Jason to help him sleep. There was just no way she wouldn’t be accepted into the program.

“They did but that didn’t pay bills. I needed to find a job to pay for my mom’s hospital bills.” She kept her response short, clearly not wanting to delve deep into the topic. “Work for me.” The statement was like a whiplash for Y/N. Work for him ? There weren’t many things Y/N had to take a double take for but this proposition was entirely unexpected. It caught her off guard, she stared at him incredulously with widened eyes. Red Hood was know for operating in the gray areas between legality and criminality and wasn’t exactly your quintessential example of a righteous lawful hero.

“Not in the way you’re imagining.” He hooked his free hand under her chin, gently closing her agape mouth. His tone was soft and reassuring,“ I’ve been meaning to find a backstreet surgeon to stitch me up. Comes in handy for a guy like me. I’m sure you understand angel.”

“B-but why me ?”Y/N stuttered, avoiding eye contact as her nerves threatened to overwhelm her. She could feel a chill of nervousness and panic creep up her spine. What if he got angry if she refused ? Jason noticed the change in the air around her and the stiffening of her muscles in panic that she was clearly trying to hide from him.

“Because you’re convenient. Your place is easy to get in and out of undetected, you’re talented and most of all —“ He gently lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Y/N let out a shuddered breath as Red Hood stroked her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “— you fear me enough to not go around squeaking to the wrong people about me. No ?” Jason couldn’t help but relish in the reaction he elicited to the feeling of the leather gliding against her cheek in a silken featherlight touch. How adorable.

Y/N swallowed nervously before nodding slowly. A beat of silence passed and she let out a small sigh, recollecting herself and weighing her options. “How much are we talking ?” She asked him in a low voice. Jason could hardly contain his excitement, grinning wildly under his mask. A sense of pride washed over him as her first question after his offer focused on the financial aspect.

“Let’s see how about 2 grand a month ? Too less ? 3 grand ? 3.5 ? That enough ?”he suggested eagerly. Y/N’s eyes widened in disbelief, almost bulging from their sockets. Without waiting for her response, he added, “Plus, there’ll be extra incentives when I’m feeling generous.”

“All that for some stitching ? There has to be a catch.” She reasoned. It seemed implausible that he would offer such a substantial sum for such a minor task. Jason chuckled," You’re smart. I like that in a woman. And to answer your question, it’s not just stitching. It’s about your discretion and loyalty. It’s a complete package. Plus that sort of money is pretty much pocket change to me.”

“And if I were to betray your trust ?” Y/N asked in a hypothetical sense, of course she had more sense than to betray someone of his stature and power. “Do you really want me to answer that ?” He countered sounding equal parts smug and menacing. Y/N shook her head in negation and continued stitching his wound. The process of stitching became a meditative rhythm - the needle piercing the skin, the pull of the thread, the knotting, and the slight twitch of Red Hood’s muscles with each stitch.

“I’ll take it.” She muttered. Jason was grateful for his mask and injury otherwise, he might have been unable to hide his urge to jump up and punch air in celebration. Agreeing to his proposition marked just the beginning of his grand plan for making Y/N his and for now, everything unfolded according to his wishes and he couldn’t be happier.

Y/N wrapped gauze around the wound and secured it with a metal clip. “Normally I’d suggest a few days’ rest but I have a feeling there’s no point in saying.” Red Hood commented with a shrug as he inspected the injury. Y/N rose and fetched him a glass of water from the kitchen, setting it on the table. “If you’re trying to get me to remove my helmet, it won’t work.” he remarked. As much as his distrust stung, Y/N rationalised that it was typical for someone like him.

She retrieved a scarf from the coat rack, folded it and tied it around her eyes before taking a seat on the edge of the couch, keeping a respectable distance from the masked vigilante. "What's with the blindfold angel ?" Red Hood asked, his tone tinged with amusement.

"Isn't trust earned through actions?" she responded. Y/N heard the thud of his helmet being placed on the table. Jason seemed genuinely impressed by her gesture. His gaze lingered on her figure as she remained motionless, noting how much she had changed since his childhood memory. Yet her kindness to those in need while still keeping herself guarded from those who would abuse it still remained unchanged. Jason’s hand twitched with the impulse to touch her. To hold her. He wondered how her face would look in his palms with her bare body melded against his own.

“ ‘Suppose it is.” Jason chuckled as he downed the glass of water and put his helmet back on. “I’m finished. You can remove that blindfold now, although it does look adorable on you.” He noticed her chest rise with a sudden hitch, and her cheeks flush red. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed, knowing the other implications blindfolds carried. As she removed the scarf and looked around, Red Hood had vanished without a trace. Her window was open and it was as if disappeared into the wind just as he came. She got why the bat vigilantes were often likened to cryptid beings and phantoms. Y/N was left to ponder over the events that had unfolded. Under the glass of water she offered him three hundred dollar bills were tucked. “I suppose I’m now working for the Prince of Gotham now.” Y/N mused to herself, realizing her attempt to avoid getting involved had failed miserably.

Jason's parents engaged in another round of screaming matches, this time he decided he’d had enough and thought of running away. Despite previous fleeting thoughts of escape, each time night fell — he faced the harsh reality of lacking sustenance and shelter. Convinced that the streets offered a marginally preferable refuge to the shithole he was force to call home, he wandered aimlessly till he found himself at the dumpster of a bakery. He knew shops like those threw away left overs even though they could’ve given them out — Jason saw it as a glaring manifestation of selfishness of adults.

He hid behind the dumpster and waited for someone to come and throw away the leftovers. After waiting for almost half an hour, the sound of the door opening caught his attention. Glancing cautiously from his hiding spot, Jason spotted a young waitress walking out. She was likely just a few years older than himself, a middle school or a high school student maybe, he thought to himself. As she approached to dispose of the food, she paused midway. No way did she see him ? Jason shrank back against a cardboard box, hoping she wouldn’t notice him.

“Hey kid you can come out. I already saw you.” the waitress said softly. Jason slowly crawled out and approached her. He eyed the tray of leftovers in her hand, wondering if he could snatch them and escape quickly enough ? The waitress seemed to notice this and raised the tray above his reach. “Against bakery policies kid. Where are your parents ?” She asked. Of course she wouldn't be generous enough to offer him any. In his mind, all adults were rotten to the core and selfish —why would she be any different ?

Jason scoffed,“ Does it matter ?” His statement was met with a sigh from the waitress, her expression conveying annoyance, a scene all too familiar to him. Bracing himself he said,“ Just do it already. I’ve had it from guys thrice your size.” Jason was well acquainted with the drill with diner employees — catch a few shoves and slaps, pretend to go away and wait for them to leave and then come back pick up the food.

He shut his eyes and waited for her to slap and swear at him to drive him away like everyone else. Yet moments passed but the expected blow never came. Instead, Jason felt a gentle pat on his head and looked up to see her smiling empathetically, though her eyes betrayed a hint of sadness. Wondering why she seemed so melancholic, he accepted the loaf of bread she offered and wolfed it down. “Won’t you get in trouble for this ?” He asked. With a forced laugh she admitted,“ I probably will but I can’t let a kid hungry now can I ?”

“I won’t tell anyone.” The young boy promised earnestly and she returned his smile. His gaze fell upon her nametag—Y/N L/N. Maybe not all adults are bad.

It had been barely four days since she last saw him that she heard from him again. In the dead of night, her doorbell rang. She approached the door cautiously and grabbed a baseball bat from the umbrella rack as a just in case. She didn’t hear any movement on the other side of the door so she cautiously opened the door, peering out. To her surprise, she found only a small, shoddily wrapped parcel resting on the floor with her name written in red.

There was no one except a small poorly wrapped parcel on floor with her name on it. Retrieving it, she carried it inside. Within the parcel lay a modest yet exquisite golden necklace accompanied by a handwritten instruction manual. Observing it she realised it was one of those necklaces that acted as an SOS signal. The parcel also contained a big folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, she discovered a map of Gotham City with specific locations ominously marked in red and the stark warning “DO NOT GO” emblazoned in bold letters. Y/N couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtful gesture, maybe this is not all that bad.

Over the following days, Red Hood would appear unannounced giving Y/N enough jumpscares for lifetime, when she would walk into her living room and find him bleeding out on her couch. He wasn’t much of a talker which wasn’t a surprise.

His injuries presented a variety of shapes and sizes each time he visited, but recently, his injuries bore uncanny resemblance the markings of knife wounds. Some were superficial, while others cut deeper. However, considering the depth, placement, and angles, Y/N questioned whether they were the result of his typical fights. "Are you testing my loyalty? Seeing if I'll betray you?" Y/N clenched her teeth with silvers of anger and frustration glinting in her eyes. Red Hood appeared slightly taken aback but remained silent in response to her outburst. "Do you really think I wouldn't notice ? Either that certain type of knife has become Gotham’s thugs number one choice or you're doing this to yourself. Why ?" She pressed further.

“ I knew I shouldn’t have made it so obvious.”Jason wasn’t accustomed to others fussing over his safety. Typically he received, at most a pat on the back from those who worked alongside him, knowing he had endured much worse and could handle it. Her anger and frustration hinted at concern, echoing the tone when he would go and pick fights with boys twice his size.

“What’s that supposed to mean ?”

Red Hood let out a sigh and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Listen, I enjoy spending time with you and I wouldn’t bother coming unless I needed medical attention. So you know —"

“— So you cut yourself ? To hang out with me ? What’s wrong with you ? What if you actually got into a fight with those injuries ? What if you got hurt for real ? You could really get hurt. How could you do that to yourself ? ”

Jason lowered his head in remorse, realizing he hadn't fully considered his actions. Despite understanding her perspective and acknowledging the wrong in purposefully hurting himself for her attention, he couldn't deny a secret sense of satisfaction. "I’m so sorry," he muttered his apology, genuinely meaning every word. Y/N released an exasperated sigh and took a moment to compose herself before speaking again. "Next time, just ask. It's not that complicated."

Jason's head lifted with hopeful curiosity, resembling a puppy eager for a treat. " I can do that ?" he asked tentatively, unsure if her words were genuine. Jason blinks, and then smiles. Her words cause something to stir within him, a sensation of warmth and affection he hasn't felt in a while. Y/N nodded and got up to dispose of the bloody cotton swabs in the kitchen. Jason’s eyes followed her eyes, watching closely and to see if she was still mad at him. Y/N was a pretty forgiving person but in all honesty, he did mess up pretty bad. She returned and settled back down with a sigh, causing a slight nervous flutter in Jason. “So what do vigilantes when they’re not fighting bad guys ?” Y/N initiated as an icebreaker, much to Jason’s relief. It’s not like he could say ‘hey I’m in love with you please hang out with me with marriage in mind’. Wait marriage ? Where did that come from ? Images of Y/N in a white gown walking down an isle flashed through his mind. Y/N Todd. That had a nice ring to it, Jason mused silently. He had heard that Bali was a popular honeymoon destination but Y/N once told him that she always wanted to see the stargazing so the Atacama desert isn’t a bad destination either.

“Um earth to Red. You still here ?” Y/N waved her hand in front of Jason who seemed to have spaced out.

“Red ?”Jason asked sounding positively amused by the unexpected nickname. She shrugged and replied,“ Calling you Red Hood seemed too long, so Red it is. Not very creative, I know.”

Jason chuckled,“ I’ll allow it. And to answer your question, vigilantes don't have much time for leisure. When we're not fighting, we’re either training or passed the fuck out from exhaustion.” Y/N felt tired just hearing that, understanding the reasoning behind it, but the question remained: he wasn’t wasting time by being here, was he ?

“Seems like there’s no room for hobbies?” Y/N quipped, eliciting another soft laugh from Jason as he visibly relaxed. "I suppose so but pros can squeeze in time for special things here and there." he replied, his voice still quiet but now tinged with a smile. His body language seemed brighter and happier, and for the first time since she saw him actually looking relaxed.

Y/N reached for the TV remote, flipping through channels before tossing it onto his lap and standing up. “I’m going to fix myself something. Do you want anything?” she asked politely. Jason shook his head, declining, “I’m good.” Y/N walked to the kitchen and started making herself popcorn. What sort of movies and tv shows would vigilantes enjoy ? She guessed they might lean towards crime-related or action-packed content, but then remembered her friends’ complaints about the inaccuracy of such portrayals.

“Seriously Janet ?! There’s no way you’re picking that dress. Just cuz it would look good on Jessica doesn’t mean it would suit you ! I can hear the wails of the colour theory all the way from here.” Jason shook his head, sounding genuinely disappointed. He probably didn’t even notice Y/N shuffling closer to the television, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. So I guess that answers my question.

“That’s an interesting choice.”

Jason rolled his eyes and diverted his attention back to the television again. “What ? Can’t a man enjoy some good entertainment ?” He retorted. Y/N laughed lightly dismissing his remark,” No no it’s not that. Personally I’m more of a k-drama and anime girlie but I hold nothing against reality tv.” He nodded in acknowledgment of her preferences and resumed watching. Sitting beside him, Y/N observed as he commented on almost everything the people on TV said, finding herself amused by how much more entertaining his live commentary was compared to the actual show.

Minutes rolled by and after almost a couple hours, Y/N got up to go use the washroom and when she returned he had vanished once again, as was his habit. A small note lay where he had sat on her couch earlier. She picked it up and read, “Had a great time. Thanks for today - R” Y/N chuckled and shook her head, Damn these bats and their theatrics.

Jason would show up every three four days, most of the time unharmed thankfully. The two would do a variety of things like watching movies and tv shows together, playing board games and video games and just talking in general. At first it was just discussing their common interests but eventually he would sporadically divulged minor, unimportant details about himself. Some things she was able to piece together were that one, the bat vigilantes was a dysfunctional family with Batman as their patriarch. Second, the Red Hood worked alongside Starfire and Arsenal as his teammates. And third, that he had to be the biggest classic literature nerd she had come across.

“What do you mean your best friend tried to set you on fire while you were taking a shower ?! Didn’t you like lock the door or something ?”

“Locked doors don’t really do much to people like us angel.”

“So who’s your favourite bat sibling ?” Jason fell silent at her question, contemplating the answer. “Well that’s a tough question. I have my set of challenges and grudges with all of them. We’ve tried to kill each other atleast once. More so with my brothers than the girls. I’d say I get along pretty well with spoiler and batgirl. And if you ask about my brothers, I’d say Nightwing. He’s the funny nice one, Red Robin’s the smart, loyal one and Robin is the little obnoxious one.”

Y/N chuckled,“ Guess the article checks out.”

“What article ?” Jason asked curiously. Most of his intel came from law enforcement agencies databases, informants, surveillance technology, his fellow vigilantes and his own investigative work so he didn’t really feel the need to keep up with the cheesy articles in Gazette.

“The cinnamon roll tier list !” Y/N’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

“The what now ?”

“So there’s this popular meme going online,”she started to explain,“ so there are four categories - first, looks like a cinnamon roll, is a cinnamon roll. In that category are the signal, the spoiler and nightwing. Second, looks like a cinnamon roll, could kill you. That one is for Red Robin and the Robin. Third, looks like could kill you but is a cinnamon roll, that one is for Batgirl and the last is -” she paused because she knew the next tier on the list might potentially sting him.

“Looks like could kill you and would kill you ? Let me guess that’s one for me ?” Jason chuckled humorlessly, fully aware of the kind of reputation that preceded him. He wondered if she held the same perception of him. Y/N remained silent, neither confirming nor denying his statement.

"You know, you don't need to constantly worry about offending me. Believe me, I've heard far worse than anything your pretty mouth could say to me." Y/N couldn't help but feel upset, while his words were true, there was more to it than that. She wanted to express that she wasn't entirely afraid of him, but that wasn't entirely true either.

“Anyways – ”She interjected, clapping her hands once to shift the flow of the conversation,“ I got a new video game from a friend. Let me go get it. DO NOT DISAPPEAR. I’m serious it’s creepy.” Jason responded with her a cheeky salute,“ Yes ma’am.” Y/N disappeared into the bedroom briefly and returned with the DVD. When she came back she noticed Jason had reclined on the couch, appearing to have dozed off.

“Red ?” she asked softly, approaching him. She tried to get his attention again, but he remained unresponsive. He must’ve fallen asleep, she figured remembering what he said about his schedule. Retrieving a blanket from the side of the couch, she gently covered him. She sat there for a while, observing him as he slept. Watching him like this felt natural and familiar. Leaning back on the couch herself, she tried to unwind in the peaceful silence. Y/N couldn't help but admire him and all that he had achieved. Finding a friend in such an extraordinary circumstance was something she had never anticipated.

After a while, a somewhat wicked notion crept into her mind. She tried to shush the voice. Hanging out with Stephanie was sure working its magic, she thought to herself. It was a harmless little prank really, surely he wouldn’t mind. Against all logic and rationale, she decided entertained the idea. Tiptoeing to her closet, she retrieved the item from her closet and cautiously returned, double-checking if he was asleep. Here goes nothing.

#dc #batboys #batman #jason todd #jason todd smut #jason todd x reader #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood smut #dc smut #batfam #yandere jason todd #jason todd x y/n #red hood x y/n #dc comics

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rottiens · 2 days

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NOCTURNAL WALTZ | RYŌMEN SUKUNA

✮ summary. . when life tries to ruin your dreams you keep trying. you get up, wipe the sweat off and try again, even when you fall… it's either that, or ally yourself with your rival and hope he doesn't drag you down to the bottom of hell with him.

✮ cw. . workplace harassment (not from sukuna), slight possessiveness, slight violence (blood), alcohol consumption, smoking, eventual smut, exhibitionism, choking kink, dirty talk, breeding kink, 18+

✮ tags. . modern + ballet au, enemies to friends to lovers, briefly fake dating, all characters are adults, descriptions used for the reader: fem + afab!, backstory, has hair long enough to tie, wears dress in one scene. divider creds: cafekitsune.

✮ wc. . 18K

Ever since you were a little girl all you've known to do is dance.

You did it at school performances, you did it at Christmas when your whole family gathered in the living room and the snow fell cold on the tall treetops and red flowers in your garden.

You always remember the scene wistfully and in slow motion, longing for the days that will never return. Your father played the piano and your mother looked on proudly, her hands were always clasped together at chest level watching you with the eyes of an owl making circles with your legs in the air. She always had that expression on her face as if she was afraid you were going to fall, she was always on the edge of her seat, her lips curved into a smile— after all, she was in charge of organizing all your choreography and choosing the songs you were going to dance to, along with your shoes and your outfit. All this was until you were fifteen when you begged her to finally enroll you in a real dance school.

You remember how nervous you were on the first day. You wore your hair pulled back so tight it looked like you were smiling the whole time, your eyebrows stretched and your stomach felt like that Halloween night where you ate so much candy your guts hurt, though all of this was pushed aside the moment you saw the great ballroom.

The walls rose far higher than your little eyes could see. White lights glowed against the beige walls —which your teenager self mentally corrected them later, it wasn't beige, it was salmon, with curtains the color of the peach your mother cut on Sunday mornings— and in the background you could appreciate a melody you knew well since it was your mother's favorite, the one she always chose for you to dance: "dance of the sugar plum fairy."

Training professionally was much more demanding than your mom had told you. You studied in the morning and practiced in the afternoon, your feet hurt all the time in the beginning although with time this became more bearable, however they never stopped hurting because you never stopped practicing.

The lights blinded you for a moment leading you to run away from the incandescent glowing light, causing you to stumble and Sukuna purposely let you fall from his arms so that you kissed the ground.

Your body hits the wooden floor with a dull thud, the live music doesn't stop because of your accident and the director of the ballet claps twice again. It's the signal that the show must go on, it's what the music means that instead of slowing down it rushes to climax, you force yourself to stand up, with a sukuna growling tiredly behind you. No one helps you so you do it alone, you bury your toes in the wood and your injured feet push off the ground and support your weight once more as you rise phoenix-like on your tips.

This is what it takes to be a pro, is what your mother would say if she were alive. You hear her voice loud and strong in your eardrum along with the noise of the music.

One, two and... up!

You hear her ask you for more. Lift your foot more, lift your knees more, straighten your back more. You're trying but—

"You're being too rough," you spit through gritted teeth. Maintaining the fake smile your character must wear.

You know he hears you, yet he remains silent, twisting and turning, holding you above his head and taking one last turn.... Everything seems blurry from your point of view, your stomach churning like a roller coaster even though you don't remember the last thing you ate because this was exactly what you wanted to avoid.

Don't throw up, don't throw up.

You catch the two claps from the director indicating that sukuna should drop you and that's exactly what he does... with a little more force than he should, his hands are loose on your waist, barely gripping you. Your arms stretch, they tremble in the air as does your smile, a cold sweat that shouldn't be there runs down your temples, you feel the salty drops slide over your lower lip and your breathing becomes almost nonexistent, your chest rises and falls and then sukuna lets you go, you are alone, the lights focus completely on you and you hear laughter in the background.

This is the moment where you must do your solo. Spin alone one more time and then let yourself fall. Your feet don't respond at first, you had forgotten your smile, very focused on moving your legs but when you manage to do it you falter again and collapse on the floor with a harder impact than the previous time. Now the music comes to a sudden stop.

You hear him sigh heavily, followed by the fluttering of the sheets of paper in his hand. Kurogawa, the director, puts his glasses on his head like a makeshift headband and slaps his hands once.

Immediately the whole room fills with noise, people start moving. Even your dance partner who although you don't see him, you feel him walking and moving away from you. You have a hard time getting up, this time you really have a hard time. Your body has been beaten to a pulp by the dozens of practices you have carried out these days, your dress and tights hide the bruises that have permeated the floor on them, you carry on your hips sukuna fingers by the force in which he has grabbed you, even so, you do not manage to perform the spin that should come out naturally.

You are a star, this is what you were born to do and this is what you have always done, why can't a dumb spin come out perfectly?

Kurogawa calls your name before you can move further away. You freeze in the middle of the stage, grateful to be away from the spotlight and more in the comfort of the gloom.

You sense his footsteps approaching, with each footstep his heels announce how close he is and your body trembles, your teeth chatter and you force yourself to be still.

"What's the matter?" His voice is neither far nor near.

"I don't..." you force your lip between your teeth before articulating your next words. You can't say you can't.

"I asked you a question." His body is behind you, stopping the draft that touched your back, serving as a wall that exudes warmth and insecurity.

His hand curls around your forearm with some force and makes you turn to see him, his violet eyes are naked, without the glasses he looks much younger, yet a couple of gray hairs escape from the improvised headband reminding you of the age difference.

Kurogawa examines you up and down, his eyes linger on your mouth for a moment and you think maybe he notices how dry they are, this prompts you to lick them suddenly.

"Do you want me to switch someone for you? There are dozens of girls who wish they were in your shoes."

"I know, sir." You bite your lip to control your emotions, and swallow the bitter bile rising up your esophagus.

His hand descends from your forearm to the width of your shoulder blades. "I don't think you appreciate it enough." This time he addresses you in a lower tone, he's hunched down to be at your height and the tone he uses would seem like he's telling a secret. His fingers run down the length of your back, you feel his fingers drag the fabric and linger on your lower back. "Is it Ryōmen? Is he the problem?" Then he pulls you closer to his body, this time there is no space between you, his leg is touching yours and his bittersweet breath, the taste of liquor mixed with wilted petals brushes your nose.

"I feel that we are not compatible, sir."

"Ah..." exclaims Kurogawa, still glued to you. "Are you implying that my best student isn't good enough for you?"

"I think..." he was too close for you to even think of anything. You try to see past his shoulders that steal all the light yet there is nothing but darkness, and the chill in your temples moves to your lower abdomen.

“Child... you're lucky your daddy paid a lot of money for you to be here, I don't think there's much talent in you.” Your mascara-filled lashes flutter like the wings of a swan. Your lips part to ask for space, but you're interrupted, he says your name and it's bitter, it sounds disgusting in his throat. “But the untalented ones, they can always do something else, can't they?”

Suddenly, someone calls your name again from the vast darkness behind you.

“Don't keep me waiting. You made me promise to take you home, brat.”

Kurogawa takes a moment to detach himself from you and you inhale in despair, you were drowning in his cheap cologne and alcohol stench. Sukuna is behind him, like a silhouette, you can barely make out his body.

You don't stop to look at the director when you step out of his reach, you don't even do it with Sukuna and run far away from there. The silence that settles in the corridor is terrifying, you feel like running to get away as fast as you can from there, however you try to keep your composure, you tighten the fabric of the tutu looking for some security and comfort in it breathing out of sync and when you manage to reach the street you have to lean back against one of the walls to regain your composure.

You force yourself to breathe through your nose and let it out through your mouth forming a cold mist. The icy breath of the night is a slap of reality that makes your cheeks tingle and your legs and arms are the first to complain about the change in temperature.

Sukuna appears at your side a few seconds later, he says nothing, so you force yourself to lift your head and check his expression. There are wrinkles in his brow and he has his hands tucked in his front pockets, you realize this is the first time you've seen him in casual clothes. He had had time to change out of his uniform to replace it with worn blue jeans and a black sweater that has blood red lettering embroidered on the chest.

His presence floods you with the same excitement as the first time you stepped off the plane and the change of weather made your body bristle, making you feel uncomfortable in your own skin. You were scared like a mouse forced out of its burrow. As at that moment, all you needed was a hug. A ghostly force grabs you by the hips and lifts you off the brick wall, throwing you into the arms of your dance partner in search of the comfort you can't seem to find anywhere else these past few days.

Sukuna tenses up at your boldness. You are sobbing into his chest as if someone has passed away. He stands still for a while, allowing your hands to barely touch his hip, while the few passersby watch the peculiar scene, wondering what has happened; after all you are still outside the prestigious ballet academy.

Against all odds, he puts his hand on your back in an unprofessional way, in a way he has never done even dancing with you. His arm floats in the air in a strange and awkward motion until he decides to rest it on your lower back, completely pulling you closer to him. His left arm goes to your shoulder blades squeezing you to his chest completely, giving you a strange comfort that doesn't quite reach friendly.

Excessive tears prevent you from breathing, so you fight the grip and prison that is his ribcage to look up and search his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Your knees give out on you, though with his help you stabilize again. “What was it he said to you?”

You sniffle through your nose. Those red eyes seem to watch every move you make and suddenly, the heat of realization of how close you are begins to climb up your ribs until it sits on your chest.

“Nothing.”

“I saw how close you were. Whatever he said or did to you...” Sukuna pauses, weighing what he will say next. You see him close his mouth and his jaw tenses. “You can trust me, I know there are rumors that he...”

“This is just an allergy,” you interrupt him by clearing your throat.

Sukuna laughs. Not only does he laugh, but he brushes you aside as he bursts out laughing holding his stomach. You cross your arms and pucker your lips, feeling the indignation immediately.

Without saying anything to him and with the wind freezing the salty tears on your cheeks, you turn to walk away from him infuriated with yourself that you allowed yourself to be vulnerable with someone like him.

“Brat!” he was still laughing. “Wait...” you hear him trot behind you, until his fingers pull your forearm back to force you to stop. “Your bag.”

When you notice what he's holding in his hands and had probably been carrying on his back, you realize that it was indeed your bag. You would have left it in the room along with your belongings in the locker had it not been for him.

“Thank you,” is all you say, still suspicious of his thoughtfulness.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

As if it were part of a comedy scene, your stomach growls and Sukuna has to cover his mouth to contain his laughter. You look at him accusingly again. When he removes his hand from his face and raises it in submission, he reveals a smile that shows his teeth and fangs, returning to the predatory aura that always surrounds him.

“I'm gonna order sushi to go, you can join me if you want.” The wind makes you hug yourself again, avoiding his eyes at all costs. “It's across the street.”

Ryōmen Sukuna has been a pain in the ass ever since you met him at dance school. Ever since you arrived, all he's done is annoy you: bad-mouth you to your classmates, be rude in your presence, and belittle your work when you were chosen as the principal dancer. Having him here, pretending to care about you and inviting you to dinner, throws you off.

Realizing that you cried into his chest and, worse, were comforted by his touch, makes you feel guilty.

“I don't need your fake kindness.”

Sukuna lets out a snort and mimics you, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at you from above, like a superior being marking his position.

“It's just sushi. Don't act like I'm offering you an engagement ring. Just say no.”

“And that's what I said,” you reply with a bark, struggling to maintain your stance and what little courage you'd mustered to stand up to him.

You notice how Sukuna drops his arms and falls silent. Something inside you wants to continue arguing or just talk to someone. When you get “home”, you're just sitting on the bed staring at the ceiling, counting the times your room is illuminated by the lights of the cars passing by on the avenue or swiping on tiktok until you fall asleep.

You try to find an excuse to talk to him again, but you run out of ideas as you see him turn his back to you, checking the road up and down to make sure no vehicles are coming.

“Okay. I'll see you next week,” he says before crossing to the other side.

“Wait...” you call out to him, but Sukuna is about to reach the other sidewalk. He doesn't stop when you call out his name, even though you know he's listening. You step forward and shout again, a little louder this time. “Can you take me home?!”

Sukuna stops and turns slowly. You wish someone could wipe the ridiculous smile off his face and the incredulous expression he has right now. You instantly regret asking for his help.

You both wait patiently for the approaching cars to drive away in opposite directions, leaving you again in silence.

“What was that? I don't think I heard you,” Sukuna mutters, squinting his eyes and bending his body forward a bit.

You check both ends of the road before walking across and finding yourself face to face with him.

“I think I missed the bus,” you mumble hastily, a little embarrassed. “Please,” you add, doubting whether politeness will make any difference on this occasion. After all, you're dealing with Sukuna; you don't think being nice and kind will work with someone like him, so you opt to offer a bribe. “I'm going to pay you.”

“I don't need your money, brat,” he spits as soon as the words are out of your mouth, looking outraged when you look him in the face again.

“Can you stop calling me that?” Sukuna chuckles, clearly amused with a situation that you don't find funny at all. Your life is falling apart to pieces with every passing second, but to him it's a circus. “What's so funny?”

"Are you always so serious? It's a little annoying that you don't know how to take a joke; I wouldn't be surprised if you had no friends."

You want to slap him, even though you know it wouldn't make any difference. You've felt him behind you, leaning against your back, his firm hands holding your hips and helping your movements flow, so a slap on his shoulder would be in vain, it would only make him laugh.

Now you want to slap yourself regretting that you decided to talk to him in the first place, that you showed yourself vulnerable.

“Are you going to take me or not?” you insist.

“Give me your address.” Sukuna pulls his phone out of one of his front pockets and types as you give him the direction. Exactly three seconds later he exclaims, “Are you staying in a motel? I thought you had money.”

You don't know how much more you can take before you explode; you clench your fists some more, trying to contain your anger.

“I don't think that's really any of your business.”

You stand in silence for another while. He checks his phone while you watch him. The sign behind him above your heads is decorated with pink neon lines that flashes forming the name of the restaurant.

Sukuna sighs wearily, catching your attention. “Okay, join me in ordering something to go first.”

Sukuna doesn't wait for you to complain or agree with his proposal before he starts walking ahead of you, his steps slow and unhurried. You decide to follow him at a distance that gives the impression that you are not together.

With an open hand, Sukuna pushes open the transparent door and a bell announces the entrance of new customers. The place is immersed in an elegant and serene atmosphere; the aroma of rice floats freely in the air, filling your hungry stomach that growls for a mouthful of whatever they are cooking. Aside from three girls at the counter taking their orders, there are no customers other than the two of you.

You let Sukuna move on as you stop to admire the details of the place. The walls are painted in warm tones that emulate natural wood, and the ceiling has hanging paper lamps that create soft lighting.

The low murmur of water in a small koi pond in the center of the room catches your attention. You approach and watch the fish swimming freely in the water currents; you bend down to observe one in particular that appears to have a scar on one of its fins. You squint your eyes and move closer to the pond to check if the fish is okay, but at that moment the light of the restaurant is interrupted by the body weight of someone overshadowing it.

When you look up, you find Sukuna scowling at you. You don't understand what that look means and decide not to insist on deciphering it. You straighten up to try to match his height.

“Let's go.”

“So soon?” it seemed like they were waiting for him.

You watch his hands, holding a white paper bag with the restaurant's logo on the top. Then you notice the girls who seem to share a secret as they murmur, barely disguising that they are looking at you.

Sukuna continues to stare at you, so you decide not to say anything else and simply nod at his silent command. You make your way to the door and the bell rings again as you leave the place.

“Where's your car?”

You catch him grinning. Maybe you've said something he finds curious, or maybe he just wants to tease you because he can; being rude seems to come naturally to him after all. You let him lead the way and trace the way as he rummages for some keys in the back of his jeans, all the while heading towards the back of the restaurant.

Suspicious, you look around to make sure there is someone nearby who can help you if necessary. Amazement assaults you as you discover that in the back there is a parking lot, and there, in the middle of the empty spot, you see a bike. It's a shiny, black sportbike with red accents, sleek and modern looking.

The realization dries your throat.

“Is that yours?”

“Yup,” he looks amused and almost proud to actually own such a beautiful and imposing bike. You could taste the teasing tone in his voice and in the way he hurried his footsteps away from you, and you struggled to keep up with him.

Sukuna got on the bike and inserted the keys immediately, while you stood motionless, watching him hold it up with his feet so it wouldn't fall off.

“What are you waiting for?” He didn't have a helmet for himself, much less for you. He wasn't wearing gloves either, and that was perhaps the reason why his hands always felt rough when you had skin-to-skin contact when dancing.

You looked around you, meeting the vast nothingness again, as if you were asking the universe for help.

“I've never been on a bike,” you confessed to him without a filter.

You didn't know what to expect when you blurted that out, but it definitely wasn't Sukuna staring silently at you, stabbing you with those dagger-red eyes.

“So what, are you scared? C'mon, come on up.”

You sighed deeply in surrender and climbed up the bike trying to touch him as little as possible, but always failing on the spot. Sukuna jerked a little along with the bike as you tried to improve your posture behind him, trying to lower what you could of your tutu so it wouldn't fly off when he started driving.

Eagerly waiting for him to pull you away, you slide your hands down his hips and cling to his body in search of a safety that immediately greets you. The engine growls like a beast making your whole body vibrate, you cling tighter to him closing your eyes tight for a moment before letting out a sigh.

“Hold on tight,” he says, at the same time rolling his hand across the throttle.

You crinkle the fabric of his sweater under your fingers clinging to him as if your life depended on it. As he moves forward and picks up speed on the road, you hide your face in his back finding the same security as a few moments ago when you allowed yourself to sob into his chest.

The last thing you expected on a monotonous Thursday night was to end up like this, hugging Sukuna who is the last person you would ask for help, right after having the second worst day of your life. You allow yourself to relax in his presence now that you are not looking at him and now that your thoughts are overpowered by the sound of the wind against your ears.

You don't have time to elaborate any more nostalgic thoughts as Sukuna slows down and you are forced to return to the present, raising your head over his shoulder to check where you are. It was already completely dark when you arrive at the motel, and as you step into the gloom, you make out the dim lights flickering in the distance, indicating the other rooms that must be inhabited by people like you, with no settled place to go or belong.

“You can leave me here,” you indicate speaking slowly, longing for the moment when you can step onto solid ground again and return to the safe space that was your motel room, that even if it smelled like cheap detergent and the green apple spray you bought at the nearby gas station convenience store, you've managed to call home these past few months.

Sukuna obediently stops the bike near room 147 and allows you to get off, without asking questions or making conversation, which surprises you. Discomfort washes over you from your feet covered by ballerina slippers, up your cold legs until it reaches your chest.

“Thank you,” is all you say out of kindness. Instinctively you hug yourself, shrugging your shoulders toward your ears in search of some warmth.

Sukuna looks you up and down, and in his eyes you notice that spark of accusation or perhaps contempt, similar to the one you saw in your father the last time he visited you.

You wait for him to finally say something, after long seconds that feel endless, but you interrupt him before he gets the chance.

“I'm quitting.” You don't know why you say that, your body expels it as an automatic reaction, similar to vomiting after a hangover.

You immediately regret it and turn away. Little interested in what he might say next, you hasten your steps to run away from him and hide in your shelter as soon as possible.

“I thought it was allergies.” Bastard. You grind your teeth, clenching your fists. You don't have the energy to fight him; what little of the mask you put on to pretend you're the perfect woman will soon unravel like Cinderella's spell, and you don't want that to happen while you're arguing with him.

“I thought you were a tough girl.” You hear him yell again, as you try to pretend he doesn't exist. You turn left, in the direction of your room, the last one in the whole row.

“I can help.” Those words slow your steps to a complete stop. It takes you a moment to find the courage to turn around, but you finally do, taking a breath of air and looking him straight in the eye.

The distance between you is about the size of a bus, not much, but enough to look like a pair of cowboys about to have a duel and so that anyone listening can pick up on your discussion thanks to the silence of the night.

“Help with what?” you ask, defiantly.

Sukuna looks up at the sky for a moment, as if the answer is in the clouds. Without looking at you, he replies, “To be less of a dick, maybe.” Asshole. “To teach you how to relax once you're under the lights.”

You fold your arms. “If...?”

He grins, clearly amused with how much he's enjoying the situation, and you want to shout into the wind how much you hate him. Now you understand why he doesn't like you; your personalities are very different. You like the summer, he probably likes the cold. He's always teasing and getting under your skin, while you have to constantly fight not to break. You are polar opposites of different worlds.

“If you help me with something.”

“With what exactly?” you ask almost instantly.

“It's just a favor,” he replies with a shrug.

“What kind of favor?” you insist.

“It's not that kind of favor,” he says with a gesture of annoyance.

“What's in it for you?”

“Can't I help a partner?”

You're tired of playing this game. It's clearly draining your time and energy. You appreciate that he brought you home and behaved with the slightest decency you would expect from an empathetic human being seeing someone cry, but you've had enough. You turn to leave, feeling it's not worth wasting any more time on this. You plan to sleep thinking about your decision and send a letter to the director tomorrow morning. With what little money you have left, you hope to travel back to your home country.

“I need help with my grandfather.” It's as if Sukuna drops a hook that your innocence fishes for. You're not sure what he's referring to, but your curiosity compels you to turn once more and face him. This time, you close the distance with each new unsure step.

Watching you walk towards him, Sukuna continues. “Monthly he sends fish to Yokohama. The guy who was helping me quit a few months ago, so I've had to do it alone, which is a pain in the ass,” he runs a hand through his tousled hair from the trip, seemingly remembering.

“Why me?”

“Don't think you're special,” he grumbles with a growl, reflecting on what he just said, he adds. “What I mean is, it's a favor for a favor. I'll tutor you on how to improve as a dancer, and you help me with the fish. It's a win-win.”

You hate the idea of training alone with him almost as much as working moving fish, or whatever it is you're going to do, but...that was the only choice you had. It was either this or actually quit and go home empty-handed, face your failure and your father, and break the promise you had made to your mother before she died. Besides, with Sukuna as a sort of watchdog working with you you think maybe Kugawara wouldn't bother you again, though the thought of it happening again makes your skin crawl.

You nod finally, averting your gaze to your feet for a moment. “Okay. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow I'll come by and pick you up around 3:30. We'll do the fish delivery and then we can practice.”

“Okay.”

“Be on time 'cause I hate waiting,” he snorts.

Maybe working with Sukuna wasn't such a bad idea after all. You spend all day cooped up in that old motel room, watching the cars go by and waiting for the time and days when you have to go train again. It's boring to be stuck in there doing nothing but waiting for the days to pass, so the idea of visiting another city, seeing new places and maybe discovering more about who Ryōmen Sukuna was seems appealing to you; you can't deny it.

There's so much mystery surrounding him that you can't help but be drawn in.

Fri. 4/14 • 5:50PM —

You mentally cross out what you thought the night before and wish yesterday's version of you had thought more or at least asked more questions before blindly agreeing. Working with Sukuna was terrible, much worse than you imagined before you fell asleep. You hated the fishy smell permeating your clothes, rather, clothes you borrowed from Sukuna belonging to the boy who quit earlier. The uniform was baggy and threadbare: the faded blue T-shirt had sweat stains and stale smell, while the pants are baggy, a bit long and a dull gray color, with a loose belt to adjust the size.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand after putting the last box of fish in the restaurant's freezer and being thankful to be done with everything for the day. You restrain yourself from complaining to Sukuna for not making it clear to you exactly what work you would be doing because after all it had been your fault for not asking and trusting unquestioningly. As you bite the inside of your cheek to control your tongue, you realize that inside the colors and patterns are the same as the sushi restaurant across the street from the academy, which makes you think they are probably from the same brand.

Outside, the clear Yokohama sky shows a bright sun toasting your cheeks as Sukuna finishes signing papers behind you. The change of season has the weather undecided, on the verge of leaving winter behind; some spring mornings are warm and the nights, cold.

His shoes clack against the pavement as he approaches you. With a light tap on your forearm, you hear him chuckle, following it up with, “Who knew? I didn't know you could carry so much weight.”

He doesn't wait for your response and continues on his way to the white truck. With your eyes narrowed and your feet begging you for a break, you walk to the waiting, lit truck and slam the door shut. Being in the cold air, with your sore feet now stretched out should feel more comforting. You're protected from the sun's rays and its warmth, and the spicy apple air freshener is pleasant enough to make you forget that it's spring. However, the situation is not entirely delightful for you.

Sukuna next to you seems immune to the silence that you find so uncomfortable. You take a quick glance at him and find him staring down the road as he drives back to town. He has one hand curled around the steering wheel and the other resting on his leg. His uniform is different from yours; his consists of an impeccable white shirt and blue pants tailored to fit him navy blue, on the left side at chest height he has the restaurant's name written on it.

Now that his shirt sleeves are rolled up, you can make out the tattoos on his wrist: two thick black rings run along his skin. Being so close to him and noticing the black ink permeating the skin makes you wonder if they hurt him much. The thought that he probably has more tattoos on areas of his body that you can't see thanks to the clothing comes into your head, but you'd rather push that image away and look straight ahead.

Traffic is moving slowly, with seas of vehicles coming and going on a dual carriageway Sukuna has to slow down every so often because the cars stop which makes you understand that you will be stuck here for a while. Bored with the silence and not wanting to be the first to speak, you take the liberty of turning on the radio, jumping from station to station before finding one that plays old romantic music.

Sukuna makes a snorting sound, prompting you to look directly at him. When your gazes meet, you'd rather ignore the feeling in your stomach and the cocked grimace you manage to notice on his lips before he undoes it.

“What?” you ask him, surprised that your tone doesn't sound as dismissive as usual. “I can find another station if...”

“It's my grandfather's favorite,” he confesses to you quietly. “That one's fine.”

Your fingers slowly move away from the radio, processing what he's confessed to you and considering that this might be a window into getting to know him better.

“You said you were helping him — is this his business?”

Sukuna hums as if weighing the words, tapping the steering wheel a couple of times. “Yes.”

You blink slowly. “Do you guys have a lot of time in the market?”

“Yes,” he repeats again and you fill your lungs with the smell of spicy apple and his subtle cologne.

You resign yourself to having a monosyllabic conversation with him so you press your lips together and rest your chin on your hand looking out the window. From where you are, you can admire the horizon and the still blue water being illuminated by the intimate rays of afternoon sun. Seagulls circle the shore and you imagine their deep song filling the bay.

“I can't remember the last time I went to the beach.” You wanted to dip your feet in the water, let the waves massage them from side to side, feel the sand between your toes and the sun warming your skin—

“Honestly, me neither. Since I've been working with fish, the beach seems less exciting to me, I don't know if that makes sense.”

You look at him, did you just say that out loud? Sukuna watches you briefly before turning his eyes back to the road. You contemplate him longer than you need to before looking straight ahead again and watching the traffic move a little faster than before.

“Have you guys always worked with this?” you perk up to ask again, still keeping your gaze straight ahead.

“Seafood?” he seems to think, humming aloud. “The restaurant has been in the family for as long as I can remember. So...yeah.”

“That's strange. I never would have imagined you doing this kind of work.”

“Why?” he chuckles, as if sharing a secret with himself.

“You're so good at dancing,” you admit, giving him a fleeting glance. “I didn't think you do anything more than that.”

“The best,” he instantly corrects you and you physically force yourself not to roll your eyes.

“I thought you were a spoiled rich kid.”

You turn to catch him grimacing in annoyance. Clearly, he was conflicted about what you had just said.

“I like to dance, but I've always worked hard since I was little. Everything I know and everything I do I learned from my grandfather.”

“It's just the two of you?”

You notice him frowning and speed up quickly before the light turns red. His lips open, but before he can respond, he stops the truck abruptly causing the boxes in the back to rampage and crash into each other as Sukuna shouts insults at the bicyclist who sped in front of him.

You admire him for a while longer: pursed lips, furrowed brow and hands tense around the wheel. Then, you turn your gaze ahead to catch the cyclist fleeing in front of you at full speed, now barely a distinguishable silhouette. Wasting no time, Sukuna sets off down the road again as you wonder what it was he was going to answer. Now, curiosity towards him beckons you that much more.

As Sukuna turns at an intersection to return to Tokyo, you mentally review the information you have about him:

He really loves his grandfather, of that you are left in no doubt since he is the person he mentions the most, he is the only person he talks about in fact. Also, does he cook? You make a mental note of that with a question mark next to it because you're not sure if he just drives the truck or if he really knows how to cook. Third and probably most important, he's not as bad a person as you thought he was. Yes, you still feel like fighting with him and contradicting him at the slightest argument, but that's because of resentment built up over the months. If you were meeting him today for the first time or even if you actually worked for him, you would be encouraged to recognize him as introverted at best, which makes you wonder if the person you see in the academy is just part of the show. Could this be his true personality? And what else is hidden underneath the mask?

The rest of the trip passes in silence as you immerse yourself in your thoughts and theories. The radio station gradually changes from romantic music to more danceable current pop songs, causing you to hum all the way and move your body gently to the melody.

“Are you too tired?” asks Sukuna, once you are on the main road into town.

“Yeah. Why?” you grumble with a grunt, stretching your arms above your head and swinging your feet in circles.

He nods, pondering. “I'll take you to the motel then. We can train later.”

“Oh, no. I'm ready to start today.”

Suddenly, you don't feel so tired when it comes to dancing. You don't want to wait any longer to start practicing and improving, and the truth is, the longer you go without improving, the faster the day of the final presentation comes.

Sukuna pulls into the parking lot of a tall building, moving inside the place illuminated by white lights until he comes to a complete stop next to the bike that you instantly recognize as his.

You get off the truck first with your bag slung over your shoulder, shake your feet again and perform brief stretches as you wait for Sukuna who passes by you walking certainty towards the elevator; you follow him like his shadow.

“You live here?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought we were going to train,” you say, wondering if his apartment will have enough space.

“We will.”

“But...”

“Have you been told you ask too many questions?”

You fall silent as you stand inside the elevator and he presses a button that immediately turns gold, the elevator jolts smoothly and begins to slowly travel through each floor until it reaches number ten. The doors open along with a soft chime, and Sukuna is the first to step out guiding you to his floor.

The apartment complex is modern and elegant. The walls are adorned with dark wood paneling and a floor made of synthetic fur. Sukuna walks confidently down the hallway and you follow him noting the numbered doors with sleek steel plates. When you reach the door to his apartment, he takes his keys out of his pocket and inserts them into the lock opening the door with a quiet click.

He invites you in first with a nod and as you do so you find a well-decorated and tidy space, perhaps somewhat different from what you had imagined. The polished wood floor is covered by a neutral-toned carpet; the room has contemporary furniture and a wall adorned with framed photographs.

You discreetly observe your surroundings, longing to linger a little longer observing the photographs on the wall and get to know his family, however Sukuna keeps moving in front of you without giving you time to get a chance to do so.

“I knew you were a rich kid...”

He chuckles softly. “Come.” Sukuna guides you into a hallway and stops in front of a wooden door. “Shower,” he instructs you as he sees your confusion, struggling not to flash another one of those smiles you'd grown accustomed to. “You stink of fish. Get changed, I'll be waiting for you on the terrace.”

A bitter resistance dies on your tongue. The lingering smell of raw fish clings to your clothes like an unwanted shadow. You decide not to protest that just this once he is right and instead turn your back on him, clinging to your bag as you walk into the bathroom.

You decide to take a quick shower using the first liquid soap you find on top of the sink, scrubbing your body with your hands and quickly wetting your hair to freshen it up a bit, making a note to wash it properly when you get to the motel.

When you're done, you emerge from the bathroom in one of your practice outfits that fits snugly to your body for flexibility. You tie your hair up in a high bun so it won't bother you and head with determination towards the terrace where Sukuna was waiting for you.

The sunset tints the sky with reddish hues, creating a celestial spectacle among the clouds. The terrace is decorated with potted green plants and comfortable armchairs with cushions piled at the back, leaving enough space to move around without bumping into furniture.

Dim lights hang from the ceiling, subtly illuminating the space. And in the background, soft instrumental music plays, similar to what the academy plays. Sukuna is sitting stretching his legs out on the floor in a V-shape, and with a barely perceptible gesture of his lips, he invites you to join him and imitate his movements. He bends his body gracefully and at will, and you do your best to keep up as good as you can.

Then, he stands gracefully and offers you his hand, drawing you to his chest.

“Your problem is that you don't trust me. You don't trust that I'm going to hold you when you jump...” You're ready to respond, but your lips seal when he continues. “So we need to fix that.”

The way he says it makes you shudder; you don't want to give in, but you know you have no choice now.

To the beat of the music, Sukuna wraps his hand around your waist and you mimic his steps— circles, one... two... until he stops and asks you to jump, but you hesitate, visibly trembling in his arms.

“Trust me,” he asks you with a serene exhale.

“I can't,” you reply, wetting your dry lips. Sukuna follows each stroke of your tongue before returning to your eyes, where the lashes fuss uneasily.

“You have to trust me as much as I trust you.”

Yet inside you, feelings of doubt and fear linger, like foolish specters whispering in your ear. You feel overwhelmed, not only by the pressure and responsibility on your back but by the closeness of your bodies, there is no space between your chests and if he leans in a little closer you could taste his breath.

“I can't,” you stammer, pulling away from him. “I think it was a bad idea to come,” you admit truthfully, letting your worries slip out loud.

Without you moving further away, his hands hold your wrist firmly making you spin around, and your tiptoed feet respond at once. He holds you still close to him, your back pressed against his chest rocking to the rhythm of the instruments.

“Jump.” Your heart races and you decide to close your eyes to concentrate on the drums pounding against your ribs, on the breath tangling in your lungs. His hands move up and down your waist, go to your ribs where he feels your heaving breath expand his palms. “Take a deep breath,” he speaks sweetly, his breath brushing the shell of your ear. “I'm not going to let you fall this time. I swear.”

You take a deep breath processing the words. could you really trust his promise? You feel his hands come back down to your waist and with the help of his hands exerting pressure, you jump up and he gracefully lifts you above his head. For an instant, you contemplate the city stretching out beneath your feet, like a blanket of light and shadow. Your arms spread like wings, and a spontaneous laugh escapes your lips as the wind caresses your skin. Gently, Sukuna lowers you to the ground once again and you watch a proud smile form on his face.

Together, the two of you capture the sunset from the terrace, sharing that ephemeral moment in silent complicity.

When you finish practicing about three more times, you find yourself lying on the ground, breathing shakily as you watch the sky dotted with bright spots. Sukuna has disappeared inside his apartment, turning on the lights and returning with a bottle of water that he kindly offers you.

“Thank you,” you say, immediately popping the bottle into your mouth.

“You're not too bad,” Sukuna comments with his usual calmness, though beads of sweat on his forehead betray his exertion. It's obvious why he's Kurogawa's top student.

“I really mean it. Thank you.”

Sukuna averts his gaze for a moment before turning back to you. “Are you going to stay for dinner?” he asks instead.

“I'm fine...,” you reply, finally getting up from the floor and dusting off your clothes with your hands.

“I hope you're eating something better than soda and canned food at that stinky motel.”

You both share a knowing chuckle, your gazes intertwined for a moment.

“No promises,” you say, raising your hands to chest level. “But I have to go now. Thanks for everything, again,” you add, taking another long drink of water.

“Do you need a ride?” offers Sukuna.

“I'll get an uber.”

Sukuna nods, walking you to the door where he waves you off with a friendly smile.

What the hell was that all about? And why are you about to throw up your heart?

Sat. 4/14 • 6:32 pm —

The second week training with Sukuna has been a revelation. You've gotten used to the smell of fish that you now find less unbearable, to getting up early before the alarm goes off, and you've even gotten used to the horrible oversized uniform you have to wear, but above all, you've gotten used to Sukuna's presence and his training sessions that bring you closer and closer together. Of course, you have improved remarkably. Sukuna is a born teacher and could surpass Kurogawa when he decides to retire. He knows just what to say to make you feel comfortable in your own skin and relax in his arms, which he has succeeded in doing.

As you get to know him better, you realize that he is not the image you had created in your head. He is considerate and has managed to get you to open up to him a little more, tearing down the shell of animosity you had raised. Before, you were fighting a non-existent battle against him, a fight to be the best that now you only keep against yourself.

With the descent of disdain for him came something more.... Appreciation? Admiration, perhaps? You don't want to acknowledge what that emotion is. For now, you cling to the idea that you can be friends, that you could become good friends in time.

With the practices and the unofficial ones you do with your dance partner, your steps become more natural, loose and fluid. Soon, your movements will resemble those of the fantastic swan you are meant to emulate.

Sukuna spins you around with the climax of the violins resounding above you. Thanks to constant practice on his terrace he manages to lift you into the air with ease, getting you for the first time to not hesitate and leap gracefully into his arms which gets you a round of applause from your colleagues, drawing a proud smile on your face. Your chest is pounding, you feel the excitement in the darkness of the theater and, in a far corner, you can glimpse the ghost of your mother clapping proudly. You were really going to make it.

Sukuna helps you touch the floor once more, and because of the intimacy required for the final scene, your faces are inches apart. The sound of muffled applause, the circular spotlight that focuses on you exclusively, and the scent of his cologne (a subtle blend of woody and citrus notes that awakens your senses), make the moment far more intimate than the scene requires.

Unsure if this is still part of the performance, Sukuna brushes the tip of his nose against yours before finally pulling away, leaving you drifting beside him and depriving you of his body heat. Slow clapping comes from the background in the gloom, and you walk away from Sukuna taking long strides as if you've been caught committing a crime, your hands sweaty and your stomach clenched.

“That was much better,” Kurogawa says, praising you both, though he looks directly at you. “A wonderful presentation.”

“Thank you,” Sukuna replies, and you feel him tense beside you as he holds the director's gaze that's still resting on you like a predator.

“Though you still have a lot of room for improvement,” Kurogawa says, looking straight at you. Your lips tighten into a straight line, feeling some disappointment in your chest.

“I think she's doing very well,” Sukuna interjects, looking Kurogawa up and down before exhaling like a raging bull.

Kurogawa watches Sukuna and then clicks his tongue.

“Ryōmen, can you remind me who the director of the ballet is and who is recognized as the best male category ballet dancer in the entire country?” Sukuna falls silent, and you are unable to ignore his clenched jaw. “Sorry, I didn't hear you.”

Sukuna exhales and replies sarcastically. “You are, sir.”

“That's what I thought,” he replies, savoring the victory, still keeping his eyes on you. “So when I say something needs to get better, it's because it's going to get better. You can all go..., my little swan, you stay a few minutes with me, we need to talk.”

Sukuna's eyes are pulled from the director to fall on you. Under the spotlight you notice his red eyes become darker, dark ink spills into them and at the same time his half closed eyelids give him the aura of a feline. You nod, assuring him wordlessly that you will be fine.

The room gradually becomes empty, you are the only ones present. Kurogawa tucks himself back into the darkness while you stand under the burning light of the spotlight that seems to glow now brighter than ever. Suddenly, the sound of the piano climbs the walls again and makes your skin tingle.

“Again,” he orders you.

Immediately you put your back straight facing the theater seats. Your feet automatically tiptoe, your arms move in the air, move up your body and stop above your head. Your movements are much more fluid and you can feel it; you are more flexible than before or maybe you always have been and all you needed was a little push. A vote of confidence.

The thought that you will have your little ritual with Sukuna tomorrow (he cooks for you after you help him deliver the fish and after your practice), puts a smile on your face and helps you relax, ignoring the presence of Kurogawa who follows you with his sharp eyes every time you move.

The clacking of his shoe heels tells you he's getting closer, and a subtle sense of dread comes over you as you wonder what Kurogawa might be thinking or planning.

“Are you two dating?” He asks suddenly, wrapping his hands around you behind your back in imitation of the role Sukuna plays.

"I don't have to justify my personal life, sir." Your reply is quick and sharp, cutting through the awkward tension.

He laughs dryly. “Because that would be a problem. I wouldn't allow my lead dancers to have an affair, that would be problematic.” He steps closer to you undoing the space between you and grabs your waist from behind, you instantly pull away looking at him with your eyebrows together. “Hold still.” He steps closer again, you take another step back, about to be engulfed by the darkness.

“Sir...”

He pauses under the spotlight, his few gray hairs and greasy locks gleaming in the direct brightness. The light highlights the deep lines of his face, accentuating his intense, commanding expression. His piercing gaze seems to cut through you as he calls out your name.

“Come here. Let me show you what you're doing wrong,” Kurogawa says in a tone that combines authority and criticism.

“I think I'm doing a good job,” you insist, trying to maintain your composure.

“Oh, you think Ryōmen is a better teacher than I am? He's been putting ideas into your head?” he asks wryly.

“I mean no disrespect, but...” you start to say, but you're interrupted.

“Girl,” he says with disdain, “Come here.”

“No,” you reply firmly, burying your feet on the stage.

The director smiles mischievously. “The cat is showing her claws, I see,” he mutters. “You know he's no good for you?” he continues. “So if you're sentimentally involved...I'm afraid I'll have to degrade you both from being the lead dancers.”

You sense that his threats make you feel lightheaded. “You wouldn't do that,” you say with a hint of desperation.

“Be a good girl then.”

“We'll present in exactly two weeks, no one can take my place,” you defend yourself, looking for an excuse that will convince you more than him that he can't do this.

“Mei-Ling is ready. We've been... practicing,” he says with a lopsided grin that makes you cringe.

“You're disgusting,” you reproach him, unable to keep pretending that standing here in front of him listening to his innuendos doesn't have your body chilling.

“You have no idea,” Kurogawa replies, widening a mischievous smile. “Now...”

He approaches you with clear intentions of touching you, you look around for something you can defend yourself with or someone who can come to your aid but the room was empty, there was only you there. You keep shuffling your feet until you run into the wall, until the darkness has covered you both and all you can see is his macabre smile.

Kurogawa reaches out to grab you when Sukuna's voice startles you. He says your name for the first time and you look over the director's shoulder to see him on the other end in casual gray joggers and a white t-shirt. “Is everything okay?” he asks looking directly into your eyes and for a moment it's just the two of you.

Your voice breaks and you can't answer him, but your desperate look tells him everything he needs to know.

“This is private training, Ryōmen. You may leave now.”

Still he pays no heed. He advances towards you with the bag where he kept his clothes hanging from his left shoulder, sukuna stops and plants himself next to you; his arms embrace your shoulders and he sticks you to his body. “Do you wanna leave?” He asks, looking up at you directly.

“Yes.” You reply without hesitation or pausing to look at the director.

“Ow look at that? Isn't that romantic?” he laughs dryly, clapping his hands together sarcastically. “Long live lovers, right? From hate to love is only one step, I guess.”

Sukuna ignores Kurogawa's words, removing his hand from your shoulders to take yours and lead you away. Surprise flashes across your face, but his warm grip turns the initial coldness into a comforting sensation, making your heart race in your chest. You don't resist and squeeze his fingers tightly as you pull away.

The man laughs louder again, turning to look at you just as you reach the small stairs that would lead you off the stage. “Don't even bother coming back, you're fired,” he shouts arrogantly.

You search Sukuna's eyes to make sure he's feeling the same fear you are. For a moment, doubt crosses your eyes and you consider turning around and apologizing as the only option in this situation. But Sukuna avoids your gaze, releasing your hand to address the director.

“If you have something to say, say it now,” Kurogawa spits with a triumphant smile on his face.

Sukuna climbs the stairs again, leaving you paralyzed in the middle of the steps. His movements seem more imposing under the contrasting lights, and as he approaches the principal, you can see Kurogawa's smile widen in pleasure.

Sukuna takes a deep breath, running a hand through his pink hair to pull it back before turning and connecting a closed fist against the director's jaw. Kurogawa falls to the ground, coughing and wiping blood from a split lip. There is hatred and resentment in his eyes as the two men stare at each other for a moment, right before Kurogawa spits out blood mixed with saliva that was pooled in his mouth.

In that moment of tense silence, you stand watching in horror, both hands covering your mouth. Sukuna spits towards the ground and then turns away, wiping his hand and knuckles. He walks past you and with a hand on your lower back, guides you out of there.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” Sukuna mutters.

“Are we just...?” you try to say, but Sukuna interrupts you.

“Are you okay?” he asks with concern. You nod, unable to say much more. “That's all I care about,” Sukuna concludes as you walk away from the place.

You didn't want to go back to the motel. With your dreams crushed so easily in front of you, the last thing you want is to be alone with your self-destructive thoughts and a judgmental memory. The director always seemed a little strange to you and now you tag the way he approaches you as unprofessional but you never thought he could go to the extreme of cornering you like that; however, seeing him lying on the floor, bleeding, brings accusatory thoughts into your head that you want to erase. Your memories betray you showing you more blood than there really was. In his eyes was written pure revenge, you knew that with his influence only one mail was enough to destroy both your career and your life. You don't want to think about the consequences of your actions; at least not tonight, not now. So when Sukuna asks where you want to go and you reply that you don't know, he decides to take matters into his own hands and take you on a bike ride around the city. Neither says anything else and you ask no questions, letting the vibrations of the engine and his body under your fingers make you feel safe.

Your cheek is crushed against his broad back, clinging to his waist as much as you can as you watch the lights of the city and its tall buildings go by like flashes. People come and go and your heart sinks a little in your chest each time Sukuna's fingers roll easily across the throttle. Water pools in your heavy eyelashes and you can't decide if it's from the wind or if it's just sadness and the pile of bitter disappointment you force yourself to swallow.

Sukuna stops at a gas station, you wait leaning against the bike while he pays and buys some sweets that he silently passes to you as an offering. You open the colorful wrapper and pop the chocolate into your mouth, chewing silently as you are distracted by the dust clinging to his boots.

“Do you wanna go to my place?” The question surprises you and his voice invites you to look at him, back to the present. You notice his face and are distracted by the soft pout that forms his lips unconsciously. In the short time you've known each other, you've noticed it's something he does often. A habit.

You assume that you are friends now. You find the situation and the question ironic. If an oracle had told you about eight months ago that you'd be taking bike rides with Sukuna, clinging to his back like a baby koala bear, driving with him every day out of town while jamming karaoke in his fish-smelling truck and hanging out at his apartment, you'd never have believed it.

Finally, you shake your head in affirmation, taking another bite of the bar.

“I hate that motel,” you confess, covering your mouth.

“I know. It smells like a shoe, I don't know how you can live there.”

You regret letting him into your humble room. Everything was tidy and perfectly sprayed with that green apple spray you depend on so much now, but you still saw him pinching his nose with two fingers and commenting on the stench. You'd complained before, of course, and the owner told you he'd move you to another room as soon as it became available, but now that was the only one you could be in; the room is at the back, next to the laundry room and the damp lurks through the walls, ending up sitting in the middle of your floor.

“Hey!” It really did smell awful, but it wasn't funny when others made fun of it. “It's all I can afford for now. Sorry I'm not rich like you.”

“I thought you were rich,” he says, playing with his bruised knuckles as the numbers on the screen behind him keep going up.

“Not anymore,” you confess, distant memories of your life coming back to you in a flash. “My father refuses to help me with academy expenses, he sees it as a waste of money and time, and I guess he's right. I only have enough to live for two more months there, I was looking forward to the ballet performance but now…” Your voice trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

You notice how he leans over to gently tap you on the shoulder with the same hand that punched Kurogawa earlier.

“We're going to fix it, brat. No long faces while I'm around.”

You contemplate him a while longer in silence as you finish eating the chocolate bar and clench the wrapper in your fist to throw it in the trash when you're at his apartment. Once the tank is full, you roll back down the road and seven minutes later you are in the warmth of his apartment.

You take off your shoes as you enter and head straight to the living room after Sukuna asks you to sit down and he goes straight to the kitchen. You take the opportunity to look at the various photographs on the bluish wall that you have always wanted to see up close but he has never let you: a small Sukuna clutching a baseball bat smiles at the camera, his hair tousled as if it's been a windy day, and his hands tightly wrapped around the bat. There's another where he's with who you assume is his grandfather in front of the restaurant near the academy, clutching a fish that's bigger than both of them which makes you chuckle under your breath. In the last one, there's him and another boy who looks very like him, both wearing thick coats with faux fur edges and looking at the camera with surprised expressions.

“Your brother?” you ask as you hear his bare feet moving across the floor and, turning to face him, you find him with two plates full of sushi rolls in his hands. “Thank you,” you smile at him, sliding onto the couch.

“Be careful not to drip the sauce on my couch, brat,” he jokes. You want to complain about the not-so-pleasant name he calls you by, but you keep silent, hiding the sense of longing that overwhelms you as you want to hear him say your name again. “And my nephew,” he quickly points to the picture before disappearing back into the kitchen. “It was the first time we went to New York.”

You take another quick glance at the picture and grab the wooden chopsticks next to your plate.

“Nephew... So you have siblings?” You ponder, pinching a sushi roll between your chopsticks and bringing it to your mouth, careful at all times not to drop anything on the couch. For how neat the place looks, you know he's not kidding when he warns you that he doesn't want any stains on his couch.

Sukuna returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands, as he carefully sets them on the coffee table.

“I'm not going to drink,” you quickly excuse yourself.

“Come on, let's celebrate that we don't have practice tomorrow.”

His humor helps you cope a little. You press your lips together in a straight line that gradually turns into a sad smile and finally nod, giving your permission for him to pour the white wine for both of you. You grab the glass without further thought and take a long drink, closing your eyes for a moment.

“And... um,” he clears his throat, taking a seat next to you to get ready to eat as well. “I had a brother. I lost him and my parents in an accident when they were on their way from Kyoto to see me dance last year.”

The news makes you frown and you set the cup aside immediately, showing your concern. Sukuna seems immune; anyone who didn't know him would say he's over it, that he doesn't care, but you've learned to see past the mask he usually shows himself to others with. Hesitantly, you put your hand on his leg in comfort and something inside you waits for him to push it away, only it never happens. He looks down at your touch for a moment before returning to your eyes.

“I'm so sorry.”

His shoulders shrug and he finally relaxes. “At least I have my grandfather for now.”

You nod, understanding how bitter the situation is as it's easy to put yourself in his shoes.

“I'm really sorry. I lost my mother too; she had a medical condition that had no cure. Her dream was always to see me dance at a professional academy.”

“Is that why you traveled to Japan?” asks Sukuna before popping a sushi roll into his mouth.

“Yeah. But I guess it doesn't matter now.”

“I told you we're going to fix it,” Sukuna says and now it is him placing his hand on your thigh intimately. You watch as his fingers spread over your skin, noticing the veins running down the back of his hand and the thick tattoos surrounding his skin.

“You punched him in the face,” you look away from his fingers to force yourself to look him in the eyes, both of you sharing a brief chuckle. “How can we fix this?”

Sukuna is no longer touching you and his absence is immediately felt.

“We can report him,” he suggests.

“They won't listen to us,” you reply.

“Not with that attitude.”

You look away from him for a moment, toward your plate and the half-empty cup. You grab it and raise it to your mouth to wet your throat.

“Thank you... for everything,” you say sincerely, swirling the glass so that the liquid spirals against the glass.

“I should never have left you alone,” Sukuna admits.

“But you came back for me. That's the important thing,” you reply, restraining yourself from touching him again. Instead, you take a last sip of wine that serves to drown out thoughts of what would have happened if no one had arrived in time.

With banal conversations filling the space from time to time and laughter over jokes that aren't even that funny; you both finish eating.

With two glasses of wine drunk and now Sukuna pouring a third everything seems funnier than usual. The sting of the pain of having lost everything you've built is buried there waiting to make you ache and although you know Sukuna feels it too, he manages to disguise it very well, spending all his energies on making your night.

“Stop it,” you tell him with a laugh, squinting to fix your eyes closely on his face. “You've got something there.” You point to a part of your own cheek with a finger, smoothing the skin and wiggling your fingers for him to do the same.

“Where?” he asks, pulling his eyebrows together, touching the wrong part of his face.

“Look, here!” you point to your cheek again with more emphasis, but he still misses.

“Wipe it off for me. What is it?”

“It's just soy sauce, you messed it up more.”

You lean a little closer to wipe the sauce stain next to his nose, carefully rubbing the skin by moving your thumb over it until it's clean. You smile at him, you just need to wash your face now, as you turn your attention back to him you realize he is blatantly looking at your lips.

“Later,” he says softly, licking his lips slowly and alarms go off in your brain.

“It'll get sticky if you don't go,” you reply mimicking his tone, struggling not to notice his mouth and how close you are.

Sukuna slowly makes himself move his gaze from your mouth to your eyes. Still close, you can notice the alcohol on his breath, his scent of cologne tickling your stomach.

“I never understood why you disliked me so much,” he blurts out suddenly, almost in a whisper.

“Are you serious?” you pull away before you do something you shouldn't, the tingling sensation of alcohol probably making you see things that aren't there. “Everything you talked about me?” He arches an eyebrow, showing confusion. “You were saying I should go back to my country...”

“Yeah, because you were saying I had no talent. And who did you think you were?” he defends himself, getting defensive. With that expression that he instantly erases almost makes you remember the Sukuna from the past.

“I never said that.” You defend yourself.

Silently, you both let the weight of realization sink in, sharing a silent stare.

“Kurogawa.” You respond in unison.

“Fuck him,” Sukuna says through gritted teeth. You want to reproach him, but honestly?

“Yeah, fuck him.” Then you both laugh.

Silence reigns between you again, squeezing like an intruder between the little space that separates your bodies on the couch.

“Are you staying the night?” Sukuna suddenly blurts out, giving you a sideways glance.

“Um, no?” That makes him look at you completely, analyzing you as if you've just said something barbaric.

“I can't ride like this,” he comments with obviousness.

“That's fine, I'll get an uber.”

“I don't trust an uber to send you like that.”

You don't trust yourself around him, you don't trust what your numb senses can do or say, so the farther away you are from him, the better it is for both of you.

“Like what? I'm almost sober,” you say, squeezing a space with your index finger and thumb leaving a small gap in between. “Besides... I know how to defend myself.” To reaffirm your sentence and validate your sobriety, you stand up to take a brief turn but fate is ironic and trips you over your own feet; in an instant your mouth is about to kiss the ground. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut, preparing to receive a stinging pain that never comes, instead, you are welcomed into an embrace that fills you with security.

“Fuck. You're so drunk,” Sukuna says with a laugh, helping you to your feet.

You open one eye. “Sorry, I don't usually drink.” You close it again, massaging with your fingers the sudden dizziness that squeezes your temples. “Maybe I am a little dizzy.”

“I can tell that,” he says. “You should have told me.”

“Um, I did.” You open your eyes now realizing how intimate you are. Your open palms on his chest rise and fall with his agitated exhale and the tension weighs heavy. His hands are on your lower back in a sort of embrace that holds you close to him and keeps you from running away, and you wouldn't even if you could. You hear your own breathing quicken in your ears, and without thinking, you lean in to kiss him but Sukuna lifts his chin avoiding you and kissing your forehead instead.

“Come on, I'll take you to bed.”

Sat. 4/15 • -:- am—

You wake up with a slight headache pulsing in your temples and the sharp spicy smell of a perfume you don't recognize as your own. Still with your eyes closed, you turn your body to reach for the phone on the bedside table, you stretch your fingers in search of it, but your hands can't seem to find the nightstand, so you struggle to blink slowly and finally open your eyes completely. The unusual darkness confuses you a bit and makes you wonder what time it is; the sun should be penetrating the motel windows intensely at this hour, so you curiously sit up in bed. You look for your phone under the pillow, between the sheets and in every nook and cranny your hands can reach on the mattress.

It is at that moment when you notice the different color of the sheets and the four pillows around you, making you realize that this is not your bed, nor is this your room. Looking at your legs you realize that you are still dressed in last night's clothes, then you remember Sukuna. Your eyes scan the room in the absence of light — were you in his room or maybe he had another guest room? You pull the sheet off your legs and head to the window to open the black curtains and let the sun finish waking you up.

The lively view of the city greets you from below, cars come and go on the fast moving highway. With the help of the light now illuminating every corner, you take another look at the room and find out that this was probably his: the space is spacious and modern, following the same style as the living room with a minimalist decoration. The walls are a light gray and in front of the bed there is an elegant glass desk with an office chair. On top of the desk, there is a closed laptop and some tidy papers.

The bed is bigger than the one in the motel and is covered with black sheets, next to it a closet with the doors made of a mirror in which you see yourself perfectly reflected, you try to fix your hair as much as you can in case you find him when you go out looking for your phone, but by the prevailing silence makes you aware that Sukuna was probably not at home.

You find your phone on the floor near the couch. At the memory that it must have slipped out of your pocket when you almost fell last night just to then try to kiss Sukuna, your body burns with embarrassment. Unlocking the screen and looking at the time you find a message from Sukuna and missed calls from your father and group of friends. Shit, you totally forgot them.

R. SUKUNA: If you wake up and I'm not here, take a shower, there are headache pills in the desk drawer and eat something. If you decide to take a bath, use something from my closet. I'm visiting my grandpa, I'll be back in about an hour. :)

Checking the time, you realize that the message was sent half an hour ago so you still had time to be alone and clear your thoughts before he returned. After how absurd you acted last night, you don't want to see him today, not in a few weeks maybe. You don't have the courage to look him in the face, especially after he walked away, making it clear to you where he stood with you.

You return to the room with the phone in your hand and a glass of water you quickly grabbed from the kitchen. You open the first drawer and search for the pills you need stumbling upon some personal items, including two small square wrappers of different texture and metallic blue color. Before an unwanted idea can germinate in your mind, you push the condoms aside and take the pill, drinking every last drop from the glass.

You are determined to leave and escape from him, but the sweat from the previous day clings to your body and you refuse to go out like this. You quickly duck into the familiar bathroom and take a quick shower without getting your hair wet this time, opting only to pull it up in a simple bun and wear the same clothes from the day before. You exit the bathroom determined to take refuge in the motel, walking straight to the front door.

“Good morning.” His voice makes you yelp. You put one hand on your chest and one on your mouth, looking him up and down as if you've seen a ghost, and he has the audacity to laugh.

Sukuna looks fresh, as if he's had a good night's sleep and just got out of the shower. He's wearing a light blue short-sleeved sweater and black sweatpants; the baseball cap covering part of his face makes him look much younger.

“Did you sleep well?” Sukuna speaks again and you hope he didn't notice you looking him up and down.

“Yes, thank you. I had a bit of a headache, but I'm better now. we...?” We sleep together. It's the sentence you don't get to finish.

“The couch is more comfortable than it looks.” He gives you another brief grin and your heart flips.

“I'm so sorry about yesterday.”

You both know what you mean, so neither of you decides to delve into it. He downplays it with a wave of his hand, and you appreciate his friendship now more than ever, so you let that memory die.

“You were drunk...” he excuses you before you have a chance to.

“Of course, I never...” you stop, unable to finish the sentence.

“I know.”

“How's your grandfather?” you ask him, quickly changing the subject, struggling not to notice the tattoo peeking through the opening near his neck.

“He's much better, actually.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” you say sincerely, forcing yourself to swallow the guilt that's weighing you down inside. He's showing his most vulnerable side with you, and all you can think about is how much you want to kiss his neck.

“There's just one little problem.”

Your eyes narrow and you take a step forward, paying more attention this time. “What's wrong?” you inquire with genuine concern.

“He wants to meet my girlfriend.”

"Oh." You blink slowly, your lips opening and closing as you choose your next words carefully. “You have a girlfriend.” It's a statement. Of course he has a girlfriend.

“That's where you come in.”

“Excuse me?”

“He always insists that he doesn't like me being alone, that I should focus on other things than taking care of him and the restaurant. To put his mind at ease, I told him I have a girlfriend, I just didn't count on him asking me to meet her. I can only rely on you for that.”

You're flattered, but it's still not enough to hide the fact: “So you lied to him.” You ponder, processing all the information he's blurted out to you.

“Um, no. I'm going to get one, just not now. I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep him with me and I didn't want to disappoint him.”

You nod slowly. “So, you want us to go visit him?”

“Yes, just once or twice.”

“And for me to act like I'm your girlfriend?”

“Yup.”

You sigh deeply, you massage your eyes with the palm of your hand trying to run away at least for a second from his presence and the effect he has on you; you don't want to keep looking at him and keep thinking about what he is making you feel inside because, what was all that? Sukuna was. your. friend. Why couldn't your hormones understand that and why did you suddenly feel like you would burst if he ever touched you? You finally open your eyes, nod.

“Yeah, okay. I'll help you.”

You don't think about the implications of this, you don't think about the fact that pretending to be his girlfriend makes your heart gallop fast against your ribs when it shouldn't. This is nothing more than an act of good faith, you're just helping a friend. You refuse to consider that you might have to hold his hand, and even the idea of having to kiss him is possible in some scenario.

It's the first time in years that you realize you don't remember the last time you kissed someone. You've been so focused on working, improving and becoming a better dancer every day that you don't remember the last time you had romantic or sexual contact with someone, and you're definitely not ready for Sukuna to be your first.

“I have to go now.”

You have a lot to process.

“Stay for breakfast,” he suggests with that lopsided grimace of his, the one where he doesn't show his teeth but could make you sign a deal with the devil if he wanted to. You have to grip your bag tighter so you don't reach out and touch the inky flash that winks at you again.

“See you later!” you say instead, running for the door.

You don't stop to wait for an answer because you know he would change your mind because that's what he always does (get his way), make you stay and confuse you even more. You pull out your phone and call for an Uber back to the discomfort of your bed, where you can be away from the effect he has on you.

Thurs. 5/10 •

Meeting Hiroshi in person after hearing so much about him makes you feel like you've already known him for a long time. The smile spreads on his face like ink on water when he sees you, and it's already second nature for him to call you “daughter” as he grabs your hand and cheeks affectionately; he really likes you and you like him back.

Accompanied by Sukuna holding your hand, you always bring him flowers or fruits and listen attentively as Sukuna reads to him and tells him how business is going at the restaurant, while he nods. In a way, he reminds you of your own grandfather; a man just as sweet and hardworking. Seeing this new side of Sukuna is certainly different and addictive. The patient way he talks to his grandfather makes you look at him with admiring eyes; he seems like a totally different man. You have been accompanying him for the last three visits and seeing him spending so much time with his grandfather is becoming a regular habit.

On one of these visits you bump into someone you had seen before in one of the photographs he has hanging in his apartment. Yuuji, much older, much more adult, smiles at you and has the same cheerful expression as his grandfather; he is a boy full of energy who squeezes your hand and shakes it energetically the first time you meet him. He looks a lot like Sukuna and it is impossible for you not to make the internal comparison of how different they are despite being so physically similar.

On Monday after visiting Hiroshi, exchanging the flowers for new ones and making sure he was enjoying his favorite meal, Yuuji, who was already at the hospital when you got there, invites you over for dinner as a sweet gesture to get to know you better.

The restaurant a few blocks away from the hospital is crowded with people, brimming with a cozy, family atmosphere with polished wooden tables and delicate white tablecloths. The soft murmur of family conversations intermingles with the tantalizing aroma of dishes wafting from the kitchen and traditional music in the background.

“I never thought I'd see Uncle Sukuna with a girlfriend,” Yuuji confesses as he rolls noodles on his chopsticks and brings them to his mouth.

“Hey,” Sukuna growls, finishing the sake in one gulp. “Don't disrespect your uncle.”

“It's not that,” Yuuji laughs.“It's just that you're always so secretive, and after what happened with Dad... but I'm happy for both of you.”He looks at you briefly now as he shakes his head slowly.

Your body twitches softly at the surprise of feeling Sukuna curling his fingers with yours on top of the table. His thumb caresses the back of your hand, and butterflies flutter inside you at the sight of this affectionate gesture, though you quickly remember that it's all part of the act. Getting caught up in the moment and excusing yourself to your inner judge, you gently squeeze his hand, reminding yourself to maintain the role of girlfriend.

As you enjoy dinner, you and Sukuna chat animatedly, sharing anecdotes about Hiroshi, the origin of the restaurant's peculiar name, and Yuuji's antics as a child. The vibe in the restaurant is permeated with warmth and energy, with the bustle of the other tables and the comforting aroma of ramen wafting through the air.

At the end of the meal, Yuuji bids the two of you goodbye with a hug, explaining that he must go elsewhere but that he hopes you will have a second date together.

As soon as he makes sure Yuuji has left the restaurant, Sukuna looks at you with a soft smile. “Thank you for joining me tonight. I know this isn't part of your commitment as a 'fake girlfriend'.”

You smile back, still feeling the warmth of his finger on your skin. “Thank you for letting me meet your grandpa, he's an amazing person, and your nephew is really adorable.”

Sukuna nods, his eyes shining with something you can't decipher. “I know Yuuji really likes you too. I think he likes you more than me.”

You giggle softly, recognizing that this encounter has brought you closer to Sukuna. Meeting one of the most important pillars of his life, along with his nephew, who is practically the only close family he has left, makes you feel lucky to be able to witness this more intimate side of him. You just hope that, when all is said and done and they both realize that you're just his friend they'll still continue to accept you and treat you with the affection that has characterized them so far.

“Maybe I should go back to the motel. It's getting late,” you say, bursting the bubble that had enveloped you out of reality. Being away from him was the last thing you wanted right now, but you needed to remind yourself from time to time that this was not part of your current life.

At that moment, he gently withdraws his fingers from yours and nods with a tense line on his lips.

“Sure. Join me for a smoke first.”

After paying the bill and leaving the restaurant, you both walk to the back with Sukuna gently tugging on your hand, still engaged in an act that should only happen when Yuuji or his grandfather are around. Surrounding you, a few people congregate to talk and share a cigarette.

Sukuna brings the cigarette to his mouth and you help him shield it with your hands as he tilts his head slightly to avoid the wind. The cigarette lights up as he inhales and exhales slowly through his nose, keeping his gaze fixed on you the whole time. He is leaning against the wall and you are close by, standing between his spread legs.

“I'll probably have to go home soon..., my real home, I mean,” you tell him suddenly, preferring to watch the people walking in and out of the parking lot instead of paying attention to him.

“Is it the money?”

You nod still without glancing at him. “I can't wait for it to be over, I already talked to my dad and he also thinks it's for the best.”

Sukuna is silent as he takes another puff and exhales just in time for when you turn back to look at him.

“I've been requesting a recommendation letter for you for another academy. I filed an official report against Kurogawa and we have witnesses, people who had made accusations before but had never filed an official report.”

His name brings back bitter memories that dissolve in the smoke and stale smell of the cigarette.

“I'm going to testify too.” Your voice surprises you as much as it seems to surprise Sukuna, who looks you up and down with curious eyes.

“Fine. I'll be with you.”

“Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I wanted to be sure, I didn't want to get your hopes up.” His eyes turn soft and you can see in them the same shadow that was in them that time in his apartment. He was looking at your lips just like now and he didn't seem to mind hiding it. “You look beautiful, by the way. Yuuji kept looking at you.”

You smile, glancing down at the teal dress you decided to wear that night.

“You don't look bad yourself,” you tell him, touching your fingertips to the oversized wool coat he was wearing. Sukuna follows your fingers as they stumble over the black buttons and away from his body. His eyes follow your hands that stay still on either side of your body and then they return to your face, momentarily checking your mouth.

“Wanna try?” he asks, raising the cigarette to your eye level.

“I've never smoked,” you confess.

“That wasn't my question.” He bites his lip, followed by the tip of his pink tongue moistening his lower lip gently. “You want me to guide you?”

“...Yes.”

“Open your mouth,” his voice comes out quick, eager and sharp almost like yours. His words guide you as you part your lips just enough for him to place the cigarette between them. But instead, Sukuna pulls you closer into him gently squeezing your waist as he exhales smoke into your half-open lips. “Swallow a little bit and then exhale,” he gently commands you. “Don't let it go down your throat.”

You follow his instructions without complaint, holding the smoke for a moment in your mouth before releasing it. The taste of ash floods your palate for a moment, a smell you find unbearable and yet.... “More,” you find yourself asking, rising on tiptoe to reach for the cigarette yourself.

You're sure you're not asking for more of the cigarette, you're asking for more of him. Of the brief touch you get from his unfriendly hands on your body, more of his perfume lulling your senses, more of his closeness.

His fingers leave your lower back to climb up to your jaw keeping you steady, still and trapped as he exhales a second puff between your parted lips. Your heart flips but you manage to repeat the action of inhaling and exhaling without coughing, and as he prepares to do it a third time without you asking, your noses collide in the darkness of your closed eyes; his lips brush yours for an electric instant, and you feel his fingers clinging tighter to your jaw: breathing out.

“My God...you,” you stand still, feeling yourself burn inside as his warm breath seeps into you once more. “If you don't stop me, I will do something I will regret.” His words are a threat brushing your tongue.

Your foreheads meet and rest against each other, fingers guided by desire slipping under his coat where you cling to his shirt ruffling the fabric. You close your eyes waiting to feel him, that first real contact, charged with sparkle and fireworks. You tilt your neck back, giving him the access he needs to take you.

“I'm not going to stop you,” you gasp, pushing closer.

Sukuna growls like an animal, immediately replacing his grip with his lips on your jaw; barely perceptibly grazing the flesh and bringing tickles to your insides. Then he moves slowly up to your ear, outlining the jaw bone with his mouth and staying still behind the shell of your ear, simply breathing warm air.

“We're in public,” he reminds you, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Charged with a bravery that is uncharacteristic of you, you reach your hand toward his crotch, feeling the bulge that is evident through his pants.

“Then let's go somewhere more private.”

Sukuna grunts once more, hunching towards you in such a way that it appears as if he is hugging you. His hands slide down your back until they reach your ass and squeeze it, the people around you startle you but the feeling lasts a moment before you turn your attention back to him and the plea that seems to spill from his throat.

“What have you done to me?” he utters your name as if you were a divine being and he is a mere servant. Your hand, gaining confidence, presses harder on his erection. “I want to slowly peel off your clothes, worship every inch of your body. Kiss every spot, every mole.”

He abandons the comfort of your ear to move to your neck, where you sense his breath as he subtly pushes his hips against your open palm. It's embarrassing to be doing this in public. His coat and the shadows of the night help hide the scene, but if someone were to discover you, you could get in trouble.

“Tell me you need it too,” he whispers against your throat on the verge of losing his temper and pressing his nose, his eager mouth clinging to your skin; sucking. “Tell me you feel the fire in your chest too,” he gasps, his teeth grazing a little harder.

“Fuck. I feel it. I've wanted to say it for a long time, but I was afraid you wouldn't feel the same,” you lick your lips. “That night when I tried to kiss you...”

“You were drunk,” he interrupts you. “I didn't want you to regret it the next day.” Sukuna reluctantly pulls away to admire you with dilated pupils and parted lips. “But you have no idea how much I've had to restrain myself to act just like a friend.” He examines you up and down. “Let's go to my apartment.”

Holding hands and with feelings running high, you move quickly into the parking lot to find the bike parked a few feet from where you were. Sukuna just lets you go to put the helmet around your head and then proceeds to put his on and without another thought you set off on the road. The cool night air immediately envelops you, the edge of your dress flaps against your thighs thanks to the speed at how fast he was going, almost as quickly as your heart beats in your chest. For you, there's a mixture of excitement and nervousness, a sense of disbelief mixed with anticipation. You can't stop thinking about what just happened, what you've wanted to occur for months and what might happen now.

The drive back to his apartment is fraught with sexual tension. The speed, the wind in your faces and the physical proximity keeps you on edge, your fingers run up and down his chest under his coat, impatient up and down patterns reminding him how close you are.

As you reach the apartment the palpable excitement between you and Sukuna intensifies. You both quickly slide off the bike, and holding hands take the elevator to his floor. Neither of you say anything until you reach the quiet of his place, interrupted by the hitching of breaths.

Sukuna steps forward and sits on the couch that is now so familiar to you, his eager but controlled expression blurring in the gloom that dances in the living room. From there, he calls your name softly, his voice laden with restrained emotion. The atmosphere in the apartment seems charged with electricity as you approach him, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you get closer, Sukuna watches you carefully, his eyes roaming over every part of you with admiration and desire.

“Take off your dress,” he says hoarse with lust.

Without thinking you grab the edge of the dress, slip it over your head and pull it aside to be left with only the underwear you have chosen for the night. As you move forward and are finally in the middle of his spread knees Sukuna grabs your hips and helps you to sit on his lap. The grip on your hips firms and hardens, he takes it upon himself to rub your covered core against the wideness of his thigh and short moans of pleasure take over your mouth.

“Keep riding my thigh. Slowly. Feel that pussy get wet for me, feel it ache,” he indicates, releasing your hips to then worship your thighs up and down.

Oh. It was aching, you want to tell him. Everything inside you was doing it, burning with need every muscle, every vein. Your legs from the posture, your pussy from need and your tight belly begging for a release but instead you stand quietly contemplating with your mouth open the way, after removing his coat, he undresses the buttons of the sweater one by one finally satiating your curiosity by revealing the tattoo underneath.

More black marks. They draw you in and invite you to touch them, thick ink-filled lines that you trace under your fingers start at his chest, cross between the line that joins his shoulder and neck and disappear behind along his back. Puzzled you stare at him some more, losing yourself in his eyes as you rise to look at him; he looks still, pleased that you are touching him as if he were art.

“Did they hurt?” you wonder with a bit of naiveté.

Sukuna cradles your breasts gently above the fabric of your bra, he seizes the moment to tug on your nipples hard, getting you to moan.

“They hurt a lot,” he confesses quietly, in a low tone of voice that plays it down.

You continue tracing the canvas that is his skin, moving down his abdomen until you stumble upon the belt that holds his pants in place. Briefly you check his eyes, hoping they tell you something more than the lust that seems to flood them.

“Why did you decide to get tattooed then?”

Sukuna catches your gaze silently, his fingers snaking around your belly, walking up to stop in the middle of your thighs and through your panties he strokes your clit with three fingers.

“We all have to endure a little pain sometimes, don't we?”

It feels so intimate the way he talks to you, the way he looks at you. When he roams your body with his gaze you can't help but feel small. You rub against his fingers, push and circle them helping him get to know your body better, listening to your broken gasps, showing him exactly where it makes you feel good.

“I want to suck your cock,” you confess as you reach down to undo his belt. There was no shame binding you now, only a raw desire that longs to be unleashed.

He smiles pleased with the change in attitude, and silently pushes your hips up to help you remove his pants leaving him alone in a pair of boxers which you soon pull down leaving them tangled midway down his thighs. Sukuna then pulls you off his lap and places you on the side of the couch where he instructs you to spread your legs for him thus getting easy access between your thighs.

As Sukuna continues to give attention to your pussy, you contemplate how hard he is: more than big it was thick, with the tip of an angry pink throbbing just below your mouth. It had been years since you had last given oral sex to someone, your last few encounters were nothing more than a monotonous thrusting and pulling out where you ended up with the guy cumming on your lower back or stomach; you never felt like sucking their cock but with sukuna it's different. With him everything is.

“It's been a long time since I've... you know,” you confess, holding back a nervous giggle.

From below you raise your gaze to lace it to his eyes that receive you slightly closed, sharing a guilty smirk that he wipes away as he bites his lip.

“You're doing a very good job,” he praises you. And his fingers tossing the edge of your panties aside leaves you breathless for a second, your lip quivering receiving his fingers inside you. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to, though.”

His words cause you to twitch around two fingers pushing and massaging your pussy. So deep, so slow, he synchronizes his thrusts with the way your lips close around the head of his cock; his movements are precise as if he's searching for something inside you, in, out and then he pulls them all the way out to make you cum as he rubs your clit hard and talks dirty to you.

Sukuna praises you sweetly as you sob his choked name against his thigh, his caresses surround your now sensitive clit and every time he touches it you find it impossible not to shudder. Then he grabs you by the face and kisses you on the forehead and holding your hand helps you up to guide you to his room that you already knew.

The lamps are off and the only light coming in is through the open window, the curtain ruffles softly in the cool spring breeze sending sudden chills down your bare skin. Sukuna instructs you to lie face down on the bed and you do so as he goes to another side of the room. The mirror you saw earlier shows you your half naked body under the swirling shadows and the masculine scent permeating his sheets makes you sigh deeply.

The bed sinks with his weight, the mattress groans as he digs his knees into it and positions himself behind you, your ass rising almost without your permission, eager with anticipation.

“You want to fuck me like this?” you throw your head back to catch him putting on the condom, one of the blue wrappers you saw before is now off to the side near your feet.

“Fuck yeah. Just lay back, you work so hard...” He snaps, spitting on his wrapped cock and giving it a couple of strokes before spreading your ass cheeks apart. “You want it like this, want me to work to make you feel good?”

“Yes,” you sigh, watching every glimpse that the dim light allows you of his body in the big mirror.

Slowly he sinks into you and you take it in with a deep moan. “That's it,” Sukuna murmurs, resting his hands on your lower back, initiating gentle thrusts that have your body rocking against the sheets.

Sometimes you feel him so deep you call his name, drunk with pleasure, you hope he understands you're begging him to keep going because you can't speak. Your mind is filled with him, his natural scent on the sheets, the smell of his sweaty perfume, his chest heavy against your back sinking you a little deeper into the mattress.

“Do you want to fuck yourself a little on my cock?” He says, gently circling your neck with his fingers without actually exerting any real pressure, with his free hand he stimulates your clit and your back arches right away. “Push your ass back, that's it...”

“I'm gonna cum...” you warn him, gasping with your mouth open, blinking rapidly so as not to lose sight of your bodies reflected in the mirror, fitting together perfectly as they do when dancing.

Your orgasm was still making you shiver the moment he turns you around so that you are facing each other. Sukuna is grinning showing you his sharp fangs, bringing your hands above your head and clasping his fingers between yours he starts fucking you again, your legs on his broad shoulders, his mouth just inches from you.

“Hi,” he says giggling breathlessly and it catches you immediately. “You look so beautiful now, you look gorgeous when you cum for me...”

His thrusts become deeper, your skins echoing each time they meet.

“Ryōmen...”

“I know, baby. I feel it too... Do you want me to cum inside?” You nod drunkenly with pleasure, unable to stop staring into those deep red eyes, his lashes fluttering and you notice his jaw tightening. “Yeah? You want to feel my thick load creaming that pussy?” he says, through clenched teeth.

“Yes, oh my god, please.”

Your fingers run down your stomach and down between your thighs, your fingers graze your clit once giving you the final push you need to cum a third time.

“Next time we'll do it raw, baby. I promise, but take it like this now, hm; cum for me.”

Your body tenses, your belly tightens in anticipation as Sukuna finally joins his lips with yours. The sensation is electric, as if a current of desire runs through every fiber of your being. Your lips meet in an eager, fiery kiss, where Sukuna sucks your tongue greedily and bites your lower lip with unbridled passion.

The intensity is almost obscene, each movement making you moan softly. Your legs tremble, but his weight on you only fuels the growing fire in your belly. Though your body aches in this position, you can't stop; the kiss is addictive, a whirlwind of sensations that far exceeds your deepest desires. It is far more than any subtle fantasy you have allowed yourself to imagine.

Sukuna leans closer, his hands caressing your face tenderly as his lips explore yours with passionate urgency. The room fills with the sound of your ragged breathing, swallowing each of the growls he lets die in your mouth.

. . . Slowly he pulls out of you, then rushes to throw the condom away in a basket by the desk. Your aching body turns to admire his broad back and gaze at the ink stains on it in the poor light.

With a simple “I'll be right back,” he leaves you waiting naked between the sheets your fingers stretch to gather and tuck you in. Before you can allow feelings of guilt or doubt to arise, Sukuna returns to the bed with a bottle of water that he offers you to drink. You immediately bring it to your mouth as he lies down next to you, one hand behind his head and the other resting on his tummy.

You snuggle close to him and Sukuna immediately wraps his arms around you, drawing you into his warm body.

“That was amazing,” you admit, as your fingers trace figures on his chest. However, Sukuna senses how you suddenly tense up.

“What's wrong?” he asks you with a frown.

“I was thinking about what's going to happen to us now,” you mutter, averting your gaze.

“I like you,” he says, as if it hasn't been clear until now. “I want you to be my girlfriend, for real this time,” you both chuckle lightly, and you raise your face to stare at him for a moment, a smile spreading across your lips.

“I like you too,” you admit with a hot face, surprised to admit it out loud; you never thought this moment would come, the odds of ending up in love with Sukuna were low, almost nil. And yet, here you are.

“Good. Then we have no more questions,” he leans in for a fleeting kiss on your lips, awakening a dormant volcano in your belly. “I have to go visit my grandfather tomorrow, do you wanna grab lunch when I'm done?”

“Is it okay if I come with you?”

“Of course. You know we love having you around,” he says, struggling to hold back another smile.

"Does that mean that if I'm your girlfriend now I won't have to help you lift the fish boxes anymore?" you joke, and he drops his head back laughing softly. You look at him in awe, you never thought you could like him any more than you already did, but having him like this, so close, so vulnerable, makes your heart race.

You want to kiss him again, to sit on his lap and take control this time, but you bite your lip instead, letting out a smile.

“You're definitely going to have to help me more at the restaurant now that you're my girl.”

My girl. You feel like you might burst.

“And what about my dad? I already told him I'd go back to my country.”

“Nah. I'm not going to let you get away so easily, you're mine now. You're exactly where you belong.”

And Sukuna was right. Here you feel good, safe, despite the struggles you will face you know you can get through it together. So you lean in and kiss him again, and again and again; you would have all night and many more because now you were his and he was yours.

Thank you for reading! reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated ♡

I don't do parts two! ⟡ I do not allow repost (do not translate or copy elsewhere), please do not recommend my work on tiktok.

#wr #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader

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boydepartment · 18 days

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nishimura riki boyfriend playlist °‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

10 songs- 10 scenarios :) - masterlist - fluff & angst sorry

⋆˙⟡ apple cider- beabadoobee

જ⁀➴ you didn’t know he was an idol at all. he was touring your city and you knew of the group. you actually WANTED to go but fuck hybe and their ticketing amiright up top okay! 🖐️👏 anyways. he walked in a cafe where you were studying and immediately he felt drawn to you. being stupid riki didn’t know what to say so he approached you and asked you to help him order. you thought it was weird but who were you to turn down helping someone with pretty eyes and cool earrings?

⋆˙⟡ do you believe in magic- the lovin’ spoonful

જ⁀➴ riki can’t believe that he bagged you. obviously he has an ego he’s a teenage boy. but when HE bagged YOU. you agreed to go on a date with him without knowing he was an idol at first, oh he was bouncing off the walls. he wondered if magic really was real

⋆˙⟡ kiss me- sixpence none the richer

જ⁀➴ you and riki have a very uplifting relationship for the most part. obviously there’s ups and downs and issues, but whenever you’re both stressed just taking in eachother is enough to end the day. small kisses on the cheek, lips, hands, are very common between you two.

⋆˙⟡ i don’t smoke- mitski

જ⁀➴ rough patches. you’re both young (hopefully you’re BOTH young. (¬_¬) you AND him are YOUNG and you’re NOT over the legal drinking age in america while he’s 18) so there’s going to be flare ups in the relationship where he gets snappy and kinda mean. riki is only human and he apologizes right after, but he’s human and shit happens. you’re understanding and you have your moments too where you’re tired of life and snap at him aswell. the important thing is, you try for eachother and you try for yourselves.

⋆˙⟡ come and get your love- redbone

જ⁀➴ whenever you visit him in korea, it ends in a lot of late night time in the kitchen or living room. holding back laughter and tiptoeing everywhere is so funny to you both. trying to dance in the kitchen while accidentally falling over and making a HUGE crash has definitely happened.

⋆˙⟡ somewhere in neverland- all time low

જ⁀➴ you guys go out late a lot. when you vacation to him or he vacations to you on the rare occasion, you both kinda become nocturnal temporarily. when you guys walk around at night you don’t have to worry. riki doesn’t bother wearing a privacy mask and he can relax. he wishes everyday could be like this sometimes. riki would never tell you that though, that he wishes he could freeze time during your late night walks to the store.

⋆˙⟡ melty love- shazna

જ⁀➴ riki likes to spin you. that sounds so random and stupid but he thinks it’s funny. if you wear a nice outfit and are insecure about it he will grab your hand and spin you. hyping you up. it’s almost embarrassing how he hypes you up so it makes you feel better because hearing “OH YEAH!” “YEAH!” “OOOO SLAAAY” “OOOOO!!!” “💪💪💪” “YOU ATE!” from your boyfriend is way more embarrassing than the outfit you’re wearing.

⋆˙⟡ アイワナビー - stance punks

જ⁀➴ sometimes he gets upset he can’t be the boyfriend he wants to be. you have no issue with him being busy, or let alone in a different country more than half the time. it didn’t upset you or even offend you. but it offends riki, it upsets him. you’ll send him those cute relationship trends (on melancholy hill - gorillaz COUGH COUGH) and be like “omg let’s do this when you visit/i visit :) “ and as much as he loves the sentiment sometimes he gets upset he can’t do the trend with you NOW.

⋆˙⟡ cupid - fifty fifty

જ⁀➴ goofy coded bf. the second the relationship got to the point where he didn’t have to “act cool” anymore… dude this mf is WEEEEIRRD…. not in an unsettling way though. more in a “is that my shirt? are you wearing my shirt?” “yeah does it look good on me?” while being completely serious

⋆˙⟡ pretty boy - the neighborhood

જ⁀➴early mornings are both your favorites. especially when the other one is still asleep. you both WOULD NEVER admit this to the other one either but, you both have this habit where if you wake up first as cliche and stupid as it is, you’ll admire the other one. trying to memorize features. bumps, acne, smile and frown lines, sun kisses, etc.

⟡ extra- seasons - wave to earth

➴ depending how long you two are together, watching him grow and being his biggest cheerleader is one of your favorite things of just being around him in general. watching him grow as an idol and getting to be proud of him makes the hardships worth it to you.

i was gonna add another extra but i’m gatekeeping… that’s my song for him i am not sharing sorry 🙅‍♂️🙅‍♂️🙅‍♂️

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honeybcj · 3 months

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@jegulus-microfic february 8 / headphones / 941 words / based off those silly videos i’ve seen where people approach others and ask what song they are listening to

The last thing Regulus anticipated for his peaceful morning walk was to be bombarded by a man with a tiny microphone asking him the silliest of questions.

The morning had been going well; headphones on, a cozy sweater hanging from his torso. He finally had a free moment to walk around campus without the impending doom of assignments on his back. So when this man—a concerningly gorgeous one, mind you—approaches him with full blown enthusiasm, Regulus’ mouth suddenly runs dry, no words coming out.

“So what song are you listening to?” The man asks, extending the tiny microphone at him.

Regulus blinks at the man, mouth opening to say something. He freezes, glancing down at the phone screen in his hand. He could lie. Come up with just about anything. Or he could just flat out ignore the infuriating man.

There’s another one of them, balancing a phone in his hands, seemingly recording the whole interaction. Frankly, Regulus has no idea where to look. Actually caught off guard by the whole situation.

Cautiously, Regulus slips the headphones from his ears, peering up at the man in front of him to get a better look. He’s got these gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, which are kinda dorky, but they actually look good framing wide hazel eyes surrounded by crinkles from smiling too hard.

“Uh, I’m listening to, um,” Regulus stutters, glancing back down at the screen. His voice comes out quiet, “Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor.”

The man’s brow furrows in surprise, the corners of his mouth turning up even more. A smile that stretches miles wide revealing pearly white teeth that are blinding. Those stupid little crinkles aren’t going anywhere, and it’s making Regulus positively mad.

How does one just go about their day having a smile like that?

Infectious, even. Almost possessive in the sense that Regulus has to school his own expression, tugging the corners of his mouth down into a flat line. An attempt to remain neutral like a stick wasn’t thrown right into the middle of his morning routine.

“Wonderful. Thanks so much,” the man replies before turning to his partner behind the camera. As the camera is lowered, seemingly having gotten what it needs, the bothersome man turns back towards Regulus, cheery grin still in place.

“Is it okay if we use that for our video?” The man inquires.

Regulus just blinks, unsure of how he got himself into this predicament. Ages ago. He could have walked away ages ago, no longer caught up in whatever scheme this is.

But, no. Regulus may or may not be swooning. Too captivated by brown skin and the blinding smile. Warm, inviting eyes with those goofy glasses and unruly curls twisting along his forehead.

Feeling brave, Regulus straightens his shoulders, cocking his head to the side. With a deep breath, Regulus says, “If you tell me your name, you can.”

Like a godforsaken dog, the man’s ears perk up, a dimple popping in one of his cheeks. Regulus finds himself wanting to dig his thumb into the divot. Find out how deep it can go.

“‘M name’s James.” The man—James—extends his hand out to Regulus. A stupid handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

Hesitantly, Regulus takes his hand, giving a good, practiced handshake in return.

“James,” he tries out, getting a feel for the weight of the name on his tongue.

“Am I pushing my luck if I ask for yours?” James asks, tilting his head to the side curiously.

Regulus snorts his response, taken aback by the man’s sheer will to keep asking him questions. The audacity of this man. Absolutely, positively ridiculous.

But he takes it all back with a shake of his head, caving in and responding before he even has a chance to stop himself. “Regulus.”

“Regulus,” James repeats, still shaking Regulus’ hand. How had they not let go yet?

The two of them stand there staring at each other. Neither of them saying a word, just looking. It should feel awkward, having just met this stranger on the sidewalk, but Regulus can’t tear his eyes away from this James guy.

It’s the voice of the other man that cuts through, ending the shared moment between James and Regulus.

“Oi, James. We’ve got places to be. Gonna need you to peel your eyes away from your newfound crush for a second, so we can get going,” the other man announces, which makes Regulus breath hitch.

Apparently, it’s doing things to James as well because his cheeks go ruddy, ducking his head down to get out of view of Regulus who is feeling far too amused now. He’s pretty sure his own cheeks are dusted with a soft pink, mesmerized by the sudden shyness James is emitting.

“Seems like you have places to be, James,” Regulus comments, shifting in his place.

“Appears that I do, Regulus,” James agrees, taking one final look at the man in front of him. “See you around then?”

Regulus hums, jutting his chin out. “Maybe so.”

It all ends too soon for Regulus’ liking. Has him wondering when the next time he’ll see James will be. Hadn’t seen him before this point, so what is the likelihood Regulus will run into him again.

It’s a gamble he’s willing to take.

One thing though, he doesn’t miss the way James throws a wink in his direction as he walks away. Or when he friend whacks him over the back of the head, warm laughter falling from his mouth.

It’s enough for the smile to finally spill over onto Regulus’ mouth. Oh, he wants to see James again. Very much so.

#jegulus #james potter #regulus black #james x regulus #jegulus microfic #marauders #han’s microfics

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your-local-simp-writers · 25 days

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Laughter

Word Count: 682

Warnings: None

Malleus Draconia x Fem!Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦��︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The quest to elicit genuine laughter from Malleus Draconia had become more than a mere challenge; it had evolved into a journey of connection, a dance of two souls weaving through the tapestry of daily life at Night Raven College. Each day, you presented a new act in the comedy you hoped would crack the stoic exterior of the Dragon King.

Your attempts were many and varied. One day, you tried to tickle a chuckle out of him with a cleverly crafted joke that played on the words of an ancient Draconic spell. Another day, you staged a humorous play with the help of the drama club, complete with exaggerated costumes and over-the-top performances. You even were able to orchestrate a playful riddle, clever and intricate, designed to appeal to Malleus’s intellect. Another day, you enlisted the help of the mischievous students, setting up a harmless prank that left Malleus with a surprised chuckle, though not the laugh you sought.

As the week drew to a close, you found yourselves walking together in the moonlit gardens, a place where the hustle of the college seemed like a distant memory. The night air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of roses and the distant sound of the nocturnal choir of crickets and frogs.

Each failed attempt was not a setback but a step closer to understanding the enigmatic Dragon King. But as the week progressed, so did the bond between you. Shared smiles, exchanged glances, moments where your hands brushed while walking down the corridor—all these tiny threads wove a connection that was palpable, a silent understanding that grew with each passing day.

It was on a night adorned with a velvet sky and a radiant moon that you found yourselves strolling through the enchanted gardens. The air was cool, carrying the scent of jasmine and moonflower, the garden bathed in a soft, ethereal light.

“You have been quite persistent,” Malleus remarked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to blend with the rustling leaves. “I must confess, your dedication to this quest has been… quite endearing.”

You smiled, a plan forming in your mind. “Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong,” you mused. “Maybe it’s not about the act, but the moment.”

You looked up at him, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his features. “Laughter is the melody of the soul, Malleus. I want to hear yours.”

He considered your words, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “And what makes you believe that you can draw it out?” he asked, his gaze meeting yours.

“Because,” you replied, your voice filled with conviction, “even the sternest of hearts can find joy in the unexpected.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. You spoke of small things, inconsequential things, and yet, in those moments, they felt significant. The conversation flowed like a gentle stream, natural and unforced.

And then, as the song “Teitur - One and Only” played in your mind, you found the moment you had been waiting for. With a twinkle in your eye, you recounted a humorous anecdote, one that was personal, heartfelt, and unexpectedly funny.

Malleus listened, his expression unreadable in the moonlight. But as the punchline approached, you stumbled, not in your words, but quite literally over a wayward vine. The surprise on your face, the grace with which you regained your balance—it was a scene straight out of a play, and it was real.

The laughter that followed was rich and warm, echoing through the garden like a melody. Malleus’s laughter, unrestrained and joyful, filled the night air, mingling with the rustling leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

“I stand corrected,” he said, his laughter subsiding into a series of delighted chuckles. “You have indeed found the right moment, and it was… perfect.”

The two of you paused, the laughter still hanging in the air like a cherished melody. In that moment, under the watchful eye of the moon, you realized that laughter was not just a sound—it was a connection, a shared language that transcended words.

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mrsshabana · 5 months

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𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐲

꒦꒷‧₊ Summary You're sent on your first assignment as an entomologist, but things quickly go awry on your first night and you meet a creature that should just be an urban legend. ꒦꒷‧₊ Content Mantis!Gyutaro x female!reader, insects, blood, gore, violence ꒦꒷‧₊ Note 2.8k words

✧:･ﾟ→ Mantis Gyutaro art ✧:･ﾟ→ Chapter 2

Tonight is your first night in the field. After years of studying entomology, you were lucky enough to snag a spot on a prestigious team of entomologists. You moved your entire life here so you could have this golden opportunity. Little did you know, they only accepted you because this forest is known for its disappearances. They can’t risk losing their most valued scientists, so they prefer to send the newbies to places like these.

Unfortunately for you, your studies require you to gather samples of nocturnal species. Which is why you currently find yourself trekking through the lush forest. With only a small flashlight and a paper map to guide you.

Every minute sound sets off your anxiety. You even get startled by the occasional cool breeze rustling the leaves of the trees that tower above you. The only thing keeping you grounded is the soothing song of crickets.

That is, until it all stops. The entire forest goes quiet as you step into a small clearing.

“What the hell?” you say to yourself to fill the void. The undeniable feeling of being watched begins to weigh down on you. Flashing your light behind your shoulder, it reveals nothing at all. Only the empty path from where you came. “Weird…” you push yourself forward.

One step… two steps… three…

In the blink of an eye, your entire body is pinned to the ground. Your face digging into the dirt, you’re unable to see what is restricting you.

All you know is that something big is holding you down.

Rows of sharp objects dig into the skin of your back, preventing you from struggling. You try to kick your way out of its grasp but the needle-like protrusions dig deeper into your flesh with every movement.

Your screams echo through the trees, but you know that no matter how hard you scream no one will be close enough to hear you. And whatever is holding you down right now doesn’t seem bothered either.

The beast is quick with its movements. You are so used to working with carnivorous insects that you can already tell that this thing doesn’t plan on keeping you alive for long.

Everything goes in slow motion when you feel the skin on the back of your neck tearing. You’ve got to act fast or else this is it.

The creature can barely sink its teeth into you before you are swinging your head backwards. The back of your head smacking the creature straight on its forehead. It unlatches from you, falling backwards with a hiss.

Scrambling to your knees, you turn around to face whatever thought you’d make an easy meal.

It’s a man. No… It’s an insect.

The creature has the body and the face of a man, albeit very thin and bony. He has black hair that fades into green halfway down, partially tied up in a messy topknot. Large folded up wings lay on his back. His forearms are decorated with long, sharp spikes. His entire body is covered in ink-like black splotches. Two long antennae hang in front of his face.

The thing is sitting down, groaning with its head in its palms.

Your thoughts are spiraling. There’s no way that this is actually happening right? The sane person in you wants to run away screaming before this thing gets back up. But the entomologist in you wants to investigate further. You know you’re playing with fire, but your curiosity gets the best of you.

You take a moment to admire his appearance again. Antennae, tibial spines, large wings. This creature resembles a mantis. Ok, what do you know about mantids? They’re aggressive predators, territorial, and they’ll eat almost anything. Shit, none of that information helps you right now. It only diminishes your chances of getting out of this alive.

You took too long, and the creature has recovered from your headbutt. Staring at you with wide eyes, it slowly moves towards you. Inching ever so slowly.

Reaching into your pocket, you grab the small jar of honey you were going to use as bait later in the night. You know that mantids only eat live prey, but this is all that you have.

You fumble with the lid, scooting yourself backwards as the creature continues its crawl towards you. With a huff, your back hits a tree, stopping your path. You are met with glowing yellow eyes and deadly mandibles inches from your face.

Somehow, you managed to open the jar. The sweet aroma of artisan honey fills the air around you. In a desperate attempt to distract the creature, you hold the honey out to him.

“H-here. F-for you…” you stutter, voice barely above a whisper.

Guttural clicks rumble from his chest. He exhales in your face, the rich scent of blood fills your nose. Almost making you gag. You must’ve not been the first item on the menu tonight.

With curiosity, the creature sniffs the jar in your hand. He places a hand on your hip to keep you in place, as a long tongue slips out of its mouth. Its tongue is pitch black and forked at the tip.

You feel like you can’t breathe as this thing starts to lick the honey from the jar. Seemingly satisfied by its sweetness he continues. This creature is quite literally, eating from the palm of your hand.

It’s great that you managed to distract it, but what do you do now? It’s holding you down so you won’t be able to get away. All you can do is watch as the jar slowly empties, your fate approaching. You thought you were being smart by offering the honey, but all you managed to do is give him an appetizer.

It only takes a few minutes for the jar to be licked clean. His hungry gaze shifted back to you. He licks his mandibles as he inches his face closer to yours, tickling the top of your head with his antennae.

“P-please… I-I don’t wanna die,” you whimper. Lowering your head and squeezing your eyes shut as tears roll down your cheeks.

All you can do is wait for the pain of being ripped apart.

But it never comes. And when you open your eyes, the beast is gone.

︶︶꒷ ₊˚ ︶︶꒷ ₊˚

It took all your willpower not to brag to your colleagues about the amazing discovery you made. Yeah you almost died, but that was a small detail.

You made it safely back to camp. Everyone else was asleep when you arrived so you had all of the privacy you needed to recompose yourself.

The next afternoon you set out into the forest again. It took you longer to make it there this time because of the wounds that you were left with the previous night. Multiple punctures on your back, and a bite on your neck. You can’t complain though because you know you were lucky to come out alive.

Making it back to the familiar clearing, you unpack your bag. This time you came prepared with plenty of food to distract the mantis. Some grasshoppers you stole from your colleague, as well as some honey. There are so many questions that you want answered. You know that you are insane for wanting to get close to this thing again, but you can’t help yourself. It’s in your nature to be curious about new discoveries!

Leaning against a log, you wait for nightfall. Passing the time by taking notes in your journal.

Day 1

I met the mantis at night. Unusual behavior for a mantis. But not completely uncommon for males. Most mantis hunt during the day time, but sometimes male mantis will hunt at night. As it is easier for them to avoid birds. However, mantis have to worry about avoiding bats at night. But the mantis man is so large that I doubt he has to worry about any predators at all. Does he choose to hunt at night to avoid humans?

Once surrounded by the darkness of the night, you begin to regret your decision to come out here. The panic that you felt the previous night begins to overcome you again. You flash your light up into the trees. No mantis to be seen.

The senses of a mantis are very strong. His eyesight is beyond anything a mere human would ever fathom. So if he is close, he must’ve already seen you. As an ambush predator, you know that he’ll be stalking you from afar. The halt of the cricket song alerts you that he’s close. It’s said that crickets stop chirping when a predator is nearby.

“I-I know you’re there! I brought food for you,” your voice shaky, trying to sound confident but instead you just sound pathetic and weak.

No response. Just silence.

Turning on your flashlight, you check your surroundings. And when you turn around you are met with the sight of the mantis. He was sneaking up behind you, never making a sound to alert you. He got alarmingly close, so good thing you turned around when you did. Who knows what would have happened if you were a second later.

This is the first time that you are seeing the mantis at his full height. He towers over you, more than any normal human would. He must be around seven feet tall.

Yellow eyes stare widely at you, as he slowly continues to creep towards you. Continuing to stalk you even after you’ve spotted him. It’s unnerving and creepy.

“H-hello,” you try to break the tension. But your words only set him off. He opens his mouth and starts hissing at you. Unblinking eyes never diverting away from you. Every step you take back, he takes forward. You know what he’s trying to do, he’s trying to intimidate you. You are in his territory after all, so maybe he is interpreting your presence as a challenge. It’s just a speculation, but it’s all you have to go off of. So, you slowly kneel down and grab the container of grasshoppers from your bag. Making sure to never break eye contact.

When he sees the snacks you brought for him, he stops hissing. Cocking his head to the side in curiosity.

“I brought these for you,” you shake the container, making the insects jump around, “I promise they’re tasty.”

The mantis chirps as he kneels in front of you. Snatching the container from your hands, he starts chewing on the plastic. Cracking it with his strong mandibles until it breaks, releasing the grasshoppers. They scatter quickly, jumping and leaping around the clearing. The mantis is quick to snatch them up and shove them into his mouth, leaping around like a cat until he’s caught them all. You feel bad about stealing your colleagues' grasshoppers, but this research is far more important. You took the largest specimens you could find. This is no regular mantis, it will take an incredible amount of food to satiate him enough to not consider you as a meal option for the night. But unfortunately, you don’t have access to such copious amounts of food. So you’ll just have to pray that this will be enough for now.

You study his movements. He’s fast and silent. A deadly combination.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish hunting down the snacks you provided. The loud sound of exoskeletons being crunched fills your ears as he approaches you again. The sound sends shivers down your spine.

He seems much calmer than he was earlier, looking at you expectantly. Maybe he knows that you brought more food for him? You wouldn’t be surprised if he could already smell it.

This time you came prepared with a large jar of honey and a spoon. The mantis starts chirping when you open the jar, eagerly fluttering his wings in anticipation of the sweet nectar.

Holding the jar in your lap, you use the spoon to collect the honey and bring it up to the mantis’ face. His long black tongue unfurls from his mouth, licking the spoon clean. It makes you giggle, spoon feeding a big scary creature.

He tries to lunge forward to take the jar from you but you push him back. “No! Bad boy,” you scold.

With a growl he pushes you to the side, taking the jar for himself. “Hey!” you yelp. He holds the jar close to his body, dipping his tongue in the thick liquid only to bring it back into his mouth. He repeats this with no intention of stopping until the jar is empty.

Well, at least he’s distracted.

“Do you have a name?”

He quirks a brow at you, licking the honey off his mandibles.

Can he not speak? He seems intelligent but if he hasn’t spent much time around humans then it makes sense that he wouldn’t know how to speak. But does he understand what you are saying?

“My name is Y/N,” your words seemingly go in one ear and out the other. “If you promise not to kill me, I’ll bring you even more honey,” that seems to have gotten his attention. He stops and stares at you with hooded eyes. Looking much more relaxed than earlier, he chirps two times before diverting his attention back to his snack.

You can only assume that he’s agreeing to your terms. Or at least, you hope he is.

While he’s busy eating, you use this valuable time to observe his appearance and mannerisms. He allows you to get close enough to inspect the beautiful arrangements of spots that decorate his body. Getting a closer look at him, you can appreciate how beautiful he is. Maybe someday he’ll expand his wings for you to see.

Just in case things went awry, you brought a tranquilizer with you. If you are able to tranquilize him and take him back to base camp, you’d be praised by everyone. You can only imagine all of the awards and recognition you’d receive for bringing his existence to light. But watching as he eagerly slurps the honey, it’s hard not to feel sympathy for him. If you were to take him back to camp, he’d be contained and experimented on for the rest of his life. And that's not fair to anyone. Even a mantis human hybrid.

After half an hour he hands you the empty jar. His eyes look heavy and he blinks slowly. Poor thing must be tired after eating so much sugar. Without a thought, your body moves on its own. You cautiously bring your palm up to his head, and begin stroking his hair with your hand. He seems unbothered by your touch, closing his eyes and purring in response.

Aw, he’s actually kind of cute. Extremely deadly, but cute nonetheless. His antennae twitch, tickling your arm as you pet him.

He’s so vulnerable right now. This would be the perfect opportunity to tranquilize him. But instead, you vow to yourself that you will protect him. As long as you’re here you will study him in secrecy.

His head dips for a moment before he picks it back up. He’s so sleepy that he almost fell asleep. So he decides that it is time for him to go. You watch as the mantis climbs up a large tree, making himself comfortable on a branch and laying down to rest.

︶︶꒷ ₊˚ ︶︶꒷ ₊˚

It’s shocking how well your second encounter with the mantis man went. He was aggressive at first, but when you introduced food into the equation, he became docile. It’s obvious that he is food motivated, so everytime you go out, you make sure to have some snacks on hand just in case there is a surprise encounter.

But it has been a couple days since you’ve been able to see your new friend. You aren’t worried about him, knowing full well that he’s more than capable of hunting on his own. But you do feel bad, so you bring an extra large batch of grasshoppers and beetles.

As you approach the familiar meeting spot, you hear rustling in the brush beside you. You know it isn’t the mantis because he stalks silently.

“H-hello?” you whisper.

“Hey! You shouldn’t be here!” A female voice whispers back. The sound of twigs snapping under her feet as she approaches you.

She steps into the moonlight, her exquisite beauty revealed to you. She has blue eyes and long white hair. And she’s far too overdressed for a walk in the forest.

“This forest is dangerous. You need to leave now!” panic evident in her voice as she takes your hand in an attempt to show you the way out.

“Wait! I’m a scientist, I know what I’m doing. You on the other hand, really shouldn’t be here,” you warn, “There are dangerous animals that live here.”

She stops, raising a brow in confusion, “Could it be?... Have you met him too?”

You gulp, “The mantis…”

She nods and her eyes widen, “You’ve met my brother…”

#gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro x y/n #gyuutarou #gyuutarou x reader #ume shabana #mantis au #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #cryptid x reader

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shibaraki · 1 year

Text

PENUMBRA ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: navigating life with two identities is no easy feat. falling for the underground hero known as Eraserhead makes keeping your worlds separate that much harder. it was bound to fall apart at some point.

tags: AFAB GN reader, strangers to friends to lovers, secret identity (reader is a vigilante; wears a mask; reader has a quirk), minor oc characters, morally conflicting relationships, romantic + sexual tension, cats + coffee, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence (weapons; quirk brutality; kidnapping; villain gun quirk), quirkless discrimination, criticisms of hero system, blood loss + injury (bruises, fractures, bullet wounds, reader gets stitches), mutual pining, making out + heavy petting, I promise this is fluffier than it sounds, mild angst with a happy + hopeful ending

wc: 20k

It happens between blinks. Always a forgiving, dreamless sleep.

When you wake to the obnoxious wail of your alarm the honeysuckle sun has already unsheathed itself from the horizon. “Fuck,” you groan, smacking your lips in displeasure at the dry, cotton feeling in your mouth.

Three and a half hours was better than none at all. You had fifteen minutes to make yourself moderately presentable — wipe away the sand from your cornea with cold water, lethargically brush your teeth, appraise the shadows beneath your eyes and twist in the mirror reflection as you try to map out any fresh bruises.

You paint over the purples and blues, wincing as you go. Most were easily covered up by your shirt but you couldn’t take any chances; not the slip of your sleeve, or the dip of your collar. Nocturne’s remnants littered your body, and he would surely recognise them at first glance.

Your lips shape slowly around the consonants and vowels. “Aizawa,” repeated again and again as you dress yourself. Not Eraser now, just Aizawa. Kill the latter part of yourself, saved only for the night. Don’t slip up. You tuck your rudimentary wings back into thick, woolly socks pulled up over your ankles, snug around your calves. Wearing just jeans and a sweater always feels unnaturally light the morning after a patrol.

The key eases into the lock. You turn it clockwise, and try the handle once more before you leave. In passing you can hear your neighbours beginning to wake and get ready for their day. Hasty footsteps echo throughout the stairway as you descend it, too behind on time to even think about waiting for the lift.

You start down the road towards the cafe and tug your jacket closer to your chest. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. Tired as you are, there’s a restless giddiness building in your chest, and it spurs you on further. Aizawa is a creature of habit — he would be there, rumpled and windswept, as he always is.

The mundane routine wasn’t something you disliked. Not everything had to be exhilarating or dangerous for it to be worthwhile. Life was an accumulation of small victories. When the sun is up, that is when you get to enjoy the fruits of your labour; people in your community with relaxed smiles, unrestrained laughter, going about their day without the burden of worry.

You enter through the back door of Meowtini. Waiting diligently for your arrival, as soon as they hear the click of a lock the cats are flocking to the staff room, a cacophony of yowls of every pitch. “Okay, okay! I hear you!” you laugh, pushing them away gently with the tip of your foot as you try to get to the kitchen.

One leg after the other, you step over the security gate. “No kitties in the kitchen,” your voice threads together in a sing-song cadence, hands busy at work collecting the tubs of cat food from the pantry. “I promise it’s comin’!”

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since your handover, Hideki, had left, and still they behave as if they’d been abandoned for weeks.

At the cafe there are three rotations. The morning shift runs from eight till twelve. During lunch the doors would be locked, allowing the feline residents reprieve from the public. Second is the afternoon, three till six, and third is the late night shift, reserved strictly for employees able to bake and restock the display cases for the following day.

You always took the morning shift, without fail.

A quiet bell sounds by the entrance and all ears in the vicinity perk up. Aizawa enters at eight on the dot just as he does every Friday, still in the all black jumpsuit and weighted capture weapon you saw him in only hours ago, now with his usual work bag slung over his arm.

You straighten self consciously and smooth down the front of your apron. His furtive stare finds yours through the second security door, peeking over top the new missing person poster tacked front and centre, slightly obscured by the dark hair curtaining his face.

Some of the older cats slink out from their hiding spots, mewling like kittens. They’re only ever like this with him; their internal clockwork has synced to his arrival, you think. It’s only natural — Aizawa spoils them more than any other regular.

They shuffle back as the door pushes inward, and he slips through the narrow space into the warmth of your cafe. You watch with inundated fondness as he takes a moment to breathe in the scent, those broad shoulders lifting, chest expanding with his lungs.

Aizawa bends forward like a puppet cut free of its strings and proffers his hand to the feline closest to him. Ren, an older long haired cat with a black coat to match his own. You get a glimpse of the muscle hidden under that plain fabric, as it slips forward over his bruised collar, and you swallow thickly.

“G’morning,” you call to him, turning to busy yourself with his usual order. A red eye — black coffee with one added shot of espresso — and a glass of cold water. You massage the ache in your knuckles as the coffee drips steadily into the shot glass, conscious of the broken skin on your third and fourth knuckle that you’d covered with concealer.

You hear his gruff response, voice low and rough with fatigue in a way that prickles at the nape of your neck. There’s a familiar, pointed weight at your back that fades the moment you turn, his stare now set firmly on the baked goods in the display counter.

“Want one?” his eyes flicker up, meeting your own as you set the coffee on the surface. “You can give up the bit, Aizawa. I’m already well aware you’ve got a secret sweet tooth”.

It’s still odd interacting with him like this — as yourself, plain clothed and unmasked, voice as clear as the bell by the door. The first time he had stepped foot in the cafe you’d been overwhelmed by trepidation and fear, only to realise he didn’t recognise you at all.

“You pick something,” he murmurs, reaching across. Your fingers are still looped through the handle of the mug, and they brush against his rough skin as he takes it from you. There’s coarse, dark hair on the back of his hand, you notice. “So long as it’s warm”.

Pleased, you hum an affirmative, picking up the pair of tongs behind the counter and plucking one of the croissants from the shelf; crust crisp with a soft yielding centre, brushed with golden egg.

“Hard week?”

Something indiscernible shifts in his expression. He considers you, “What makes you say that?”

This is another of those fleeting instances that you think he may have connected the dots. Face pinched in quiet suspicion, he visibly weighs the possibilities. Your pulse throbs on the back of your tongue as the blood rushes to your ears. You warily telegraph your movements and ignore the urge to turn away from prying eyes.

“Just making conversation,” you smile, though it is strained despite your efforts, and gesture to your collarbones. “I saw the bruises, so…”

A beat of silence passes, and you are forced to exhale on the off chance that your quirk activated itself amidst the one sided panic. When Aizawa accepts your flimsy excuse with a lazy nod you are forced to temper the immediate relief that follows.

“I did run into trouble. Though not the kind you’re thinking,” he continues to speak, bending to pet one of the younger cats. Suzu, judging by the broken mewl. He sounds… unbearably fond. “Just someone that likes to get on my nerves”.

Blunted teeth sink into your tongue. The toaster oven pings behind you, startling you out of your gentle astonishment. Taking the croissant out of the oven, the hot air plumes upward to sting your eyes, and you set it onto a small plate.

“That’s hardly distinct. I’ve heard you say that about everyone in your life,” you tease lightly. “Starting to think you enjoy it”.

“I wonder about that,” Aizawa huffs, sliding the plate across the counter and stepping around the flock that has inevitably gathered at his feet. He hugs the coffee mug to his sternum, glancing toward his usual spot.

Despite being the only person to arrive this early, he always checks. Recently, he has also begun to ask, “Too busy to join me?”

Weeks ago, you’d taken an early break and graded some papers for him while he slept, and he had yet to forget it. “You do a guy's work for him one time,” you laugh, head shaking amusedly. No doubt there were enough poorly written student essays in that worn leather bag to fill your skull with cotton. “I have to feed the cats”.

Do your own job, Hero. The comment sits right at the tip of your tongue, and it takes conscious effort to smother it, pressed up against the back of your teeth. Too much like Nocturne.

Aizawa levels you with a playful glare — playful by his standards — and his nose wrinkles above the ribbons of carbon alloy coiled around his neck. Then he sleuths off to his booth, gait heavy as if he were wading through wet mud.

Now you’re free to enjoy the sides of him Nocturne doesn’t get to see; the man you knew as a force to be reckoned with, the voice of reason and stickler for the law, draping himself across the booth like he was part of the furniture, where he could just be; embedded into a scene that gently unfolded around him.

Ren leaps up onto the cushioned seat, stretching her limbs across his thighs with toes spread. The pro hero slumps down and slips his fingers into her thick fur, head tipping back as the rigidity bleeds from his body. You drink in the way his throat shifts when he swallows, how the dark stubble on his cheeks shadows the underside of his jaw, and quickly cast your eyes to the countertop.

Aizawa Shouta is unbearably handsome in all manner of ways. You’re sure he would regard you with flat disdain if ever you told him so. The unkempt, rugged appearance was all purposeful — being overlooked or underestimated was the whole point. But you liked it. A lot.

You recall the whiplash of seeing him during a press conference all those months ago; hair brushed and neatly styled into a half up do, a youthful face freshly shaven, his suit cinching tight in all the right places. Thankfully his facial hair is as stubborn as he is, and you never needed to grieve it much.

Paradoxically, you are far more masked standing behind the cafe counter now than you were in your gear. There was caution and forethought in every word, every movement; constantly weighing the possible outcomes came with a lot of mental fatigue. You wanted to reach out and touch him, to grasp every version of yourself and overlay them in his mind until it painted a full picture. Look at me.

Maybe it’s silly, with him sitting so close. But you missed him. You wanted to banter with him again, poke and prod until he got a little rough.

Eventually a pair of friends trickle in, bringing a brief gust of cold air when they greet you. The dewy morning sun is bright as it peeks over the surrounding buildings, glittering faintly where the condensation clings to the window panes and casting dappled shadows across the floor. You serve them together and make idle conversation, sneaking quick glances at the weathered hero. He rested against his fist, squishing the fat of his cheek.

“Thank you. Here, since you’re new, take a few bribes too,” you restrain a smile at the sight of him nodding off over his paperwork as you press a few small tubes of wet cat treats into their open palms. “It’ll help warm them up to ya”.

When the coast is clear you gather some for yourself, fiddling nervously with the packaging and approaching Aizawa’s booth. He’s awake again now. Coffee cup empty and croissant half eaten. The man is a grazer; when he eats Aizawa will nibble around the edges and save the centre. You hear the rough scratch of his pen across paper. Spine arched and tail quivering happily, Ren spreads her toes as she pushes up into his equally heavy handed back pats.

You know well enough that he’s aware of your presence. Subtle, his shoulders roll back, opening his chest, chin tilted toward you and hair tucked behind his ear to show he’s listening while he works, leg unfolding from beneath his body and stretching until the tip of his toe taps the opposite seat.

That’s just how he is. Eraserhead’s intentions are largely unspoken. A test, in a way. Tuning into the body language of others and deciphering it is what kept you alive most nights. Hearing the question, the bid for more explanation, the silent praise behind his less-than-expressive expressions had been child’s play.

Not here though. You needed to maintain a level of ignorance to keep his guard down. Standing at the end of the table you ask if you can sit despite knowing you can. He answers again by gesturing his pen over the table, never lifting his gaze.

You slide across from him. “How’s the pastry?”

“Groundbreaking,” he concedes dryly before tearing off another bite.

“Good answer,” you snort, resting your elbows on the table and leaning forward to shamelessly read what he’s working on. The handwriting is barely legible. “What’s the assignment about this week?”

“Overlap of ethics and law. It was supposed to be a two thousand word essay on any case study of their choosing,” he bends back the corner of the papers laid out in front of him to emphasise the thickness and deadpans. “This is all from one student. Five times the word count I set”.

“Midoriya again, I presume?”

The long suffering sigh is all the answer you need. You decidedly do not watch the slow swipe of his thumb across his mouth. His lips part and he sucks the remaining crumbs. Heat flashes through your body that almost makes your tea seem cold.

“Should never have clarified that the word count was a soft limit,” he mutters, clicking the end of his pen twice. “Kid is terrible at cutting down his own work. I advised him to only include the key sections of the essay he said ‘but Sensei, it’s all important’”.

“Sensei,” you repeat, mimicking his voice. “Why did you become a teacher again?”

“I regret it every day,” he replies. You can tell it’s without malice, and not just by the fondness there. He doesn’t mean it — never does. Aizawa Shouta is forthright and honest about everything but his personal feelings.

“Sure,” your cheeks hurt with the effort not to laugh; amusement hidden safely behind the rim of your mug. The tea burns, and you feel it all the way down to your stomach as you swallow. “If you say so”.

Dark eyes narrow in on you. It becomes another of those moments where the proverbial walls are closing in. Pushing back is useless, so you have learned to sit and wait. He’s always… surveying you. You think, deep down, his instincts are telling him things that he desperately wants to put a name to.

“I do,” he rumbles, absentmindedly circling his pen against paper. He twirls it between each knuckle with ease, staring at you for a long while before he says: “You remind me of somebody I know”.

Bracing yourself for collision does not lessen the impact. As expected, this is when the guilt invites itself in and replaces your fear of being caught with the nauseating shame that too often comes with lying to someone you care about. “Is that a good or a bad thing?” you ask, rubbing at that frantic, skittish thing behind your sternum. “I can never tell with you”.

Aizawa laughs. More of a snuffed out, breathy sound than anything, but a laugh all the same. You feel it echo to every nerve ending, simmering into a pleasant buzz. He didn’t do it much, and as Nocturne you knew it was embarrassingly obvious how hard you tried to pluck the reaction from him. So much so that you’d started to suspect he repressed it on purpose.

“It’s a good thing,” he murmurs, overturning another page of Midoriya’s work. Your heart jumps at the unfettered warmth in his tone. Then, following a short pause, he adds, “Mostly”.

You’re semi content to watch him work. There are always questions, but you’re afraid of what he might see in you if you ask. Forgetting yourself would lead to a lapse in control. Disturbance in the deception might not create an immediate break, but restless, inquisitive Eraserhead would not be able to keep his nails from picking at the frayed thread until the tapestry fell apart.

Names do not often come up in conversation, only ever by accident. Mostly, he refers to the majority of his class and his daughter with half-baked terms of endearment. You already knew many of the students at UA — albeit not personally, but it was clear that maintaining a strict level of anonymity for his kids was important to him.

So you dance around the lines he had so boorishly lain, flirting with them a little, but only if you can’t help it. It’s a repetitiveness you’ll never tire of, it’s scripted exchanges and the subtle coaxing until he’s there, in your magnetism. You liked how he’d smile as he receives the tube of cat treat, even if it is a private exchange with the cat in his lap and not you.

How’s work, how’ve you been sleeping, did you shave again?

Work is work, sleeping hours should be longer, do you often pay attention to my shaving habits?

People filter in as the time passes. You return to your place at the counter soon enough, kept in place by one of the newer, clingier kittens, Suzu, sprawled on the top of your right shoe.

You call out to Aizawa as he saunters toward the door. Once again, his stare lingers for longer than necessary on the missing person poster you had tacked to the window. He slouches further into himself at the volume, hands deep in his pockets when he turns to squint with displeasure.

Wearing a sheepish grin, you wave the little powder blue stamp in the air. When Aizawa leaves his face is flushed and hidden behind the sturdy material of his capture weapon, yet another ink impression of a cat on his pink point card.

Exhaustion catches up to you near the end of your shift. Your coworker, Saeko, a young woman fresh out of college, had arrived miraculously early. She gave you a playful, disapproving once over, smiling til a crooked tooth peeks from between her thin lips.

“Senpai. With all due respect, you look worse than I did during my final exams last year,” she snorted, jaw rolling as she idly chewed a fresh stick of gum. The teasing jab is fermented with fresh mint. “You can totally dip, if you want. I got it from here”.

“Are you sure?”

A wet smack of her lips. She shucked off her coat with a shrug, untucking the ends of blonde hair caught in the collar. It fell just below the hemline of her skirt, and you saw a faint ladder stretch in her dark tights when she stretched to hang it in the staff room. “Yea, it’s cool. Unless you’re still stickin’ around to wait for Melatonin-san? Thought he usually came at the ass crack of dawn”.

“That’s not his name and you know it,” you laughed, bundling yourself back up with a passing glance to the back window. Trepidatious, dark clouds make your little concrete world a smidge duller. “But no, I’ve got nothing left to do. Aizawa already stopped by”.

“Aizawa,” she recites, brows wiggling suggestively. “He asked for your number yet?”

“No, Saeko”.

“Want me to get it for you?” she pressed the tip of her index finger to her left eye. There’s gold tinted circuitry in the sclera paving toward the iris. It is vivid orange, without a pupil, and it appears to pulse like the lense of a camera. “On the house. Maybe if you get laid you’ll actually be able to sleep”.

Jacket wrapped close to your chest to brace for the incoming gust, your hand tightened around the door handle. “No, Saeko,” you repeated with feeling, as though you were chiding a toddler. “I mean it. No illegal data syphoning at work”.

Her voice carried through into the side alley, all the way onto the bustling street. Suit yourself, she cackled. The glaring implication that Aizawa could be interested in anything beyond pleasantries fed yarn into that ever-present knot of anxiety in your gut.

As Eraserhead he entertained Nocturne just fine, but that relationship was more akin to that of a kitten latched to his pant leg than anything else.

Even if it was a possibility of something more, that flame would be diminished as soon as he found out who you were.

You rub your hands together, creating heat with the friction and massaging it into your cheeks. The cold bites at the tip of your nose. Falling back into your normal route is natural. Sewn into muscle memory, your legs carry you back home and the thoughts wash over you.

The apartment seems less welcoming when the sun is up. You thought it might be the clutter, or the sound of your upstairs neighbours slow dancing in the kitchen. Creaky floorboards groan under your feet, above your head, as you find no reason to avoid the weak spots. There were things that needed to be done, and little time to do it.

Redress the wounds which have not scabbed. Throw some food into the air fryer and scrub your gear clean while it cooks. Eat well, press on all the areas of your body that feel tender and decide to take a painkiller. Plug in your phone and your mask, turn on the TV and listen to the news report as you stretch. Check your costume on the clothes horse, spend close to an hour examining for tears or concerning damage before laying it out on the end of your bed. Nap.

Blearily, you wake in a dark room, remnants of the day barely visible where it has slipped beneath the horizon, and wash your cotton mouth down with a glass of water. The news cycle is repeating, a red banner rolling bright across the lower half of the screen with urgency. Sidekicks from the Endeavor agency had pursued a villain from the Shizuoka border to the Meguro line on the Shuto Expressway, effectively destroying, in part, one of the main arteries into central Tokyo.

Not your jurisdiction. Not theirs either, if you think about it. Typical. You pat around aimlessly for the TV remote, lowering the volume to a whisper with a heavy sigh as you scoot toward the edge of your bed.

Unsteady on your feet, you amble toward the pinboard kept on your accent wall. An oeuvre of loss. You run your fingertips along the pins until they stop on one particular thread. Ono Mizuki. There are others — lines of every colour, yellow, blue, green, orange, interwoven and connected, overlapping from point to point until the pattern becomes clear.

Tonight you’d patrol further east of the prefecture. There’s one specific neighbourhood in which all the threads crossed. This area was the only other similarity between the victims aside from quirk status, or lack thereof.

Shadows pleat across your floorboards. The room is always a bit stuffy after you’ve squeezed into your gear. The kevlar strapped securely around your torso beneath the layers of clothing is weighted, and you’re quietly comforted by its sturdiness.

Strapping on your utility belt is the fun part. Three pouches secured either side of your hips — tucked into each are a basic first aid kit, flash bombs, smoke bombs and a few nightsticks. In the holsters is a granite baton and a small combat knife. Cuffs confiscated last week, all you have righ now are zip ties. You sniff petulantly. Eraserhead’s fault.

Even on the nights you don’t run into him during a patrol, Eraser’s presence is ubiquitous. A veritable shadow. He could be anywhere, could be anyone, and it was comforting in an odd way. You supposed that is what made him such a renowned underground hero. The possibility of being caught by him was enough to deter most criminals.

That sentiment was not unlike the legacy left by All Might, yet comparing the two — comparing him to any other daylight left an unpleasant taste in your mouth. Less bitter-sweet, more bitter-resentment.

By definition, heroes are not supposed to be human. Humanbeings are multifaceted. Messy. Heroes are scrubbed to the bone, puritanical, manufactured to symbolise something bigger. A bright, special kind of person in a black and white landscape; an iron club wielded by the voices of the people; the displacement of their personal responsibility.

To be a hero is to be the penultimate. A moment of choice, gestures of grandeur against one great foe that unites the people. They answer fears, like a God would.

It’s theatre.

You found solace in Eraserhead’s own translucence. His stubborn humanity set him apart. You had the unique opportunity to see Aizawa from other angles, to observe the ways in which he illuminated the facets of his soul. He was not all that dissimilar to you.

The lackadaisical man openly bore his heart on his sleeve only to convince you it’s a trick of the light. A hero that could shoulder accountability and admit fault. He’s well meaning and rough around the edges to ward off those he deems intolerant. Quiet when he knows to be with the memory of a fox — the ears of one, too. Carelessness wouldn’t be easily forgiven.

Thoughts of him carry you across a grey landscape, towering rooftops and buildings that dwarfed you. The sound of your feet hitting the gravel barely echoes. It had taken months to learn to lighten your footsteps, and even longer to know where to put them. Eraserhead wasn’t the only person that liked to remind you that your fighting stance needed work.

Dropping into the narrow alley below, you begin to weave through the prefecture's interconnected veins, senses attuned to your surroundings and prepared; any sudden noises, a shift in atmosphere, an item out of place, your breathing came to a stand still.

Something prickles under your skin as you approach the singular street where all the victims had once been. There is the innate feeling that something wrong has happened here — the kind that beats against your breast bone and begs you to turn back. At first glance the area isn’t overtly suspicious. Some of the buildings are boarded up, broken into or covered in anti-HPSC graffiti, but that wasn’t necessarily a red flag.

More often than not, areas that received less government funding tended to receive fewer patrols from heroes, and when they did, compensation for damages was rarely offered. It would need to go through the courts, and every day people did not have the means to fight a branch of government when they were busy with mouths to feed. Causation aside, their anger was natural, understood.

The true source of your discomfort comes from a warehouse at the far end of the road. A big, hulking structure, outer paint peeling to reveal varying layers of sun baked hues, encircled by fire escapes fastened firmly to each floor that gave it an almost skeletal appearance. Creaking in its decrepitude, you hear groans echoing throughout the empty rafters. That unnerving emptiness follows you in, finding a wide empty space entrenched in shadows.

Except, it feels strangely lived in. Touched by something. Light filters through the window panes enough to outline the tall pillars, looming and evenly spaced. Rubble has been swept into the corners, faint lines from the bristles in the dirt, and tread marks left by the wielder.

There’s an elevator in the back that you daren’t risk using. You apply some of your weight to the floor and it yields as though it would plummet. You come across a trash bag full of beer bottles and food tubs, which upon closer inspection, are mostly filled with needles and bloodied fabric.

Tipping the contents onto the floor would only alert someone if they returned later. You wanted to rummage through it piece by piece, maybe bag some of it up to hand off, but as thick as your gloves are you didn’t want to chance being pricked or contaminating something.

Your shoulder sag with a deep sigh, the sound crackling through your voice changer. One thing that does catch your eye is a bracelet — or what was once a bracelet. The chain has snapped and most of the beads are lost, but a few remain caught by the thicker part of the clasp. They’re speckled like granite and warm coloured, brown, green and orange. You can make out some kanji script etched into the beads. It is not a name you know, but an instinctive urge encourages you to keep it.

The bracelet is bagged and heavy in your utility belt as you peruse what’s left of the space, passing various rusted machinery covered in tarp. There’s a vice fixed to one of the work benches. The wood is stained dark, smatterings of dried blood dotting the lever. You try not to think about it.

Tension slips notably from your muscles as the distance lengthens between you and the warehouse. Heading back west, this route winds through the busier parts of the city. People of every shape are weaving around one another in every direction, filing out from the clubs and bars in a chorus of raucous laughter. Non locals might call this the heart but you know the heart lies in where they’re going — home.

You stick to the rooftops to maintain a vantage point. The air is thick with the bitter smell of alcohol and street food. Vendors made good money on nights like this; you feel your stomach twist in hunger, mouth watering at the sight of browning yakitori sizzling just below.

A woman stands off to the side, picking off the morsels of meat from her little stick, visibly unstable on her feet. The glow of satisfaction on her flushed face dims with discomfort when her foot narrowly misses the curb, and she bends to rub where the strap of her heels crosses over her ankle.

Your attention is magnetised to the figure near her. Unremarkable at first glance. The two stand out clearly, both immovable against the tide of civilians stumbling toward Futoura station, much further up the road. He’s watching her intently. Beady focused, unblinking. You notice another pair above his— no, a mimicry of them. Eyespots blending into a close-cropped head of hair.

His movements are carefully telegraphed as he begins to follow her. In turn, you do the same. The pace picks up when she nears a corner, mostly vacant, forking off into an alleyway that leads to the back of a club. Quicker than you could’ve expected, he throws a look over his shoulder before crowding her into the shadows.

The arch of your boot meets the ledge. You take a deep, deep breath. Desperate and obstructed by a large hand, her frightened yelp is cut short by the abrupt freezing of time.

You fall through it. The sensation is odd, as if you can feel every atmospheric thread breaking around you like spun sugar. Gravity is merciless. Untouched by your quirk, you drop hard as a stone, and you exhale.

Everything resumes. The dissonance of stepping into a frame and suddenly being written into it is hard to explain. You buffer and snap forward like a band into the maw of the alley. Startled by the impact, the pursuer swings his elbow back and reaches you first. They often do. Your quirk was good for gaining an advantage or getting away, but it did nothing to enhance your own speed.

Your balance is terrible, Eraserhead murmured blithely in the back of your mind. Ground yourself. Keep your upper body aligned over your lower.

“Fuck—!”

Blood is pumping frantically through your veins. Every pained grunt rings loud in your ears, tuning out the muffled cries coming from behind you. There’s a tenderness blossoming across your left side, and it throbs by the fifth and sixth rib.

While you might be well adjusted to fighting in the dark now, you’re still human. Living, breathing, feeling. Your body and your mind must be split at times like this — two creatures on your shoulder, one that begs to run and live, another that wills you to fight.

The assailant dives forward in one sluggish motion, rewarded with the sharp chink of your armoured glove as his fist connects with hard steel. He reels away in pain, cradling the injured hand to his chest while the other frantically reaches into his coat pocket.

Polished silver glints in the moonlight. Your boot meets the hilt of his knife and it pirouettes into the shadowed alley, skidding across the gravel. A look of pure rage crosses his face and his mouth splits open. Fangs. You’re ready when he charges, arms flailing heavily, a roar pushed from deep in his gut.

Your lungs bloat, and again, you hold. Everything freezes in time and the sound cuts out. A large hand caked in dirt hovers only a hairsbreadth from your nose. His skin smells of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. You step aside and draw your arm back.

Exhale. One fast, hard punch to the man’s unprotected jaw and his head whips to the right, body arching sideways as all his momentum snaps backward like a rubber band. Time resumes and you power through the sudden sensory overload as his body collapses to the floor with a weighted thud.

The lack of movement doesn’t deter you from dragging the knife forward with your foot, eyes focused on the unconscious stranger as you crouch to pick it up. A sharp sensation shoots through your muscles as you twirl the weapon between your fingers. It’s clearly new and not well kept. His stance had been entirely amateur.

After tying his wrists together with multiple zip ties, you turn your attention to his victim. “Are you physically unharmed?” you ask with a gentle tone that still bleeds through your voice changer.

The woman he'd pinned to the brick wall is curled up by the dumpster, knees tucked protectively to her chest. She has her phone held to her ear with a shaking hand, the fear visibly wracking through her form, stuttering her words.

“Yes, I— are you—,” she stammers, tears spilling over her pink cheeks. There’s an insistent, tinny voice coming through her mobile speaker, but she appears unaware of it as she appraises you, her eyes wide with what looks to be gratitude. “Are you a hero?”

“Not really,” you smile at the question and hope she can see the assurance in the happy squint of your own.

Flipping the knife to pinch the blade, you beckon her to take the hilt. Sirens wail in the far off distance. Shuffling closer in careful, considerate movements, you murmur encouragement as she takes the weapon from you.

Blue and red cut through the darkness, flashing interchangeably and obscuring her vision. As you move to leave the scene you tell her, “Ask whoever’s on dispatch Nocturne said to send Eraserhead. He’s the best hero I know”.

Inhale, hold, flee. You are gone from the canvas before anyone can blink.

The night is alive with a muted bustling. People on all walks of life filter out into the neon lit streets, worn by the day and rushing home to their warm beds. A sense of calm settles around your bones, bleeds into the ache left by old wounds and quietens the restlessness that you permanently house in your body.

You’re teetering on the precipice of an old office building — a publishing house, if you remember correctly. The cement beneath your boots shifts like a loose tooth as you lean forward, heart reflexively crawling up your throat at the drop, pulse rocketing in your ears.

Here, you are simultaneously burning and at ease. There’s a satisfaction that comes only when you are standing exactly where you belong. Freedom tastes like three minutes to midnight; crisp air and the faint scent of oncoming rain gathering in the dense cumuli above.

You smile behind your headgear, adjusting the straps drawn tight around your masked hood with thick gloved fingers. The carbon fiber is an extension of you now, a permanent part of your skin, leaving behind a phantom pressure face even when you have stored this part of yourself away.

That yearning for self is constant and comes with the setting sun. You exhale and feel the warmth of your breath stick to your cheeks. Swaying against a gust of wind, steadied by a practiced hand, your arms spread wide in a welcoming embrace.

Like every night before, you whisper to the place you grew up in: “I’m home”.

Amidst your reverie, you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Barely audible footfalls. Boots scuff against loose gravel. The new presence clouds your senses, as if it has physically reached out to strum the dipole between you and him, and you’re turning before his feet make contact with the rooftop.

Poppy red eyes scan drag over your form. The clothing you wear is padded and loose fitting for concealment, but still you find yourself conscious of the shape of your body. Humming under your skin is the urge to cock a hip, maybe tilt your head in a manner that is coy, to close the distance between you.

“Surprise?”

“Hardly,” he drawls. “There’s really nothing I can say to stop you from bothering me on my patrol, is there?”

“You catch on quick,” you reply with a grin. He may not see it behind the mask, but he hears it. “Only took you… what, six months?”

He looks rightfully exasperated, “Seven”.

Stepping down from the ledge with barely a sound, your hands clasp against the small of your back and bouncing on your toes despite yourself. “You’ve been counting? That’s cute, Eraser”.

Warmth trails behind him and plumes into the air as he exhales tiredly. You follow his movements as he comes to a stop at your side, hand flexing into a fist and out, overlooking the busy streets below, much like you had. “The woman you saved earlier asked me to extend her gratitude,” he returns, ignoring your teasing comment.

His words temper the playful atmosphere. A quiet bud of pride begins to bloom and your smile wanes into something bashful. Saved, he’d called it. As exhilarating as fighting was, the most fulfilling part of being Nocturne may be receiving gratitude.

The gleam in Eraserhead's gaze wasn’t so bad to be on the receiving end of, either; half lidded in a way that suggested he was at ease, the scar cutting over his eye and another across his cheekbone, slightly curved. “She wasn’t injured, was she? I didn’t get the chance to check her over,” you fret.

Another chill dances across the roof and he tucks behind his capture weapon, comically burrowed into the nest of cloth and thick hair. “No, just shaken up,” he reassured. Watching closely from the corner of his eye, he adds, “Refused to tell the detective which direction you ran, though. Quite intent on protecting you”.

You don’t like the suspicion bleeding into his tone — not that you can blame him. Still, “You think I’d ask a civilian to cover for me?”

Eraser sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “No. But you know it doesn’t matter what I think,”— it does, you want to insist, staring as his fingers spread to rub roughly over his closed eyelids — “the victim insists they don’t recall you using a quirk, so you’re in the clear. But you need to tread carefully. The guys at the precinct aren’t happy”.

“Then they should do their job better so schmucks like me don’t need to step in. Didn’t they receive a pay increase just last year?” you respond bitterly. “I don’t need you to lecture me, Eraserhead. I need you to help, because you’re the only one that ever does”.

The steel toe of your boot meets the ledge with a dull thud, chipping off some of the old brick, and you cross your arms defensively over your chest. You release a hiss as a painful throb pulses through your knuckles where they’re tucked into the crook of your elbow.

There’s no hiding it. You flinch as he catches your wrist in one quick movement. Struggling is fruitless, you know that better than anyone, but still you like doing it for show. It has the grip reflexively tightening, keeping you in place with a bid for compliance, authoritatively murmuring come here.

You enjoy it when he touches you. Maybe more than you should. He’s careful, uncharacteristically gentle as his fingers slip beneath the cuff of your glove. Anticipation zips through you and settles in your stomach like a fluttering kaleidoscope. Fingertips brush your palm and suddenly, breathing becomes a conscious act.

Inhale. Exhale. Each greedier than the last. The temptation to draw out this moment is too great. You wanted his hands on you for a little longer.

The night air bites at your skin. Aizawa turns your wrist over in his grasp, delicately tracing the ley lines stitched into your frigid hand, rubbing over the faded bruising by your third and fourth knuckle.

“Seems like the fractures healed nicely,” he stated. “Still should’ve rested it longer”.

You can’t look away from his face; softened like wax to a flame, his frown smoothed out in a way you rarely get to see with the mask on. All of that subdued concern and care directed at the point where your bodies connect — at you.

You reel yourself in. “I am capable of looking after myself, you know,” his tired eyes lift to pin you with a sceptical stare that has your hackles rising. “I am!”

“Right,” he drawls. His touch lingers on your wrist after he lets go, and you cradle it to your chest. Before you’re able to retort, his eyes dim and he steers the topic to something sombre, “Have you heard anything more about the missing civilians since I last saw you?”

You rub idly at your pulse point and it beats rhythmically under the skin. You can still feel him. Even when reminded of such sobering circumstances you can’t help but wish, in the deep recesses of your mind, that he had kept his hands on you.

A young couple stumbles down the lamp lit street. They are hand in hand and sharing unabashed laughter. It’s the sound of freedom; loud and ugly in a way that is wholly human. They stop in a circle of concentrated light and you smile as one man spins the other, their improvisation sloppy in a way that’s heartwarming.

“A young woman by the name of Ono Mizuki disappeared two days ago. Her father is in fits about it,” you shift your weight between each foot, shoulder bumping against him. Eraser doesn’t move. He listens to you attentively as he watches the very same couple dance with one another, and when you think you feel him leaning into your warmth, you decide to put it down to imagination.

“She’d been on her way home from cram school when she was taken. He reported it to the police that night but she hadn’t been missing long enough. They said she probably ran away”.

Eraser releases a heavy breath. “Quirkless?” he asks.

“Yeah”.

“Thought as much”.

You shiver, instinctively seeking shelter from the cold, and Eraserhead lets you press to his side. As the couple walks out of sight, the unattainable image of you bundled up in his arms flashes unbidden through your mind. Hastily, you continue to speak, “I followed her usual route home a few days ago and found her rucksack tossed in the trash with her ID and such. Took it to her father”.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. You try not to preen at what sounds like genuine praise. “Anything unusual at the scene?”

“No,” you step away to turn and face him with resolve. “But I’m going to keep trying to find her. And the rest of them”.

Above your heads, the plume of cloud is severed into two, crisp moonlight spilling through the fissures. Eraserhead hums as he lifts his chin to survey the everchanging canvas and you find yourself following his line of sight to a cluster of stars shaped vaguely like a scorpion.

“And what’ll you do when you find them?” he says after a few beats of comfortable silence. There’s a teasing intonation to his words. “Will you restrain their captor with another zip tie you found at the hardware store?”

You play along, scoffing as he dodges an elbow to the ribs, “You’re making fun of me. You, the reason why my newest pair of cuffs were confiscated in the first place? Who cares what I use. It did the job, didn’t it?”

Eraserhead does not like heroes without potential. Those who act thoughtlessly; who do not know their own strengths and weaknesses; who put others in danger with their insatiable greed. Quirks may have birthed a new world, but power or not, humans would always be the same. Special power, not special people.

Which is why his sudden lightheartedness felt so significant. Eraser trusted you, in his own way. If he didn’t you would’ve found yourself on the receiving end of another tiresome lecture. In the early days he’d even cited one of his young students' quirk law essays, dubbing you ‘more troublesome than a fourteen year old’.

“He was over six feet tall with a strong arachnid quirk. It only worked because you managed to knock him out cold first”.

It’s hard not to preen as he appraises you from his periphery, almost proudly. You let yourself grin; concealed, yet so wide that it’s obvious, “Correct, I apprehended a guy three times the size of me —

Slowly, you exaggerate your point further by winding up your middle finger, and waggling it in his direction in time with the mocking punctuation of your voice,

— And I didn’t even need a fancy scarf to do it”.

His hand wraps around the offending finger and gently pulls it back, applying just enough pressure to cause discomfort. “A little respect goes a long way,” the threat falls flat, his voice entirely amused and lacking malice. “I could easily break this again”.

You exhale a breathless laugh, still making no move to get away from him. “It can’t be much worse than dislocating my shoulder”.

Bingo. Abject regret flits across his features and he lowers his chin behind his capture weapon. “I’ve already apologised for that,” he grunts.

It sounds as if he’s pouting. His grip pulses once, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Actually you reset the bone, handed me an ice pack and threatened to arrest me if I got in the way again,” you recount fondly, your smile widening as he retreats further into his carbon alloy cocoon. “Then you said sorry”.

“That’s what happens when you jump into a fight without announcing yourself,” he mutters, loosening his grip on your finger. Distracted by the new, gentle rub of his thumb into your knuckles, you almost miss it as he tacks on a quiet, “Troublesome”.

Laughter bubbles in your chest, partially conjured by the nerves as he cradles your hand, “You act like I do it on purpose. My body just—”

“—moves on its own,” he interrupts you, finishing the sentence with a light shake of his head. You mourn the loss of heat when he lets go of your hand. The arm falls limp at your side and you feel him tense as it brushes his hip. “You really didn’t use a quirk against the suspect back in the alley?”

“Who knows”.

The topic of your quirk came up every so often — though lesser now that you’d formed some sort of camaraderie. You evaded answering each time he asked. At first it was a matter of trust; your meta ability was rare and easily found in the quirk database should he focus his search on your prefecture. Now it’s purely for security.

As an underground hero Eraserhead played nice with vigilantes, most of the time. There were others, like Knuckleduster, a grievously-injure-first and ask later kinda guy, whom he wasn’t a fan of. But he never tattled on anyone or turned them in, to your knowledge, as long as they abided by the law. If he knew you’d been using your quirk, he was then still legally obligated to report it. Eraser had a lot to lose by keeping secrets on your behalf.

That first night you met this other half of him had been surprisingly startling, because so much of him is unchanging. Eraserhead and Aizawa truly were one in the same. His expression so nonchalant and frayed with exhaustion, eyes narrowed and red rimmed, the incredible manner in which he carried his body — somehow simultaneously lazy and graceful, like an old cat.

Suddenly being wrapped up in white lengths of metal alloy and sent careening into the concrete had been another surprise, albeit less pleasant. The reminder makes your shoulder ache. You recall how his knees straddled either side of your hips, one large hand gripping the nape of your neck while the other bent your uninjured arm at an awkward angle. He’d leaned forward, the full weight of him, hair draping over his shoulders and falling into your vision like a black curtain, mouth rough against the shell of your ear.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You revisited that particular moment a shameful amount. It was as if his voice had rewritten the memory into one of fondness, and somehow the immense pain you’d endured was merely a blip in the story. Eraserheads gruff, bumbling method of apologising had only endeared him to you more.

Then came the hunger. Voracious, you would finish your less-than-legal nights of patrol with a twisting sensation in your stomach beside the kindling satisfaction. You weren’t willing to seek him out. The Aizawa you know wouldn’t respond well to such an intrusion. Rather, you broadened your routes into the next district over — an area you knew he frequented — and prayed it would play out naturally.

“You’re being quiet”.

You blink out of your stupor as the memories retreat, “What?”

“You’re being unsettlingly quiet,” he repeats. “What are you thinking about?”

The whole of his face is visible now. In the time you were reminiscing he had tucked his hair behind his ears and risen from the confines of his capture weapon. Outlined by cool moonlight, casting a shadow of his lashes against pale cheeks and exaggerating the bags beneath his eyes.

Plainly, “I think I’m realising I'm in too deep”.

Your success at worming into his good graces can only be attributed to your persistence. It helped that you already knew most of his tells—

Exasperation slips from his expression in favour of subdued wonder. His eyes burn red, and you thought if he stared any longer you’d be reduced to nothing but ash.

You hold his gaze and purposefully exhale. His jaw shifts as he swallows, and the air around you is unbearably thick. The pager on his utility belt sounds off once more in staccato beats.

All heroes available within a five kilometre radius please attend.

“Go,” you chide with a wry smirk, “do your job, Hero”.

He grits his teeth and abruptly reaches for his capture weapon in preparation, motions stilted as he glances back at you once more.

“We’re tabling this for later,” he insists firmly, teetering over the weathered rooftop edge. You nod and offer a complacent wave as he leaves, all too relieved that your disappointment is hidden by the mask.

—and kept him unaware that he, too, knew many of yours.

Fatigue wears on you through the night, and you find yourself ambling home at around three in the morning with aching permafrost chipping away at your bones. You wondered if the world fell silent might your joints audibly creak, straining under the weight of your self imposed responsibilities.

Your thighs protest as you leap over to the next building, heart squeezing in anticipation as your lack of force shortens the distance of the jump. Landing hard with a haphazard roll, your body unravels itself and you lay spread out as you catch your breath.

There’s a question you’ve been asked many times by both civilians and public servants alike: Why you?

As you pass yet another missing persons poster, Ono Mizuki’s young, heart shaped face smiling back at you, the only answer left to give is: If not me, then who?

The stairwell leading down from the roof is only slightly warmer, illuminated by a single stream of moonlight from a small broken window. You keep your eyes closed as the door shuts behind you with a resounding slam, blinking them open slowly as your vision adjusts to the darkness.

Piloted by your subconscious, you can hardly recall reaching your apartment, keys held between your trembling knuckles. It takes three tries before it slots into the keyhole, turning with a resolute click. The familiarity of home lowers your inhibitions with such abrupt immediacy that you could collapse.

The protective gear you wear works so well because it is armoured, padded, layer upon layer of protection sewn to fit you perfectly. While you’re grateful, you hated how difficult it was to take off. As you lumber further down the hallway you peel away the clothing bit by bit. Mask left atop the shoe rack, boots kicked off haphazardly after a weak attempt at untying the buckles, your soiled jacket left strewn across the living room floor.

“Shower…,” you mutter aloud, your unaltered voice still foreign to your ears. The police scanner is nestled beside the television and habitually, you turn the volume in passing, overlapping tinny, static voices echoing throughout the space. You enter the bathroom and tug at the string light, flinching when you’re blinded by the cheap fluorescence.

Instinctively, your eyes are drawn to the reflection in the mirror. Left only in your thermal under wear, you look as tired as you feel. The impression of your mask curves over the bridge of your nose and across your cheeks. You trace it lightly with the tip of your finger.

Stripped naked, you stand beneath the spray and let the sharp pressure unravel the knots in your spine. It’s hot against your cooler skin. Soon the rhythmic pitter patter dwindles into numbness and you urge yourself to get out despite the protest from your muscles.

You fall onto your half-made bed wrapped in an old bath towel, hair still damp, fighting a losing battle to keep your eyes open. Your consciousness blurs as soon as your head hits the pillow; you find yourself pulled into the recesses of sleep, ever sinking.

The week passes with disturbingly little fanfare. Not wanting to abandon your regular patrol routes, specific days are allocated to observing activity in the far eastern parts of Musutafu. No other people have been reported missing, thus your pinboard remains unchanged, and the investigation stagnant.

Eraserhead offered no new information, and could sense some pent up restlessness in you. Suddenly your roles have been reversed, and he is seeking you out frequently with the sole excuse of keeping you in line. He begrudgingly allows you to assist him in smaller takedowns; public quirk usage, purse snatchers, drunken brawls. Tasks for fingers much greener than your own, but placating his concern was more important than pride.

Your abject indulgence in his company feeds the guilt hollowing out your bones. He felt better having you in his sights, that was clear. You are brittle, weathered by his appreciative glances and quiet praise, slipping away whenever you get the chance before he can see the cracks.

It’d be simpler if you could tell him everything. About yourself, your quirk, the warehouse, the blood, the bracelet. Eraserhead had taken part in numerous trafficking raids, and that experience is invaluable. But understanding and leniency didn’t mean the rules that bound him were miraculously undone.

He would be required to inform the PD and hand over any evidence. Your involvement would be revoked, and his report would likely be shucked to the bottom of the pile, ‘quirkless individuals’ typed bold and underlined in red pen.

Six were already missing, and those were just the people you were aware of. There could be more out there. Other families left wondering, unanswered grief persisting. You had the ability to meddle before you were shut out, and bring them closure.

Losing an underground hero's tail was a uniquely difficult task. He remained in your periphery in the nights leading up to Friday. His presence was poignant, beguiling in a way that demanded your attention. If the wind changed you could taste him. There was no doubt — for reasons unbeknownst to you, you had escaped capture all this time because Eraserhead chose to let you leave.

“Gotta admit, you’ve been a bit annoying this week,” you accused. He presses something into your palm in lieu of a response and exhales a short, snuffed out little noise that might’ve been a laugh, or close to one.

You peer down at the small box of salmiakki and pout as you weigh it between your hands. Salty licorice. “Is this supposed to convince me not to put out a restraining order? I’ll be honest, it’s doing the exact opposite”.

Aizawa clicks his tongue. His profile is outlined in soft, dewy moonlight, egregious yellow goggles pushed back into his hair. “Salmiakki is good. I like things a little bitter,” he griped.

You watch him push a piece of the licorice from his own box and tear at it gracelessly with his teeth, strong jaw shifting as he chews. There’s a dry itch in the back of your throat. Averting your gaze to the moon breaking through the stretches of cirrus cloud, you said, “I bet you add extra espresso to your coffee”.

There’s a shift in tension and you instinctively hold your breath. He’s staring at you, and the intensity seems to worsen the longer time is frozen. Fleeting, you wonder if his quirk makes him sensitive to the use of others. You’d never needed to activate it in his presence before.

Exhale. Unaffected, Aizawa blinks slowly from the corner of your vision. “My regular is a red eye”.

“Not a dead eye?”

He hums, “That’s not as on the nose”.

You laugh just like you did the first time he ordered it, reflexively tucking your chin to hide the surge of affection despite being concealed. You roll the licorice between your fingers before bringing a piece up to your mouth. It thunks deliberately against your mask, once, twice.

“Guess I’ll have to save it,” you spin on your heel to leave, pausing when he follows close behind. “Gonna stalk me home, too?”

“You’re up to something,” he insisted solemnly. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of impulsive people. Jump first, think later. You’re going to get yourself killed”.

“I’m not one of your students, Eraserhead. You don’t need to feel responsible for me. Unless…” the hero doesn’t move when you take a step towards him, then another, “you’d miss me?”

The teasing intonation doesn’t translate well through your voice changer, a strangely eldritch quality to it. You think he hears it all the same. His expression pinches into a tired glare, but he doesn’t refute your comment and it pleases you; warms you from the inside out.

Quiet befalls you. You worry your lip and tug at the velcro around your wrist. The sound rips through the silence. When it’s loose enough you pull the glove off, hissing under your breath at the sudden chill. “Okay,” you falter, lifting your pinky finger into a hook and holding it out between your bodies. “I’ll pinky promise to try and be careful, then”.

Despite offering, you’re still a little breathless when Aizawa reciprocates. Cautious, finger twitches at first, before slowly wrapping around your own. His skin is expectedly rough in comparison. You’d seen the scar tissue and callus build up before, uneven on his broad palms, a little dry on foggy mornings.

He gazes softly where you connect then back up from beneath half lidded eyes and emphasises his next words with a firm squeeze, “I’m holding you to this. Behave yourself, because if you keep meddling you’ll end up with more than just fractured bones”.

You return the pressure to solidify the promise, bending your wrist slightly until the heels of your hands kiss. A new ache spreads throughout your wrist that you dutifully ignore. I promise.

There’s no purposeful intention to break it — but he speaks like his word is law, and when have you ever adhered to that?

Friday morning starts gradually. You struggle to pry your eyes open, the forces of gravity exerted on you from all directions, keeping you pinned like a butterfly to the mattress under your thick winter duvet. The sun is barely out of bed herself, dusky horizon bludgeoned with hues of orange and pink, a glow bleeding around your curtains, filling the room with warmth.

Everything is palpably insipid. Exhaustion dulls your senses, vision barely focused as you pull up a pair of loose pants, only realising they are backwards when they bunch up awkwardly between your thighs.

The lifeless reflection in the bathroom mirror glares back at you. Running a cloth under cold running water, you press it to the swelling around your under eyes until the puffiness lessens. You haven’t taken a single break this week, too fixated on all the things that could happen if you did, and your body was paying for it.

Meowtini is a welcome sight. Being greeted at the door by a gaggle of excitable, nagging cats would never get old. Suzu, five months old, demands to be held and doesn’t settle until you’ve tucked her into the front pocket of your hoodie.

“Better hope we don’t get any surprise health inspections,” Hideki smirks, nodding pointedly at the inconspicuous smoky blue lump. Rarely do you cross paths, but admittedly you’re a little late, and you’ve caught him on the end of a long night.

“I’ll put her in one of the hammocks and wash my hands before I handle anything,” you huff, hanging your coat up in your locker. The stretch draws your sleeve to your forearm. “Fuck”.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. Actually, can you hand me some of the disposable gloves?”

Suzu yowls in complaint as you gather her up and set her on the cool tiled floor prematurely. Hideki sidles beside where you are standing, examining your bruised hands under the fluorescent light, and hisses sympathetically.

“Didn’t know you threw hands in your spare time, Senpai,” he comments with genuine curiosity, tilting his head, pink framed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose with the movement. “Ah. Hiding them from your boyfriend out there, s’that it?”

“Not my boyfriend,” you mutter reflexively, eyeing his palms face up where they wave in surrender. You snatch the gloves pinched between his thumb and forefinger, pausing as his words finally register. “Fuck, is he out there already?”

Hideki’s face wrinkles with the effort of keeping his amusement concealed. Restless, he tucks the silvery springlets of hair hung over his eyes back behind his ear, only for them to stubbornly bounce back into place. “Got here early, actually. And you’re kinda late, so he’s grouchier than usual”.

Pulling on an apron, you tie it into a sloppy bow at the back of your neck with stiff fingers, then repeat around your waist. Rushing to the kitchen sink with careful steps around the gathering felines, you call over your shoulder, “Did you serve him?“

The water is soothing over the tenderised flesh. It isn’t your knuckles this time — the bruising is obviously new, and begins from the side of your pinky, past the heel of your hand to the bump by your wrist.

“Course not,” Hideki answers genially from the doorway, perched on the balls of his feet and swaying slightly as he tries to stroke every cat within reach. “The coffee I make tastes like piss compared to yours”.

“He did not say that to you,” you laugh, tugging the polythene gloves on one hand at a time, fingers wiggling until the material sits comfortably.

“He did. With his face,” pushing his glasses up to sit on his crown, Hideki’s features flatten into a blank expression, devoid of emotion, and he stares at you unblinkingly with an air of disdain.

“Come on, that doesn’t mean anything. Aizawa always looks like that,” you try not to grin, biting the soft inside of your cheek between your teeth as you bend to flick his frames back onto his nose.

It wrinkles as he pouts, pushing up to stand and brushing nonexistent dust from his knees, “Not with you”.

You head out onto the main floor. Cats and kittens alike tottle over on their paws, coiling their bodies up and around your calves, fur clinging to the dark material of your pants. To prolong the inevitable, and stew a little longer in cowardice, you dip to individually scratch under their chins in greeting.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ren’s pupils are needle thin, her big eyes blinking up at you as she registers the whisper, blunt claws kneading your thigh like dough. “You’ll help soften him up for me, won’t you?”

She’s about as impressed as he is, you’d say.

Rather than ask, you speed straight to the coffee machine. Aizawa glances over from the corner of your eye. Memory guides your hands — you needn’t think twice about it, having made this drink more times than you can count. Still, your movement stutters under the blatant intensity of his stare.

The gloves pull uncomfortably at your skin and irritate the bruising. You tuck a surreptitious grimace into your shoulder, self conscious of how your shape changes under the cheap recessed light; whether you can’t shake your own shadows, no matter how hard you try to conceal them.

Approaching sheepishly, you feel the hot cup sting against the pads of your fingers. He has pointedly returned his gaze to the papers in front of him, pen tucked between his knuckles and flicking back and forth. It makes you think of a cat’s tail.

“Morning,” you say, apology clear in your voice as you set the red eye down beside him. Ren is under the table, curled up in the space between his ankles. Her lacklustre effort is appreciated.

A grunt in return. Aizawa taps the ballpoint to paper, leaving a speck of red ink. Beneath it are hastily written characters, something illegible about the overarching qualities of justice and virtue. He spares no glance to the coffee percolating beside him. Instead you are caught in a leaden snare, his eyes sharp as they skim over your form.

They linger on the pair of powder purple gloves. “Did something happen?”

“Aside from oversleeping and almost forgetting to brush my teeth?” you reply bemusedly, allowing some of your fatigue to bleed through. Lies are easier said when there’s a little bit of truth in them. “I’m alright. Made it here in one piece”.

Now that you’re looking, the lines around Aizawa’s eyes are more pronounced. His skin is pallid as if he’d bathed in moonlight. It is common for Aizawa to be tired but this is different. Worn, there’s a distinct tightness in his shoulders where they knot beneath his ear, flesh and bone brick and mortar, woven with his stubborn concern.

Casting a quick glance across the empty cafe, you slip into the seat opposite. “Are you?” he peers up through windswept, unkempt bangs. A thick strand is draped over the small bump in his nose. An old break. Sunlight refracts through the grey in his right iris, bouncing against flecks of artificial red.

“You look more exhausted than usual, and that’s saying something,” you continue lightheartedly, hoping to whittle at his exterior. Tap, tap, tap. His knee bounces restlessly beneath the table. A long breath of contemplation and the first chip flakes off when your eyes meet once more. He looks as tired as you feel.

“People from this prefecture have started going missing, one as recently as two weeks ago. I’m sure you’re aware,” Aizawa murmurs. There’s something underlying those words. Your mind flickers to Mizuki’s poster in the window. You remember how her father had bumbled, shrouded in palpable grief and nails bitten blood-black.

It clicks, “You thought I might’ve…”

The tension briefly pulls taut, as though bracing for whatever impact came alongside the mere thought of you being missing, and then it drains from his body. You ponder, is it possible to be jealous of yourself?

Little feet pad across the room. Suzu leaps onto your lap and her light weight anchors you. Gloved hands kept away from her fur, you lean further forward onto your forearms, shortening the distance. He watches your fingers flex toward him — pinky extended, wilting, returning to the cradle of your palm.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, apology unsettlingly sincere; it is overarching, overreaching, large enough to cover every minute from the first time you’d met him to the very last. Sorry for what you had done and for what you would inevitably do.

Aizawa doesn’t so much shrug as he does visibly let go of the resentment. The underground hero looks somewhat diffident at his own pettiness. “As long as you’re being careful,” he says.

“I am”. As good a time as any, you take the opportunity to pry with both hands, “Is that what you’ve been working on the past few weeks?”

“You know I can’t share that information”.

“Right”.

He brings the coffee cup to his lips, swallowing a mouthful without bothering to cool the surface. From behind the rim, he relents, “Yes. I was brought into the investigation just over a month ago”.

Suzu kneads at your stomach, giving a muffled mewl as she rolls adipose tissue between her paw pads. Your mouth curls into a small smile only to thin with melancholy, “Ono-san asked that we put Mizuki’s poster up in the window not too long ago. Had it not been for him, I think most people in our community would still be unaware of the other five missing”.

Aizawa weighs his response carefully, slouching until he is fully ensconced in the booth cushions. You feel the briefest of touches beneath the table as his thighs spread. “The relationship with the local PD is pretty poor, I assume?”

You offer a rueful grin, “If by poor you mean non existent, then yeah”.

He exhales thoughtfully through his nose, ruffling the hair curtaining his cheeks. While he did always listen to what Nocturne had to say, it was almost as if he needed to feign suspicion to disempower your claims. With you, here, his expression is one of genuine frustration.

“Why do you think that is?”

Answering his question in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion could be hard. You glance toward the large window, spanning the front of the cafe floor. There are various cat trees and shelving fixed across the clear pane for passers by to see. Beyond that is the main street — overcast by a passing cloud, world a little greyer — and a bus shelter directly opposite Meowtini.

A large digital billboard flicks through the latest advertisements of Mt. Lady, her latest hair product now covered in iridescent cracks branching from a fist sized hole in the glass.

Mount Lady has never even stepped foot in this part of Musutafu.

“Y’know, I read that before the sudden appearance of quirks, public servants were usually labelled as heroes,” you absentmindedly snap the glove against your inner wrist to quiet your nerves. “Serve and protect, same shit HPSC peddle now, but with no special abilities”.

Aizawa is entirely silent. Even the felines littering the cafe have fallen decidedly quiet. It accentuates your voice, and feels as though you are carrying something much bigger than yourself. “This area is known for petty crime, assault or drug dealing — mostly. Not the type of stuff that brings notoriety. That’s why heroes rarely pass through here anymore”.

You continue, slow spoken in an effort to properly articulate yourself. “But I think a lot of the police force harbours hidden resentment for those same reasons. Not to suggest they’re… upset by a lack of villainy. But the current hero system has created a hierarchy for crime. There’s no recognition, funding or gratitude working here, so they only really exert themselves when it’ll get them a good headline”.

Aizawa’s gaze falls on the papers laid out in front of him, a deep wrinkle in his brow. “A serial kidnapping case wouldn’t do that?”

“The victims are quirkless,” you reply, because that was all that needed to be said. He sighs in defeat and you know that he understands. Tentative, you shift your feet, knee knocking his own. Neither of you move away.

Just as you are debating returning to the counter with his empty cup, he asks, “What about vigilantism?”

You swallow air and strain with the effort not to choke on it. “What about it?”

“Do you think positively of them?” he clarifies, hunching forward to rest his forearms on the table, mirroring your position. The change sees his knee slide along the outside of your thigh, close enough to feel his natural body heat. “There are a few I’ve dealt with who are local to Shizuoka”.

Heartbeat loud in your ears, you are far too fixated on the press of thick muscle against your right leg to think about the consequences of toeing such an irreversible line. “They’re quite well loved. At least in these parts they are,” you mused, wringing your fingers together. Soreness radiates across the heel of your hand. “I liked The Crawler, back when he was more active”.

“Yeah?” Aizawa’s brow arches. “He saved my life, once”.

You sit up straighter. “Really?!”

Low, he hums an affirmative and you feel it reverb into your chest. All the while he’s watching you carefully, that invasive stare always coming back to your eyes. He holds and tells you, “Most recently it’s been Nocturne pulling my pigtails”.

Spluttering, you repress a noise of embarrassment with the press of your hand, “That’s how you’d describe it?”

He snorts. “How else can I? They follow me around the city like we’re in a playground, do things to get my attention and disappear into the night”.

Your dignity might’ve folded itself into a paper crane if it were not for Aizawa’s gaze softening imperceptibly. The wrinkles by his eyes smoothen, sinew relaxed under the skin, life returning to his cheeks; his expression is one of far off affection, as though his thoughts had strayed to you despite himself.

“Irrational and impulsive,” he adds, notably warm. “Above all, they’re irritating”.

“Hate to have to tell you, Aizawa, but your voice completely gives you away,” you pose, canine teeth sink into the corner of your mouth, afraid you might smile so wide your cheeks will split. “Admit it, you’re a little fond of vigilantes”.

“Shut up,” he mutters indignantly, and you laugh. Too loud, too giddy, Aizawa’s lips react to the sound by pulling into a grin, all teeth, that he quickly tucks to his sternum.

Ren and Suzu startle in tandem when you gasp, crossing your arms and leaning into the teasing atmosphere, “When you said I remind you of someone, was it…?”

He pointedly does not look at you — pointedly does not speak. The tip of his index finger slides the empty cup in your direction, an unspoken request for more as his pen returns to paper.

“Not even going to talk now?”

The hero makes a twisting motion against the seam of his mouth. Lock and key. Your voice completely gives you away. You cradle the coffee cup to your chest, surprised by the adrenal shake, your heart rumbling as though the interaction had created a tectonic shift.

Two plates converge closer. He liked you enough, bipedal creature of the night; you had felt your identities overlap and saw the possibilities it could foster. If you told him everything it might wipe away the emotional constipation from his face.

Then again, it may also make it worse.

So you brew his coffee again, this time plucking one of the freshly made tarts from the display case and setting it onto a plate to sate his sweet tooth. He eyes you perceptively, eyebrow lifted in question, but then a group of college students is stumbling in through the security door, arms interlocked and giggling as they run from the sudden onslaught of rain, saving you the trouble.

Aizawa remains in his spot for longer than usual, unashamedly staring. You can taste the acrimony. Your excitable thoughts have soured, and again you can only wonder what he’d do once he finds out the truth. Nebulously, you know he wouldn’t have you outright arrested, you’re too careful about quirk use. But the knowledge will burden him enough to tighten his leash on you. It wouldn’t ever be the same again — and that was the best case scenario.

Reality is rigid. There are expectations, clear borders and assigned roles. Anything outside the confines of right and wrong is looked upon with contempt and misshapen to fit one or the other. Fantasising about Eraserhead is exhilarating, a secret world kept safely between you and I, but more importantly it isn't real.

You forget yourself. He’s still a hero, and there are is too much at stake for you to be distracted by the intricacies of your relationship.

The night is daunting in a way you cannot put your finger on. Black as a chasm, not a star to be seen, covered by another blanket of dense rain clouds. There’s petrichor in the air, crisp as you breathe in, puddles splashing up the inside of your boots.

Retracing your steps, you’ve made your way back to the warehouse. It stands eerily in the distance. You circumvent the surrounding buildings with ease, pace quickening at the undeniable flicker of light through the broken windows.

Just additional reconnaissance. Nothing more.

But there’s somebody inside this time. You stick close to the shadows and wait with bated breath at the slightest of sound, conscious of the broken bracelet tucked in your zip pocket. At-su, they read; neat kanji lovingly inscribed onto each remaining dainty bead.

You count three guards circling the entrance and exit. Their steps are leaden, deliberately loud as the gravel crunches underfoot, and you watch their movements until a pattern forms. They mustn’t expect anyone to pry; notably lax, stopping together in alcoves to bum a smoke, laughing about whatever it is they did that day. You are grateful, in part. It makes slipping by much simpler.

Navigating the fire escape is a challenge in and of itself. The thing has been corroded beyond belief, left to fend for itself against the elements, loose at the hinges and too loud for your liking. Even so, you land in one sinuous movement and exhale a shallow sigh of relief when the structure accepts your weight with a meagre groan of complaint. Your gloves are covered in flakes of rust, abdomen still coiled tight to brace for the possibility of falling.

You wait silently until the muffled voices continue, unperturbed by your arrival. Could’ve been worse, you reason internally, glancing up the ladder steps toward the source of conversation.

There’s a narrow, tilt and turn window left ajar on one of the higher levels. You curl up beside it and peek down into the warehouse floor. The angle causes strain behind your eyes, obscured by the bulk of your mask. It appears empty, just as you’d found it.

Distantly, “No… call me in… fucked… First Atsushi, now… Mizu...”

Atsushi? At-su, maybe? You lean in closer and slow your breathing to listen, instinctively feeling for the accessory in your pocket. The sounds soon sharpened and coalesced into words, frighteningly calm despite the obvious fury lying beneath them.

“…I told you to be careful. Look at what you’ve fuckin’ done”.

“Sorry sir,” a meeker voice replies, tone sheepish rather than apologetic. “Y’know I can’t help it when they start squirmin’! It pisses me off—!”

An abrupt yelp is caught, the reply bubbling in his throat until the man is wheezing for air. You can’t see a thing, but you imagine he’s being choked. “Ya feel that, Morita? Your body fights instinctively, just like theirs do,” a chill frissons down your spine at the genuine vitriol echoing through the rafters. “Leave any more marks on them and I’ll put both your arms in the vice, got it?”

‘Morita’s’ strained acquiescence is barely heard over the blood rushing in your ears. Theories and assumptions filter through your thoughts, flipping through pages of a book, every new possibility too unthinkable to put your finger on. The needles, the blood, the tattered clothing— the bracelet. Bodies, he’d said. Not products, but people, and more than one.

You’re shaking. You step back, reaching blindly for the rail. Dread swoops through your stomach when it groans loudly and starts to bow under your grip, like it were about to give. “Shit, shit, shit—!”

“Oi!”

There is a hulking figure running across the rooftop towards where you’re hunched. You were careless. Their gait is heavy, movements slowed by the weight of their arms, silhouette unnaturally thick and bulging. For survivals sake you assume it is to do with their quirk and duck when they swing their arm in your direction.

Something zips past your cheek, then. It is so fast that it whistles through the air like a bullet, and lands unceremoniously on the concrete behind you when it loses momentum. Oh. You inhale sharply. It is a bullet. Ivory white, slightly knobbled, shaped like a pellet.

You fall into a crouch with a dramatic inhale and scoop it up into your hand, breath held. Afforded time to glance back at the pursuer, you find him closer than before. Uncomfortably so. Close enough to see the tips of his five fingers unscrewed, hung by a thread, exposed like the barrel of a gun.

He shoots again. And again.

Your lungs burn furiously as you leap over the railing and run, the sensation spreading wildly through your chest to your oesophagus, urging that you exhale. Blood thunders in your ears, you can feel the vessels sweltering under the skin of your cheeks as tears gather along your lash line. There’s pressure behind your eyes — bloating, fervourently pushing at the bars of your rib cage.

Using all the strength in your thighs, you catapult yourself from the next ledge. Your pulse rockets at the momentary loss of stability, held suspended in the air for a fleeting few seconds.

Your right foot meets the next roof. The impact ripples through your body and forces all the air from your lungs. More guards are converging in the alleys below, chasing. A bullet whips past your shoulder. Cold dread washes over you as the frost dances over your skin, causing you to stumble. It had torn open the sleeve.

This is your black ice. The weaker ankle that twists, the skidding of a dull tire, the loss of control. For a fleeting moment, you have no edges. Swallowed by darkness as you careen into the stomach of the city, there is a nauseating moment of surprise in which your body tries to readjust. Your heart thunders as your subconscious spins out and you think, this is it.

“You won’t get far, little mouse,” the voice booms through the night, dripping with vitriol and promise. Your bones rattle as you scramble to move. “We’ll find out who you are!”

There’s no time to consider the abrupt flare of pain in your hip. You need to keep running. You need to regain control and use your quirk, but the gasps keep coming; fast bids for air hiccuping in and out, refusing to slow. Bated breath activates and the world around you pauses in short, staccato beats.

It’s enough to increase the distance. More and more until the landscape changes. Despite that, your body maintains a state of flight, blood pumping forcefully throughout your veins, legs moving even as they ache and tear. You’re bleeding, undoubtedly. Heat is pouring out, saturating your suit, the fabric sticking to your skin as it congeals.

Thoughts filter frantically through your mind in search of a safe place to go. You weren’t often injured enough to warrant a visit to the clinic — technically unregistered with a much appreciated no questions asked policy — but tonight you’d strayed too far, unable to get there before you inevitably passed out.

But Aizawa— Eraserhead had two places of residence. For the sake of convenience he now spent most, if not all, of his time in the UA dorms; stays at his old studio were improbable but not impossible. Like reading from a celestial phone book, you mentally called to every deity that tonight was one of those unlikely instances.

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

In the thick of your lightheaded, bleary eyed attempt at clinging to consciousness, you see a dim glowing light from the fourth floor of the next building's quaint balcony and stumble with relief. Your fingers are wet, leaving behind smears of red where they slip along the window sill, the squeeze into the open crack made easier by fresh blood.

“Sorry,” you whisper into the absent night, feeling tendrils of guilt in your gut at the mess you were making. There’s really no time to consider the loss of your voice changer, or the broken mask hanging askew around your jaw, or how you are barely inches away from revealing yourself.

The window itself is aged, wood splitting under your fingertips, the kind that expands more with every winter and lets in a cold draft you can never quite find. It jams on the first try, loosens a little on the second rattle. Your body protests as you try to lift it open.

When the pane slides up it is sudden and with far too much ease. The abrupt loss of resistance jars your balance, careening forward into a graceless fall as you roll onto the living room carpet, yelping like a pup, only to be met with the sharp end of a knife at your throat.

Hand fisted tight in the material of your hood, Eraser’s face is thunderous. Anger unrestrained and dark in a way you’ve rarely seen, an expression you have never been on the receiving end of. His cheeks are slightly ruddy, quirk blazing as his hair stands on end. He forces your head back and mercifully, you are too out of it to be ashamed by the sound you make.

The blade lowers when he freezes in recognition, the tense atmosphere dissipating while he keeps a tight grip on the hilt. You move with him as he yanks you upright, noticeably gentler than before. “What are you doing here?”

Your eyes are drawn to the tendons flexing in his forearm. There’s a swath of pale skin by his hip where his waistband has slipped. You’ve never seen him in such comfortable, casual clothing before. The black sweatpants are loose with an egregiously neon print of Present Mic’s signature slogan down the side of his right leg. If memory serves you correctly, an exclamation of ‘yeah!’ should be splashed in blocked lettering across his ass.

“Hey. ‘Raser,” blood loss must’ve contributed to your lack of brain to mouth filter. The words are slurred in your ears, thick with amusement as you point at his lower half and try to whistle. Your hand is trembling with the effort. “Turn around for me f’r a sec”.

Aizawa’s jaw shifts as he takes a long, deep inhale. Broad shoulders rise, expanding with his ribs, your mouth drying at the steep dip of his collar where it falls just above his pecs; his muscles defined enough to create a faint shadow of cleavage, darkened by his chest hair.

You’ve changed your mind. He shouldn’t turn around, not at all.

Then he exhales, drawn out and slow. The exercise does nothing to lessen the irritation woven into his expression, “How did you find this apartment?”

A hot, sticky sensation is spreading through the layers of thermal underclothing. Fatigue has draped itself around your bones. You press the heel of your hand harder against the open wound, biting back a pained hiss. Faux bravado prevails even as you are bleeding out on his living room floor.

“I followed the smell of black coffee and despair,” you rasp, licking away the dregs of copper lingering between your teeth. “All perfectly legal”.

Blinking away the frustration, his eyes flicker from your bloodied mouth to your shoulder. The fabric is darker, a disquieting shadow spreading through the threads as it soaks up the weeping wound. “You’re injured,” he notes with a quiet curse. Being bundled up in his arms isn’t so bad, you think. Eraser helps you on your feet then, a hand resting at your waist as he takes most of your weight.

The apartment is quaint. Small. Not enough to feel closed in, just enough to be described as cosy. It is deceptively bare. At first glance you might’ve made a teasing comment about him being a minimalist — but then you look again, eyes racking over the homely touches and trinkets. A pair of old slippers with worn cat ears, cacti kept in matching orange spotted pots, an open book laid face down and full of sticky notes, a framed picture drawn with crayon hung in place of his high school diploma which has been left on the small desk to collect dust.

“…So cute”.

You’re jostled at his side as he reaches over the back of the couch with the click of his tongue to pull over a threadbare blanket, covering both the cushions and another notably nicer, newer blanket that soiled fingers should not touch.

He manoeuvres you in his embrace and circles your lower back, cradling the nape of your neck to lower you with unerring care. “Focus,” you hear him say. “Keep your eyes open”.

Had they been closed?

Two fingers are clicked an inch from your nose, startling you into blinking. The world moves without permission; suffusing into a blur of mosaics, bloating with vertigo that sparks a chilling sense of dread in your chest. Starkly warm blood is saturating your shoulder. “I’m leaking,” you croak, breaths coming quicker. “‘Raserhead. I’m— leaking”.

“Yeah. All over my couch,” he returns. “And I’m going to help you, but I need you to sit still. Can you do that for me?”

There’s not really any choice in it. Your motions feel lethargic as you recline against the cushion, sinking further. Your body flinches, perceiving it as free fall, and Aizawa smooths the flat of his palm over your unwounded shoulder. “I’m going to cut away your gear and stem the bleeding,” he begins.

“No…” you groan at the dryness in your throat, swelling, like your stomach has pushed its way up into your oesophagus. Your cognition rolls to a stop. Suddenly, spoken word is not within reach. All you can say is, “Not… Not the mask”.

At mention of it, his gaze skims over your poorly concealed face, lingering on the oval shaped device tucked under the fabric where it nestled beneath your jugular. The voice changer had devolved into broken static somewhere between being shot at and being found. Had you been able to keep a conscious grasp on your thoughts, you might’ve known to shut your mouth, all too recognisable.

“Not the mask,” he concedes. Mercifully. A large pair of scissors glides through the padding around your middle. You can feel the weight of Nocturne peeling away, tepid air meeting damp skin as the sharp blades nick on your thermal wear, right above your breast.

No longer are you a shadow within a shadow — your formless body takes shape. Bumps and curves and imperfections. Scar tissue, old and new. Aizawa’s fingers brush over a new bruise, collarbone purpling, unspooling a tender whine where it sits in your chest.

“This next part is going to hurt more,” he warns with genuine regret. A little breathless underneath it. You aren’t paying much attention; there’s cloth soaked in antibiotic ointment swiping over the open injury, washing away the dried blood. It cracks like mud, splits into uneven flakes, and creates downstream pathways as the wound overflows.

You hiss at the sting and force yourself rigid, ignoring the urge to squirm out of his hold. The graze runs through the side of your arm, tissue torn into a natural curve around your shoulder. “You’re lucky this doesn’t need stitches,” Aizawa mutters. His brows are drawn tight, dry bottom lip pinched between his canines as he reaches for something to dress the wound with.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Cold settles in your bones but there’s heat curling in your belly. That same feeling after you get a taste and find yourself craving more; you’ll go home and think of this between seconds, when your mind isn’t crowded with lies and excuses. Selfishness is such a human trait. It reminds you that pro heroes are expected to be anything but.

The pads of his fingers are hot, rough yet purposefully gentle. You lean into the touch and hope that they’ll cut through you like smooth, warmed butter. “I think,” there’s saliva pooling beneath your tongue and you wet your lips in hopes it’ll cushion your next words. “I think one of the bullets got my hip”.

An embarrassing noise slips from your mouth when he pulls away. He’s hot even when he’s scowling, you think. Oh, now he’s blushing. Can he read minds? Hey, Eraser. Can you—?

“Stop. Talking,” Aizawa fumes. The order comes through clenched teeth. He rocks back onto his heels, pinching the bridge of his nose as he often does. Continuing under his breath, “You got shot at. Shot. God knows what I did in a past life to deserve this”.

You pout, “Most of them missed, actually”. He could at least praise you for that. “I saved one. Think they were made of bone. How cool”.

“We’ll get to that later. Shoulder’s done. Push your pants down,” he sighs, ignoring your dazed comment. The various bottles, packets and containers clank together as he rifles through the first aid with haste. It stops when he zeroes in on you, and your lack of movement. You are told with gritty authority: “Now”.

You bite your tongue and swallow the suggestive comment waiting idly on it. Trembling, you unbuckle the straps around your waist and open the clasp of your belt to tuck your thumbs under the waistband. There’s an obvious slash through the material, mapping out the bullet's path. A lot of the blood has dried and is sticking to the inflamed skin, pulling at the soft hair on your thighs.

It is as if you’re tearing off another layer of yourself. Jostling the deep wound, fresh blood trickles over the curve of your exposed hip. Aizawa soaks the cloth again, rinsing the exposed tissue then offering quiet instruction to keep it held there as you squirm. He ducks into the kitchen. Your eyes wander at the sound of running water, desperate for an adequate distraction from the disquieting, restless discomfort building in your chest.

You don’t mean to croon out loud. He returns, catching you staring at the framed picture. Stick figures drawn in crayon; depicting him, long black hair scribbled around his large, misshapen head; a small girl at his side coloured in silvers and pinks, waving around what looks to be a candy-apple; green, a boy at her side with a beaming grin, to large to fit his outline.

“It’s good,” you rasp. Aizawa glances between you and the picture, a ephemeral, fiercely protective look passing over his face as quick as it came. “Even drew your scars and eyebags. I love... the commitment to detail”.

He softens. “I’ll let her know you like it”.

And you nod happily, satisfied with that, incognisant of the sterilised thread he is looping through a needle. “Breathe,” you hear him say, feeling the cool press of the forceps once he pulls back the cloth, “Looks like you’ll only need three stitches. I’ll make this quick, alright?”

“...Yeah,” your answer comes shakily, senses already flooded with adrenaline as your body reflexively braces.

It is unlike any pain you’ve experienced. You cry out at the piercing, burning sensation spreading through your left side. Nausea washes over you, overcome by dizziness as your vision litters with black spots. His voice anchors you; uncharacteristic rambling, jaw set in determination, steady hands working.

“Almost done. Deep breaths, just one more to go”.

Words form but they aren’t aired. You are swimming in the depths of your own consciousness, vision wavering, his concerned face duplicating into three. The timbre of his voice probes the sea, familiar vibrations bypassing your ears.

“Hey. Look at me,” and you do, head lolling onto your shoulder. “You with me?”

All that’s left is an unpleasant tenderness. Hip throbbing in time with your heart, the nausea gradually recedes. Aizawa accepts your hand around his wrist, overturning until your fingers entwine, and he squeezes.

Eventually, you croak, “That fucking sucked”.

“It did,” he concurred, equally weary. Three dull taps to the mask barely guarding your mouth, loose on its hinges. He wants to take it off, you realise. The now-jagged ridge has cut into your swollen cheek.

Fear prickles cold over your scalp. “I—I can take care of that myself,” you frantically demur, the remains of your confidence slipping. There are pleas cloying in the back of your throat. We can keep pretending. Let’s stay ignorant. But he waits, he knows— he has known, and he isn’t as generous as you wished he’d be.

Cautious, his thumb slides over your cheekbone and back, tracing the lower curve of your eye socket. It doesn’t hurt, though you think it should. The swell is enough to somewhat obscure your vision. But there’s no pain when he loosens the straps cinched around your hood, no discomfort with the abrupt loss of pressure.

Aizawa pulls down the lower half slowly. The cotton stuffed into your sinuses isn’t enough to dull the anticipation of being seen. You wondered if he hadn’t already heard your voice, would he have known you just from the shape of your lips. Did he ever look long enough to notice?

A part of you hoped that he had.

Everything is heightened. You can feel every spring and divot impressed against your back, his breath stirring in your hair. The sofa dips under him. Chest to chest, his lungs expand with a deep inhale, pushing up against your breasts.

Cautious, his chin lowers, fingers sliding from your temple to your cheek. Your skin pulls. Further still, his touch ghosts over your ear. Infuriatingly slow with it, as if he wanted to discover and memorise each individual reaction. Your fingers tighten at his waist, and he isn’t saying anything.

The light refracts dimly in his irises, still a glimmer of red where it bends, glowing as he looks at you. Aizawa is always suffused with brilliance despite his avid attempts to appear apathetic. Like an old oil lamp turned to low, his gaze is soft and warm, and you’re inexplicably drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

He angles his head. Your mouths could align, and his eyes are murky. You think that he might—

“That should be enough to stop the bleeding,” he says. There are butterfly bandages on your cheek, now, applied amidst his distraction. Layers upon layers of armour can not hide how his voice resonates through your body.

“Oh,” you breathe, awe visible as it dances in the cold night air. “You… weren’t going to kiss me just now”.

Eraserhead’s expression is schooled into something carefully blank. His tongue reflexively dips forward to wet his dry bottom lip and your eyes follow the movement. Exasperatingly, he says, “No, I wasn’t”.

You’re still close, enough that you really could kiss at any moment, feeling a little dazed and justified for it. The anticipation of being touched urges you to chase when he rolls back onto his haunches, legs straightening to stand, but the sharp pull at your shoulder stops you in your tracks.

Aizawa is half bent, tilted to meet your gaze. He’s flushed. The intimate moment is broken instantly at the call of your name. A surprising wave of relief follows as you are doused in the harsh, cold reality. You resurface and scramble for some semblance of control, hold out your upturned wrists and sigh with forced bravado to cover your earlier faux pas, “Put me in cuffs, chief”.

Aizawa snorts, batting you away to present the sterilised bandages in his grasp. You watch the fluid motions of his fingers as he unrolls them, “Not even going to attempt to lie?”

You are half naked. The overlaying waistbands of both your thermal wear and your pants draw tight around your thighs — you’re ensconced in the plush couch cushions, practically splayed out for him, letting him reposition you to wrap your stitches. A strained sound bubbles from your chest that was definitely supposed to be a laugh, “I’m too tired for subterfuge right now, Eraserhead”.

“Shouta,” he corrects. Calloused knuckles knock against your temple, fist unfurling until fingers brush over your crown, hesitant to hold before returning to dressing your wound. “Might as well use my name, now, if I can use yours”.

None of this makes sense. In the many outcomes you had accounted for, this ambivalent kindness wasn’t in any of them. Shouta, above all, is a rational man. A logical man, not known for being led by his emotions, and yet, “I don’t understand why you aren’t…”

“Angry?” he supplies tiredly. “Do you want me to be?”

You push through the balls of your feet when he coaxes you to lift your hips, “Obviously not!”

“I want to understand why you’ve been doing this before I waste any more energy,” he says, focused on tying the bandages. They sit tight, like a second skin. A third. “Why didn’t you just get your licence? You’re clearly capable”.

“Because I didn’t want to be a hero, Shouta! I just wanted…” your burst of frustration tapers, words steadily lose confidence, thoughts scattering and making your voice unsure. “There are always lines you say you won’t cross. But then you cross them, and everything you do becomes a little grayer”.

Your brow furrows, unable to meet his eyes, “When you know you can cross, it becomes easier to do it. Over time, that clear black line starts to fade, until it isn’t there anymore. I can’t go back anymore”.

He gazes at you in quiet contemplation. You feel your defences soften when his fingers brush along the dip of your waist. “I wanted justice for my community. Nobody was doing anything so I… I did it myself”.

“And what is justice to you?”

“Justice is fairness,” you blink at the unexpected question, and your tongue feels unnaturally swollen in your mouth. “That doesn’t always mean a happy ending, but it— it means you had a chance. Same as anyone else. I don’t… care if you think it’s too idyllic. People deserve that much. To feel safe, and to have a community they can depend on”.

He hums. While monotonous, it’s his genuine attempt to listen that silences your frustration, “Then, do you think anyone should be able to commit vigilante acts so long as it works in their favour?”

“Obv—obviously I don’t,” you mutter blithely. Such a broad statement allows for too many loopholes; ones easily weaponised. “But there’ll always be situations that require immediate action. I exist because our… current system doesn’t account for that. People slip through the cracks too easily and they’re forgotten about”.

“So you are the one exception?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He does a poor job of flatten his voice, even still it drips with warmth until you’re soft with it; sounding suspiciously like respect. Aizawa glides his fingers across your navel. You shiver, soft hair raising.

“Now you’re just being annoying,” you huff. Talking shouldn’t require so much exertion, but it’s enough to distract from the searing pain at your hip. Aizawa works fast, fingers tearing the end of the bandages to knot it above your hipbone. “The law isn't always a clear indication of what is good or bad”.

“No?”

“No,” you emphasise with a heavy nod that knocks something loose in your skull. Suddenly, everything blurs together into long streaks of light, edges softening and diffusing until you aren’t sure where one thing ends and another starts. You flinch and force your eyes shut, face twisted into a grimace.

Over the incessant beat of your heart you hear a low, concerned murmur, “Careful. I’m not done interrogating you”.

You groan, “You’ve got shit bedside manner”.

“Never said otherwise,” he replies plainly, rising to his feet and setting a knee on the cushion beside you. The sofa dips with his weight, and he takes your jaw into the cradle of his hand. You nuzzle into his touch, ready to employ the excuse of delirium.

He says your name again, pauses for a fraction of a moment, “You mentioned the pre quirk era, back at the cafe. What’d you mean by it?”

You huff heavily through your nose as the scabbed skin pulls under his fingers. “It’s just— with quirks, Pro’s became another kind of a bandage on an open wound, right?” his eyes are half lidded, lazy as always, sharp with interest. “People act as if they can fix everything. But ordinary things are what keep us all together, quirk or not. Everyday people who, despite their own hardships, would stop to help another person, are real heroes. To me”.

The warmth of his touch lingers as he pulls away and you quell the urge to chase it. “And Pro Heroes can’t be that?” he asks.

“Being a Pro Hero has been bastardised. It’s like a big celebrity cop game show. I do the same thing they do, and you don’t see me advertising bottled iced tea with my likeness, or plastering my ass on billboards”.

Aizawa clicks his tongue. Your blood has dried under his fingernails. “Not iced tea. You’d probably be on some fizzy drink that gives me heartburn”.

“And I’d sooner see your face in a one hundred yen store,” you grumble, turning up your nose to stare at the ceiling. “Bet you’d do well advertising grubs”.

The corner of his mouth curves into a faint smirk. “And you were behaving so well for me until now,” he murmurs, then reaching forward and slowing with contemplation. Clasped gently around your forearm, you let Eraser guide it under your shirt. After slipping your arm back through the sleeve, he tugs it into place at your wrist. That small gesture should not charm you as much as it does.

“I like this”.

Aizawa hums in response, a bid for clarification. You focus on the space between his brows rather than his eyes when you mumble, “This. I like it when you pay attention to me”.

“Yeah?” his face twitches, as if he were repressing a reaction to your words. “Is that why you enjoy making my life harder?”

You laugh breathlessly in lieu of a response, and Aizawa settles properly at your side, drawing you into him. There’s a bloodied half-hand print staining the blanket behind his shoulder, air still tinged with a distinct copper smell, forgotten at the first hint of his cologne.

“You know,” he intones wearily, soft spoken and enunciated as though he were picking each word with care, “I have my own dislikes for how the current hero system works. Justice shouldn’t be profitable, and something does need to change. But it’s also true that heroic acts, even when done under false pretences, leave some good in the world, too”.

“I have hopes for my students,” he continues. “This is the only full class I’ve ever had make it through an entire school year”.

“Even with Stain, the League and everything?”

Tousled hair slips forward over his shoulder as he nods, tickling your cheek. “They've been exposed to a lot more truths than most graduated heroes I know. It’s…”

The pride in his voice wanes then, rough with guilt. “It’s been rough on them,” he says. On all of us, you hear. “Bettering society shouldn’t require so much blood shed. They’re just kids”.

Your façade feels brittle, whittled away. Lips pursed thin and pulled into a sad smile. There was so much he claimed responsibility for — fretting about things out of his control, just like any parent would.

“It’s inevitable that changing the world will come with some growing pains,” before doubt creeps in, you reach up to cradle his face in your palm and skim the scar tissue surrounding his right eye as it closes. He accepts the touch and leans heavily, like he hadn’t realised how much he needed the comfort of another.

“You’re a good teacher, Shouta. You’ve more than done your part”.

“And your part?” he monotoned. He’s teasing you in his own way, peering through one half open eye. “I have more grey hairs now than I did an hour ago”.

Your abdomen jumps with your short laugh, getting caught in your throat as you suddenly hiss. “Ah. Sorry,” you wheeze, air filling your cheeks. His finger pokes at the swell and they gradually deflate, breathing through the throbbing pain. “I didn’t plan on coming here. Honestly I can barely remember— I just ran to the nearest safe place”.

“I can’t believe it was you all along,” he mutters. His head cocks, stubble rubbing against your skin. “No, I can. You had so many obvious similarities but I could never put my finger on it”.

“You even mentioned my coffee order. Brat”.

Fully spent, you recline against his chest with an apologetic hum and look up. You’re surprised he lets you, heart stuttering when you find him watching you with a glimmer of intrigue.

For a moment it’s just the two of you. Blood pumping, beating like a swans wing; in your ribs, your pelvis, the crook of your neck. Those worn eyes flicker down to your mouth. It’s almost physical, the way they trace over the unique dips and curves of your lips. Instinctively, you feel them part, wet, a coy attempt at holding his attention. He doesn’t stray as he murmurs, “It felt awfully one sided”.

Nose drawing across the bridge of your own, breath ghosting skin. “I’m sorry,” you echo, wedging closer. “Would you’ve preferred not knowing?”

You’re not afraid of his silence. Knowing him, knowing you, he isn’t thinking of a way to let you down gently. Aizawa Shouta is honest, maybe a little too honest — though his tongue is less sharp these days.

Rather, he is entangled in his own reasoning and weighing the trouble of telling you. Pink splotches are spreading up his throat. His upper lip curls. “It’s a relief to know I don’t need to pick between one or the other”.

“Oh,” you whisper in awe, tilting as he is drawn forward. “Are you going to kiss me now?”

Anticipation coils hot in your belly when his mouth grazes your own. Tongue dipping to wet your lips, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. You shiver as they move, forming his reply.

“No”.

A whine is pulled from the depths of your being when he moves away with a toothy grin. You fall onto his shoulder and turn into his throat, “Why not?”

“Tell me what you were running from first,” he says.

“What I was—Oh!” he startles at your outburst. You pat frantically around your pockets, producing the bullet and the bagged bracelet. You hold them out to him, “I got some intel”.

Frustration wrinkles between his brows. “And why the hell didn’t you lead with that?”

“I was literally bleeding out when I got here and then you got all handsy,” you protest, continuing through the affronted glare he gives you, “It is not my fault you look so cute in Present Mic’s merch”.

“Give me those,” the baggy and the bullet are taken from your grasp with unnecessary force, driven by Aizawa’s obvious embarrassment. He squints at the beading. “At-su?”

“I think it belongs to someone named Atsushi,” you begin. “Are they on the missing persons list?”

Mind no longer a foggy cacophony of unfinished thoughts, every detail comes pouring out into the open. All the things you held close, tucked away in the recesses of your brain, reluctant of who could be trusted with it. He gives you a sheet of paper and you map out your pinboard. You are still shaking from the fatigue, but he doesn’t comment on the janky lettering as you write the warehouse coordinates.

He knows names, better still he wants to hear them from you and more; asks for your theories and hypotheticals, picks through them, gives each one equal consideration. “I know what I heard,” you insist, circling the address over and over until he’s stilling your hand, covered by his own, the other thumbing away at his phone screen.

You can feel the two lives you had cleaved clotting back together. Strings of connective tissue, taut and thickening. Like any scab, you’re tempted to pick at it, to see if anything lies underneath. You weren’t expecting him to take to your identity so quickly — to be treated as though you were an equal.

“I’ve sent the information to a detective I trust,” he states, glaring at the phone until the backlight automatically blinks out. You follow his movements as he pockets it. “That No Name’s gun quirk rings some bells. There’s a group Fourth Kind was keeping an eye on a while back that disappeared. Could’ve moved prefectures”.

You’ve worked tirelessly to find the answers he’s freely giving you; yet the second somebody accepts the weight you’d been carrying, you feel your knees buckle, and all you can think about is kissing him.

“Good. That’s good,” you answer dazedly. “There was a lift in the warehouse. Maybe they’re being kept underground?”

There’s a determined look on his face. You can see the undertones of excitement beneath it. Glowing, hard demeanour turned gauzy and warm. True, you weren’t made to be a pro hero. Aizawa is excellent at that — denying himself the things he wants. You're not. It’s a perfect fit.

When he sets the device down alongside a sigh of relief you take a chance. His chest expands under your hands as you rest them against his collar. Slow, they slide up over his shoulders, then back around to toy with the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

He shudders, but lets you guide him down. You don’t want to disturb the stitches, so he goes willingly, shapes around you as he ducks into your space. Finally, laid in the crook of his arms like a bouquet, your heart is full of him.

Aizawa is all rough edges and purposeful touch. He’s gentle when you need it, teasing when you don’t. The kisses start by your jugular and you’re bereft by it. You can feel a grin broadening against your throat. Mouthing at your pulse point like it could kiss back.

“Shouta,” you whine, nudging your nose into his hair. It’s softer than you expected it to be. He leaves a trail of wet pecks in his wake, following the curve of your jaw to your ears, kissing the delicate shell. It scratches and you tremble, a warm feeling diffusing throughout your body.

The baritone in his voice rumbles through you as he murmurs, “Yeah?”

You bury into his scalp, fingers curling insistently. Seeking more of him your leg moves to hook over his hip, to which he stills, holding you in place. You’re certain the hot impression of his hand splayed over your bare inner thigh will linger for days.

“Can you just…” worse, it moves again, tantalisingly slow. You’re soft between his fingers. His thumb grazes the hem of your underwear while he turns to press an innocent kiss to your cheek. “Don’t do this to me”.

“Do what?”

The air is stifling. His touch dips under the fabric, too quick to register. Your thighs flex beneath the palm of his hand as you pulse. “Fuck. Stop being unfair,” you feel it as he smiles, pressed to the corner of your mouth. “I know you aren’t going to do anything to me while I’m like this”.

A drawn out, pleased sound rumbles in his throat. Almost as if leaving you teetering on the brink was the point, he takes your words as permission to pull your pants back up — both pairs, stretching the waistband carefully over your wound.

You are disturbingly endeared by it and pouting all the same. Giving a warm laugh, knuckles brushing along your cheek, Shouta angles himself just so, and brings you into a kiss.

The seam of your lips part to meet his tongue and he sighs languidly into your mouth. You fist the fabric of his shirt with a sharp inhale, feeling the firm muscle behind it. He kisses you again and again. Chasing, wanting; an ode to your cat and mouse relationship.

Heat prickles over skin. Between breaths, you mumble, “Want you”.

The soft pressure of his hand to your lower back brings you closer. You wanted more. Light handed fingertips walk the length of your spine, murmuring appreciatively as it bows, arching into his chest.

“I’ve wanted you,” he echoes, leaning until your foreheads press together. You watch his eyes fall shut and hear the sotto voce remark, “We shouldn’t be doing this”.

If not for the amused, sanguine tone in his voice, you might’ve started to panic. But he kisses you again. Soft and chaste and shorter than the last.

“What now?” you smile feebly. The adrenaline is tapering off and you can no longer ignore the ache radiating throughout your body, nor the reality of what you are doing.

“Now, you need to take it easy,” he instructs with finality, thumb smoothing over your kiss bitten lip. “I’ll get on the phone with Fourth Kind and see if he’ll cooperate”.

“And the rest?”

Everything is there, in the small, covetous slant of his grin. All the patience, affection, respect and desire. He chooses all of you, said so himself — you’re fine as you are.

“The rest comes after”.

#bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #eraserhead x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #mha x reader #it should go without saying this is not a meta fic. all fun TY!!

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roseghoul26 · 18 days

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Chapter 3: I Can't Stop You Putting Roots In My Dreamland

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Synopsis: A fic based off the song “ivy” by Taylor Swift. After a startling introduction to the man, Arthur Morgan became the most important part of your life. Married at a young age to an older, wealthy man to help your family, you were trapped in a loveless marriage, your only sense of escape with the rugged cowboy. Will you be able to keep your affair hidden, or will your husband find out, and destroy the last thing that made you happy? Tags: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Strangers To Lovers, Infidelity, Fem!Reader, She/Her Pronouns Used For Reader, Period Typical Misogyny, Emotional Manipulative Relationship (not with Arthur), Mostly Follows Timeline of Game, High Honor Arthur Morgan Author's Note: this chapter does talk about sex with the husband, which isn’t non consensual, but it also isn’t something the reader actually wants, doing it more out of obligation than anything. also chapters will probably start to be longer and therefore take longer to write <3 Taglist: @lokiofasgard12 @ultraporcelainpig @that-one-beannnn @morethantheycansay Chapter List

You rarely smoked.

The only time you did was after you and Hans were intimate. He would roll over onto his side, asleep, and you would get up from the bed, wrapping your robe around you and heading outside to the front porch, sitting right on the top stair.

It was comforting to you, because you imagined the flame and smoke from the cigarette would burn the remnants of him from your body.

You felt them in your pocket, the promise of temporary relief calling to you like a siren. You ignored them, choosing to listen to the sounds of the woods around you. The crickets sang, the frogs croaked, and you heard the chattering of nocturnal animals as they found food for the night. Everything was so peaceful, so why couldn’t you stop yourself from feeling so tense?

It had been two days since the trip into Rhodes. Hans had stayed in his office for most of that time, only coming out to eat and sleep. But as was typical before leaving on trips, Hans wanted you, so you obliged him.

Sex with Hans felt like a task, no passion between the two of you. He treated it like he treated his business: efficiently. There was no foreplay, no lingering touches, nothing. It was just straight to the point, and done as soon as it started, which came as a relief to you. The less time you had to spend doing it with him, the better.

However, as much as it shamed you to admit it, your thoughts had not been of Hans during the moment. Instead of cold gray eyes traveling down your body, you imagined they were a certain shade of blue. Instead of pallid skin, you imagined it was tanned, roughened from years in the suns. And when Hans’ hands did touch you, you imagined they were strong and broad, calloused yet gentle. You’d be a liar if you said it didn’t make it easier.

Disgusted with yourself, you ran a hand down your face, slumping forward where you sat on the stair. Cold air dug into your skin, and you tightened your robe further around your body. The silk felt nice against your skin, but it did nothing to protect against the elements.

You were about to fish the pack out of your pocket, but the sound of hoofbeats had you perking your head up, eyes focusing on the small path in front of you. Emerging from the shadows was a man on horseback, lantern in one hand that lit up the side of his face. It took you a second to register who it was, not quite believing your eyes at first.

“Arthur?” You called out. Not only could you not escape from him in your thoughts, but here he was in reality. Not that you minded, but of course the timing had to be terrible.

He responded with a noise of affirmation, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “What’re you doin’ here? It’s very late.” You knew it was somewhere between nine and ten at night, which is a little late for visitors. “Don’t tell me you’re here to try and rob me again.”

Arthur audibly sighed, shaking his head as he dismounted his horse. “You ain’t ever gonna let that go, are you?” You watched as he secured the reins around a nearby tree before making his way over to you.

“Never,” you laughed, and despite your better judgment, you scooted over to the side to give Arthur room to sit. You patted the stair when he got to the porch, and he sat down next to you. The scent of tobacco and gunpowder wafted over you, and you felt his jacket covered arm brush yours, causing you to shiver.

It was at that point you remembered you were only wearing your undergarments underneath, and you tightened the robe even more around your body, both because of self awareness and the temperature.

Wordlessly, you felt Arthur shift, taking his jacket and draping it across your shoulders. The outside material of the jacket had been rough, but the inside was lined with a soft pelt, warmed by Arthur’s body. The addicting scent was even stronger now, causing your head to spin, and you resisted the urge to bury your face into it. “You’ll catch your death out here,” he said disapprovingly. You just chuckled in response.

“What’re you doin’ out here, anyway?” You heard him ask, and you shrugged.

“I could ask you the same question.” You watched him out of the corner of your eye, and he sighed.

“Leigh was worried ‘bout the ‘issue’ you’d been having, with the break-ins. He wanted me to come out ‘ere and make sure everythin’ is good.” He laughed lightly, and you felt his eyes on you. “Now will you answer me?”

Finally, you pulled out the pack, holding it gently in your hands. Glancing up at Arthur, he seemed surprised. “Didn’t strike me as the type who smoked,” he commented.

“I rarely do.” You pulled out one of the cigarettes from the pack, placing it gently between your lips. Pulling out your lighter, it took a few too many tries before the spark caught, and you lit the end of it. Taking a long drag, you wordlessly offered Arthur one from the pack.

He accepted it, placing it between his own plush lips, and you shifted closer to light it. Except this time, no matter how many times you tried, the spark wouldn’t catch, and you could hear Arthur chuckle as you grew more and more frustrated. “Piece of shit,” you grumbled, “I keep forgettin’ to buy a new one.”

You tried it a few more times before giving up, shoving it angrily back into your robe. “Sorry,” you grumbled, guilty eying the unlit cigarette that hung from his mouth.

“Can I try somethin’?” Arthur asked, and it piqued your curiosity, so you nodded. “C’mere.” Arthur gestured for you to move closer to him, which you did. The man practically radiated heat, you noticed, and your cold body wanted nothing more than to wrap around him.

Your brain stopped functioning when you felt him gently grasp your chin with gloved fingers, keeping your head still, but not tight enough to keep you locked there. He leaned forward like he was going to kiss you, but he instead pressed the end of his cigarette against yours. “Inhale,” he instructed, and you watched the end of yours glow with red embers as you did, which ignited his.

He pulled away then, his touch lingering a little longer than necessary, and you were certain he could feel the way your heart hammered. “Resourceful,” you muttered, and Athur laughed, smoke spilling from his open mouth. You couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the light, but his cheeks were a shade darker than they were moments ago.

“Somethin’ like that. I think ‘desperate’ is the right word, though.” Arthur leaned back on one of his arms, the other moving the cigarette to and from his lips. “Haven’t had a good cigarette in a while.”

Without even thinking about it, you extended the pack of them for him to take, and you watched him switch his attention from the pack to you. “Take it,” you demanded, shaking it gently when he didn’t budge. “I got plenty of them.”

“I appreciate it, but-”

“Just take the damn thing!” You giggled, practically pressing it against his chest, yet he still made no move to grab it. With a quirk of your brow that said really?, you tucked the pack into one of the various pockets of the coat around your shoulders.

Arthur shook his head with a mix of defeat and amusement, and even in the low light you could see that smile that made you weak. “You’re stubborn.”

“First I’m strange, and now I’m stubborn. Got any other s words you wanna call me?”

“I can think of a few.” Arthur had begun to lean near you as you spoke, but you watched his eyes flick down to where a ring sat on your hand and he pulled away. “But none of which I should say to a married woman.”

Right. Holding back a sigh of disappointment, you felt the jacket begin to slip from your shoulders, and you swore you saw Arthur’s arm move to fix it before stopping himself. Securing it back around, you took a final drag from your cigarette before stomping it out with your shoe, then kicking the butt under the porch once it had cooled some.

“Are you busy the next couple of weeks?” You asked, not really knowing what you were saying.

“I’ve got some things. Why?”

“Oh, nevermind.” You immediately felt silly for even bringing it up.

“You sure?”

“Well…” you took a breath. “Hans is gonna be gone for the next week or two, and you especially know how easy it is to get in here,” you gestured to the house, and Arthur shook his head again. “I guess what I’m tryin’ to ask is if you’d swing by every couple of days? Just to make sure nothin’ has happened? I’ll sleep better knowing there's someone out there who keepin’ an eye on things. And I’ll pay,” you tagged on, and Arthur brought the cigarette back up to his lips, almost contemplative.

You totally weren’t trying to come up with a reason to see him more.

“Just every couple of days?”

You nodded. “You don’t even gotta talk to me or anythin’. I’ll leave the money somewhere secure and you can just grab it.”

“And if I wanna talk to you?” Arthur’s voice was surprisingly faint, like someone would if they didn’t have complete confidence in what they were saying.

Cherishing the knowledge that he didn’t dislike your presence, you couldn’t help the small smile as you responded. “Well, I’ll be around.”

Arthur hummed in response, and he took one final drag until he was stomping it out, kicking it under the porch like you did. The two of you sat in silence after that, simply taking in the serenity of the nighttime forest. Arthur titled his head back, eyes locked on to the forest, and the moonlight graced his features. Why did he look even more gorgeous at night? Pale white light highlighted the angles of his face, his high cheeks, the crook of his nose. You were able to make out a scar along the bridge of his nose, and another on his chin. You wondered if the rest of his body was marked that way.

You hadn’t realized you’d been staring at him until he turned his attention on you, and you couldn’t tell if he was amused or concerned. “You alright there?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” you quickly responded. “Just tired.” Whether Arthur believed you, you’d never know.

“Let’s get you inside, then,” Arthur replied, slowly standing up from the step. You almost wanted to grab his hand and pull him back down, not wanting this little moment to end. But that familiar feeling of guilt returned, and so you let the moment go, dissipating in the air like the smoke of your cigarettes.

Arthur helped you up, escorting you to your front door with a hand barely not touching your back. You slid the jacket off your body, giving it back to him with a soft thank you. After draping it around one of his arms, he held the door open for you. You were about to step in when you heard him murmur your name. “Have a good night, darlin’.”

“Because of you, it is.” You beamed at him, before ducking into the dimly-lit house. A few seconds later, you heard the door latch shut, and the sound of receding hoofbeats a few minutes after.

You gave yourself a moment to calm your racing heart, fanning your face to try and alleviate the heat in your cheeks. You were giddy and felt lighter than a feather. Like the last time, you felt like your real self had broken free, if not for a moment. That taste of freedom was delicious, and it was addicting.

But with that freedom came guilt, and you were screaming at yourself in your head, every nasty word under the sun aimed directly at you in your mind. Married or not, you shouldn’t be letting an almost stranger sit that close to you, let him drape his jacket over you, let him hold your face so gently.

You shouldn’t be reacting this way.

You shouldn’t be torturing yourself by getting close to him.

You shouldn’t be getting close to him.

There were so many things you shouldn’t be doing, but you knew you couldn’t stop now. You needed more.

Sighing, you slowly began to make your way upstairs, the stairs creaking with each step. You headed into the washroom that wasn’t attached to your bedroom, this one located across the hall a ways down from where Hans was currently asleep. Washing the remnants of smoke from your body, you dared to glance at yourself in the mirror.

Sure, nothing has changed too drastically since you got married, your face still practically the same. But a deep weariness had made itself at home in your eyes. Your eyes, once filled with wonder and joy at the world, had turned dull, much like Hans’. They seemed to have sunken in more, like the life from your body was being sucked from your body.

Anger boiled your blood, tears threatening to flow as you stared at the husk of yourself in the mirror. You were angry at your family for marrying you off. You were angry at Hans for agreeing to marry you. You were angry at the world for thinking it was okay.

And you were angry at Arthur for breaking into your house and setting off this chain of events in your mind.

Taking a deep breath, you composed yourself. This marriage needed to happen, you told yourself, and it provided some small comfort, but it didn’t ease the sense of betrayal. And you shouldn’t be mad at Arthur, because it wasn’t his fault. You just wanted someone to blame for your treachery. Wiping down your hands, you were sure to avoid looking at yourself in the mirror again as you left.

Before you knew it, you were back in the bedroom, the familiar sight of Hans’ form beneath the covers causing a lump to form in your throat. Quickly slipping off the robe, you replaced it with a nightgown before joining him under the covers.

The comforting smell of Arthur still clung to your skin, lulling you to sleep, your dreams interrupted with visions of him. It was the best sleep you’d gotten in a long time.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The sunlight woke you up, beams interrupting your slumber instead of the voice of your husband.

Sitting up, you placed your hand on the other side of your bed, and you felt it was cold. A smile grew across your face, an almost child-like giddiness bubbling inside of you. He was gone.

You quickly got out of bed, immediately heading to the closet to get dressed, not wanting to waste any of the precious time you had alone. You had no idea what you were going to do, but you were going to savor every moment. You had glanced at the clock on the way over, and you were surprised to see that you’d slept in until ten.

You decided on a thin, flowy skirt and a light blouse, something that would let you move with ease. As you got dressed, a familiar piece of paper caught your eye, tucked in the drawer containing your socks hastily. You picked up the little thank you note that Arthur had given to you, looking over it fondly. It was such a small gesture, but it meant everything to you.

Tucking it back, you left your closet, heading down the stairs. Even the house seemed happier, sunlight streaming into the windows, and you opened some of them, letting wind clear away the stagnant air. You made yourself a quick breakfast, an assortment of fruits and some bread, cleaning the dishes once you were done.

You now sat at the dining table, contemplating what you were going to do. Your options were quite limited, as the only way to travel from the house was the carriage, but that was gone. Hans didn’t keep horses, finding the creatures disgusting, leaving you stranded at the house.

That wasn’t to say you didn't have a way of getting to places. If you really needed to, the main road wasn’t far, about a five minute walk on foot. If you waited long enough, someone would come by with a carriage, and you could ask to hop on. More often than not, they would accept, and you were always sure to hand them a couple of bills for their troubles. It was dangerous, and probably quite stupid, but you enjoyed the thrill of it all.

But you weren’t in the mood to travel in the city, especially this early, where everyone would be able to clearly see who you were. You slumped back in the chair. Now that the novelty of being alone had worn off, the persistent loneliness was no longer covered up, making you slump even further into your chair.

It was then you finally remembered your little project you’d been working on for some time: your garden. You quickly left the house, a newfound energy in your step as you traveled along the makeshift path you’d made with your steps.Your skirts caught on various plants and sticks, but it didn’t deter you, and you made it to your garden in no time.

It wasn’t much of a garden, to be completely honest with yourself. Fallen trees stacked up against one side, blocking it from view from the house. You hadn't tended to it for some time, and it showed. All six of your planters were handmade, made from various sticks and planks you’d found scattered about, and you noticed that they were all spilling out their precious dirt, the wood long since rotted. Also, weeds and vines and overgrowth covered over the delicate plants you’d raised, and you made a sad noise. You hoped they weren’t all dead.

Digging through the thick growth, your fears were confirmed when instead of bright green, you were met with wilted brown. They weren’t anything special, just a few herbs and small vegetables that you’d grown from the remnants of produce you’d used for supper. Still, it was something you’d poured yourself into, and you couldn’t help the way your shoulders sagged, energy wilted just like the plants.

You were about to move the weeds back over, when from the pile of dead plants, a sliver of fresh green caught your eye. Investigating further, you found a cluster of small growth of thyme and mint, baby sprouts, but still able to become something greater. A victorious laugh left you, and you eagerly began tearing away the invasive greenery, your energy returned.

It took a while, but eventually you’d uncovered everything, the dead plants pulled out, leaving the few remaining live ones in the unstable dirt. Before you could move them, though. you’d have to make new planters. The rest of the day you spent gathering various sticks, planks, and pieces of bark, creating a substantial pile in the garden.

By the time night came around, you were exhausted, covered in dirt and sweat, but surprisingly content. You bathed and, no matter how much you wanted to stay up and wait to see if Arthur would stop by, you went to bed. You said every couple of days, not every night, for God’s sake.

The next day was spent working on the planters, taking many breaks inside. It took too many tires for you to make one that would stay together, but by the end of the night you’d made one.

The third day arrived, and you worked again on the planters. It was the end of the third night when you heard hoofbeats come down your road, and you felt your heart beat excitedly. You were still close to the house, so you were able to hear Arthur call out your name. “Over here!” You responded, but you doubted he could see you because your back was pressed against the stack of fallen logs, blocking you from view from the house. “In the woods!”

It took a few moments, but you eventually heard branches crack and leaves rustle, as well as the light noise of his spurs. “Hello, Arthur,” you turned your head back to greet the man as he approached your side. “I’ll get your payment in a moment, just let me finish this.”

You turned back to the planter in your lap, and you saw out of the corner of your eye as Arthur crouched down next to you, watching what you were doing with an unreadable expression. “What’s all this?” He asked as you tied a knot of the rope, testing the stability of the planter with a tug. When it held, you smiled proudly. Another one done.

“This,” you gestured around you, “is my garden. And this,” you pointed to the now finished planter, “is one of the last planters I need to make before I replace all the old ones.”

“Odd place for a garden,” Arthur noted, standing up again. Again, he helped you up, and you smiled gratefully at him. He wasn’t wearing gloves this time, and you were able to feel the rough skin on yours.

“I know,” you replied, wiping dirt from your hands on your skirt. “But it ain’t like I got any other place for it.”

“Whaddya mean? You’ve got a whole empty lawn,” he said with disbelief, and you shook your head.

“I guess I mean I can’t. I ain’t even supposed to have this.”

“You… can’t?”

“It ain’t ‘ladylike or proper’ to keep a garden, apparently,” you scoffed, and began to make your way back to the house. “C’mon, let’s get you your money.”

A part of you hoped that he wouldn’t just take the money and leave as you walked back toward the house, but you wouldn’t blame him if he did. The two of you idly chatted, you leading the way back, Arthur not far behind.

Looking back as you talked, you were able to appreciate him visually as you kept eye contact. He had the same red button up on from earlier in the week, sleeves rolled up at the elbow, and the top two buttons undone. He had forgone the bandana around his neck entirely today, and you were thankful for it. He kept his hands on his gunbelt as he walked, the act far more enticing than it should be. You had to move your eyes before you could begin to stare.

Reaching the house, Arthur held the door open for you, hesitantly following in after you. It was strange, seeing Arthur in your house properly. He looked very out of place, the antiquated decorations of high society a harsh contrast of the rugged outdoorsman.

“I’m gonna go grab the money, so make yourself at home. And,” you pointed to his boots, “take those off. You tracked mud in my kitchen last time.”

He held his hands up defensively. “My apologies,” he chuckled, but he complied, setting his boots next to your shoes. It was almost familiar, seeing your shoes next to his, and a pang of longing for a life you’d never had or will have tore through your chest.

Heading upstairs, you pushed those feelings away as you entered your bedroom. Reaching under the bed, you grabbed the lockbox you kept stashed, hidden between the mattress and the frame, setting it on your bed. Opening it, you grabbed a few bills from it, totalling to about five dollars. You pulled from your own personal money, not wanting Hans to question why he was suddenly down a bit of money when he returned. Tucking it back under, you hurriedly made your way back downstairs to Arthur.

He hadn’t sat down yet. Instead, you watched as he traveled around the living room, examining the various photographs that decorated the shelves and the mantle of the fireplace. He was frowning as he looked over your and Hans’ wedding photo, but he broke his gaze from them as you stood next to him. “Here,” you handed him the money. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he murmured, taking the bills gently, putting them away in one of his pockets.

The two of you stood in silence after that. You weren’t quite sure what to say. A part of you wanted to invite him to stay for a drink, but that was risky, pushing to something less than proper. He took the framed wedding photo into his hands, and the both of you observed it.

You looked like a spooked deer in the photo, your eyes wide and staring into the camera. Hans had his arm linked in yours, and it was the only time you’d seen him smile, even though it was forced. The dress you were wearing was a poofy mess of fabric and ribbon, and you remembered how much it itched your skin.

“The dress is ugly, I know,” you joke, getting a chuckle from the man. “I’d never choose to wear somethin’ like that.”

“It seems like you don’t got a choice in a lot of things,” you heard him mutter, more to himself than anything. You couldn’t bring yourself to disagree with him; it was obvious you’d be lying.

Arthur set the frame back on the fireplace mantle, and when his hand returned to his side, you felt it brush against yours, but a little too hard to be accidental. It was a simple yet comforting touch, and for a moment that loneliness tormenting you eased.

But just as it came, it left, Arthur taking a few steps away from you. Turning your head to watch him, you felt disappointment overwhelm you. “I-” he cleared his throat. “I have to go.”

“Okay,” you whispered as he got his boots back on.

His mouth opened and shut as he struggled to formulate words, and he ended up just sighing. “I’ll see you later, darlin’.”

Nodding, you turned your attention back to the photo, not wanting him to see the sadness in your eyes. You heard the door latch shut, and like your shoes by the door, you were now alone.

You stayed inside for the rest of the night.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The next day arrived, and with it came rain. Lots of it.

It pounded against the roof of your house, and you found the sound of it comforting, distracting you from your miserable thoughts. Because of that, you spent most of the day in the attic cleaning, where you could feel the rain if you pressed your hand against the roof.

The following day was a clear one, not a single cloud in the sky. You finished up the planters, arranging them how you liked. You rewarded yourself with a long soak in the bath, spending nearly an hour in the tub.

For both of those days, your mind kept wandering to Arthur, but not on the reason you thought it would. You kept going back to his comment about how you didn’t have a choice in a lot of things. In the back of your mind, you always knew that, but to hear it out loud, it had been staggering.

You didn’t let yourself think about it for too long, however. The sacrifice of your own choice in life was a necessary one, you told yourself, and itIt was selfish of you to want otherwise. Your family would be out on the street if it wasn’t for you, and besides, you should be grateful for the life Hans has provided for you.

So why was it so hard to convince yourself to believe your thoughts?

You dreamed that night, for the first time in a while. It wasn’t anything crazy, but it still had you gasping when you woke. It was a domestic scene, and you were in the kitchen making breakfast. A sleep-laden Arthur came into the scene, brown hair tousled and in his face. He wrapped his arms around your body, bare chest pressing into your back, and he burrowed his face into the crook of your neck. It felt so real, and you swore you could feel the scratch of his beard on your neck when you woke.

Getting out of bed the next day had been a struggle. You angrily grumbled at the birds as they taunted you with their lighthearted music, and you debated rolling over a smashing a pillow over your head and going back to sleep.

Eventually, you managed to leave the bed, getting dressed and eating breakfast like you’d done in all the previous days. The monotony was getting boring, but there wasn’t anything you could do about that.

Today you worked on filling the planters with dirt, and it took a surprising amount of time to find some that wasn’t too rocky or too muddy, and of course it had to be a significant walk from the planters. All you had to transport the dirt was a small shovel that you stored in a hollow trunk nearby, and you spent the day carrying each precious shovelful across the forest

By the time early evening rolled around, you were exhausted, your hands cramping and shoulders aching from the shovel, but you now had six planters filled with dirt, and the baby sprouts placed in each one. The dirt was still damp enough from the rainfall earlier, so you didn’t have to worry about watering today.

Leaning your back against the fallen trunks, you closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of the warm sun rays against your skin. The birds sounded less taunting than they did in the morning, and you let yourself get lost in their songs.

So lost, in fact, that you failed to notice when they stopped, spooked by the sound of a voice and footfalls. You jumped when your name was said rather loudly beside you, your eyes snapping open and staring at the creator of the sound.

A concerned Arthur stood above you, hand extended like he was about to shake your shoulder. “Oh, hello Arthur,” you grinned up at him.

“You scared me there,” he half-laughed, pulling you to your feet. “I’ve been callin’ your name for a while now.”

“Well, as you can see,” you brushed your hands on your skirt, “I’m still very much alive.” You were afraid that the tense ending of your last interaction would’ve carried over to today, but you’re glad it didn’t. “So, whaddya think?” You gestured to your garden.

“It’s… cute.”

“Cute?” You scoffed. “You mean to tell me I’ve been working all day for the last week just for it to be cute? You insult me, Arthur.”

Arthur laughed, and that damn smile adorned his lips. Looking away, you felt your cheeks warm.

“I left the money at the house again. C’mon.”

The walk back to the house was short, like always, and Arthur asked you about the plants you were growing. You explained to him the way you’d found them earlier in the week, recalling the small little sprouts you’d found.

“Plants are incredible in that way. No matter what the world throws at them, no matter what conditions they’re met with, they always seem to just… come back. Their resilience is incredible!” Looking back at Arthur, he was watching you with an indiscernible expression. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get all poetic there.”

“Don’t apologize,” Arthur shook his head. “I like that, though. Reminds me of someone I know.”

“Oh? Who?” You were genuinely curious, wanting to know more about Arthur and the people he associated with.

“There’s this amazin’ woman, who, no matter what anyone tells her or what society deems is right, does what she wants, does what makes her happy. And when she gets dragged down, I’ve seen her bounce right back up, ready to take on the world.”

“Maybe you’re the poetic one,” you teased. “She sounds like someone I want to meet.”

You missed the look that Arthur gave you, like he couldn’t believe you weren’t catching on. “I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

Eventually the two of you came into the house, and Arthur lingered in the doorway. “I’ll be right back, then you’ll be good to go.” You turned to head up the stairs, but you halted. “Unless…” Don’t you dare. “Unless you want to stay for dinner?”

When he didn’t respond, you panicked a little. “You don’t have to, I just figured cause it’s almost dinnertime, you’d like somethin’ to eat.” Silence. “You know what, forget I said anythin’,” you looked away, embarrassed, and resumed entering the house.

“You’re spoilin’ me, darlin’,” Arthur laughed breathlessly with a smile.

“Is that a yes?”

He nodded, and a relieved but genuine smile fell on your lips. “You know where the living room is,” you laughed, toeing off your shoes. Arthur did the same, setting his boot next to yours again, and he made his way to the living room as you went upstairs.

The process of grabbing the money was no different this time, and you were about to head back downstairs when you caught a glimpse of yourself in one of the mirrors in the bedroom.

Dirt streaked across your face from where you had wiped away sweat, and your clothes were in no better shape. Embarrassment once again overcame you, the ideals that had been ingrained into your brain for years making you feel so. No woman of your standing should be playing in the dirt, then inviting people into her home while covered in it.

You quickly changed clothes, then headed into the en suite bathroom to wash down your face and body, even go so far as to fix up your hair, pulling out any debris that got caught in it. Satisfied, you headed back downstairs to Arthur, who sat on one of the various couches. He had taken his hat off, setting it next to him, and you watched him run his hands through it.

“It wasn’t very nice of you to not tell me I was covered in dirt,” was what you said as you approached him, holding out the bills for him. “Sorry that it took so long.”

Arthur just chuckled, standing up in front of you, leaving his hat behind. He took the bills from you with a thankful nod of his head, tucking them into his pocket. “You missed a spot,” he said as he tucked the money away.

“Really?” You began to wipe at your face, frowning when Arthur began to laugh. “Where?”

“Here,” he muttered, and you felt two hands gently wrap around your wrists, tugging them away from your face. Releasing one, he used the pad of his thumb to wipe at your cheek, the rest of his hand resting on your jaw. His cerulean eyes flicked across your face, like he was trying to memorize the details of it, the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose, the shape of your lips. “There,” he whispered, running the thumb across again for good measure before dropping his hand.

Arthur stared at you for a moment, like even he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done. All thoughts went out the window, your mind and legs jelly. He took a step back, giving an appropriate amount of room between the two of you. Don’t leave, you were pleading in your head. “I-I’ll get started on dinner,” you stammer out. “If you’d like to get washed up, the bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the left.”

He nodded, taking a few more steps back. “I’ll be right back, then.” And with that, he turned up the stairs, leaving you stunned, alone, in the living room. You ran your fingers over where his hand had just been, and you laughed with shock and delight. You expected to feel guilt, and you did, but it was heavily muffled by the sheer joy radiating in your chest.

The sound of water rushing through the pipes of the house broke you out of your daze, your hand returning to your side. Right. Dinner.

Despite the tiredness you felt from hauling dirt everywhere the entire day, you felt energized as you entered the kitchen. You weren’t going to make anything elaborate, mainly because you were starting to run low on supplies. You’d have to run to Rhodes sometime during the next week, using your own money, of course.

Dinner was going to be two small steaks, with diced potatoes and grilled green beans. The smell of the food quickly permeated the kitchen, making your stomach grumble hungrily. Arthur emerged from the bathroom when dinner was over halfway done, startling you because you had your back to him, and because your mind was constantly distracted with thoughts of him.

“That smells amazin’,” he commented, causing you to nearly drop the utensil you were using to flip the food. Turning, he held up his hands apologetically.

“I should’ve had you keep your boots on. Your spurs are loud,” you grumbled lightheartedly. “How are you so quiet?” You kept having to turn your head to talk to him, so he walked up next to you at the stove.

“Years of practice,” Arthur responded, which didn’t clear anything up.

“Practice for what?”

Arthur hesitated to speak, and you rolled your eyes. “Arthur, I caught you breakin’ into my house. If you’re a thief, just say it.”

“I ain’t a thief.” He replied defensively.

“Sure, whatever you say. I just sure as hell know you ain’t a deputy.”

Arthur laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“So why are you pretendin’ to be one?”

The man beside you sighed. “It’s a long story… and one I ain’t so sure I can tell yet.”

Silence fell over the two of you, the only sound the sizzling of food as it cooked. It was you who spoke first. “So who are you then, Arthur Morgan?”

Arthur didn’t respond at first, and you watched his struggle to come up with an answer. “I ain’t quite sure,” he finally said, uncertainty lacing his voice.

“You’re… not sure?”

He shrugged. “I’m a lot of things, I suppose. I guess I can’t just put it into one word."

“Alright, how ‘bout this then. Whenever you’re not here, what’re you doin’?”

“I… I’m workin’. Odd jobs and stuff like that.”

“Do those odd jobs include thievin’?”

Exasperated, Arthur made a noise between a scoff and a chuckle. “I suppose it does. Houses, banks, trains. Whatever gets me money, I guess.”

Grinning at your small victory at his admission, you poked him lightly in the chest. “So you’re an outlaw then.”

“And if I am?”

It was your turn to shrug. “Doesn’t change anythin’, really.”

Arthur noticeably relaxed at your answer. “Good.”

“I’m assumin’ Dutch and Bill are outlaws too, then.”

“Jesus, woman, is this an interrogation?” You heard Arthur mutter, and you laughed.

“Sorry, sorry, just curious.” Your gaze went back to the food, and you noticed that everything was almost done cooking. “Was I right though?”

“I… Yes.”

You hummed in response. Bill you were expecting, but the other man you weren’t. He looked like he belonged in high society with you, not living a life from the reaches of the law. Maybe appearances aren't always to be believed, then. “Thank you.”

Arthur raised a brow. “For?”

“Answering my questions. And not just brushing them off. Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Arthur responded, not expecting thanks for such a simple thing. “You need any help with this?” He gestured to the food on the stove. “I ain’t much of a cook, but if you need help…”

Never once in your marriage had Hans offered to help you as you cooked, even when you had to make large amounts for dinner parties or guests. A warm smile found its way on your face, and you shook your head. “I think I got it. It’s almost done, anyway. You wanna grab some plates for me?” You pointed to a nearby cupboard.

“‘Course.” Arthur stepped away from you, fulfilling your request, and your eyes followed him as he moved across the kitchen. Just like the shoes by the door, something about this just felt right, even though everything in your brain was screaming that this was wrong. This domesticity, this familiarity, everything was wrong.

But damn if it didn’t feel good, like something you didn't know was missing inside of you had been returned.

Arthur returned a few moments later with two plates in his hand, setting them on the counter beside you. You spoke as you began to lead the food onto it. “Go ahead and take a seat. I’ll bring the plates out shortly. Utensils are in the drawer there” You ended with a point.

“You sure?”

You nodded. “Want anythin’ to drink?”

“Whatever you’re havin’.” Arthur’s voice was distant as he moved away toward the dining room.

Wine, then. The plates were hot in your hands as you brought them out. Arthur sat at one end of the table, where Hans would sit, and you set it down in front of him. You faltered for a second as you debated where to set yours. Normally, you’d sit on the other end of the table, with four chairs of space between you and Hans, but you figured it would be rude to do that right now. Besides, the selfish part of you wanted to be as close to Arthur as you could.

Leaving a chair’s space, you set your plate down before returning to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine, which you opened, and two glasses. Arthur stood when you returned, pulling your chair out, pushing you in when you sat. “You sure you’re an outlaw?” You joked, pouring out two glasses of the red liquid.

“I’m certain.” He took the glass of wine from you once you offered it. “Thank you, darlin’.”

“Of course.” Picking up the utensils that Arthur had grabbed for the both of you, you both dug in. You kept an eye on Arthur as he took the first bite, feeling self conscious of your cooking. He stilled, mid-chew, and you immediately thought the worst.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath. You took a bite, and you thought it didn’t taste bad, but you were partial to your own cooking. “That’s really good.”

Oh. “I’m glad.” You tried to not sound overly relieved.

Arthur took another bite, groaning appreciatively. You really did try not to memorize the sound of it. “This is the best thing I’ve tasted in a while.”

“Do I even want to know what you possibly could’ve been eating that makes this taste incredible.”

“Probably not,” Arthur admitted.

The rest of dinner was filled with idle chat, until Arthur asked a question that had you stopping mid-bite, fork handing in the air. “This ain’t poisoned, right?” He asked it as a joke, but there was a hint of genuine worry in his eyes.

“I sure hope not,” you responded, finishing the bite. Arthur didn’t elaborate further, only responding with a small noise. “Well, you can’t just ask that and then not explain. Is… is that something that’s happened before?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Arthur chuckled humorlessly. “There’s a pig farm north of here I stopped by two weeks ago. Friendly couple invited me in, we shared a drink, and before I knew it I was wakin’ up in a muddy pit with my money gone.”

You had stared at him, shocked, as he recounted his story. “You’re kiddin’?”

“I wish I was. Wasn’t the first person they’d done it to, either. You wanna know the worst thing?” Arthur asked, leaning into you. You nodded, leaning in as well. “The couple? They were brother and sister, and their mother was their first victim.”

You were horrified and intrigued all at the same time. “Brother and sister? Oh my God,” you shuddered. “Did you get your money back?” Arthur nodded. “There are some weird folks out there.”

“You meet plenty of ‘em when you’re on the road. I don’t think there’s enough time in the world to tell you ‘bout them.”

At the mention of time, you glanced out one of the nearby windows, finding it nearly pitch black outside. Arthur glanced outside as well, an apologetic look on his face when his eyes went back on you. “You have to go, don’t you?”

“I’m ‘fraid so,” Arthur sighed. You were happy to see that his plate had been entirely cleared, and he finished off the last of the wine in his glass. Standing, you cleared the table, bringing the items over and setting them in the sink. Arthur followed in behind you, carrying the half-full bottle of wine.

“Thank you, again,” you heard Arthur say, and you waved him off.

“You don’t gotta keep thankin’ me, Arthur. It was truly my pleasure.”

“Do you need help cleain’-”

“Arthur! Go!” You laughed, shooing him away. “I got this.”

Conceding, he headed to the doorway, putting his shoes on. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his hat on the couch, about to be left behind. Quickly grabbing it, you set it on his head as he was leaning forward, securing his shoes. He let out a confused noise, but he smiled when he realized what you’d done. Standing up back at full height, he secured it on, flashing you a smile. “How’d I look?” He jested, a playful glint in his eye.

Like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. “Like an outlaw,” you responded. “You just need a cigar or somethin’ and you’d really look like one.”

“That reminds me…” Arthur dug into a sachet strapped across his body. Once he found what he was looking for he presented it to you. It was a small silver lighter, which looked hilariously small in his hands. “Since your last one was a ‘piece of shit’, I figured you’d want a new one.”

“For me?” You asked and Arthur responded with a look that read uh, yeah?

“It ain’t much, I know-”

“Thank you!” You cut him off, beaming brightly at him. “It means a lot that you remembered.”

“Alright, well…” you watched as he rubbed the back of neck, not knowing how to respond to the praise, “have a good night, darlin’.”

“Stay safe, Arthur.”

With a final nod, Arthur left. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to laugh or cry, so you did neither, simply heading upstairs to your bedroom. Dishes could be done in the morning, you decided.

Your mind raced as you got ready for the night. You knew he didn’t mean anything besides being nice with getting you the lighter, but it left your heart happy that someone not only listened to your grievances, small or large, and did something to fix them.

Slipping under the sheets, you fiddled with it in your hands. You struck it, the spark catching almost immediately, creating a steady flame. Setting in on the nightstand beside you, you held on to the happiness you’d felt the entire night, and you fell asleep with a smile on your face.

You pretended to not feel a new sensation growing in your heart, something you wouldn’t dare name.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

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