something sweet

[beennoiserie]

胸がはち切れそうで

(my heart is going to burst)

welcome!

♡ about: bee. 26. infj-t. hopeless romantic.

♡ fandoms: haikyuu, bnha, jjk, kaijuu no. 6, dc, genshin impact

♡ m.list still in progress, but you can find my works here for the time being

© ochakourarakah 2023 beennoiserie 2026

[tonycries]

Cupid - G.S.

Synopsis. Five times Gojo Satoru - your self-proclaimed biggest fanboy, your #1 stan, your hottest - makes his delusions of you everyone else’s problem (step on him), and the one time he proves that even the most delusional, dirtiest of fantasies really do come true (still, step on him).

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!idol!reader, fanboy!Gojo, 5 + 1 things, he’s down BAD, stan Twitter, social media, fandoms, headIines, parasociaIism, shenanigans, slight crackfic, YEARNING Gojo, pússydrúnk Gojo, face-sítting, fíngering, he goes feraI, spíttíng, P TALKING, manhandIing, first times (his), matíng presses, he’s your fan with a big D, fitting it, rough s, chokíng, cervíx kíssing, sensitive Gojo, slight switch dynamic, creampíes, mentions of kids, overstím, happy ending, hard launching, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 13.9k

A/N. Babygirls would y’all believe that I was deep in the trenches of stan Twitter for fandoms I’m not even in gathering research for this for weeks…

Gojo Satoru is having the worst day of his entire life.

The worst day out of all the long, arduous, handsome (exceptionally handsome, he’d been voted ‘Most Likely to Grace a Vogue Cover’ three years in a row) eighteen years of his entire life.

For starters, their prank (plastering the hallway with the worst shots from Principal Yaga’s abstract dance lessons: Mean Girls-style) had been caught-in-the-act by none other than Yaga himself.

And Geto had somehow slipped away from Yaga’s rage (it’d been his idea- that bastard…) And he’d just lost his spot as valedictorian to Shoko (she cheated, he just can’t prove it.) And! On his way walking back home from detention, the convenience store was out of his favorite kikufuku mochi.

So all in all, for the worst day of his entire life, Gojo Satoru thinks he was handling it quite well-

He slams his hand down on the counter, “I’m going to kill mysel-”

And that’s the first time he hears it.

Your voice.

Not in front of him. Not behind him. Not even anywhere around him. It was - quite fittingly - emanating from above him, as if the heavens themselves had split open, and the first sign of the pearly gates was the voice of an angel.

You. 

Gojo instantly darts his gaze to where the wiry, bespectacled cashier was staring to avoid eye contact with whom he likely thought to be a madman. A rather cheap device, with rather cheap graphics. A box with the most beautiful voice.

The first spark of elation today.

It sung to him, almost like a siren.

“I-it’s the leading contestant—eek!” The cashier says, and cowers in fear once Gojo’s azure gaze snaps to him in a split-second. Unwavering. Intense.

As the young man trembles, Gojo reads the name tag on his uniform: Ijichi. Huh? That name almost sounded familiar, was it perhaps a long lost friend? Some obscure family member? He looks at the man again, maybe not. Or perhaps…

“We go to the same school.” Ijichi sighs, when it becomes obvious that Gojo was furrowing his pale brows at the name tag. “I’m two years below you, but we had extended maths together. I sat next to you?” Again, that knit between the other’s eyebrows only grows deeper. “Also you plastered one of Yaga’s pictures on my backpack today.” He adjusts his glasses, “And my face.”

Recognition floods Gojo’s face, and he snaps his fingers. “Ahhh, I remember you now- yeah, sorry about that.”

“I-it’s alright! It was an accident.” Ijichi pauses. “I think.”

“Heh…” Pointedly, the white-haired of the two doesn’t answer that question. Instead, he’s turning his eyes back to the television above Ijichi, ravenous not to miss a single second.

The cashier follows, more easy-going now without any additional customers or managers there to keep him moving. He could afford to ask, “Ah- her. Do you watch idol competition shows often? I didn’t expect that of you, Gojo-senpai.”

“Excuse me?”

“I-I mean-” Ijichi waves his hands fervently in front of him in explanation, “It’s just- those shows really do target a certain demographic and- I just didn’t quite expect it with your…oh, but it has been g-getting popular these days so I don’t know what I’m saying-”

“I don’t.” Gojo admits, cutting through the other’s blubbering. He crosses his arms in front of him and aims to look as dignified as possible as he admires the lil’ dance you were doing as you sang. “It’s just…”

And he almost felt stupid asking this- hell, he almost felt fucking shy (which is impossible, Gojo Satoru is never shy). But he does so anyways—

Holding his head high. Index pointing straight at the blurry screen. Pixels which would not hide your beauty.

“Who’s that?”

“Th-that?” Ijichi turns his head back towards the television, and his face breaks out into a dopey smile - Gojo doesn’t even know why it irritated him so much. After all, that was exactly how he felt, too.

So why the hell was another smiling at you like this-

That’s when Ijichi says your name.

And any and all annoyances with the other man simply melts. Simply turns the insides of his chest all warm and gooey. Simply leaves him a little weak in the knees (and he was damn glad that his lower half was obscured by the counter).

Gojo repeats your name, like he was tasting it.

“Stage name: Cupid.” Ijichi continues, watching you dance about the screen now, as well. “She’s been a fan favorite since her audition, even though producers did do a bit of dirty editing to try and make her unpopular- fans saw right through it. And now she’s been in the lead for weeks.”

“Talented.” Gojo grits out - one word. Perhaps the only word that wouldn’t make him positively shatter that nonchalant façade of his and embarrass himself in front of fucking Ijichi of all people.

He nods at the vocal break you were continuing on-screen, your gentle lashes fluttering shut as you put your all into a song that seemed to be of your own make. You nail the note. He trembles. “Though I’ve…seen better.” Lies.

“She has come a long way.” Ijichi hums, eyes closing as he savors the music. It was the last few chords, perfectly in harmony. “She’s the fan-favorite to win the contract from executives, expected to debut sometime next year.”

“Ah- another idol then.” His throat remains parched with his own lies, growing dryer by the seconds of your voice. Your dance. Your presence. “Talented, though…” You finish off your final belt, and Gojo can only repeat, stupidly. Nonchalant, nonchalant. C’mon Satoru, you can do this. 

Gojo shuffles, “So uh- what’s the show name?”

“Idol Academy.” The black-haired man answers, “New episodes air every week at 9PM.”

Scratching behind his back—nonchalant. “Ah, I’ll let my sister know-” You fool! You don’t even have a sister! And only too late does Gojo realize that Ijichi seems to realize this as well, “I mean- uh, Shoko…who is like a sister to me. I’ll let her know- and maybe I’ll check it out, too- if I have the time. Probably won’t though.” Nonchalant! Nailed it!

Ijichi nods, and he looks away from your finished performance. “Well, if you want to vote for her for the upcoming finals then her number is #143.”

“Ah, we’ll see…probably…won-”  Except, for idols, a finished performance isn’t really a finished performance at all. Nonchalant! Nonchalant!

Because then there’s the ending fairy—you with your bright smile directed at the camera, your arms moving behind you as if you were drawing back a bow and arrow. Pop! The arrow embeds…deep into his heart. “I’m going to marry her.”

Gojo pauses after his confession.

Ijichi pauses after his confession.

It seems the world pauses after his confession.

Everyone but you (which made sense you were practically out of this world), who nodded along to the comments that the judges were giving you. As you walk off the screen, Gojo practically leans over the counter to watch your every step- and even your steps past the television frame-

Ijichi reaches up to turn off the television.

So nonchalant.

“Gojo-senpai…” He starts, and this time it’s Gojo that cowers at the way his schoolmate was looking at him.

Before he knows it, there’s the smack! of something being plastered on his face. Flat and glossy. Colors bursting even behind his scrunched-up eyelids.

A…poster.

“Her official poster.” There’s more than just a little amusement in Ijichi’s tone as he watches Gojo rip the paper off of his face and stare down lovingly at your own, right in the middle of it. Smiling a smile that seems to be just for him (nevermind the fact that this had once been Ijichi’s poster). “9PM on Channel 8, #143. Don’t let her down.”

Gojo would vote for you like his life depended on it.

That night, he went home and created a second Twitter account for himself.

@thestrongestfanboy: Voting for Cupid #143 on Idol Academy and u should too or else (҂` ﾛ ´)凸

@Fushidaddy replying to @thestrongestfanboy: already voted, youre late to the club lmao.

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy: Blocked.

Liked by @CupidOfficial.

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@MnetIdolAcademy: ANNOUNCING THE OFFICIAL DEBUT LINE, CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR RISING GLOBAL STARS!

[GLOBAL VOTE FINAL RESULTS]

RANK #1—Cupid

(Read more)

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And he did.

From his phone, his laptop, his mother’s phone, his father’s phone- Geto’s phone, Shoko’s phone (where he found a copy of the last test paper’s marking scheme—he knew that little con-woman cheated, he feared for her future patients). Until, ultimately, you did win the competition. 

Just as he’d wanted you to.

And Ijichi as well, he supposes. But he is younger (at least, visibly) and more beautiful - therefore Gojo thinks it should count more.

And so you swept every award in the reality competition, and snagged center spot in every headline, concert, and fan account that was ready to feature the freshly-minted popstar.

Almost two years later, by the time that your official debut had come ‘round with a hit single and an album that was climbing the charts, he’d just entered his first year in university. And by then, practically everyone in his life knew by now that he was a sort of…stan. Gojo accepted the title begrudgingly, after Geto and Shoko had walked into his newly-acquired dorm room one day and found every inch of his walls covered in your posters. There was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of you underneath his bed, too, but thankfully they hadn’t found that yet.

Geto threatened to strangle him until he took down the posters of you on his side of the room, at least. They were sharing, after all.

The room was appreciated on stan Twitter, at least. His latest post about it racked up a solid 992.1k views.

@thestrongestfanboy: New room pic!! Can u guess my ultimate bias, bet u can’t^^  \(★ω★)/

Attached was a picture that he’d forgone every single rule and regulation about internet safety to post: from the posters of you dating all the way back to your pre-debut days, to the cardboard cut-out of you, to the plushie of your cupid character, to the American flag with your face on it (why always the American flag for these things, he wasn’t sure), to the rare photocards that he was holding up for the camera. It was a shrine.

The replies…not so much.

@pinkillit: Lemme guess…Cupid? Lol so real, I luv her too!

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @pinkillit: Well I love her more than u so…(￢_￢;)

@pinkillit replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Damn

@gggggnarly: WOAH??

@hearts2hurts: I can’t even send hate, this is impressive ngl.

@utahimeslefttoe: need to do this with my bias

@lovelicky: Parasocialism, who?

@yuuthebaddie: You scare the huzz

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @yuuthebaddie: I don’t need the huzz when I have my queen #thearrowhitme  (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)

@Fushidaddy7 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: kinda wish I could hit you rn too #fakefan

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy7: ??? Blocked.

@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: ?? 

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: Don’t u think it’s kinda problematic to be pushing 40 and arguing with minors online?

@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: youre 19 tf are you talking about?? and also because you claim the arrow hit you, but you don’t even have her rare “First Love, First Kiss” photocard. youre no better than a local lol.

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: U seriously think ur a bigger fan than me? I was there since even before our girl debuted. Lmao.

@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i was there before she even entered the show- and yes. i am.

That particular scathing reply wasn’t over with just that, and Gojo had realized - clicking on the notification, to his slowly-growing horror - that it would be accompanied by a picture, as well. A snapshot to a room that looked much like his own.

From the posters of you dating all the way back to your pre-debut days, a selfie with you at a rookie fanmeet before (dammit) you’d entered the competition, the cardboard cut-outs, the plushies, the flags, the rare photocards. And yes…the ultra-rare ‘First Love, First Kiss’ photocard that he’d last heard went for a comfortable few hundred dollars on the market.

With you costumed like a sweet, sweet cupid. 

Sparkling eyes. Angel wings. Holding up the second button from the top of a school uniform - a symbol of confession in Japan - as if you were confessing to someone. 

To him.

Gojo’s giggling stupidly and kicking his feet on the bed as he zooms in on the picture, taking in your picture on the photocard- before his phone buzzes with yet another Twitter notification and his heart plummets as he realizes just whose room this is. Fushidaddy8 himself could be seen reflected on the lone mirror in the room: scarred lips smirking, his beefy arms raised in a flex, biceps the size of Gojo’s head—

@pinkillit: He kinda ate you up ngl.

Ignoring that, he responded to the aforementioned perpetrator. 

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: Well I’m going to marry her!! Hope that helps!! ╮(︶▽︶)╭

@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: delulu really isn’t the trululu kid

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: That trend’s dead, unc.

Though he did slide into the other man’s direct messages right after that, in the hopes of buying out the exclusive photocard from him.

He was laughed all the way out of his direct messages.

Gojo Satoru did several things next.

He blocked (and reported) @Fushidaddy8.

He subscribed for a gym membership.

He dragged Geto out of their shared dorm room (sleep-deprived and grumbling at the 3:41AM on the clock, bound to miss the important physics exam that day…semantics, heh) as moral support on his trek to the post office. Where, when his best friend shivered at the cold early morning and questioned just what and to whom were they mailing, Gojo had answered-

“Oh, just my second button.” The very same one that he’d kept safely since their graduation from high school a few months ago - because, see, Gojo Satoru wasn’t the type to fall in love.

He wasn’t the type to confess.

Though, he did get confessed to more times that he could count (he was perhaps the second most popular bachelor on campus, right after Geto - but even that was a highly-debated ranking of first and second). He just never found the one.

That is…

Gojo beams, plastering on a few stamps on the cardboard box- much too big for but a single button. In it, he poured his feelings—corny, yes. But true. “I’m going to send it to my girl, Cupid-”

Geto punches him before he can finish.

@thestrongestfanboy: The lion does not concern himself with the pain that comes with #truelove, even if he cried a little ☆⌒(> _ <)

@Fushidaddy9 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: lmao loser.

Just a few months later, another one of your limited edition photocards was released: the “Said Yes!!” photocard that sold out instantly. Just the cutest photo of you receiving a second button in confession, your expression one of pleasant surprise.

No one believed Gojo when they told them that the button was his.

He bought five.

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@BuzzFeed: Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who’s The Biggest Fanboy of Them All? Cupid’s Fandom Compare Notes on Fanboy Shrines and 35 Other Delulu Stan Happenings This Week.

(Read more on buzzfeed.com)

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Gojo Satoru had bought 67 albums. 

67…heh.

Sixty-seven different copies of the very same album—yours.

Sixty-seven different copies of the latest addition in your platinum-reaching, Grammy award-winning discography: the ‘Obsession’ album.

Of course, they’re all yours. Because who else would have such banger songs that he wouldn’t mind replaying over and over again until Geto threatened to smash the damn things? Who else would have exclusive photocards so cute stuffed into the crevices of said albums, that he just had to collect them all? Who else would host a fancall event that he simply had to put a dent in his sizable bank account to win?

It was somewhat of a lottery system, and Gojo’s sure he’d funded his local record store for a few months at least with how much he’d cashed out there.

He’d been up bright n’ early on the day your album hit the stores - camping outside with a few avid others of your fandom (though, proudly, he’d been the first one there). Rushing with the rest to buy up your album, your merch, and with it…a chance to see you.

Every album bought was an entry into the raffle that’d grant them a chance to see you.

Just a few minutes of your time through the screen, and even that was like looking through the pearly gates of heaven in Gojo’s eyes. He’d dreamt about it, he’d manifested it, he’d tweeted about it so many times on his private account that everyone but Haibara had blocked him on.

@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: I’M 22 NOW SO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LET ME GET WHAT I WANT   (ಥ﹏ಥ)

@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: LORD KNOWS IT WOULD BE THE FIRST TIME.

@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE (read more…)

@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboyPRIV: I believe in you Gojo-senpai ^.^

@Fushidaddy27 replying to @HiByeRawr: dont

@thestrongestfanboyPRIV replying to @Fushidaddy27: How did u even get here??

And so, the wait had dragged on with a few more accounts blocked. 

Until, finally, one day Gojo had been simply scrolling through his emails as he usually did. A few updates from Canvas on his assignment grades. A few A+’s. An email from Geto with nothing but one of those old pictures from Yaga’s abstract dance classes attached. A few more A+’s. An email from the record store saying he won the fancall event. Yet another picture of Yaga-

His heart had damn near stopped.

Actually- Gojo doesn’t think he was even breathing as he hurriedly scrolled back and clicked open the email from the record store. He reads the very first word—

“Congratulations…”

And that’s all he needs to stand up and cheer-

“Shhhh—!” The cryptid-like elderly librarian, Gakuganji, shushes him from just a few tables away. A glare so intense that it makes Gojo sit back down in his seat in an instant, ducking back down to stare at his phone screen.

Heart thundering. Fingers trembling. “Oh my god…” He whispers to himself, knees bouncing underneath the mahogany table as he’s clicking on the link embedded into the email.

It takes him to the official site of your management, where the list of winners had been announced on one page dedicated especially to you. And there - right at the very top - his name. 

Gojo Satoru.

Censored, yes. But he could read it well enough - it was only confirmation of what he already knew through the email. 

And as Gojo tries to tame his giddy elation inside the library, he forgoes those revision papers of his to instead tap away at his phone. First, he texts his parents. Then he texts his friends. Then he emails Nanamin (also one of his friends, but the man had him blocked everywhere else…)- and just as he caught sight of that winner’s email again, Gojo squeals—

“Out of my library!”

Later, Gojo Satoru was added to the campus library Wall of Shame (and Nuisances).

But he didn’t care.

Not one single bit.

@thestrongestfanboy: About to meet my future wife- how do I look?  (￣▽￣*)ゞ

Attached was a selfie of him making your signature bow-and-arrow pose a few days later.

He was well-fitted in his best dress shirt that hugged his toned waist. Cologne practically palpable through the screen. Soft white bangs tamed. Donning a silver chain. False glasses on because he heard in one of your latest interviews that you liked nerds.

Cheeks rosy.

“Bro, isn’t the call for like two minutes?” Geto grumbles from his bed on the other side of the room. Their cramped dorm was already small enough without the other pacing every inch of it in nervousness. 

Gojo whips around with a snarl, “No, for your information it’s actually two and a half minutes.”

Geto squints, “Right…” Before he raises his nose into the air and sniffs—“And god- what is that awful fucking smell?”

“You don’t like it?” His best friend asks innocently, “It’s my cologne.”

“There’s no way your cologne smells like that?” The dark-haired man gapes, leaning back in his bed as he covers his nostrils with a palm.

Geto already has his answer by the way that Gojo starts to squirm. “Well…I may have also added in a bit of your cologne, too…”

“…”

“And Nanamin’s.”

“…”

“And Shoko’s-”

“What the fuck, Satoru?” Geto slaps a hand over his forehead, in the way he much seemed to do when it came to an antic that Gojo did without his consultation (he means, c’mon, if they were to be dumb fucks then they should be dumb fucks together). 

But this was too far even for him.

And Geto only sighs before he’s reaching for his heavy headphones, placing the cushioned device on top of his head. “After this, we’re taking you out to touch grass, man.” He opens his phone to something and blocks out Gojo’s whining protests with it. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious when I say you better not fuck this up for me, Suguru.” Gojo stabs an accusing finger at his best friend, while his other hand reaches for his own phone - the scheduled time for your video call was nearing. “Keep yourself scarce when she calls me.”

“Mhm, whatever you say.”

“Because she’s my future wife-”

“Crazy story, bro.”

With Geto not even close to responsive any longer, Gojo huffs as he looks through his notifications-

@Fushidaddy31: YOURE SO CHOPPED LMFAOOOOOOOO

Nevermind.

Instead, he waits in front of his desk. Phone propped up. Earbuds plugged in. Back straight against his chair. More formal and elegant than he had in any of his other meetings or lectures before.

He turns off his notifications and opens up the app that management had directed him to through emails. Pressing on the screen record button, Gojo’s stomach turns as a staff member performs an ID check before the call.

And then it starts.

Your beautiful, beautiful face pops up on the screen.

Those eyes. That smile. The voice that says, “Hello?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Gojo’s heart drops to his stomach then takes a high-speed elevator right back up to his throat, he can feel the ba-dump! of it there. And later - years and years later - he’ll be able to cringe at the way that his naturally deep voice broke- “H-he-”

Before your face pauses.

It freezes.

And suddenly the call ends.

wait…Gojo taps on his Wi-Fi…he taps on his data…he taps on anything and everything that might make a difference. And yet, nothing ever does. Gojo immediately throws down his earphones on his desk and stands- so fast that his chair topples over—“Suguru!”

The dark-haired man jolts in his bed, turning over at the shriek with his brows scrunched in confusion. Seeing the state his best friend was in, he raises his phone as a shield. “What?”

“Don’t what me- don’t- you- you—” So enraged that he couldn’t even string together a coherent sentence. Face red. Veins popping on his neck. The only way that Geto manages to even slightly discern what the other man may be talking about is by the way he points at his phone, the shared Wi-Fi router, then his phone. 

Geto’s mouth drops, “Ah…” And he catches sight of the orange, blinking right on the router that told the both of them that the day’s data has been finished. He looks at his phone…with the absolutely massive update that had just completed. “In my defense, Love and Deepspace had an update-”

“Suguru, I’m going to kill you.”

Ultimately, no amount of begging or crying to attempting to throttle Geto could reverse the fact that Gojo had won a fancall…and missed it.

All because of his Wi-Fi.

“There there, man.” Geto pats his friend - draped across his bed with his face in his hands - on the back. “At least the new event loaded- it’s an idol event, and I’ll let you play it with Sylus-”

Gojo only sobs louder.

“And then after that, we’ll actually go touch grass. How about that?”

@thestrongestfanboy: Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday to HELL. @DigiGeto ur going to HELL.

@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Mb

@Fushidaddy32: rare aesthetic: fancall with #her n made her do the coldplay kiss cam trend with me heh

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy32: Blocked.

@Fushidaddy32 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: ??

@CupidOfficial: So glad to be able to talk with my lovely fans during the fancall event today!! Thank you to everyone that attended, and even those that didn’t attend heheh…I see you, and I love you <33

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@Variety: This week’s cover story:

Global Superstar Cupid: On Stardom, Surprises of Fame, and the Undying Support of her Fans (“There was actually this funny story with a fan that froze—”)

(see page 9…)

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Gojo Satoru was on cloud nine.

Gojo Satoru was in heaven.

Gojo Satoru was going to meet his wife.

Everywhere he looked, he could see that beautiful face of yours. 

From the floor-to-ceiling posters against the stark white walls, to the stalls upon stalls of merchandise that featured you, to the rows upon rows of people wearing t-shirts with your face on it. Posters. Plushies. Bow-and-arrow lights. Everything that his heart could ever yearn for.

And that included you.

And no- Gojo hadn’t died and gone to heaven (evidenced by the way that no matter how many times he pinched himself, it still bruised). Don’t be silly! He was simply at a place that was rather similar, he imagines.

A fanmeet.

Where the excitement was palpable, and everyone here had arrived with the same goal in mind - to spend just a few precious moments with you in person.

In person!

Geto was the one that’d snagged him the ticket to this event, to make up for the rather tragic incident with the fan call two years ago. And so here he was, at your first-ever fanmeet in Tokyo. Gojo vibrated on the balls of his feet, and with his towering height he could make out just a few more meters until he managed to see you up-close.

He held one of his most prized possessions - your first poster from Idol Academy, the one that Ijichi had gifted him so many years ago - to his chest and sighed. In less than an hour, he’d have it signed. In less than an hour, he’d get to hold your hand.

In less than an hour, he’d get to see you.

There was a part of him that felt like it was tugging towards you already- and Gojo has to bounce himself slightly to find a way to channel the adrenaline.

It’d been quite the arduous journey to get to here, and he didn’t want to make a single mistake now - all the albums he’d bought, all the pictures from your latest fanmeets that he’d fawned over, all the stan Twitter fights. 

Honestly, just today he’d gotten into it with some delusional loser online (@urmomstype) that’d been spreading rumors about you being…particularly close with the famed actor you had in your newest music video. Gojo shudders as he thinks back to it:

@urmomstype: A thread of all the PROOFS that #Cupid is dating the hottest k-drama actor right now—

Inside was some amalgamated mess of pictures of ‘shared couples items’ (half the population owned that shit, c’mon, that actor was far from special) and coded messages that apparently littered your social media. By the end of it, the user had been self-assured, a few other misogynistic antis were spouting hate, and Gojo was furious.

He’d typed away so fast that his thumbs were nothing but a blur.

@thestrongestfanboy: U call this proof?? Holy fucking airball lmao (￣ヘ￣)

@thestrongestfanboy: Bozo

@thestrongestfanboy: Ratio + L + my fav is better than ur fav

@thestrongestfanboy: She isn’t dating anyone BOZO!! Even if she was (which she isn’t) it’s none of ur business and ur a loser so go back to doing loser things. I bet ur an anti from that one other agency…凸(`△´＃)

@Fushidaddy89 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: yk for once i agree with you

@urmomstype replying to @Fushidaddy89: Why are two uncs replying to me…arguing with a minor btw.

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @urmomstype: With this gift I summon-

It had lasted a few hours (and that was on the shorter end of the stick). Until, ultimately, Geto and Shoko had pulled his phone away from his face (he was defending your honor!) and reminded him that there were much more important things on the horizon.

Namely, you…

Besides, he was glad to get away from the epic highs and lows of high school football stan Twitter. He was glad not to have to fight with what was likely some middle-aged, parasocial man there over you. He was glad not to get into futile shipping wars that-

“Do you think her actor boyfriend will be here?” 

An agitating, grating voice breaks through his thoughts (really, it was the squeaky voice of a child), and Gojo’s immediately whipping his head down, down, down behind him.

It was a buzzcut boy, wearing a t-shirt with your face and a pair of soft feathery wings that was sold as one of your exclusive merchandise—and yet…those angelic appendages still wasn’t enough to hide the mischief in his face.

Gojo stares at him.

And he stares at Gojo.

“You.”

“You.”

As his blonde-haired guardian looks on in slight shock, Gojo stabs an index his way- “User urmomstype?”

“User thestrongestfanboy.” He then points at himself, “But you can call me Todo Aoi.” And before the older man can begin to sputter again, he raises a small palm to silence him (and why was Gojo being silenced by what looked like an eight-year-old?) “I already know who you are, Gojo Satoru. You’re infamous inside the fandom, y’know?”

He gapes, “I am?”

“Mhm.”

Before he starts twirling the curls of white at the base of his neck, Todo stares in bewilderment as the taller man starts squirming. “So like…d’you think that means there’s a chance she’d notice me, too?”

“…”

“…”

“F-forget that-”

“You really think you can pull fine shyt?” Todo squints up at Gojo, and then down at the sheer amount of merchandise he was draped in. “You’re chopped with a negative aura that no amount of aura farming could possibly replenish, brother. Your eyes are built like a 24k labubu. If you were a meal, even Fanum wouldn’t ask for tax. Even I’d win a mid-off against you. I hate to break it to you but she’s much better off with that actor-”

“Don’t think that just because you’re speaking in brainrot terms I don’t understand you- I’m brainrotted, too.” Seething, “And they’re not even dating-”

“Maybe, maybe not.” 

“Definitely not!”

The little boy nods, sagely. “Still got the views for the music video, didn’t I? And what did you do? Whine about how you weren’t married to her yet?”

And to that he doesn’t have much to say, “Well…”

The blonde-haired woman that’d been holding Todo back finally announces her presence, “Hi there- apologies. My name’s Yuki.” She reached out her hand, and they shook - with Gojo dazed by the absolute demolishment of his character. “I’ve warned him about his ah- ragebaiting issue…it’s a work-in-progress.”

“I-I see…” Gojo breathes, looking back at the line - just a little longer and he’d be out of here. Just a little longer and he’d get to see you—“One question, I’m not actually chopped, am I?”

As Todo whispers the definition to Yuki, she shakes her head happily. “Oh, not at all! You’re not exactly my type, but trust that you’re quite the handsome character.”

“Handsome enough to pull my wife?” At her visible confusion, he jerks his head where your figure was seated at a black-clothed table, signing posters and making conversation with your line of fans. Oh- how perfect you were.

“O-oh! Her?” A line of sweat beads at her temple, “Well, why not?”

Gojo - quite maturely - sticks his tongue out at Todo.

But the boy only replies, “You look like you wear wigs.”

Gojo self-consciously runs a hand through his soft white hair, “I-I don’t!” He did take particularly good care of his hair.

“Do you wear wigs?”

“No, I do not-”

“Have you worn wigs?”

“No, I have not-”

“Will you wear wigs?”

“…Maybe?!”

“When will you wear wigs-”

“Please!”

“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to step out.” A gruff, masculine voice speaks out from beside him- and it didn’t match Todo’s probing voice. Not at all. Gojo turns his surprised head around and finds himself face-to-face with a stony-faced man. 

As tall as him. Even beefier. With shades that reflected his own widened blue eyes.

His jaw drops, “Wh-what…”

The security guard gestures to Todo, and then towards the door with the ‘Exit’ sign. “For your disruption, we’re going to have to ask you to step out of the premises.” He cracks his knuckles, “Or you shall be escorted out.”

“No-” Gojo’s gasping, looking around for an answer. “No no no no- disruption? What disruption?”

“Arguments with a child-”

“That lil’ shit deserved it—” Gojo whines out, before realizing that that likely didn’t help his case. “I-I mean-” He’s gesturing to the boy that was clearly not disrupted in any sense of the word, “-look at him! He’s completely fine! In fact, I’m the one emotionally scarred.”

The other two also start to protest this course of action, and the security guard stays silent for a beat, and lets the counterargument sink in…

Before he raises his walkie-talkie up to his mouth, “We’re having some resistance here, I request back-up at the front of the line.”

“No no no-” He was just a meter away - a meter. “No, wait- please no.” And by now, the other fans were starting to point and stare at him now. At the way he was panicking. At the way he was trying to inch himself closer to the signing event. At the way he was so close to you- and yet, so far, with two burly security guards that clapped their hands down on his shoulders and dragged him away by his arms.

All the way to the exit.

As you stared.

“NOOOOOOO—!”

@thestrongestfanboy: I’m gonna be honest, kitten, daddy’s about to kill himself   ٩(× ×)۶

@Fushidaddy103 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i saw the video youre trending on tiktok lmaooooo

@urmomstype replying to @thestrongestfanboy: F in the chat

@pinkillit replying to @urmomstype: F

@hearts2hurts replying to @urmomstype: F

@utahimeslefttoe replying to @urmomstype: F

@lovelicky replying to @urmomstype: F

@CupidOfficial: Tokyo, oh Tokyo~

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TRENDING ON TIKTOK:

#Cupidfanmeet

#thatonecrazyguy

#thestrongestfanboy

#Cupiddatingrumors

#Cupidbemywife

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This was it.

This was Gojo’s last chance.

He hadn’t won a fancall since that one time (no matter how many albums he bought, the universe just wasn’t on his side), he’d been barred from your Tokyo fanmeet, he’d been known as that one delusional fanboy in your fandom.

Which was honestly fine. Gojo was fine.

He was completely and utterly fine-

“OHMYGODSUGURUI’MSOCLOSEITHINKICANSEEHERICANSEEHER-” Gojo yelled in Geto’s ear, over the roaring crowd that was most likely saying the same thing he was. He shook the man, and then proceeded to shake his other best friend standing right beside him. “YOUGUYSARETHEBESTANDILOVEYOUANDYOU’LLBETHEBESTMANANDBESTWOMANAND-”

“Not if I kill you right now.” Shoko mutters, punching Gojo right in the stomach so he’d shut up for the first time in the past few hours. She takes a puff of her cigarette, even though the stadium had a strict no smoking policy.

She needed it.

She deserved it.

Though, she supposed that there was no one to blame but herself. 

It was obvious the toll that all the failed fancalls and fanmeets had taken on Gojo. And while she couldn’t quite understand the sheer ahem- delusion that came with it, she knew that this was something important to him. And Geto did, too.

Which was why, with the power of social media, the duo had reached out to that ‘urmomstype’ boy and his blonde-haired guardian. Apparently, even after Gojo had been escorted his merry way outside, the two had tried to overturn the decision, explaining that it’d all just been some silly banter and there really wasn’t anything to remove him over. ‘He might be chopped and unc, but he’s still a goat. Sorta.’ The boy had said, whatever that means…

But, alas, the security guard had been stubborn.

And so, the four - Shoko, Geto, Yuki, and Todo (yes, even Todo) - had wanted to make it up to Gojo in a different way. Despite not being able to attend the fanmeet, you still had your upcoming concert in the famous Tokyo Dome.

They’d stayed up all night on the phone trying out every connection they had to somehow get a few extra tickets.

All night.

There had to be something, right?

Until - finally, finally - Yuki managed to get in contact with Gakuganji (yes, their ol’ campus librarian), who managed to get in contact with Yaga (yes, their ol’ high school principal), who managed to get in contact with one of his other friends that knew someone on your staff team. And through a rollercoaster of contacts, they somehow managed to snag a few seats.

Front row.

Gojo had burst into tears the moment he read that pink slip of paper with your name in bold, surrounded by hearts. He’d crushed them all to him, so tight that Shoko wondered whether her bones might break, and whispered. “You guys are definitely invited to my wedding.”

And if her heart melted just a little bit then, well…she didn’t mention it.

Now, however, she’d no sooner be invited to Gojo Satoru’s funeral than his alleged wedding. To their own fortune, Yuki and Todo had been assigned places a few seats down. A weary Geto on the other side of their white-haired friend reaches his hands out towards her. “Cigarette, please.”

Shoko raises a brown brow, “You don’t even smoke?”

“I’m about to start.”

“You guuuuys—” Gojo drags on, as the opening notes of your album start to ring out on the speakers. He shoots his hands out to grab Shoko- and when she ducks, he shoots his hands out to grab Geto- and when he groans, Gojo only sways them in the air. “It’s about to start- she’s about to come on stage- oh my god, oh my god my wife’s about to come on stage-”

“She’ll be your ex-wife if you don’t calm the fuck down.” Geto can’t help but laugh. Shoko looks on in confusion as he moves in synchronization with Gojo to the first few dance moves of your routine. Geto answers her unspoken question, “What? He played it all the time in our dorm, I could recite every lyric and move in my sleep by now.”

“M-me too.” And as your silhouette starts to become projected on the screen behind you, Gojo’s starting to tear up. Large, bulbous tears of emotion.

They were both dancing in unison now. 

Crying (Gojo, at least).

Shoko shakes her head with a chuckle of her own. “Idiots.”

And then you saunter your way onto stage and Shoko (as well as everyone in a five-mile radius) feels their eardrums stop working.

@thestrongestfanboy: I wasn’t just another screaming boy…I challenged her stare down…she saw me. She pointed—twice. And if u think I’m done? Let’s see if the wolf can find his prey again…good luck…(^人<)〜☆

Attached was a video taken from the concert - more girlish screaming (Gojo’s) than music, to be quite honest.

@Fushidaddy114 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: cringe

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy114: I don’t see u at the concert. L |ʘ‿ʘ)╯

@Fushidaddy114 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i dont see me trending on tiktok either

Gojo doesn’t even have the time to block and report Fushidaddy’s 114th account, because he’s too busy shoving his phone into his pocket and joining the screams for your encore that night. The one where you pretend to walk off, then dramatically sigh as you prance back down—

“Ah~” You’re voicing into the mic, looking at the sea of flash-lit faces around you. “Again? You lot are reeeeeally ravenous tonight, aren’t you?”

In unison, they roar. They agree.

With a faux huff, you’re placing your hand on your waist. It’s a pose infamous amongst your fandom, and they already knew what was coming up next- “Who’s got you so worked up, huh? Is it…me?” Roaring. Rumbling. Raging. You gasp, flattered. “It’s really me? Oh, now you’re just kidding—”

A furious shake of heads.

“You’re not? Well…” You smile, and it’s the type of smile that makes a flurry of star-stuck cameras go off. Basking in it, you walk oh-so-closely to the edge of the stage, where hands reach out to merely be in your presence. “That’s cute. But I still think I should arrest someone for being so naughty tonight, getting you all worked up.”

Crowds wave, volunteering themselves up to you.

You reach for your glittering belt and pull out the fluffy pink handcuffs that make them squeal, “And how aboooooout…”

Scanning the stadium.

Looking around.

Your eyes pass over the roaring head until—

“Ah! You there.” You’re pointing, your eye catching on a fluffy head of white hair. A face so handsome. So eager. “How about you? Would you like to be my arrestee tonight—?”

His deep voice sounds out, “Y-yes! Yes please-”

And as you near, the crowd grows even more restless. Like a tumultuous sea, the waves crash into each other, creating a rough tide that almost wanted to pull you in-

You blink.

And suddenly that white-haired man has disappeared.

But you’re by the edge of the stage by now, and you could feel the palms reaching for you as you try to discern just where he might be. “I uh-” You pause. Before the crowd surges forwards, and you’re thinking quickly to point out someone else. “Perhaps he isn’t so eager to be thrown in the slammer tonight-” They laugh, “-so how about you? Brown-haired girl? Would you like to be arrested by me~?”

She nods, and you proceed with your lil’ skit to ‘arrest’ her for being much too naughty.

Teasing and twirling, before you stand up and get on with the rest of your concert-

“And now—who’s ready for an encore~?”

You prance away, leaving a trail of glitter and song- and tears. Fuck, Gojo only claws himself up from the ground just as you finished your little arresting routine. The roll of the crowd had knocked him to the ground, and Shoko looks at her sad lil’ best friend.

She raises the handcuffs on her wrists, “Help me get out of these and you can have them, Satoru-”

“No, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Gojo straightens himself up, and Shoko’s shocked to find that he shakes his head in rejection.

“Satoru, are you okay?” Geto asks, warily.

“Yeah-” He sighs. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Something hollow in his breath. Something hollow in his heart, as he watches you slip away.

One.

More.

Time.

It’s alright.

It’s alright.

@thestrongestfanboy: Siri play Chasing Pavements by Adele

@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: cringe

@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: but you good bro??

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy117: No bro 

@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i feel you bro

@CupidOfficial: White hair. White stars…

That night, while Gojo had tossed and turned himself into a fitful sleep, his phone buzzed with yet another notification. 

One that he had to blink his eyes at to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, one that he had to pinch himself at to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

DIRECT MESSAGES for @thestrongestfanboy.

@CupidOfficial: You’re the white-haired boy from tonight, aren’t you?

@CupidOfficial: Sorry if this is forward of me, I’ve just seen you around quite a bit…on my timeline, at the fanmeet…

@CupidOfficial: I just wanted to ask whether you’d want to model for the cover of my upcoming album?

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@pannchoa: Rumors swirl of Cupid’s upcoming album! Dispatch hints and industry whispers - read the full EXCLUSIVE from her producer right here.

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First thing’s first, you had Gojo Satoru sit on the couch of your penthouse accommodation. Talking through the details of your secretive upcoming album, and how the aesthetic you were going for fit his dazzling looks perfectly.

Second thing’s second, you had him seated on your king-sized bed. Still babbling about your album- at least, he was. Though the both of you knew that it was something else entirely on your minds.

Third thing’s third, he was sprawled out on said mattress. You straddlin’ his handsome face like a perch. His puffy, pinkish lips glued to your cunt—

“Mmpf- mmmm…” Gojo’s groaning over the most lecherous squelches that you’ve heard in your entire life. They’re echoing out like one of your sweetest songs, in sloppy staccato with the rovering movements of his tongue.

Gojo Satoru was eating you out like he was ravenous.

Famished.

Grabbing ahold of each side of your ass cheeks, he’s dragging you back down onto his gaping maw each n’ every time you flinched away with a whine, letting his tongue slash deeply into your drivelling orifice. “Mmm- hck!” Gojo’s so sloshed on your syrupy pussy that he’s finding himself hiccuping, eyes rolling all the way to the back of his head once your sap trickles out with a splash! Straight into the back of his throat, “Ohhhhh, my sweet girl-”

“Now now-” With a shiver, one of your hands slithers down to tug on Gojo’s clammy white locks. Almost as if to pull him away- but that only makes him nudge his lips closer to your hole with a keen. “Make sure you remember to- haaah, breathe, Gojo-”

“Sa-Satoru-” He whispers this out directly against your quivering cunt, and the vibrations make your back arch perfectly. Looking up at you through his pale lashes, fluttering. “Please call me, Satoru…”

Just the tip of his tongue that reels back out to fuck back in-

“-ma’am.”

“O-oh—” You’re moaning out at the way that his thick muscle pierces you - not only was Gojo an avid talker, but he had the tongue to back that up, too. So strong. So lengthy. He’s stirrin’ his tongue around and around in circular motions to graze those ridged tastebuds of his into each tiny nook n’ cranny. 

Pulling onto his sweaty bangs and that only seems to make him go even harder- “S’that what you want me to call you?” You’re managing out, looking down at him- and that seems to make him jolt at the sheer intensity. “You want me to call you…”

You teasingly trail off, and Gojo only seems to buck—his hips coming up to make your vast bed creek. Chin spankin’ against the edge of your cunt when he yearns even closer, “Yes? Yes?” 

“Oh? Was I supposed to- hck! finish something?” Pretending to not know exactly what he wanted, and it frankly made you even wetter to see the way that the tips of Gojo’s ears burn bright red at being caught.

“You know what I want baby- you know-” Sputtering out scorching hot breaths against your hole, before you know it- Gojo has one of his hands looped ‘round your thigh. The flat of his right thumb rubbin’ up and down your clit, “You kn-know what I want- and this pretty pussy does, too.”

Just the sultry sensation of him toying with your nub makes you gasp and buck. With your head thrown back, he’s taking every forceful bounce.

With such immense pleasure, Gojo’s letting his entire pretty face get ridden. The seeping hot core of your cunt plasters from the tip of his nose, down, down, down to grind your clit on the point of his chin. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Timing your gyrations just right, Gojo purses his lips and he spits- “She’s just so wet, my light.” Creating a slippery puddle that lets him slither his tongue into you even faster, “Soooo fucking wet. Sooo fuh-fucking loud, might even be louder than you on stage- and she’s honest, too.”

You’re raising a brow in challenge, raising his blushing head from between your legs to simply ask. “And just wh-what is ‘she’ honest about?”

There’s another dangling line of saliva spat on top of your pussylips, and the edge of Gojo’s thumb presses each wad inside. You shiver - and so does your core. “She knows she loves me—she knows she wants to call me ‘Satoru’, doesn’t she?”

Oh.

You simply shiver- you don’t even have an answer, and Gojo doesn’t expect you to have one. With sensual movements, the plush part of his lower lip drag-drag-draaaaags down the front of your cunt.

He’s pulling his tongue back, just lightly tapping it on top of your shaky orifice—“Hey…” You’re grumbling out, when his teasing motions are lingering for just too long. You tug on his hair, and that seems to make him groan in ecstacy - the happiness of being used. “Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already?”

“Why? Does she miss me?” Gojo prattles away - not to you, but to your dripping wet cunt. Almost as if to prove his point, just the spit-covered edge of his tastebuds slither close to your hole. And it makes you clench—

Around nothing, because Gojo’s pulling away in an instant.

He never imagined how fun it would be to tease you.

His pretty, swollen lips turning up into a dirty grin. “Ohhh, don’t you worry, my light.” And the crown of his thumb rolls over your clit a few more times, “I already know that she misses the feeling of my tongue fucking ‘er-” And just as you wanted (because he could never leaving you longing for too long) Gojo’s tongue starts moving in, sinking. “Already know she wants to be f-filled up like no other could, already know every word to your songs- every lyric- every syllable. Already know you’re gonna feel my tongue between your legs- and you’re going to call me—”

You breathe, “Yes?”

And he’s almost pleading. “Your good boy?”

“Well…” You twist your fingers harshly into his silken white hair, and it makes Gojo moan. Slightly shoving him where you wanted him the most- “-then shut the fuck up n’ prove it to me, Satoru.”

And that’s all he wanted.

That’s all he needed. For now.

Until you’re calling him your ‘good boy’ exactly like that dark, carnal part of him wanted you to—Gojo’s grunting at the shock of his first name leaving your pretty lips, in that sing-song voice of yours. 

A sudden lurch that makes him shove his clammy head between your legs once more. He’s glued to the sheeny inner parts of your thighs, roughly gluing his mouth over your glazed pussylips.

“Oh- oh…” Heavy pants leave your mouth, and your chest heaves each time Gojo’s probin’ not only his prolonged tongue inside you- but also his slender fingers. “You’re really trying to prove it t’me-”

They were just so long. The curvaceous tips of his digits deliciously curving into your tenderest spots- he glides them perfectly along your walls. Fitting the ridges of his middle and ring fingers against your g-spot. 

Thoroughly. You could feel the way that Gojo was grinning against your cunt folds as he feels your cute walls clamp down ‘round his touch- “I found that spot, my light. It feels sooooo gooood having my fingers all up in there, hm? Can you feel me right there-”

“Y-yes-” Fuck, he was circlin’ the padded tips of his fingers and that made you fall upon the bed. You clap a hand down on that mahogany headboard of yours and use it to keep yourself moving- “Fuck, it feels so good.”

“Then don’t you think I deserve it…” He’s pouting, plush mouth now pulling back to clamp down your clit, too. And not only was he suckin’ on that nub, he was biting down, too. “M’your number one fan.”

“Mhm—fuh-fuck.” Your head falls back when he’s pressing his lips together and draaaaagging the fleshy top of your clit backwards. Just stretching. Just itching this carnal itch.

When you’re distracted by the white-hot pleasure that bursts behind your lids at the feeling, Gojo’s easily managing to sneak in yet another finger. A third one that pummels your bruising g-spot just as hard. “Can recite your every lyric. Every fanchant.” The hot crevice of his mouth moves rapidly against your core.

Furiously.

He’s drawing out a saucy pattern with his tongue, one that you’re only later realizing are the strokes to spelling out your stage name. 

C-U-P-I-D-C-U-P-I-D-C-U-P-I-D.

Gojo’s hot tastebuds salivate right down your front, pressing on your clit until you see sparks behind your eyes. “See- see?” There’s an almost crazed look in Gojo’s peripherals, rolling until they were almost nothing but pure white as you clench down on him roughly - and you start to wonder just what you have released. “See, m’your biggest fan- hck! M’your good boy, and this pretty pussy knows it.” He almost sounds pathetic begging between your legs, drooling, drunken. “And- and that’s not all-”

“Satoru, what do you mean that’s not…” Your sentence slowly dissolves in your throat, and with every push of his slimy tongue, you’re realizing just what he’s talking about.

Because instead of the curving ‘C’ that meant he was spelling out your stage name, Gojo was slashing something out. Long, hard lines that edged you closer towards your bliss—

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

“Mmm, you really are my biggest fuh-fan.” You’re somehow managing out, and the only thing you can do right now is grab ahold of Gojo’s hair and let him lavish you with his mouth. “You really love me, Toru?” And you feel him jolt at that cute nickname- “Or do you love my pussy?”

“Both. Both.” Fingers spearheading you so fast at this point that the skin ‘round his mountainous knuckles turns red. Stinging red. Needy red. Just like the strawberry shade of his overworked lips- 

Plap! after plap! 

And you’re not sure if the sounds are from the way you’re riding his handsome face, or the impact of him banging his fingertips into your deepest insides. “Both both both- fuck, I wanna have you drippin’ down my tongue for forever, my light. Could have you squeezin’ around me like this for ages, mmm, m’fucking obsessed.”

“A reference to my- haaah, to my album?” You question, and you were just so close. You were just so rapidly nudging yourself closer on top of him like this- “But what if you can’t breathe, Toru?”

“I don’t need to-” To which Gojo only grips the side of your ass with his free hand, tugging you down. Jolting you atop him. Manhandling you down further. He scrapes his swabbing fingers even further down your walls, past the spot of your bundle of nerves. “I don’t need to at all. Hah- I don’t need to breathe if I can have you like th-this…”

Your mouth dries of a response, because just then, he’s changing up the pattern of his sizzlin’ tastebuds again. 

Long, luscious strokes.

M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O.

Your eyes snap wide open, and you’re gasping at the realization of what exactly he was spelling out. “O-oh…” Chin slathering with a waterfall of your spittle, you’re just holding onto him for dear life at his vulgar kisses. “Satoru, I think m’gonna c-cum—”

And you’ve had voice training before, you’ve been used to keeping your voice steady even in the most pressurized of environments- but just then, your tone cracks as you heave your sultry body forwards and cum.

Hot, glistening waves of bliss.

A heat that takes over your body, from your scalp to your toes.

Again and again.

Slight tears prick behind your eyelids as you let Gojo fuck you through your high with his tongue, “Fuck- fuck, you made me cum-” Somehow pinpointing each peak of your orgasm to stick his fingers in for. Thud, thud, thud. “-and I didn’t even expect it.”

“Mmmm—” And you don’t know who was more gone on the fact that you were cumming like this, you or him. Because Gojo was lappin’ away with his thick tongue, slurping. “Tastes so sweet, my light. S’like sugar on my tongue…”

“Oh, you really are pussydrunk.” You whisper, and let his face move back and forth to elongate your euphoria. “Keep going, Toru—h-hah, keep going.”

“Anything for you, ma’am.”

How he loved the way you soaked yourself just a lil’ wetter at the sound of him saying that particular title. How he loved the way you’d flinch and tremble on top of him when he licked you from the tip of your clit and down to the end of your cunt. How he loved the way your high bated to nothing but mere tingles, and you shivered sensitively when he still kept going.

“My orgasm’s over now, Toru—” You hiccup, your tears starting to spill. “You were such a…good boy.”

And that’s when Gojo jolts, his entire body running with a shockwave that made itself obvious even to you. Curiously, you’re peering behind him- before he’s drawing your attention back to the front with a few more plunging pushes of his tongue. “Mmmm, m’your good boy. Your good boy- your good boy.”

G-O-O-D-B-O-Y.

“Mhm—” And when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to wrench himself away anytime soon, you’re bawling. “Fuck- fuck, Satoru m’so sensitive.”

“M’sorry, my light, I just can’t seem to-” Somehow managing to pant through his thorough pushes, it was honestly a wonder that he could even find the time to breathe at this point- with the way he was glued to your puckered pussy. Mouthing out what felt like the most popular lyrics to your songs at this point- “-can’t even seem to stop. It’s like I’m…almost like I’m-”

You flinch when he spits once more, the wad oozing down your slit.

“-addicted.”

You take a goood, long look at Gojo: puffy eyes, bleary vision, his mouth all puffy and raw around your cunt. Nearly every inch of his face was covered in a sappy layer of your slick, and it dripped down to drench your pillow beneath. Like a puddle. 

Your cup your hand down from his hair n’ to his cheek, and Gojo practically melts at the touch. You had the distinct thought that if he were a cat, he’d be purring. “But Toru-” Jutting your bottom lip out for emphasis, “I want to give you the same, you know what I mean? S’that alright.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you could step on me and I’d thank you.” He says, before wrenching off of your swollen pussylips with a wettened plop!

A loud, dramatic mwah!

It makes your heart race, and something in Gojo’s tightened trousers twitch. Eagerly, you’re shuffling yourself off of him and sitting on one end of the bed.

Earlier, Gojo had simply ripped off your skirt and panties off- and his flooded mouth drops further with every item of clothing you’re taking off. Until you were completely exposed, and you’re directing him with a finger to do the very same.

“Yes, ma’am-” There’s absolutely no hesitation before his t-shirt (with, tastefully, your face on it as part of your merchandise) comes off. And you’re absolutely shocked- because Gojo wasn’t the trim, lanky figure that you’d expected him to be.

Instead, he was built.

Well-chiselled pecs that made you ache to touch them, leading down with a deep valley to the muscles of his washboard abs. Almost like a ladder. They were decorated only with a few beauty spots, and a line of sparse white hair that led down, down, down.

Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he then tugs down on the hemline of his pants and boxers, revealing—oh.

He flushes at the intensity of your stare, “Wh-what?” Almost squirming, he just felt so shy by the way his idol was looking at him like you just wanted to tear him apart. Sensually. “Is something not-”

“You’re just so big, Satoru.” You gasp, your eyes never straying from him. 

Naturally, your hand reaches out to grab the ninth of his loooong inches, thick and hot in your hold. Glistening with need. His tight balls clenching. He was so hard that every pulsation was visible even from here.

A few veins decorated his shaft, and he was so reddened at the tip, n’ dripped down a stream of milky precum just at the feeling of your palm on him.

Slowly - ever-so-slowly - you start to lower your head…

“Oh.” Gojo pants out a scalding breath. “And that is…good?”

“It’s perfect.”

Gojo’s watching you through partly-cracked eyelids, feeling so hypnotized by the sight of you below him. He raises himself slightly on his haunches with a hiss, the hot air from your mouth kissin’ his tip—it almost- it almost reminded him of the way you’d lean in so close with your microphone.

Lips so soft.

Tongue so talented.

Just gently pressing—

And that’s when Gojo chokes back a needy cry and cums- straight down the front of your pretty, pretty face. In a split-second, you have your tongue filthily dangling out to catch the wads of seed that he was pouring out. 

Splat after splat that ended up emptying on your tastebuds.

He’s bucking to let his shaft glissade just further down your tongue- and the mere plush feeling of him only makes his geysering divot spill out more generously. 

“Fuck-” Gojo scrunches his azure eyes, head fighting not to throw back and miss a second of the sinful sight below. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- I can’t believe I’m…this is all your fault, sweetheart, ngh.” And his abs flex as he starts up a lil’ half-rut to fuck himself through his wave of bliss. 

“Mmm—” You’re savoring the salted caramel taste of him, something so sweet about him. Amused, you raise a brow. “I barely even put my mouth on you, and you’re cumming already?”

He’s raising his hands to his blushing face, peeking out through his fingers. “Actually…it’s the second time tonight m’cumming, my light.” As you raise your brows in slight surprise, and flick your eyes to the drenched mess of his boxers. “The haaaah—the first time was when you- you called me your ‘good boy’.”

“Oh.”

Cumming just from eating you out? Now that really made your cunt throb with torturous need, and you’re sliding a hand between your legs to feel for the wetness there.

“Well, then-” A beautiful grin graces your face, and it’s enough to make Gojo’s swollen cock twitch. “-guess you have one more to make up t’me if you’re such a, mm, good boy, huh?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

Before you know it, you’re being splayed out with your back against the bed. The mattress slightly dips as Gojo hovers his muscular weight above you, and he’s gently pushin’ apart your legs, sweat beading on his forehead as he takes in your dripping wet core.

You swear you catch his mouth watering at the sight- “No need to be nervous, Toru. Have you ever done this before?”

He shakes his head, “No, it- it was actually my first time eating you out, too.” Peering up at you with teary eyes, “Did I do good?”

Did he do good?

If that was his first time, you didn’t know what would happen with his second, his third, his tenth. And you’re snapping yourself forcefully out of that little reverie, “Yes- fuck, yes you did so good. Was such a good boy for me.” He grunts, something ruined in it. “Now I need you to be a good boy f’me again, okay? C’mon- put my legs on your shoulder—yeeeees, just like that.”

His muscles shifted underneath your heels, he was just so hulking.

“Now bend, Toru-”

“Bend?”

“Bend.”

And Gojo wanted to prove himself to you, just like before. He wanted to do his very best for you, you, you and only you - even if that meant…manhandling his one and only idol, just a little.

With a primal lurch, Gojo then has your knees pushed all the way up to your tits. “Like this?” Your body bent completely in half, like a lawn chair. “Like this?” And his hips slotting between your legs- in this mean mating press, Gojo’s furious cock stuffs juuuuuust inside- “Like- like-”

Before he’s slouching his head forwards and pushing—

“Fuck-” Gojo’s canines try to sink into his lower lip, before he’s realizing that that won’t hold back his gruff noises and he’s simply keening. Carnal. Baritone. 

A thin line of drool starts to splash from the side of his maw, before his entire body bows inwards to yours. Like he was focusing each n’ every ounce of strength into pryin’ aside your swollen folds and squeeeeezing his round, girthy tip inside. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- fuck!” And then you clench and you can hear the exact moment that the sensation pangs through Gojo’s body, “I think m’gonna cum again- fuck, m’gonna cum again just from this.”

“If you do then I want it allll inside-” You say, looking up into his attractive face - so unintentionally sexy. Gojo was flushing. Rabidly slobbering. His dick aching.

He was so hard that you could feel the prominent outline of each vein, scraping your insides as Gojo tries to push past the slight resistance of your entrance and buck and buck- “Don’t- oh.” He could barely even echo out a coherent thought with your wet pussy wrapped ‘round him like this. “Don’t- fuckin’- talk like that- s’only gonna make it, ngh, worse.”

“But I thought you were my good boy?”

“Fuh-fuck.” Gojo hollows out, with a clouded breath that made it seem as though every ounce of sanity was leaving his body along with it. And at that very second, you feel him spurt out just a single pearly white bead of cum.

It splats! down at the back of your pussy, and makes you shiver at the feeling. Meanwhile, Gojo’s forced to lurch up one of his fists and gnaw down on it to control himself. “Fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing t’me.” The blood vessels at his neck and temples pop as he somehow stops his dribbling cock from flooding your insides any further. “Didn’t know how fuck- fucking mean ya are, my light.”

“What can I say?” You hum, your hamstrings all sore with the intrusion that was being lodged in your lower half. “You were the criminal that got away- ngh, at my concert.”

“Mhm—?” Still rutting. Just animalistic half-ruts.

“And I want you to fuck me filthily, Toru.”

Oh…at this confession of yours, he grows even bigger inside of your tight channel. The girth of Gojo’s cock swells up, and his sheer length pushes apart your walls, molding them to him-

“Oh- oh my…” There was still a light sheen of your slick on Gojo’s face that he hadn’t been able to greedily lap away, and it’s then - mid-sentence - that you choose to lean yourself closer to him and get a taste. 

To which Gojo’s hazed blue eyes snap open- and oh, the look in them makes your legs tighten. Makes them fail- he’s snapping them open in a singular fluid motion, uncaring of the way it exhausts your muscles. Uncaring of the snug stretch-stretch-streeeeetch of your cunt once he’s mazing himself inside. “-my light.” Gojo bites out, “I’ll give you anything you need…”

Just then, your ears ring with a sharp clap!

You’re wondering whether it’s your ears.

You’re wondering whether it’s your heartbeat.

You’re left wondering no longer when you register it’s the slamming impact of Gojo’s toned v-line snapping against your lower half. Bottoming out in one motion, he’s deeply probin’ his rotund tip into the back of your treacly pussy.

Bottoming out? Already? 

“And that includes fucking you like the slut you want to be fucked as.”

Oh.

Oh. 

It seems that perhaps you’ve broken him.

Because then Gojo’s pounding his rough, ravenous hips into you all the way until his white happy trail scrapes your clit, and the end of his shaft reaches for the back of your throat. 

“What the fuck…” He stops as he feels the tender end of your pussy - teary eyes widening. And the first thing out of his mouth is, “Is this real?” In utter, feral disbelief. “There’s no way this is…” Before Gojo’s pinching himself.

He bottoms out a few more times, and each time the look in his eyes grows more distant. Jaw dropping further and further with the pure ecstacy of having his painfully-hard erection surrounded by your soft warmth. “Are you- hck! are you holding up, Toru?”

“Holding up? Holding up?” He almost cackles- octaves higher, almost crazed. He turns to you, “Pinch me.” 

“What-”

“Pinch me.”

And so you do - right on the strawberry nubs of his nipples, where he was just so sensitive. Only when the painfully lewd sensation confirms it’s real does he start formulating his sloppy cadence, “Fuck! It doesn’t fucking feel r-real. It can feel like this, sweetheart?” He was rutting his hips impatiently into you like he was trying to fuck the answer out of you. Each n’ every loooong, winding vein glissading down your walls. “N-ngh, she feels like heaven ‘round my cock.”

“Oh yeah—?” Purposefully, you clench. “Like that, Satoru?”

He simply shivers, “Y-yes.” You can feel him thumpin’ away at the goopy back of your pussy, with his circular divot creaming out in pre. “She’s sucking up every inch of me- fuck, huggin’ me so tight. Bet she can feel my veins reeeeeal good, can’t she?” A few slurps as he sloppy fucks his way in, which he takes as an answer. “Mhm, she can.”

And you only clench harder-

“Oh.” He whimpers, “Have mercy.”

“I dunno…” You drag out from the back of your throat, and you have to curl your toes to stop the pleasure from overflowing and interrupting your sentences. “You didn’t have mercy when you ate me out earlier, did you?”

Gojo gasps-

“And when you screamed at my concert, and when you disrupted my fanmeet.” You’re quite enjoying watching him fall apart - head hung, hips stuttering as he struggles to hold himself back. You wonder just what might happen if you made this handsome virgin Gojo…break. “So why should I show you- ngh, mercy?”

“Please- oh, what are you—”

Whatever Gojo was going to say is immediately derailed by the casual way you’re hiking up a hand to your stomach. Pressing dooooown just as his throbbing length was sinking in, “Filthier, Toru.”

And that’s when something in your favorite fanboy - in Gojo Satoru - snaps.

That’s when your positions shift.

His sap dribbles down n’ overflows just like the way your steaming tastebuds do, and your teeth clench after every one of his thrusts. Harder. Faster. Just like you’d said, he was thwacking his aching hot cock into you so hard that the curve of his ballsack was swatting your cunt. Slowly, you’re growing more and more hypnotized by his roverin’ dick stuffing every ounce inside you full. “Just like that- hah-” Arms wobbling, you struggle to reach ‘round Gojo’s shoulders. “Oh- just like that-”

“Just like that?” He asks, oh-so-kindly. And you almost feel a glimmer of hope for your poor body when Gojo gently tugs your arms around his shoulders. Letting you grab onto his deltoids-

“But I don’t think s’filthy enough, my light.”

Oh…so you were mistaken.

“Filthier, you said?” He repeats your words from earlier, fully channeling his energy to swabbin’ every point of your cunt. Gojo feels your legs slipping, and he’s reaching a hand behind his neck to pin your ankles together - locking them in place. “Look-” Other hand thumbing between your puffy pussylips, “Look, she wants it harder- faster, too. She’s practically flooding out and begging for it.”

“Oh my god-” Your pillow is drenched in a layer of your spittle by now, and your back arches. “Keep- keep going.”

“Keep going? But I wanna go even filthier, sweetheart.” That familiar pout of his makes an appearance, though there was something much more…sleazy about it this time.

Your nails dig into the plush mountains of his muscles, shifting underneath your touch each time he’s reeling his body back. Back, back, back. Gojo was putting his entire frame to work - not just his hips - each time he’s shovelling his cock into you. 

And the extra pressure makes the rounded crown of his shaft embed deep into your cervix, leaving a bruise there that acts as the perfect target for the next slam. And the next. And the next. “Please-” You’re gasping out, sobs bubbling in your throat. “Please please please- please, and how are you gonna be even filthier?”

“Like this.” Just to prove his point, his free hand tilts open your chin and spits straight in your mouth. And without wasting a second longer, Gojo spanks that very hand back down on your hips to keep you from running. “Aaaand—”

Instead, he’s using his strength to pliably jerk you back down. Hissing between your parted lips, “Like this.” He’s bubbling up even more saliva- this time, down your slippery slit. That hand of his on your hip reaches over, and with the forefront curve of his thumb, Gojo’s smearin’ the wad of saliva on top of your pussy. Pressing down on your clit- “Because m’just your pathetic fanboy, my light, listening to- ngh, every word you say. So when you say filthy, m’only gonna go filthier.”

You almost don’t want to dare to ask, “And h-how will you make this…even filthier?”

But you knew he wanted you to.

You knew he was just dying to fuck the words out of you.

Gojo’s plastering a sleazy smirk across his face, and it damn near looks downright blasphemous with the layer of syrup on his features. “I h-have an idea or two…”

He’s not telling you what the idea is, he’s showing it to you - with his fingers twisting on top of your clit to spell out some of the very words he’d spelled out with his tongue earlier.

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

Furiously, your body thrashes at the mercy of his clutches. Gojo was holding you down ruthlessly, a mean expression taking over his face when he finds out that he can simply pin you down and make that glistening hole of yours take it.

M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O.

All those zaps of pleasure that you loved so much, that you were moaning so much at. You’re so cockdrunken by this point that spittle sloshes ‘round inside your mouth- and Gojo only leans over to lick off the drivels of it escaping your mouth.

<3

Just in time to crash his lips into your when you cum.

“C-cumming.” You’re gasping out, almost in disbelief at the sheer strength of the orgasm that was flooding your entire body. Bucking back into his thrusts, “So much- it’s- it’s so much, fuck.”

“Yes-” Gojo growls, slightly breathless at the fact that this was you—and you were cumming ‘round his cock, suctioning every tender ridge on his shaft, fully fucking yourself through the complete waves of your high.

Bliss upon euphoria.

If you thought that your orgasm was incredible earlier, then you weren’t ready for this one. It simply takes over every part of you, until it felt like your nerves were fried with the sensation.

He stops pinning you down any longer, letting you bounce your hips back into his to your heart’s content. “That’s right, use me.” Gojo’s fingers are but a blur on your clit, “Use me to ride your high- fuck, use me as much as sh-she wants. Let me feel every inch of you squeezin’ around me-”

“I can’t be the only one.” Despite the pangs of your bliss, you somehow manage to blink away your tears to gaze up at him. With a hand fisted in Gojo’s perspired hair, you’re pulling him in reeeeal close, “Want you to cum insi- oh, fuck.”

You don’t even have to finish your sentence.

You don’t even have to finish your thought.

Because the moment that Gojo realizes what you’re trying to say to him, the bawling divot at the end of his shaft pours out white-hot cum. Heard throwing back. Chiselled body bowing into yours. Voice straining with a call of your name. 

It’s just the creamiest texture, it polishes a layer of white on your cervix and along your walls until the syrup froths outside.

Gasping, Gojo brushes his thumb between your folds and plugs up your leaking hole. Overspilling. So many webbed layers were seeping out of you, and he was taking the time to push every ounce of it back inside- “Fuck.” He whispers, thickly. “Fucking hell.”

“S’all inside, Satoru.” You mewl, gliding your hand up and down your front. “I can feel it splashin’ around inside-”

“Don’t say that- don’t- fucking say that-” He just barely chokes out- before one of Gojo’s hands lets go of your ankles to actually squeeze that pretty neck of yours, so perfect in his grip. “Don’t say that or m’gonna…”

“Or what?”

“Or m’gonna cum again-”

“Can feel it alllllll up inside.” You continue, despite the lecherous tightening at your throat. And Gojo has to listen on in pure agony as that voice he loves so much continues on—“Honestly- at this rate, you might just get me- ngh, pregnant, Toru.”

And that does it- he’s splurging out his dewy wet wads all over again. It seeps a layer of white into your glossy insides, making every thrust of his slippery.

With a slight whimper, he doesn’t waste time fucking those droplets of cum inside even if it aches him with sensitivity. The reddened tip of his cock twitches, and Gojo’s balls nuzzle the forefront of your cunt, already sucked dry with nothing more to give-

“You kn-know-” When Gojo speaks, it almost sounds like he’s crying- oh. Something hot and wet drips from his eyes, he actually was crying in overstimulation.

The texture of your cunt leaving him red n’ raw, but even then he’s way too addicted to try and bring himself to stop. Moaning, “-I did say something about you st-stepping on me, my light.”

Your brows raise.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

.

.

.

It’s almost a year later when Gojo posts:

@thestrongestfanboy: Siri play I Just Had Sex by The Lonely Island.

@Fushidaddy1008 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: lmfao as if anyone would bang you

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy1008: Ahhh, my wife would bang me~! ＼(≧▽≦)／ Also blocked (*≧ω≦*)

@Fushidaddy1009 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: wife?? lmfao i thought Cupid was your wife?? youre saying you banged Cupid??

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy1009: Exactly~! Blocked (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

@thestrongestfanboy: I would let her step on me (and HAVEEEEE) <(￣︶￣)>

@thestrongestfanboy: Does anyone have that meme of the guy shooting a basketball from the moon and actually making the basket???

@thestrongestfanboy: I’M IN LOVE.

@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Bro do you gen need your meds or…

@Shokomedical replying to @DigiGeto: I’ve prescribed all he needs, idk how but it’s gotten worse since that concert last year.

@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Happy for you Gojo-senpai ^.^

@thestrongestfanboy: MY BEAUTIFUL WIIIIIIFE~! ٩(♡ε♡)۶

And then came the disaster, perhaps. Because he’d meant to attach a completely innocent picture of you from your last show, he’d meant to post something that would have been inconspicuous with everything else that your fansites were posting.

But this is Gojo - and that’s obviously not what happened.

Attached to that aforementioned tweet was a picture of none other than Gojo Satou and you. Not from a concert. Not from afar. In the flesh, in nothing but a soft blanket covering your most intimate parts, clearly bitten all over and sex-hazed.

You were raising a digital camera up, your smile peaking through its edge as if you were taking a picture of a picture. And Gojo himself was in the corner - bitten, marked, a dopey smile and just as ruined, as sex-rumpled as you were, shirtless.

The first night.

How damning.

In the split-second that the photo had been up, it spread across stan Twitter like wildfire. And all of Gojo’s subsequent tweets had upwards of 1M+ views just because of it.

@thestrongestfanboy: WAIT

@thestrongestfanboy: WAIT DIVA DOWN DIVA DOWN

@thestrongestfanboy: I DIDN’T MEAN TO POST THAT PLEASE FORGET ABOUT IT.

@pinkillit replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Bro actually….did it? The fanboy actually did what every delulu stan hopes to do??

@gggggnarly replying to @thestrongestfanboy: YOU HOOKED UP WITH QUEEN CUPID?!

@hearts2hurts replying to @thestrongestfanboy: I fear I, again, can’t send hate because this is impressive ngl.

@utahimeslefttoe replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i know this is a marketing stunt i just cant prove it (uta give me a chance pls)

@lovelicky replying to @thestrongestfanboy: PARASOCIALISM WORKED??

@yuuthebaddie replying to @thestrongestfanboy: YOU GOT THE HUZZ??

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @yuuthebaddie: I GOT THE HUZZ!! („ಡωಡ„)

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @thestrongestfanboy: WAIT DELETE-

@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Satoru what the fuck

@Shokomedical replying to @thestrongestfanboy: SATORU WHAT THE FUCK

@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboy: I always knew the day would come!! Congratulations, Gojo-senpai ^.^

@urmomstype replying to @thestrongestfanboy: What did I miss?? Do I need to make a new thread??

@Fushidaddy2067 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: thats it siri play chasing pavements.

And that’s when it spreads outside of your fandom, first to the celebrity news outlets, and then everyone else. Soon enough, BuzzFeed, TMZ, Pannchoa were all tripping over themselves to be the first to report and interview on the subject. Personally, you knew that Dispatch was foaming at the mouth to drop the annual bombshell with all the sordid details.

TRENDING ON TWITTER:

#CUPIDPICTURE

#CUPIDDATING

#THESTRONGESTFANBOY

#DELULUISTHETRULULU

#HEGOTTHEHUZZ??

#LFORFUSHIDADDY

@CupidManagement: As a company, we do not interfere in the private lives of our artists and we kindly ask everyone to stop spreading any malicious rumors. We wish all the best to Cupid, and her relationship going forward.

And you?

@CupidOfficial: Ahhh might be as great a time as ever to announce that my new album, Stargirl, will be out on all platforms November 28th!! Here’s the cover art, hope you love it (and a special thank you to the special boy that made it happen) <33

On the cover, a picture of Gojo.

Not as you’d seen him in the bedroom, of course. It’d been exciting work to get to the studio, to don him in the most ethereal flowy whites, to place him in the midst of a blank background and stud his hair with roses, to bathe him in a dreamy light. It was almost hazy. In the picture, his face was turned away but he was staring into the camera- and…perhaps past it.

Right where you’d been, directing him.

With such a loving glimmering in his eyes that it made one almost shy to directly at it.

Your vision had some to life.

It quickly racks up a comfortable million plus views on Twitter, and you quietly shut off your phone as the notifications keep beeping. Instead, snuggling up to Gojo right back in your penthouse, right beside you (not before you give him a lecture on double-checking the pictures he posts, of course.)

And there was only one left wondering…

[email protected]: (RE: All of…this)

Hello,

What the fuck.

Regards.

A/N. Disclaimer not to be like him irl but like for him?? Anything.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[orphicmeliora]

LETTERS UNSENT

SUMMARY: You have shared too much with Caleb— your childhood in middle school, your restless teenage years in high school, and the sleepless nights that came with training at the DAA. Through every phase of your life, you’ve loved him. Quietly. Desperately. While he loved someone else.

So you learned to endure it.

You swallowed your feelings and tucked them away in secret letters never meant to be read—letters inked with heartbreak, feverish longing, and fantasies too raw to speak aloud. From crooked handwriting to elegant script, each page was a confession of the love you hated to carry, the ache you never outgrew. And when Caleb vanished from your life after graduation without a word, you buried those letters in a box, and the box deep within yourself.

Years later, fate intervenes.

Caleb returns—broader, bolder, devastatingly handsome. And strangely focused on you. His touches linger too long, his eyes see too much, and his smile says he knows exactly what you’ve been hiding. He looks at you like you’re the one he’s been waiting for—and you can’t tell if it terrifies you or tempts you more.

You try to pull away. You’ve spent too many years surviving without him to fall now.

But Caleb doesn’t let go.

Because now that he’s seen the truth—every broken sentence, every filthy fantasy, every whispered ‘I love you’ you never dared say out loud—he’s not just here to catch up.

He’s here to chase you down.

And he won’t stop until you’re his.

WORD COUNT: 11.1k

NOTES: Takes place after the Main story supposedly ends. This happens far in the future. Caleb is older here, 28–29 maybe. Reader is NOT mc, keep that in mind. In this scenario mc is with another LI.

You used to love love.

Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.

You believed in love the way children believe in magic.

But you grew up.

And love? It grew fangs.

Now, you love to hate it.

You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.

So you buried your own.

You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.

You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.

And still…

Despite it all…

Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.

To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.

You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.

Because if love ever finds you again…

You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—

Or straight into its arms.

You hear his voice before you see him.

Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Caleb.

Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.

A beat passes.

“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.

That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.

You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”

There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.

He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.

“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”

You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”

His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”

God, he’s flirting.

Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”

He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.

“Because I missed you.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.

And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.

You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”

You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.

“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”

“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”

You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.

God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.

You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”

He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”

Touché.

He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly.

“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”

His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.

You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”

His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”

Your heart skips. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”

Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”

He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”

“Smart of you.”

And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.

You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.

Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.

Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.

The letters.

Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.

Especially not Caleb.

But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.

The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.

Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.

—

The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.

He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.

“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”

“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”

You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.

—

The third time is worse.

You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.

He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”

You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”

His voice goes quiet. “You.”

The word hits you like a punch.

“You wanted Emcee for years.”

“I was stupid for years.”

You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.

“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.

He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”

His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.

You turn your head. Just barely.

Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.

He sits back without a word.

—

The fourth time, it’s raining.

He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.

“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”

“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”

His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says, voice low. “I tried to.”

That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.

Because it means he’s telling the truth.

You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.

He doesn’t follow.

But he waits.

He always waits now.

And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.

You agree to go with him to the observatory.

Big mistake.

It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.

You don’t take it.

So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.

“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.

“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.

“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.

“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”

You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then: “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.

“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”

“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”

“Damn right I am.”

His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”

“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.

“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”

You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.

And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.

It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.

The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.

Except for one person.

You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.

I didn't opt in to be your odd man out

I founded the club she's heard great things about

I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath

Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.

I stopped CPR, after all it's no use

The spirit was gone, we would never come to

And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—

“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”

You jump.

Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You blink. “You heard that?”

“I always do.”

Of course he did.

You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”

You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”

He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”

You bristle. “Did I say that?”

“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”

You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”

He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.

“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”

Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”

“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”

“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.

Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”

You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”

He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You stop. He almost slams into you.

You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”

He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”

The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.

But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.

“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.

“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”

You should have locked the damn drawer.

You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.

No. No.

His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.

And your world implodes.

He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.

He’s holding your soul in his hands.

The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.

Your breath catches. Your throat closes.

“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.

Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.

“I read every single one,” he says softly.

“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”

“I can’t.”

You turn to bolt, pure instinct.

And that’s when gravity betrays you.

A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol. 

Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.

“Caleb—!”

“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

Your back hits the wall.

He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.

“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”

You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”

His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”

Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”

“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”

You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”

The look in his eyes breaks something in you.

“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”

You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.

His mouth brushes against your temple.

“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t pull away either.

You can’t.

Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.

You’re burning.

He stays.

Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”

You shove him.

He barely budges.

You shove him again.

This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.

You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.

“Let me go,” you say, breathless.

“No.”

Your breath hitches.

“No?” you echo.

His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”

You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”

“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”

You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.

And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.

His eyes search yours.

And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

So he kisses you.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.

It’s a claiming.

It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.

Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.

And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—

“I hate you.”

He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”

“I hate how much I wanted that.”

“I hope you did.”

“I’m still not making this easy.”

Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”

And still—

Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.

“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.

His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”

You never agreed to date him.

But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.

He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.

That night, he texts you at 2am.

Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).

You throw your phone across the bed.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.

Nope.

Just here to take you to lunch.

“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”

You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

—

Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.

He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”

“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”

He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hold strong—for a while.

Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.

You try to nudge him awake.

You fail.

Hard.

He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.

You don’t sleep.

Your body is screaming.

But your heart?

It’s terrified.

—

When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.

You freeze in the doorway.

He sees you.

And smiles.

Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”

You almost do.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.

You’re not.

Because Caleb is everywhere now.

He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You keep your walls up.

But he keeps coming.

Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.

—

One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.

You open the door.

He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.

You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”

“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.

“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”

You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”

“I’m not people.”

He stalks closer.

You step back.

He follows.

“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just certain.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

So he tips your chin up with two fingers.

His eyes are burning.

“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”

“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”

His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.

Your breath hitches.

You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.

The heat between you is unbearable.

One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.

You want to.

God, you ache to.

But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not this time.

He lets you go.

And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.

The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.

The second thing you notice is the heat.

Not the weather. Not the blanket.

Him.

Your breath stills.

Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.

Which—he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.

You remember falling asleep with your back to him.

You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.

Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.

Your cheeks burn.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”

You try to slip away quietly.

You wiggle.

No movement.

You nudge his hand.

His grip tightens.

You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.

You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—

And then he nibbles.

You whimper.

It betrays you instantly.

That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.

Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.

And then—

“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.

You go still.

“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.

His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.

His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.

You squeak.

His arms tighten like steel bands.

He’s caging you in.

“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”

Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”

He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”

Then his hips shift. Just barely.

But enough.

“Caleb!”

His eyes snap open.

You expect guilt.

What you get is heat.

Raw, focused, and dangerous.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.

“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”

You do, actually.

Because it’s been hell for you, too.

You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.

You’re standing, heart racing, cheeks flushed, breathless.

Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

“Out,” you snap.

He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”

You march to the door.

“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

You slam the door in his face.

It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.

It happens fast.

Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.

One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—

And then Caleb moves.

He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.

You gasp.

His eyes meet yours.

They are ravenous.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”

Your breath catches.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not sweet. Not tentative.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming what was always his.

Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.

He doesn’t let you go.

He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.

You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.

“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.

His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.

“Oh god—”

“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”

His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.

But your body?

Your body is already his.

“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You don’t.

You can’t.

There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.

Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.

His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.

His self-control shatters.

And you let it.

Because there’s no going back now.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.

His forehead presses to yours, both of you trembling, not just from adrenaline but from something deeper. Something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff after running your whole life just to avoid the fall.

He whispers your name like a secret, like a vow. It breaks you a little, how he says it. Like he’s tasting the weight of it for the first time.

Then he moves.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thought—instinct meeting inevitability. You're holding on to the only thing in the room that feels real. He lifts you as if he was made to, the heat between you palpable, a pulse that beats beneath your skin, echoing every missed chance and quiet longing.

The kiss deepens. Desperate, molten, tasting of years swallowed down and swallowed whole. His hands are everywhere—anchoring, memorizing, shaking just slightly from how hard he’s holding back.

He carries you through the house like a man possessed. Not with lust, but with ache. The bedroom door shuts with a thud behind you, and suddenly the air is full of promises, unspoken but heavy. When your back meets the mattress, he follows—solid and unyielding. Not crushing, but overwhelming in the way only someone you've loved for too long can be.

His weight is warmth, his gaze all hunger and reverence. His hands slide beneath your clothes, not to strip, but to feel. His palm over your heart. His fingers brushing your ribs like counting the years apart. Every touch says: I missed this. I missed you.

“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he murmurs, his voice low, scraping over the tenderest parts of you.

You try to breathe out a laugh, but it catches on something in your throat—emotion, maybe. Want, definitely.

His mouth presses to your skin in a trail that’s less possession and more devotion. His touch follows, mapping you slowly, like he's rediscovering a land he once called home. You feel yourself arch into him, answer him without words, because words were never big enough for this.

He whispers things you’ll remember later—soft confessions and raw need laced with regret for every year wasted. You shiver when his breath touches your skin, when his fingers slide across bare inches you didn't mean to offer but couldn't deny.

And then... silence. Not because the moment ends. But because it begins.

Everything else fades.

There are no sharp lines, only sensation—heat and trembling limbs, quiet gasps, and the way your fingers fist into his shirt like you’ll fall apart without him there to catch you.

You lose time in the haze of it. In the rhythm of closeness, of skin against skin, of hearts beating so loud they drown out thought. You feel unraveled. Revered. Completely undone. Not by action, but by intent.

After, when the quiet stretches between you and your breath finally slows, he doesn’t let go. He stays draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he opens his eyes.

“This isn’t over,” he says. His voice is hoarse, a whisper etched with everything he’s never said aloud. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Not because of what just happened.

But because of everything that didn’t need to.

You lost track of how long ago the sun set.

The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.

And Caleb?

Caleb is still going.

He hovers above you, eyes dark with something starved—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and now that he has you, he doesn’t know how to stop. His hands roam as if relearning the shape of you again and again, like the memory alone will never be enough.

“We’re not done,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your damp forehead. “Not yet.”

You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a soft, aching sound.

He smiles—soft, wicked, reverent.

And leans in to kiss you like it’s the first time all over again.

You're floating.

Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.

Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and you're so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.

And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.

Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you.”

“I’ll never let you go again.”

You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.

Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.

When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.

But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.

He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.

You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.

He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”

“Caleb—”

“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”

Your breath hitches.

And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.

Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.

And just when you think he’s finally done—

He shifts again.

Rolls you beneath him.

“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.

His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.

“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

You should tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.

And now?

He’s going to make sure you never forget it.

The morning after feels… dangerous.

Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.

You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?

Oh, you want to punch him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.

“I tried to stay asleep,” you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”

He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.

“Consider it payback.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.

“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”

Your stomach drops.

The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.

You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.

And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.

“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jerk—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”

He only grins wider.

You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.

“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”

You bite your lip.

“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”

He’s gone before you even blink.

Your heart is pounding.

By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral—filled with longing so thick it could drown you.

He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.

When he finishes, he just looks at you.

You’re not sure what you expect.

But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.

“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”

Your knees buckle.

But he’s already crossing the room.

Already crowding you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your back hits wood and your legs wrap around him like muscle memory.

“Caleb—” you gasp, but he silences you with a kiss that’s pure possession.

“No more running. No more letters.” He grinds against you, voice rasping. “You want to scream my name? Do it now. Right here. Where I can answer every word.”

And you do.

God help you, you do.

—

You don't know how you made it through round... whatever number that was. Your body's a puddle, your skin still humming, but Caleb is finally calm. Sated, for now. The hunger in his eyes has simmered down into something deeper—something dangerous in its quiet intensity.

He’s seated now, bare chest gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, legs spread with an unmistakable air of ownership. You’re half-draped across his torso, wearing one of his shirts that swallows you whole. He holds you with one arm looped securely around your waist, the other hand delicately unfolding that last letter. The most intimate one. The one you never meant anyone—especially him—to see.

You try not to squirm as he reads it again, slowly, as if committing every line to memory.

You can feel his eyes on the page—but his attention is on you.

“You wrote this two years ago,” he says softly, thumb brushing idle circles against your inner thigh. “I was at the edge of the solar belt. Couldn’t sleep that night. I felt… off. Like I was missing something.”

You glance down, ashamed. “Don’t romanticize it.”

“I’m not,” he replies simply. “I’m aligning timelines.”

Your heart stutters. His hand stills.

“Do you want me to stop reading?” he asks, genuine this time.

You consider it. Swallow. Then shake your head.

He nods, kisses your temple.

Another beat of silence. The room smells of skin and paper and sunlight.

Then, quietly, with a low chuckle, he murmurs:

“I should have known,” he mutters, “you liked being chased. You always did, even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”

You remember.

And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.

You squirm, face heating. “That’s different.”

“It was always you,” he says softly. “Even when I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d follow you through fields, parks, school halls. You’d run, I’d chase. Every time.”

His voice dips, husky but no longer carnal. “You were never hiding from me. You were waiting for me to catch up.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I did.” He sets the letter aside. “Finally.”

The intensity softens into something almost unbearably tender. His fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your face up.

“No more letters,” he murmurs. “If there’s something you want… tell me. If you need something… I’ll listen. If you feel too much—good. So do I.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“You’ve already stripped yourself bare,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Now let me carry the weight.”

And just like that, your defenses crumble—slowly, quietly, like a dam leaking at the seams.

You rest your forehead against his. His lips ghost over yours. There’s no urgency. No fire.

Just heat. Banked and waiting.

And when he pulls you closer, tucks you against his chest, and lets out a slow breath—you swear you can feel his heartbeat echo your own.

The world outside is quiet, but inside your home, chaos reigns.

“Hey! Give that back!” you shout, laughing breathlessly as you chase after Caleb, who’s casually sauntering around your kitchen—your kitchen—holding your favorite coffee mug high above his head like a trophy.

Bastard. 

“This?” Caleb grins, the morning light making his messy hair look unfairly golden, like he just strolled out of a dream. “You mean our mug now. Community property.”

“That’s not how this works!” You make a wild grab for it, but he just shifts it higher, smirking like he’s enjoying this a little too much.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s only in a loose pair of joggers, the drawstring barely tied, his chest bare and warm and still a little damp from his earlier shower. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth teasing, worth chasing. Whatever it is, your heart flutters violently in your chest.

“Caleb, I swear—” you lunge for him again.

He catches you effortlessly, laughing as he spins you around until your back is pressed against his chest, trapping you in his arms. The mug dangles in front of you tauntingly. His scent envelops you—fresh soap, coffee, and something that’s just him.

“Say please,” he whispers into your ear, his breath warm, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

You wriggle in his arms, only managing to grind yourself back against his hips in the most scandalous way. Caleb’s arms tighten, his low groan rumbling against your back.

You freeze, heat flooding your cheeks. Damn him.

Caleb chuckles, feeling the way you stiffen. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire this early in the morning.”

“You started it,” you mutter, glaring over your shoulder.

He grins lazily, shameless. “I’ll finish it, too.”

Before you can retort, he finally, finally relinquishes the mug, setting it gently on the counter. You think you’re safe—until he sweeps you off your feet in one effortless move, carrying you bridal style toward the couch.

“Caleb! Put me down!” you yelp, pounding your fists against his chest, but he’s unbothered, humming a tune under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Shhh. We’re doing Sunday properly,” he says, plopping down onto the couch and settling you firmly on his lap, caging you in with his arms. “Coffee. Couch. Cuddles. Mandatory.”

You open your mouth to protest, but his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

You can feel the tension humming between you—thick, electric—but somehow, it doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… safe. Warm. Like you could fall asleep right here and Caleb would keep the whole world away from you.

You sigh, feeling your body relax against him despite yourself.

“This isn’t fair,” you grumble.

“What’s not fair?” he asks, voice low and teasing as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You being so… so…” You gesture vaguely, words failing you. How do you describe this? Caleb being infuriating and sweet and annoyingly perfect, all wrapped up in one stupidly handsome package?

“So what?” he presses, feigning innocence. His hand strokes lazily up and down your spine, his touch feather-light.

You groan into his chest. “Everything.”

He laughs—really laughs—and the sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against you. You can’t help the small smile that creeps across your face. You hate how easy it is to be soft with him. How easy it is to fall harder when you promised yourself you’d be careful.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” Caleb says, dropping his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. “Might as well get used to it.”

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, and for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. Just this—this impossible, chaotic, beautiful morning. His arms around you. His laugh in your ears. His heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

Maybe you are stuck with him.

Maybe you want to be.

And when Caleb presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—tender, warm, unbearably sweet—you know you’re completely, hopelessly, irreversibly his.

And judging by the way he smiles against your mouth, he's known it all along.

Your lunch is burning.

You know it is—because you can smell the faint scent of charred vegetables—and yet, you can’t do anything about it.

Because Caleb.

Because Caleb, who has one arm lazily wrapped around your waist, caging you against the counter, a spatula abandoned nearby. Because Caleb, who keeps murmuring absolutely mortifying things against your ear in that deep, smug voice of his, his lips brushing your skin with every word.

Because Caleb, who somehow—somehow—has memorized every single humiliating word you ever wrote to him.

You try not to die of embarrassment right there.

“You know,” Caleb drawls, his voice a slow purr against your ear, “you were really dramatic back in middle school. I believe it went something like—” he clears his throat exaggeratedly, clearly having way too much fun, “‘Dear Caleb, I hate you so much I hope you trip and fall into a mud puddle in front of the entire school. Maybe then you’ll stop being so full of yourself.’”

You groan, shoving your sleeves over your face, mortified. “Stopppp.” You’re basically trying to melt into the counter at this point.

But Caleb’s laughing, warm and delighted, peeling your sleeves down to expose your burning face. He lives for this now, clearly. Every time you squirm, he looks like he’s won the lottery.

“And then—then,” he continues gleefully, ignoring your protests, “in high school, when I got a little popular… You wrote, ‘Congratulations, Prince Charming. Maybe one day you’ll notice the loyal commoner you left in the dust. But no worries. I’m totally fine. Totally. Absolutely fine. Not like I ever cared anyway.’”

He recites it with dramatic flair, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. You are dying inside.

“Oh my God, Caleb,” you hiss, trying to hide your face again. “Shut up! I was, like, fifteen! I didn’t know anything about anything!”

He laughs again, low and fond, his chest vibrating against your back. “You knew enough to break my heart, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you feel the serious undercurrent beneath all the teasing—the raw affection.

You twist in his grip, attempting to shove him away, but he just effortlessly manhandles you into his lap instead. One strong arm loops around your waist, the other sneaks into your hair, stroking it slowly, tangling his fingers through the strands.

You pout at him, cheeks still on fire. “You’re so annoying.”

His grin softens into something devastatingly tender. His eyes burn bright and molten as he stares at you, like you’re the only thing in the entire world.

“Not done yet,” he murmurs.

Your stomach drops.

You already know what's coming. The worst part.

Caleb leans down, nuzzles against your temple, and in a low, sinful voice, whispers, “And then there were the ones where you couldn’t stop thinking about me at night.”

You jerk, mortified, but he tightens his hold on you, trapping you snug against him. His lips graze your ear.

“You had so many thoughts about me,” he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. “About what you wanted me to do to you. About what you wanted to do to me.” He chuckles darkly when you squeak and try to wriggle away.

“I can quote those too, if you want,” he teases mercilessly. “Maybe I should start with the one where you described me tying you up with my DAA-issued tactical belt—”

“CALEB!!” you shriek, smacking his chest as he throws his head back laughing.

You bury your face in his shoulder, absolutely vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, whimpering, “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your temple, over and over again until your trembling subsides into quiet giggles. His arms are warm and unrelenting around you.

You risk peeking up at him—and freeze.

He’s staring down at you with a look so filled with adoration it physically steals the air from your lungs. His hand cups your jaw so gently it makes your heart ache.

“You’re my life,” Caleb says, voice rough with feeling. “You’ve always been my life. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You blink up at him, stunned, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

Slowly, shyly, you rest your forehead against his, your hands sliding up to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms.

Caleb exhales shakily, as if the moment is too big even for him.

The smell of burnt food lingers, the sun pours golden light across the kitchen, and you sit there, tangled up in him, the most chaotic, beautiful, utterly yours thing you’ve ever had.

“Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?” you whisper, a teasing glint in your eye.

Caleb’s smile turns crooked, boyish.

“Forever, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you, slow and deep and soft, like a promise he’s waited a lifetime to keep.

—

Later that night, you're curled up on the couch together, tangled in a heap of limbs and fluffy throw blankets, a low movie playing in the background.

You’re half-dozing, feeling deliciously warm and safe against Caleb’s chest, his heartbeat lulling you into a haze. His hand strokes lazily through your hair, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns against your scalp.

You’re just about to slip under completely when—

"Sweetheart?" Caleb’s voice, deceptively casual.

You hum in response, not even bothering to open your eyes.

"What's this? Another letter?"

You tense immediately.

No.

No no no.

Your eyes snap open in horror just in time to see Caleb, that absolute devil, pulling out one of the more battered, worn pieces of paper from somewhere.

You gasp, trying to grab for it, but he holds it way above your head, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

"Caleb!" you shriek, flailing. "Put it away! You can't—!"

He just laughs and pins you down easily with one hand on your waist, straddling your thighs to trap you in place.

“I think the people deserve to hear this one,” he teases, that wicked glint in his eye. “Specifically, me.”

He clears his throat dramatically while you writhe helplessly beneath him.

"‘It’s not fair,’" Caleb reads aloud, smirking as he drags his gaze down your squirming body. "‘It’s not fair how he fills out his uniform. How his gloves tighten around his fingers. How I can’t stop thinking about what those hands would feel like on my skin. How I dream about him tying my wrists, whispering filthy promises against my neck—’"

"CALEB!!" you wail, smacking your hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him. Your face is boiling hot.

But Caleb, the menace, the absolute menace, just grins wider, loving every second of your humiliation.

"And it goes on," he says gleefully, ignoring your mortified whimper. "‘How I'd let him do anything to me. How I'd beg him to lose control. How much I crave him, every breath, every heartbeat, like I'm dying of thirst in a desert and he's the only water I'll ever want.’"

Your soul tries to physically leave your body.

You slap your hands over your face, wishing for death.

"Please," you moan into your palms, "Caleb, please stop—"

But he just chuckles darkly, leaning down until his nose brushes yours, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.

“You really should have mailed this one, sweetheart,” he says, eyes smoldering. "Would’ve saved us a lot of time."

You whimper, still hiding your face. He peels your hands away from your burning cheeks gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.

Caleb’s smile turns unbearably tender as he cradles your flushed face between his palms, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

"I memorized every word," he says softly. "Every single one. They're engraved into me now. Just like you."

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

You can't look away from him—those devastating sunset eyes drinking you in like you hung the stars.

He dips his head lower, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent.

“You’re mine,” Caleb murmurs, voice rough with possessiveness and love. “You always were.”

You melt completely, boneless in his hold, helpless against him—as you’ve always been.

"Caleb..." you whisper, voice trembling.

He smiles that slow, infuriating, dangerous smile—and promptly starts tickling you, laughing when you shriek and try to wriggle free, your earlier mortification forgotten in a burst of chaotic laughter and flailing limbs.

You scream his name, half furious, half in love.

Caleb just laughs like it’s the happiest sound in the world.

It’s late.

Not the deep velvet of midnight, but that quiet hour when the world seems suspended in hush. The city hums softly beyond the windows, and the room is awash in the muted amber of a bedside lamp. You're tangled together beneath the sheets—not in passion this time, but in something far more dangerous.

Vulnerability.

Caleb lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that look again—the one that's too tender, too knowing. His fingers trail lazily across your arm, like he can’t stop touching you even now. Like he’s making sure you’re still here.

“I should’ve reached out sooner,” he says.

You stay quiet. Not because you're angry. Because you're afraid of what might come next.

“I didn’t date her,” he adds, so casually it nearly slips by.

You blink.

“What?”

“She wasn’t mine,” he says. “Never was. I thought…” He hesitates. “I thought she might be the only person who could understand what I was becoming. The training. The pressure. But it was never romantic. Not even close.”

Your throat feels tight. You shift, pulling the blanket up like armor.

“Then why didn’t you call? Or message? Or—anything, Caleb? You just vanished.”

He exhales, slow and jagged.

“I was afraid,” he admits.

You glance up, surprised.

He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “Not of the missions. Not of the fleet. I was afraid that if I talked to you, really talked to you, I’d drop everything just to be near you. I was already teetering. One video call and I would’ve been done for.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You idiot,” you whisper. “I would’ve taken you. In any form.”

“I didn’t want you to take less of me.” He looks at you then, eyes bare, voice rough. “I wanted to be worthy of what you wrote in those letters. Of the way you looked at me when we were kids.”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe just bury your face in his chest until the years melt away.

“You were worthy, Caleb. You just… didn’t believe it.”

A silence settles. Not heavy. Just real.

He pulls you closer. One hand cradling your head to his chest, the other tangled in your fingers beneath the sheets. You listen to his heartbeat again.

Stronger now.

Steady.

“For the record,” he murmurs, “when I read the one about the lake—when we were sixteen—I nearly lost it. I remember that night. I didn’t know what to do with the way I felt back then.”

You squeeze his hand. “You pushed me into the water.”

“You screamed my name so loud, half the neighborhood heard.”

You smile despite yourself.

Then softer, quieter:

“I used to dream about that moment, you know? If you ever found the letters. If you ever came back.”

“And now that I have?”

Your smile fades. You tilt your head up and find him waiting. Bare. Present.

“I don’t want dreams anymore,” you whisper.

“Good,” Caleb says, leaning down until his lips barely brush yours. “Because I’m not leaving this time. And I don’t need letters. I have you.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not a claim.

It’s a promise.

The shuttle touches down with a soft hiss, and before the hatch even fully opens, you're hit with the scent of your hometown—familiar, grounding, sweetened by nostalgia. The air is different here. Softer. Like time slows down just enough to let you breathe.

Caleb steps out behind you, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes sweep over the old landing port, the cracked pavement, the overgrown grass curling at the edges of fences long forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then, quietly: “It’s smaller than I remember.”

You huff a laugh. “Because we’re bigger now.”

He looks at you—really looks. “You are.”

There’s a weight to those words you don’t touch yet. Not here. Not now.

The town unfolds before you like a photograph—faded but warm. You walk the familiar streets side by side, shoulders brushing, passing your old school, the corner store where you used to pool pocket change for sweets, the park where you’d play tag until dusk.

“I remember this tree,” Caleb murmurs, stopping beneath the one with the warped trunk. “You used to climb it like a gremlin.”

“You fell out of it once,” you remind him. “Cried for hours.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you didn’t leave my side.”

A beat of silence.

“You always stayed,” he says.

You glance at him, the late afternoon sun haloing his profile. “You just didn’t always notice.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushes yours. Then lingers. Then takes it fully.

You don’t let go.

The path takes you past your childhood home. Your heart kicks up. The windows are still the same. The porch swing still crooked. You half expect to hear your mother calling you in for dinner. Caleb pauses beside you.

“I remember sneaking out through your window,” he says with a crooked grin. “You made me carry that squeaky chair so we wouldn’t get caught.”

“You always stepped on the wrong floorboard anyway,” you mutter. “We always got caught.”

“Worth it,” he murmurs. “Every single time.”

You don’t speak again until you're standing at the edge of the lake—the one you wrote about. The one where you screamed his name across the water. It looks just like it did then.

The sun dips low, painting the surface gold.

You watch the light scatter across the waves, lost in thought.

“I didn’t know you loved me then,” he says, voice quiet. “But I felt it. In every laugh. Every fight. Every stupid dare. I felt it. I just didn’t have the words.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t either,” you say. “So I wrote them instead.”

He turns to you slowly. “No more letters,” he whispers.

Then, gently, reverently, Caleb cups your face.

You close your eyes.

The kiss is soft this time. Not a promise or a possession. Just a memory, coming full circle.

Just two people who finally stopped running.

NOTES: guys I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I posted the unedited version!!! I didn't like how instead of talking through their issues these two went to bang instead, AHHH this is so embarrassing!!!

[orphicmeliora]

LETTERS UNSENT

SUMMARY: You have shared too much with Caleb— your childhood in middle school, your restless teenage years in high school, and the sleepless nights that came with training at the DAA. Through every phase of your life, you’ve loved him. Quietly. Desperately. While he loved someone else.

So you learned to endure it.

You swallowed your feelings and tucked them away in secret letters never meant to be read—letters inked with heartbreak, feverish longing, and fantasies too raw to speak aloud. From crooked handwriting to elegant script, each page was a confession of the love you hated to carry, the ache you never outgrew. And when Caleb vanished from your life after graduation without a word, you buried those letters in a box, and the box deep within yourself.

Years later, fate intervenes.

Caleb returns—broader, bolder, devastatingly handsome. And strangely focused on you. His touches linger too long, his eyes see too much, and his smile says he knows exactly what you’ve been hiding. He looks at you like you’re the one he’s been waiting for—and you can’t tell if it terrifies you or tempts you more.

You try to pull away. You’ve spent too many years surviving without him to fall now.

But Caleb doesn’t let go.

Because now that he’s seen the truth—every broken sentence, every filthy fantasy, every whispered ‘I love you’ you never dared say out loud—he’s not just here to catch up.

He’s here to chase you down.

And he won’t stop until you’re his.

WORD COUNT: 11.1k

NOTES: Takes place after the Main story supposedly ends. This happens far in the future. Caleb is older here, 28–29 maybe. Reader is NOT mc, keep that in mind. In this scenario mc is with another LI.

You used to love love.

Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.

You believed in love the way children believe in magic.

But you grew up.

And love? It grew fangs.

Now, you love to hate it.

You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.

So you buried your own.

You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.

You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.

And still…

Despite it all…

Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.

To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.

You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.

Because if love ever finds you again…

You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—

Or straight into its arms.

You hear his voice before you see him.

Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Caleb.

Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.

A beat passes.

“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.

That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.

You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”

There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.

He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.

“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”

You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”

His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”

God, he’s flirting.

Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”

He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.

“Because I missed you.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.

And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.

You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”

You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.

“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”

“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”

You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.

God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.

You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”

He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”

Touché.

He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly.

“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”

His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.

You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”

His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”

Your heart skips. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”

Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”

He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”

“Smart of you.”

And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.

You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.

Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.

Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.

The letters.

Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.

Especially not Caleb.

But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.

The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.

Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.

—

The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.

He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.

“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”

“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”

You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.

—

The third time is worse.

You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.

He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”

You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”

His voice goes quiet. “You.”

The word hits you like a punch.

“You wanted Emcee for years.”

“I was stupid for years.”

You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.

“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.

He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”

His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.

You turn your head. Just barely.

Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.

He sits back without a word.

—

The fourth time, it’s raining.

He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.

“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”

“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”

His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says, voice low. “I tried to.”

That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.

Because it means he’s telling the truth.

You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.

He doesn’t follow.

But he waits.

He always waits now.

And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.

You agree to go with him to the observatory.

Big mistake.

It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.

You don’t take it.

So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.

“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.

“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.

“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.

“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”

You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then: “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.

“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”

“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”

“Damn right I am.”

His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”

“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.

“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”

You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.

And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.

It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.

The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.

Except for one person.

You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.

I didn't opt in to be your odd man out

I founded the club she's heard great things about

I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath

Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.

I stopped CPR, after all it's no use

The spirit was gone, we would never come to

And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—

“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”

You jump.

Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You blink. “You heard that?”

“I always do.”

Of course he did.

You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”

You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”

He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”

You bristle. “Did I say that?”

“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”

You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”

He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.

“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”

Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”

“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”

“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.

Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”

You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”

He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You stop. He almost slams into you.

You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”

He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”

The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.

But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.

“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.

“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”

You should have locked the damn drawer.

You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.

No. No.

His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.

And your world implodes.

He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.

He’s holding your soul in his hands.

The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.

Your breath catches. Your throat closes.

“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.

Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.

“I read every single one,” he says softly.

“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”

“I can’t.”

You turn to bolt, pure instinct.

And that’s when gravity betrays you.

A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol. 

Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.

“Caleb—!”

“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

Your back hits the wall.

He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.

“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”

You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”

His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”

Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”

“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”

You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”

The look in his eyes breaks something in you.

“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”

You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.

His mouth brushes against your temple.

“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t pull away either.

You can’t.

Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.

You’re burning.

He stays.

Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”

You shove him.

He barely budges.

You shove him again.

This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.

You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.

“Let me go,” you say, breathless.

“No.”

Your breath hitches.

“No?” you echo.

His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”

You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”

“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”

You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.

And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.

His eyes search yours.

And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

So he kisses you.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.

It’s a claiming.

It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.

Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.

And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—

“I hate you.”

He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”

“I hate how much I wanted that.”

“I hope you did.”

“I’m still not making this easy.”

Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”

And still—

Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.

“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.

His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”

You never agreed to date him.

But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.

He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.

That night, he texts you at 2am.

Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).

You throw your phone across the bed.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.

Nope.

Just here to take you to lunch.

“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”

You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

—

Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.

He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”

“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”

He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hold strong—for a while.

Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.

You try to nudge him awake.

You fail.

Hard.

He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.

You don’t sleep.

Your body is screaming.

But your heart?

It’s terrified.

—

When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.

You freeze in the doorway.

He sees you.

And smiles.

Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”

You almost do.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.

You’re not.

Because Caleb is everywhere now.

He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You keep your walls up.

But he keeps coming.

Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.

—

One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.

You open the door.

He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.

You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”

“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.

“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”

You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”

“I’m not people.”

He stalks closer.

You step back.

He follows.

“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just certain.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

So he tips your chin up with two fingers.

His eyes are burning.

“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”

“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”

His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.

Your breath hitches.

You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.

The heat between you is unbearable.

One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.

You want to.

God, you ache to.

But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not this time.

He lets you go.

And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.

The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.

The second thing you notice is the heat.

Not the weather. Not the blanket.

Him.

Your breath stills.

Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.

Which—he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.

You remember falling asleep with your back to him.

You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.

Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.

Your cheeks burn.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”

You try to slip away quietly.

You wiggle.

No movement.

You nudge his hand.

His grip tightens.

You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.

You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—

And then he nibbles.

You whimper.

It betrays you instantly.

That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.

Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.

And then—

“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.

You go still.

“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.

His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.

His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.

You squeak.

His arms tighten like steel bands.

He’s caging you in.

“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”

Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”

He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”

Then his hips shift. Just barely.

But enough.

“Caleb!”

His eyes snap open.

You expect guilt.

What you get is heat.

Raw, focused, and dangerous.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.

“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”

You do, actually.

Because it’s been hell for you, too.

You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.

You’re standing, heart racing, cheeks flushed, breathless.

Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

“Out,” you snap.

He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”

You march to the door.

“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

You slam the door in his face.

It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.

It happens fast.

Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.

One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—

And then Caleb moves.

He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.

You gasp.

His eyes meet yours.

They are ravenous.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”

Your breath catches.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not sweet. Not tentative.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming what was always his.

Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.

He doesn’t let you go.

He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.

You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.

“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.

His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.

“Oh god—”

“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”

His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.

But your body?

Your body is already his.

“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You don’t.

You can’t.

There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.

Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.

His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.

His self-control shatters.

And you let it.

Because there’s no going back now.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.

His forehead presses to yours, both of you trembling, not just from adrenaline but from something deeper. Something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff after running your whole life just to avoid the fall.

He whispers your name like a secret, like a vow. It breaks you a little, how he says it. Like he’s tasting the weight of it for the first time.

Then he moves.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thought—instinct meeting inevitability. You're holding on to the only thing in the room that feels real. He lifts you as if he was made to, the heat between you palpable, a pulse that beats beneath your skin, echoing every missed chance and quiet longing.

The kiss deepens. Desperate, molten, tasting of years swallowed down and swallowed whole. His hands are everywhere—anchoring, memorizing, shaking just slightly from how hard he’s holding back.

He carries you through the house like a man possessed. Not with lust, but with ache. The bedroom door shuts with a thud behind you, and suddenly the air is full of promises, unspoken but heavy. When your back meets the mattress, he follows—solid and unyielding. Not crushing, but overwhelming in the way only someone you've loved for too long can be.

His weight is warmth, his gaze all hunger and reverence. His hands slide beneath your clothes, not to strip, but to feel. His palm over your heart. His fingers brushing your ribs like counting the years apart. Every touch says: I missed this. I missed you.

“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he murmurs, his voice low, scraping over the tenderest parts of you.

You try to breathe out a laugh, but it catches on something in your throat—emotion, maybe. Want, definitely.

His mouth presses to your skin in a trail that’s less possession and more devotion. His touch follows, mapping you slowly, like he's rediscovering a land he once called home. You feel yourself arch into him, answer him without words, because words were never big enough for this.

He whispers things you’ll remember later—soft confessions and raw need laced with regret for every year wasted. You shiver when his breath touches your skin, when his fingers slide across bare inches you didn't mean to offer but couldn't deny.

And then... silence. Not because the moment ends. But because it begins.

Everything else fades.

There are no sharp lines, only sensation—heat and trembling limbs, quiet gasps, and the way your fingers fist into his shirt like you’ll fall apart without him there to catch you.

You lose time in the haze of it. In the rhythm of closeness, of skin against skin, of hearts beating so loud they drown out thought. You feel unraveled. Revered. Completely undone. Not by action, but by intent.

After, when the quiet stretches between you and your breath finally slows, he doesn’t let go. He stays draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he opens his eyes.

“This isn’t over,” he says. His voice is hoarse, a whisper etched with everything he’s never said aloud. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Not because of what just happened.

But because of everything that didn’t need to.

You lost track of how long ago the sun set.

The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.

And Caleb?

Caleb is still going.

He hovers above you, eyes dark with something starved—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and now that he has you, he doesn’t know how to stop. His hands roam as if relearning the shape of you again and again, like the memory alone will never be enough.

“We’re not done,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your damp forehead. “Not yet.”

You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a soft, aching sound.

He smiles—soft, wicked, reverent.

And leans in to kiss you like it’s the first time all over again.

You're floating.

Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.

Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and you're so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.

And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.

Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you.”

“I’ll never let you go again.”

You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.

Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.

When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.

But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.

He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.

You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.

He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”

“Caleb—”

“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”

Your breath hitches.

And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.

Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.

And just when you think he’s finally done—

He shifts again.

Rolls you beneath him.

“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.

His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.

“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

You should tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.

And now?

He’s going to make sure you never forget it.

The morning after feels… dangerous.

Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.

You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?

Oh, you want to punch him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.

“I tried to stay asleep,” you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”

He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.

“Consider it payback.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.

“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”

Your stomach drops.

The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.

You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.

And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.

“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jerk—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”

He only grins wider.

You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.

“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”

You bite your lip.

“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”

He’s gone before you even blink.

Your heart is pounding.

By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral—filled with longing so thick it could drown you.

He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.

When he finishes, he just looks at you.

You’re not sure what you expect.

But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.

“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”

Your knees buckle.

But he’s already crossing the room.

Already crowding you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your back hits wood and your legs wrap around him like muscle memory.

“Caleb—” you gasp, but he silences you with a kiss that’s pure possession.

“No more running. No more letters.” He grinds against you, voice rasping. “You want to scream my name? Do it now. Right here. Where I can answer every word.”

And you do.

God help you, you do.

—

You don't know how you made it through round... whatever number that was. Your body's a puddle, your skin still humming, but Caleb is finally calm. Sated, for now. The hunger in his eyes has simmered down into something deeper—something dangerous in its quiet intensity.

He’s seated now, bare chest gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, legs spread with an unmistakable air of ownership. You’re half-draped across his torso, wearing one of his shirts that swallows you whole. He holds you with one arm looped securely around your waist, the other hand delicately unfolding that last letter. The most intimate one. The one you never meant anyone—especially him—to see.

You try not to squirm as he reads it again, slowly, as if committing every line to memory.

You can feel his eyes on the page—but his attention is on you.

“You wrote this two years ago,” he says softly, thumb brushing idle circles against your inner thigh. “I was at the edge of the solar belt. Couldn’t sleep that night. I felt… off. Like I was missing something.”

You glance down, ashamed. “Don’t romanticize it.”

“I’m not,” he replies simply. “I’m aligning timelines.”

Your heart stutters. His hand stills.

“Do you want me to stop reading?” he asks, genuine this time.

You consider it. Swallow. Then shake your head.

He nods, kisses your temple.

Another beat of silence. The room smells of skin and paper and sunlight.

Then, quietly, with a low chuckle, he murmurs:

“I should have known,” he mutters, “you liked being chased. You always did, even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”

You remember.

And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.

You squirm, face heating. “That’s different.”

“It was always you,” he says softly. “Even when I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d follow you through fields, parks, school halls. You’d run, I’d chase. Every time.”

His voice dips, husky but no longer carnal. “You were never hiding from me. You were waiting for me to catch up.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I did.” He sets the letter aside. “Finally.”

The intensity softens into something almost unbearably tender. His fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your face up.

“No more letters,” he murmurs. “If there’s something you want… tell me. If you need something… I’ll listen. If you feel too much—good. So do I.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“You’ve already stripped yourself bare,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Now let me carry the weight.”

And just like that, your defenses crumble—slowly, quietly, like a dam leaking at the seams.

You rest your forehead against his. His lips ghost over yours. There’s no urgency. No fire.

Just heat. Banked and waiting.

And when he pulls you closer, tucks you against his chest, and lets out a slow breath—you swear you can feel his heartbeat echo your own.

The world outside is quiet, but inside your home, chaos reigns.

“Hey! Give that back!” you shout, laughing breathlessly as you chase after Caleb, who’s casually sauntering around your kitchen—your kitchen—holding your favorite coffee mug high above his head like a trophy.

Bastard. 

“This?” Caleb grins, the morning light making his messy hair look unfairly golden, like he just strolled out of a dream. “You mean our mug now. Community property.”

“That’s not how this works!” You make a wild grab for it, but he just shifts it higher, smirking like he’s enjoying this a little too much.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s only in a loose pair of joggers, the drawstring barely tied, his chest bare and warm and still a little damp from his earlier shower. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth teasing, worth chasing. Whatever it is, your heart flutters violently in your chest.

“Caleb, I swear—” you lunge for him again.

He catches you effortlessly, laughing as he spins you around until your back is pressed against his chest, trapping you in his arms. The mug dangles in front of you tauntingly. His scent envelops you—fresh soap, coffee, and something that’s just him.

“Say please,” he whispers into your ear, his breath warm, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

You wriggle in his arms, only managing to grind yourself back against his hips in the most scandalous way. Caleb’s arms tighten, his low groan rumbling against your back.

You freeze, heat flooding your cheeks. Damn him.

Caleb chuckles, feeling the way you stiffen. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire this early in the morning.”

“You started it,” you mutter, glaring over your shoulder.

He grins lazily, shameless. “I’ll finish it, too.”

Before you can retort, he finally, finally relinquishes the mug, setting it gently on the counter. You think you’re safe—until he sweeps you off your feet in one effortless move, carrying you bridal style toward the couch.

“Caleb! Put me down!” you yelp, pounding your fists against his chest, but he’s unbothered, humming a tune under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Shhh. We’re doing Sunday properly,” he says, plopping down onto the couch and settling you firmly on his lap, caging you in with his arms. “Coffee. Couch. Cuddles. Mandatory.”

You open your mouth to protest, but his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

You can feel the tension humming between you—thick, electric—but somehow, it doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… safe. Warm. Like you could fall asleep right here and Caleb would keep the whole world away from you.

You sigh, feeling your body relax against him despite yourself.

“This isn’t fair,” you grumble.

“What’s not fair?” he asks, voice low and teasing as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You being so… so…” You gesture vaguely, words failing you. How do you describe this? Caleb being infuriating and sweet and annoyingly perfect, all wrapped up in one stupidly handsome package?

“So what?” he presses, feigning innocence. His hand strokes lazily up and down your spine, his touch feather-light.

You groan into his chest. “Everything.”

He laughs—really laughs—and the sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against you. You can’t help the small smile that creeps across your face. You hate how easy it is to be soft with him. How easy it is to fall harder when you promised yourself you’d be careful.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” Caleb says, dropping his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. “Might as well get used to it.”

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, and for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. Just this—this impossible, chaotic, beautiful morning. His arms around you. His laugh in your ears. His heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

Maybe you are stuck with him.

Maybe you want to be.

And when Caleb presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—tender, warm, unbearably sweet—you know you’re completely, hopelessly, irreversibly his.

And judging by the way he smiles against your mouth, he's known it all along.

Your lunch is burning.

You know it is—because you can smell the faint scent of charred vegetables—and yet, you can’t do anything about it.

Because Caleb.

Because Caleb, who has one arm lazily wrapped around your waist, caging you against the counter, a spatula abandoned nearby. Because Caleb, who keeps murmuring absolutely mortifying things against your ear in that deep, smug voice of his, his lips brushing your skin with every word.

Because Caleb, who somehow—somehow—has memorized every single humiliating word you ever wrote to him.

You try not to die of embarrassment right there.

“You know,” Caleb drawls, his voice a slow purr against your ear, “you were really dramatic back in middle school. I believe it went something like—” he clears his throat exaggeratedly, clearly having way too much fun, “‘Dear Caleb, I hate you so much I hope you trip and fall into a mud puddle in front of the entire school. Maybe then you’ll stop being so full of yourself.’”

You groan, shoving your sleeves over your face, mortified. “Stopppp.” You’re basically trying to melt into the counter at this point.

But Caleb’s laughing, warm and delighted, peeling your sleeves down to expose your burning face. He lives for this now, clearly. Every time you squirm, he looks like he’s won the lottery.

“And then—then,” he continues gleefully, ignoring your protests, “in high school, when I got a little popular… You wrote, ‘Congratulations, Prince Charming. Maybe one day you’ll notice the loyal commoner you left in the dust. But no worries. I’m totally fine. Totally. Absolutely fine. Not like I ever cared anyway.’”

He recites it with dramatic flair, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. You are dying inside.

“Oh my God, Caleb,” you hiss, trying to hide your face again. “Shut up! I was, like, fifteen! I didn’t know anything about anything!”

He laughs again, low and fond, his chest vibrating against your back. “You knew enough to break my heart, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you feel the serious undercurrent beneath all the teasing—the raw affection.

You twist in his grip, attempting to shove him away, but he just effortlessly manhandles you into his lap instead. One strong arm loops around your waist, the other sneaks into your hair, stroking it slowly, tangling his fingers through the strands.

You pout at him, cheeks still on fire. “You’re so annoying.”

His grin softens into something devastatingly tender. His eyes burn bright and molten as he stares at you, like you’re the only thing in the entire world.

“Not done yet,” he murmurs.

Your stomach drops.

You already know what's coming. The worst part.

Caleb leans down, nuzzles against your temple, and in a low, sinful voice, whispers, “And then there were the ones where you couldn’t stop thinking about me at night.”

You jerk, mortified, but he tightens his hold on you, trapping you snug against him. His lips graze your ear.

“You had so many thoughts about me,” he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. “About what you wanted me to do to you. About what you wanted to do to me.” He chuckles darkly when you squeak and try to wriggle away.

“I can quote those too, if you want,” he teases mercilessly. “Maybe I should start with the one where you described me tying you up with my DAA-issued tactical belt—”

“CALEB!!” you shriek, smacking his chest as he throws his head back laughing.

You bury your face in his shoulder, absolutely vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, whimpering, “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your temple, over and over again until your trembling subsides into quiet giggles. His arms are warm and unrelenting around you.

You risk peeking up at him—and freeze.

He’s staring down at you with a look so filled with adoration it physically steals the air from your lungs. His hand cups your jaw so gently it makes your heart ache.

“You’re my life,” Caleb says, voice rough with feeling. “You’ve always been my life. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You blink up at him, stunned, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

Slowly, shyly, you rest your forehead against his, your hands sliding up to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms.

Caleb exhales shakily, as if the moment is too big even for him.

The smell of burnt food lingers, the sun pours golden light across the kitchen, and you sit there, tangled up in him, the most chaotic, beautiful, utterly yours thing you’ve ever had.

“Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?” you whisper, a teasing glint in your eye.

Caleb’s smile turns crooked, boyish.

“Forever, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you, slow and deep and soft, like a promise he’s waited a lifetime to keep.

—

Later that night, you're curled up on the couch together, tangled in a heap of limbs and fluffy throw blankets, a low movie playing in the background.

You’re half-dozing, feeling deliciously warm and safe against Caleb’s chest, his heartbeat lulling you into a haze. His hand strokes lazily through your hair, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns against your scalp.

You’re just about to slip under completely when—

"Sweetheart?" Caleb’s voice, deceptively casual.

You hum in response, not even bothering to open your eyes.

"What's this? Another letter?"

You tense immediately.

No.

No no no.

Your eyes snap open in horror just in time to see Caleb, that absolute devil, pulling out one of the more battered, worn pieces of paper from somewhere.

You gasp, trying to grab for it, but he holds it way above your head, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

"Caleb!" you shriek, flailing. "Put it away! You can't—!"

He just laughs and pins you down easily with one hand on your waist, straddling your thighs to trap you in place.

“I think the people deserve to hear this one,” he teases, that wicked glint in his eye. “Specifically, me.”

He clears his throat dramatically while you writhe helplessly beneath him.

"‘It’s not fair,’" Caleb reads aloud, smirking as he drags his gaze down your squirming body. "‘It’s not fair how he fills out his uniform. How his gloves tighten around his fingers. How I can’t stop thinking about what those hands would feel like on my skin. How I dream about him tying my wrists, whispering filthy promises against my neck—’"

"CALEB!!" you wail, smacking your hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him. Your face is boiling hot.

But Caleb, the menace, the absolute menace, just grins wider, loving every second of your humiliation.

"And it goes on," he says gleefully, ignoring your mortified whimper. "‘How I'd let him do anything to me. How I'd beg him to lose control. How much I crave him, every breath, every heartbeat, like I'm dying of thirst in a desert and he's the only water I'll ever want.’"

Your soul tries to physically leave your body.

You slap your hands over your face, wishing for death.

"Please," you moan into your palms, "Caleb, please stop—"

But he just chuckles darkly, leaning down until his nose brushes yours, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.

“You really should have mailed this one, sweetheart,” he says, eyes smoldering. "Would’ve saved us a lot of time."

You whimper, still hiding your face. He peels your hands away from your burning cheeks gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.

Caleb’s smile turns unbearably tender as he cradles your flushed face between his palms, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

"I memorized every word," he says softly. "Every single one. They're engraved into me now. Just like you."

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

You can't look away from him—those devastating sunset eyes drinking you in like you hung the stars.

He dips his head lower, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent.

“You’re mine,” Caleb murmurs, voice rough with possessiveness and love. “You always were.”

You melt completely, boneless in his hold, helpless against him—as you’ve always been.

"Caleb..." you whisper, voice trembling.

He smiles that slow, infuriating, dangerous smile—and promptly starts tickling you, laughing when you shriek and try to wriggle free, your earlier mortification forgotten in a burst of chaotic laughter and flailing limbs.

You scream his name, half furious, half in love.

Caleb just laughs like it’s the happiest sound in the world.

It’s late.

Not the deep velvet of midnight, but that quiet hour when the world seems suspended in hush. The city hums softly beyond the windows, and the room is awash in the muted amber of a bedside lamp. You're tangled together beneath the sheets—not in passion this time, but in something far more dangerous.

Vulnerability.

Caleb lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that look again—the one that's too tender, too knowing. His fingers trail lazily across your arm, like he can’t stop touching you even now. Like he’s making sure you’re still here.

“I should’ve reached out sooner,” he says.

You stay quiet. Not because you're angry. Because you're afraid of what might come next.

“I didn’t date her,” he adds, so casually it nearly slips by.

You blink.

“What?”

“She wasn’t mine,” he says. “Never was. I thought…” He hesitates. “I thought she might be the only person who could understand what I was becoming. The training. The pressure. But it was never romantic. Not even close.”

Your throat feels tight. You shift, pulling the blanket up like armor.

“Then why didn’t you call? Or message? Or—anything, Caleb? You just vanished.”

He exhales, slow and jagged.

“I was afraid,” he admits.

You glance up, surprised.

He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “Not of the missions. Not of the fleet. I was afraid that if I talked to you, really talked to you, I’d drop everything just to be near you. I was already teetering. One video call and I would’ve been done for.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You idiot,” you whisper. “I would’ve taken you. In any form.”

“I didn’t want you to take less of me.” He looks at you then, eyes bare, voice rough. “I wanted to be worthy of what you wrote in those letters. Of the way you looked at me when we were kids.”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe just bury your face in his chest until the years melt away.

“You were worthy, Caleb. You just… didn’t believe it.”

A silence settles. Not heavy. Just real.

He pulls you closer. One hand cradling your head to his chest, the other tangled in your fingers beneath the sheets. You listen to his heartbeat again.

Stronger now.

Steady.

“For the record,” he murmurs, “when I read the one about the lake—when we were sixteen—I nearly lost it. I remember that night. I didn’t know what to do with the way I felt back then.”

You squeeze his hand. “You pushed me into the water.”

“You screamed my name so loud, half the neighborhood heard.”

You smile despite yourself.

Then softer, quieter:

“I used to dream about that moment, you know? If you ever found the letters. If you ever came back.”

“And now that I have?”

Your smile fades. You tilt your head up and find him waiting. Bare. Present.

“I don’t want dreams anymore,” you whisper.

“Good,” Caleb says, leaning down until his lips barely brush yours. “Because I’m not leaving this time. And I don’t need letters. I have you.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not a claim.

It’s a promise.

The shuttle touches down with a soft hiss, and before the hatch even fully opens, you're hit with the scent of your hometown—familiar, grounding, sweetened by nostalgia. The air is different here. Softer. Like time slows down just enough to let you breathe.

Caleb steps out behind you, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes sweep over the old landing port, the cracked pavement, the overgrown grass curling at the edges of fences long forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then, quietly: “It’s smaller than I remember.”

You huff a laugh. “Because we’re bigger now.”

He looks at you—really looks. “You are.”

There’s a weight to those words you don’t touch yet. Not here. Not now.

The town unfolds before you like a photograph—faded but warm. You walk the familiar streets side by side, shoulders brushing, passing your old school, the corner store where you used to pool pocket change for sweets, the park where you’d play tag until dusk.

“I remember this tree,” Caleb murmurs, stopping beneath the one with the warped trunk. “You used to climb it like a gremlin.”

“You fell out of it once,” you remind him. “Cried for hours.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you didn’t leave my side.”

A beat of silence.

“You always stayed,” he says.

You glance at him, the late afternoon sun haloing his profile. “You just didn’t always notice.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushes yours. Then lingers. Then takes it fully.

You don’t let go.

The path takes you past your childhood home. Your heart kicks up. The windows are still the same. The porch swing still crooked. You half expect to hear your mother calling you in for dinner. Caleb pauses beside you.

“I remember sneaking out through your window,” he says with a crooked grin. “You made me carry that squeaky chair so we wouldn’t get caught.”

“You always stepped on the wrong floorboard anyway,” you mutter. “We always got caught.”

“Worth it,” he murmurs. “Every single time.”

You don’t speak again until you're standing at the edge of the lake—the one you wrote about. The one where you screamed his name across the water. It looks just like it did then.

The sun dips low, painting the surface gold.

You watch the light scatter across the waves, lost in thought.

“I didn’t know you loved me then,” he says, voice quiet. “But I felt it. In every laugh. Every fight. Every stupid dare. I felt it. I just didn’t have the words.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t either,” you say. “So I wrote them instead.”

He turns to you slowly. “No more letters,” he whispers.

Then, gently, reverently, Caleb cups your face.

You close your eyes.

The kiss is soft this time. Not a promise or a possession. Just a memory, coming full circle.

Just two people who finally stopped running.

NOTES: guys I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I posted the unedited version!!! I didn't like how instead of talking through their issues these two went to bang instead, AHHH this is so embarrassing!!!

[maeveybelle]

How Much I Love You

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summary: Mirio Togata has never had a problem showing his affection for the people he holds dear to him, especially not when he can't keep his hands off his lovely girlfriend at movie night.

warning/s: f!reader, soft-dom!mirio, fingering, cunnilignus, handjobs, pet names, penetration, bit of a size kink, choking (barely + gently), mdni, nsfw

w/c: 5k~

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The silence in the common room was a comfortable blanket, woven from the soft glow of late evening television and the shared, quiet breathing of two people completely at ease with one another.

You were curled into Mirio’s side on the plush sofa, your head resting on the broad expanse of his chest. The rhythmic, steady beat of his heart was a familiar and grounding sound beneath your ear. His arm was wrapped securely around your shoulders, a warm, heavy weight that felt less like a restraint and more like an anchor in a storm.

On the screen, some cheesy hero documentary played on, but neither of you were really watching.

Mirio’s fingers were tracing idle patterns on your upper arm, a slow, meandering dance that sent pleasant shivers skittering across your skin.

He was humming softly, a low, contented rumble that vibrated through his chest and into you. It was moments like this, the quiet domesticity that felt so rare and precious in the whirlwind of U.A. life, that you cherished most.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice a low, warm vibration against your cheek. He shifted slightly, and you tilted your head back to look up at him. In the dim light, his eyes were impossibly bright, his trademark smile soft and genuine. “You seem a million miles away. Everything okay?”

You offered a small smile in return. “Just thinking. It’s nice. Being here with you.”

His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “It’s the best, isn’t it? I feel like I could just stay right here forever.” He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. It was a simple, chaste gesture, but it was filled with so much affection it made your chest ache. “You know,” he continued, his voice dropping a little, taking on a slightly different timbre, “I was just thinking about how amazing you are.”

A faint blush crept up your neck. “Mirio…”

“No, I’m serious!” He insisted gently, his hand moving from your arm to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin there. “You work so hard, and you’re so kind, and you’re always supporting me and the big guys. You’ve got this incredible strength inside you, and I see it every single day. It makes me feel… really lucky.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic, fluttering beat that had nothing to do with relaxation. The air in the room had shifted, charged with a new, palpable energy. Mirio’s gaze was intense, his usual cheerful sparkle now burning with something deeper, something that made your breath catch in your throat.

“I want to show you,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple. “How much I appreciate you. How much I admire you. Would you let me do that?”

You could only manage a small, breathless nod. Your voice seemed to have abandoned you.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression serious but still so fundamentally Mirio. “Good. But I want you to listen to me, okay? I’m going to take care of you tonight. All you have to do is trust me and let me lead. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

The pet name, spoken in that low, commanding yet gentle tone, sent a jolt straight through you. This was the other side of Mirio Togata, the side that only you ever got to see. Beneath the sunny, boisterous exterior was a man who was confident, attentive, and devastatingly in control. It was a side of him that made you feel completely and utterly safe, even as it thrilled you to your very core.

“Yes,” you finally managed to whisper, the word barely audible.

A brilliant, triumphant smile lit up his face. “That’s my girl.” He leaned in, and this time when he kissed you, it wasn’t on the forehead. His lips met yours, firm and sure. It wasn’t a rough kiss, but it was demanding, a clear statement of intent. He coaxed your mouth open, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours in a slow, deliberate exploration that left you dizzy and clinging to his shoulders. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing heavily.

“Let’s go to my room,” he said, his voice husky. He stood up, taking your hand and pulling you effortlessly to your feet. His hand was large and warm, enveloping yours completely.

He led you down the quiet hallway to his dorm room, the silence punctuated only by the soft pad of your footsteps. Once inside, he closed the door with a soft click, the sound final and somehow incredibly intimate. His room was tidy, as expected, with hero posters on the walls and his training gear neatly stacked in a corner. But your focus was entirely on him.

He turned to face you, his hands coming to rest on your hips. “I love this outfit on you,” he said, his eyes roaming over you appreciatively. “You look so good. But I think I’d like it even better on the floor.”

There was no malice in his words, only a straightforward, honest desire that was impossible to misinterpret. He waited, his eyes searching yours, giving you the chance to object, to say no. You didn’t. You just stood there, your heart pounding, letting him look his fill.

“Arms up for me,” he instructed softly.

You obeyed without hesitation, raising your arms over your head. He hooked his fingers under the hem of your shirt and slowly, torturously, drew it upward. The fabric brushed against your skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. As the shirt cleared your head, his eyes never left yours, a dark, hungry look in their depths that made your knees feel weak.

He tossed the shirt aside, his gaze dropping to your chest, now clad in a simple lace bra. “So beautiful,” he breathed, his hands coming up to trace the straps where they rested on your shoulders. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent. “Every inch of you is just perfect.”

His praise was a potent drug, warming you from the inside out. He reached behind you, his fingers deftly unhooking your bra. It slid down your arms and joined your shirt on the floor. The cool air on your bare skin made you shiver, but it was the look in Mirio’s eyes that truly set you on fire. It was a look of pure, unadulterated worship.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his hands moving to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already-pebbled nipples. The touch was electric, and you couldn't stop the soft gasp that escaped your lips. “So responsive. I love that. I love knowing I can make you feel good.”

He leaned down, his mouth replacing his thumb on one breast. His tongue was hot and wet as it circled your nipple before he drew it into his mouth, suckling gently. The sensation was exquisite, a direct line of pleasure that shot down to your core. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft, blond strands as you held him to you. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, until you were arching against him, a soft, needy whine building in your throat.

“Mirio, please,” you gasped out, not even sure what you were begging for.

He lifted his head, a smug, satisfied smile playing on his lips. “Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you need.”

“I need… more.”

“Of course you do,” he said, his voice full of that same gentle confidence. “And I’m going to give it to you. I’m going to give you everything.” He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants, his knuckles brushing against your stomach. “But first, these need to go.”

He sank to his knees in front of you, his bright blue eyes looking up at you from this new, dizzying angle. He slowly drew your pants and underwear down your legs, his hands stroking your skin as he went. You stepped out of them, now completely bare before him. He didn’t move for a moment, just looked his fill, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch.

“Incredible,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “Absolutely incredible.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your hip, then another to your stomach, then one just above your mound. Each kiss was a promise, a declaration of his devotion.

“On the bed,” he instructed, his voice soft but firm. “Lie down in the middle for me.”

You complied quickly, scrambling onto his bed and settling back against the pillows. He watched you move, a predator’s gleam in his eye, but it was tempered by an overwhelming sense of care. He followed you onto the bed, crawling over you until he was hovering above you, his arms caging you in. He was still fully dressed, the fabric of his shirt and jeans a rough, exciting contrast against your bare skin.

“You’re so good for me,” he praised, lowering his head to nuzzle your neck. “So obedient. It makes me want to reward you.” He nipped at the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to make you gasp. “And I will. I promise. I’m going to make you feel so, so good.”

He began a slow, deliberate exploration of your body with his hands and mouth. He kissed his way down your chest, his tongue tracing the valley between your breasts. He paid homage to your stomach, his hands stroking your sides, his thumbs pressing into your hips.

His journey was a deliberate, worshipful pilgrimage. He kissed his way down your stomach, his lips soft and warm against your skin. His hands weren't idle; they roamed, mapping the curves of your waist, the dip of your hips, the soft expanse of your thighs. He was learning you all over again, committing every inch to memory with a reverence that made your chest ache with a profound, overwhelming affection.

“You know,” he murmured against your navel, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you, “sometimes I just look at you and I can’t believe how lucky I am. That you’re mine.” He lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours, and the sheer, unadulterated adoration in them was almost too much to bear. “Every part of you is just… wow. Just wow.”

He shifted lower, his broad shoulders settling between your thighs. He nudged them apart gently, a silent command that you obeyed instantly, your body pliant and willing under his touch. His gaze dropped to the very core of you, now exposed and vulnerable to his hungry stare. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.

“There she is,” he breathed, the words a puff of warm air against your most sensitive flesh. “Hello, beautiful.” He looked back up at you, his expression a mixture of pure joy and predatory focus. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About how you taste. About how you feel when you fall apart on my tongue.”

Your breath hitched, a fresh wave of arousal flooding you at his blunt, honest words. He didn’t wait for a response. He lowered his head, and the first, flat stroke of his tongue against your folds was a revelation. It was slow, deliberate, a thorough exploration that had your back arching off the bed. He hummed in appreciation, the sound vibrating against your clit and drawing a sharp cry from your lips.

“Just like that,” he praised, his voice muffled against you. “You’re so sweet. So perfect.” He settled in, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open for him, and began to work you with a focused, unwavering intensity. This wasn't a frantic rush toward the finish line; this was a masterclass in patience and control. He was a hero, and this was his mission: to dismantle you, piece by piece, with nothing but his mouth.

He circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, tracing patterns that were both maddeningly slow and incredibly precise. He alternated between broad, flat licks that covered your entire sex and pointed, focused flicks against the sensitive bundle of nerves. He was watching you, his bright blue eyes never leaving your face, cataloging your every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made you whimper, what made you writhe.

“You’re doing so well,” he encouraged, pulling back for just a moment to catch his breath. His chin was glistening with your arousal. “Just let it happen. Let me take care of you. I want to see you come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it.”

He dove back in, this time adding a new element. He slowly pushed one long, thick finger inside you, his mouth never ceasing its relentless assault on your clit. The dual sensation was exquisite. He curled his finger, stroking that sensitive spot deep inside you that made your vision white out at the edges.

“Mirio!” you cried out, your hands fisting in his sheets. Your hips began to move of their own accord, rocking against his face, chasing the pleasure that was building to an impossible crescendo.

“That’s it,” he growled, the vibration sending you even higher. “Ride my face. Take what you need. You look so incredible like this, all lost in it. So beautiful.”

He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you perfectly. He began to pump them in and out in a steady, driving rhythm, mimicking the act to come. His tongue worked your clit with renewed fervor, flicking and sucking until you were a quivering, sobbing mess beneath him. The coil in your stomach was wound so tightly it was painful, every nerve in your body screaming for release.

“Come on, baby,” he urged, his voice a low, commanding purr. “Let go for me. I know you’re close. I can feel you. Give it to me. Let me have it.”

His words were the final push you needed. The pleasure shattered through you with the force of a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming rush that left you gasping for air. Your body bowed, a strangled cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, wave after wave of intense, overwhelming sensation. Mirio stayed with you through it all, his mouth and fingers gentling, guiding you through the peaks and valleys until you were a boneless, panting wreck on his bed.

He finally pulled away, pressing soft, soothing kisses to your inner thighs as you trembled in the aftermath. He crawled back up your body, gathering you into his arms and holding you close. You could feel the hard, insistent press of his arousal against your hip, a testament to his own desire, but his focus was entirely on you.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his lips brushing against your hairline. He stroked your back, his touch a calming, grounding presence.

You could only nod, burrowing deeper into his embrace, your face pressed against his chest. You were still trying to catch your breath, your body humming with the residual pleasure.

“Good,” he said, a note of deep satisfaction in his voice. “You did so good. That was amazing.” He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were soft, but there was a banked fire there, a promise of more to come. “But we’re not done yet. Not by a long shot.”

He captured your lips in a deep, possessive kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a heady, intimate flavor that made your head spin. He kissed you until you were breathless again, until the need for him was a desperate, aching thing inside you.

He finally pulled back, his breathing ragged. “I need to be inside you,” he said, his voice raw with honesty. “Right now.”

He sat up, his movements economical and sure. He grabbed the hem of his own shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the sculpted, powerful physique of a hero-in-training.

His skin was taut over lean muscle, his abs a testament to countless hours of training. Your eyes roamed over him, drinking in the sight.

He saw you looking and grinned, that same bright, unselfconscious smile that you loved so much. “Like what you see?” he asked, a playful challenge in his tone.

You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry.

“Good,” he said, his smile softening into something more tender. “Because it’s all for you.” He stood up and quickly shucked his jeans and boxers, kicking them aside.

His cock sprang free, hard and thick and already beading with precum at the tip. He was magnificent, a perfect specimen of masculine power, and the look in his eyes as he gazed down at you was one of pure, unadulterated love and lust.

He crawled back onto the bed, settling between your thighs once more. He took himself in hand, stroking slowly as he looked down at you. “You’re sure you’re ready for more?” he asked, his concern for you evident even in this moment of raw need.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice hoarse. “Please, Mirio. I need you.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. He lined himself up with your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick, sensitive folds. He paused, his eyes locking with yours. “I love you,” he said, his voice a solemn vow.

And then he pushed inside.

The stretch was exquisite, a slow, burning pleasure as he filled you inch by inch. He was watching your face, his expression a mixture of intense concentration and awe. He went slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size, to the overwhelming sensation of being so completely, perfectly full.

“You feel… incredible,” he gritted out, his jaw tight with restraint once he was fully seated inside you. “So tight. So perfect. Made just for me.”

He began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, deep rhythm that stole your breath. Each thrust was a deliberate, powerful stroke, hitting all the right places, stoking the embers of your desire back into a roaring inferno. He was a master of his body, his movements controlled and precise, a perfect blend of power and grace.

This was the Mirio who could phase through a villain’s attack and land a flawless, knockout blow. This was Lemillion, and he was using all that legendary control to drive you wild.

“You’re taking me so well,” he praised, his voice a low, guttural moan. “Look at you. So beautiful, spread out for me, taking my cock.” He leaned down, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his face inches from yours.

The new angle allowed him to go even deeper, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. “That’s it. Let me hear you. I want to know how good I’m making you feel.”

He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a lewd, rhythmic counterpoint to your shared moans and gasps.

He lowered his head, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, making you arch off the bed and moan.

His big, beefy arms held your hips tight as he kept deep deliberate thrusts that drove far into your walls. "That's it pretty girl...you look soo beautiful like this my love."

You maoend and cried out his name, finding it increasingly difficult to stay composed- Miriooo fuck! I- I c-cant-"

"Yes, you can..c'mon, you're already doing so well...my perfect- god- perfect girl.." he hid his face in the crook of your neck, moaning and panting whilst biting the shell of your ear.

"Jesus Mirio-i-im so close!" Yu moaned out as his pace quickened, his cock driving s far up inside you, it felt like he was rearranging your insides.

One of his arms that was previously on your hip listened to wrap gently around your neck-- not in a bruising or rough manner, just holding. Almost, in a comforting manner that completely conrdaicted his rough thrusts.

"Cmon sunshine..you can do it, come on my cock...I feel how close you are" he maned again in your ear as his tip bullied your cervix, the pace not stopping for a second-- in fact it felt as if he was speeding up just to get you both closer.

As you both came, you felt his thick hot load fill up your sinuses as you clenched down from his come-down, both of you releasing in tandem.

As you both cam down from your high, he pulled back to look you in the eye, smiling while his hair tickled your face. "so good, love you so much beautiful."

You smiled softly, heat crawling up your neck as you met his loving gaze. "I love you to Mirio, so much.."

As Mirio cleaned you both up and started a bath, you couldn't help but think how lucky you were...for him, for his love, and for everything he's given you.

As Mirio ran the bath, he had the same thoughts, how grateful he was fr your kindness, your beauty, and everything about you..

Nothing could ever change the fact Mirio loved you. Nothing at all.

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A/N: this actually took so long!! I felt like I couldn't get any of these words right and my writing wasn't good enough, also, its like a fucking CVS recipt long!

comments and likes are always appreciated!

masterlist

[bodhiscurls]

you are in love. ( clark kent )

one night, he wakes strange look on his face. pauses, then says "you're my best friend", and you knew what it was- he is in love. all the chances clark has to confess his feelings for you never feels like the right time; that's until you're gone out of town for a work trip and he can't deny how his soul yearns for yours in a way he can no longer hold it together, even if it means declaring it in a sea of people at baggage claims.

pairing: clark kent x reader

themes: fluff! best friends to lovers, two idiots pining and in denial, love confession (DUH)

masterlist.

clark kent is sure he's loved you all his life; he says that with great earnest and sincerity. it's coming up to the five year mark of your friendship and clark would say that his life never really started until he met you- like you set off something inside of him; thus, he's loved you for every moment he's truly felt like his life was worth living.

the moment he realised he was in love with you was when he felt his heartbeat come to a complete standstill. one second the two of you were lying on his bedroom floor, your legs raised up against the wall as he tangled his with yours as you rested your head on his outstretched arm. the feeling of having you rest all your weight on him, so relaxed and unguarded- clark can not think of a better use for his muscle mass. he ignored the little pangs of soreness creeping in from lying on wooden floor for hours because it's only the beginning of what he would endure to spend lifetimes with you.

he looks over, your eyes trained onto the ceiling and you feel yourself drifting off to sleep, eyes closing gently. the safety net of clark's bedroom and the body milimetres from yours that promises no harm will come to makes you feel featherlike; floating off the ground where nothing can touch you.

"what?" you mumble, a small smile growing on your lips as you feel the warm stare heat at your skin.

"nothing," he returns immediately, suddenly bashful though he doesn't take his eyes away from you at any point. longing burns in his body to reach out and hold you closer, let his hands dip lower than a friendly hug and kiss you- not on the cheek to say goodbye but right smack centre on your lips, on your neck, anywhere you'll let him have you.

one of your eyes open in a wink and you take a peek at him, "clark, i can feel you burning holes into my head," and you close it again, focusing on the slight tense of his arm beneath you and you use him as a pillow.

comfort and ease fills clark and he decides that he's never really loved anyone like the way he has with you before. i mean sure he loves lois, his mother, his dog, sometimes jimmy, but he doesn't see himself sharing a home with them- locking up and sleeping on the side facing the bedroom door, coming home from work and cooking their favourite meals to see them smile, dragging his body after a long day of saving the damn world just to see his own. clark kent would burn the world for you, set it alight and probably himself on fire too if you'd ask him to just so you wouldn't get your hands dirty with it. he doesn't look at his friends and think how their hands would feel in his, how they would feel up against a wall with him, how when they're apart he feels as though the whole universe is off tilt and he can't even breathe.

you're burning holes into my heart, he thinks.

and when the silence skips a beat and feels too long, the words are the tip of his tongue, but instead he reaches out and kicks your foot gently before you attack in a vicious game of footsies.

you soften as you meet his gaze once more and he nudges closer to you so you're less than an inch away from him before he whispers in the air,

"you're my best friend."

...

over the coming months, he's tried to tell you how he feels.

his invitations of going out on a date are always undermined by you thinking its just two friends hanging out.

he wakes up an extra half hour early to join your commute and you think its because he loves the fresh coffee you make from your fancy machine for him when you spot him- you are terrible at making coffee- it tastes like pure gasoline, so much that he knows theyre bad for the environment but clark tries to think of ways of letting you down gently, recommending you just use the pods instead of grinding down the beans yourself.

he carried around the mistletoe at christmas, hoping to catch you under the right doorframe- hang it over your head and lay his heart bare on yours. except you're allergic, sneeze profusely right in the direction of his face and almost die in embarrassment. you hide for the rest of the day and clark has to bribe you with ice cream and endless reassurement to let you know it's all okay.

he tries to get lois to set you up on a blind date (and just like in the movies, he'll turn up) but all you could do was blink in confusion- "i have clark, i don't need to date," and he fucking loved the words leaving your mouth, like the sentiment is truly there but you're just not completely aware. he did however have to pull an emergency stop in the elevator, regulate his breathing and stop his heartbeat from bursting in his ears- because you had him. and the acknowledgement set his soul alight.

he even switched tactics- desperate times called for desperate measures. he wore your favourite coloured shirt, one that fit just a little too right. leaned up to grab your favourite coffee mug, flexing his bicep as he lowered it and pretended to inspect the design on it, knowing damn well he's the poor lovesick fool who bought you it. he rolled his sleeves, baring his forearms as he towered over your chair, leaning in extra close to point at some correction on your computer screen that displayed your latest article. it was rewarding- he got stares, stutters and a rosy blush that melted his brain to jelly as he tried hard to photograph that memory and hang it in the walls of his mind- a room built just for thoughts of you. and soon, if not already, you would have taken over the space completely, all unknowingly.

the words are on the tip of his tongue every single day; rotating between an "i love you more than i can understand how to," "i want forever with you" and "am i really about to blow up this friendship?"

the last always gets him, always.

even when lois places a firm touch in support to his shoulder- "they're crazy about you clark, you just don't see it because you're wrapped up in your own feelings." and all he can focus on is how your touch doesn't feel anything like lois' and it sends him into another spiralling frenzy. how could you make him feel this way and not have a single idea?

his resolve almost breaks when you're sitting across him.

"catch you for dinner when you get off?" he calls out as he passes your desk on his way to where the printers are. its quicker if he just walks in a straight line but he loves to make a detour to catch sight of you- but when lois asks with a knowing grin he's getting in his extra steps and all that.

"would love too but, can't," you raise your voice, eyes scanning the screen and clark can see the glare reflecting in your glasses. its blinding. but its your voice that stops him so suddenly in his tracks and he turns around stealthy, almost knocking poor jimmy trying to navigate alongside him.

"why not?" he asks incredulous- it's the first time in history you've ever blown him off.

"have to pack," you shrug, fingers aggressively smashing the keyboard and clark starts to walk his way back over to you. leaning obnoxiously over the computer head to get in your line of view. you try and swat him away offhandedly but he grabs your wrist, caught in air motion and the skin to skin connection rumbles across your veins.

"okay?" he drags out, ignoring how his stomach flutters in his body, knocking into all his internal organs to let them in on whats happening to clark kent right now. "packing for what?" he quizzes.

"interview out of state, celebrity clientele so i have to accomadate for their schedule," you slowly take back your arm from his hold and clark immediately misses the heat radiating from your body as you leave him to ice out under the cold once more.

"when are you leaving?"

"two,"

"pm?" and you shake your head,

"am," you correct.

"but that's in like ten hours."

"wow clark, i didn't know you could count," you quizz your brows sarcastically, "whats up with the interrogation, kent?"

"well i am a journalist," he defends, "and for safety reasons i'll need travel details, hotels, anything."

"or," you look up to him, neck craning at the distance which he stands so tall at, "i will see you on thursday when i get back." thursday is four days away. his heart cries and lurches at the thought of not being in your vicinity but he swallows like the grown and very brave man he is.

"thursday," he repeats slowly, "thursday." if he repeats it enough like a mantra and engrave it into his soul or say it like a prayer, maybe thursday would come a lot quicker and he wouldn't have to pretend like he isn't bursting at the seams.

"hey," you pause, "you okay?" your voice lowering an octave, he recognises it as the soft one you reserve just for him and momentarily it calms the stormy waters keeping them at bay.

"yeah," he breaths, hoping it doesnt sound as high pitched and reeking of lies as it did in his head when he rehearsed it fifty thousand times, "yeah."

...

he doesn't get to see you off, a vigilante attack steals his attention that he misses you leaving your apartment and before he knows it you've disappeared into the tedious timings of the airport.

he settles for the facetime calls where he gets a sliver of your face, a ramble of your voice and the smile that makes him believe that this will all be over soon and he can get back to living his purpose in life: being with you.

the space is good, he thinks. the space is nice- it's healthy. it's made him even more sure of the feelings he feels and he knows that this building between you is more than friendship; its real life fucking love and pure romance from the novels. its in the mundane moments that you make feel so special- in the highs and adrenalines of life where he only ever sees you.

its in the way he suddenly feels complete when he sees your body standing at baggage claim. it's only been four days but it feels like a lifetime without you- the constant force in his life that before he knows it, his legs are picking up at lightning speed crossing the distance within seconds.

"hey!" he calls out, tossing and tackling between busy bodies in the crowd and you turn around slowly at the sound of your best friend towering over everyone. a smile grows on your face, spreading pure sunshine all over and you abandon your case- start sprinting to meet him in the middle. the pace is off, his strides are quicker than yours that he's sent barrelling into you as he pulls you in to a stop. you're airborne suddenly, lifting you off the ground as he feels your laughter in his neck.

"i missed you too, clark," your voice rumbles, the vibrations tickling your spine as he lowers you into the ground with a bone crushing hug.

the emotions are flying everywhere for him and there's a look in his eyes you can't pinpoint. theres soft clark, ambitious clark, clark who mysteriously disappears and is on edge, clark who's the smartest guy in the damn room, clark who drinks your coffee even though you know its horrible as shit- you just keep making it to see how long he'll keep up the act, when he decides to just give in. clark who looks at you like you've hung the stars in his sky, who carried around mistletoe all christmas but you stupidly thought it was for lois lane. you've seen all the versions of clark and loved them all the same; but this wild look in his eyes- this feels new and unfamiliar.

but it's the clark that's about to create a whole new balance and orbital shift in your universe.

"i'm in love with you," the words spill out quickly like he's drowning in his thoughts- the cage is locked and its overflowing and his body feels just too heavy to swim up to the surface and out, "and i thought i could bury it down, hide it if thats what it would mean for us to always stay best friends and keep what we have but i just can't do it anymore. those four days? they felt like a lifetime of hell. i don't know who i am without you like i'm me but i just like who i am a hell of a lot better when you're with me. i love you and i've been dying to say it- hoping you'll feel the same way and i get it if you don't i mean who could be worthy of your love? you're fucking incredible-"

"clark-"

"and i'm sorry for laying this all on you right now, i would wait thousands of years in silence- pure burning yearning silence just to be with you and it would be a fucking nightmare-"

"clark-" you try again, with more urgency

"but i'd do it a million times over because existing without you seems a far worse feat and i-"

you crash your lips into his and damn sparks fly- clark's pretty sure a solar system has just burst itself, possibly his as his lips mould against yours like a perfect slot. its everything he's imagined it to be and he never wants to separate himself from you. just how long does he think he can go without air? maybe, today he should put it to the test. you don't know when he slips off the glasses, angling his face to yours to make this more comfortable for you until a throat clears and you jump back slightly. a mother stands with her child, shooting the two of you disapproving glances but you're too preoccupied with your best friend to even find the smallest fuck to give.

"oh just shut up, you giant idiot," you mumble against his lips and break apart, clark moves to rest his forehead on yours still stealing a glance into your softened eyes, though theres a glint of giddiness that undeniably shines through.

"yes, ma'am," he mumbles in his flushed daze.

"i'm in love with you too," you breathe. "have been for a while but the moment's never just felt-"

"right," he finishes, voice synchronising with yours as yiur heart beats start to dance to your own tune. "is this okay?" he murmurs, as you rest your head on his chest and he rocks you in his embrace.

it feels like that night in his bedroom those months back, though he doesn't need to be in his apartment- he has you in his arms and you're all he's ever known to be his home.

"it's perfect," your voice is muffled into his knitted sweater.

yeah, you are, he thinks. you're his best friend and he's fucking in love with you and whats even better is- you're also head over heels in love with him too.

riya saying hi: ok i'm a little obsessed w this one- i love me a pining clark! i think next on my list will have be a little superman saving the world but clark kent coming back to you at the end of it idk yet- still deciding i need a good song to get me going- if anyone has any good recs LET ME KNOW ‼️‼️‼️

[kill3ill]

guided masturbation with nanami ⦂ 18+

you're useless at pleasing yourself without nanami to help you, and he has to show you how to take care of yourself because he has a trip coming up soon and doesn't want you all hot and bothered with no way to get off.

he sits you in his lap on the bed with your back to his chest, spreading your legs over each of his to have you open for him. you whine at the embarrassing position, but he's quick to reassure you with a kiss to the top of your head. "easy, sweetheart. i'm right here..."

you're already bare and laying against him without the annoying barrier of clothes, and he wastes no time in slipping his fingers through yours and guiding your hand to your plump pussy, guiding you to rub slow circles along your folds and apply the right amount of pleasure and friction for it to be pleasurable. already, you're a little dissatisfied because your fingers don't cover as much surface area as his, and they're not rough and calloused enough to give you that extra stimulation. he pushes his fingers onto your pussy along with yours, helping you play with yourself while arousal starts to ooze out of you.

"yeah, just like that..." he whispers in your ear, groaning softly when he sees how wet you are already. then he starts to guide your fingers to make small circles along your lips and urethra, cooing when you shudder and prod your swollen folds. he guides one digit onto your clit. "this is where it usually feels best," he instructs, breaths heavy and labored into your ear. "remember how i play with you, my love? i like to push here-" he pushes the pad of your finger onto your budded clit and rolls it, pinches it lightly to get it all stiff and swollen for him, causing you to jolt and cry out. "-to make you feel good." he finishes with a soft smile.

you pant his name and let him guide your fingers, having him take control while you look down at where his big hand is moving yours. you're not even paying attention to what he's teaching you, too overcome by how good he's making you feel. you turn your head with glassy eyes, wanting to kiss him, but he tuts and shakes his head. "focus. i'm trying to teach you something. you won't learn if you're only thinking about me."

he eases your finger inside of yourself, chuckling softly. "this is all about you."

you pump your fingers inside yourself with his help, his thumb pushing yours down and rolling it along your clit while you twist and curl your finger as deep as it'll go with his guidance. knowing you'll want it to be as similar to his touches as possible, he hooks another finger around yours and eases it into your warm pussy as well, helping you imitate the thickness of one of his.

at this point, you're leaking juices down onto your joined hands, making a mess of yourself the longer your fingers thrust in and out of you. your plush walls wrap around the digits, velvety insides sucking your fingers each time you push or prod against a particularly sensitive spot. "if you push along the inside, it feels even nicer." kento instructs gently, nudging your wrist upwards to angle your thrusts. "fuck!" you moan, tipping your head back against his shoulder "oh my gosh, r-right there, kento-"

"me? this is all your doing, my love. keep going..."

you gasp and rub your clit a little faster and harder, fingers pushing against your weak spots each time you push in, and bumping against your sensitive lining and your g-spot each time you pull out. your thoughts are starting to get hazy the closer you are to your peak, and when nanami mumbles, "almost there. you're so good for me, my love..." the praise envelops your brain and you can't help but cum around your fingers, toes curling as the sensations overcome you.

nanami rewards your ability to make yourself cum by replacing his thick, longer fingers with yours, showing you how its done as he finger fucks you through your orgasm.

convulsing against him and babbling a slew of incoherent whines and pleas, all nanami has to do is thrust his fingers into you to the knuckle a few firm, quick times before you cum again from the overstimulation, a proud grin etching on his face at how quick he's able to make you come undone.

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[tonycries]

Part of Your World - N.K.

Synopsis. Prince Nanami Kento would give anything to be part of your world - his tail, his voice, and yet, his heart is already yours. You would give anything to know more about the mysterious suitor from across the seas - and why you just can’t stay away.

Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!princess!reader, merman!Nanami, The Little Mermaid AU, PlNING Nanami, he saves you, Kenjaku as Ursula, contracts, temporarily mute Nanami, slightly forbidden, falling in love, slow dancing, boat rides, balls, magic, plot, getting together, oraI (fem rec.), face-sítting, pússydrúnk Nanami, spítting, fíngering, merman powers, he’s BIG, making it fit, cervíx kíssing, NANAMI’S POWERS, he goes FÉRAL, stopping you from running, tummy buIges, mahandIing, dúmbifícation, creampíes, cúmplay, confessions, he’s a yearner, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.6k

A/N. I made MYSELF all mushy writing this- me when??

“Wish I could be…”

The only thing you could feel were gentle fingertips tracing your features; down your cheeks, across your salt-encrusted lips. Fleeting- almost scared, like an apology for the churning waves mere minutes before. 

And it’s what makes you flutter your bleary eyes open, squinting at the beams of sunlight from above.

At first, you make out a shadow. A halo of hair that glints like gold. Then, lips that tenderly hum, “-part of your world.”

Your heart stutters- and you’re not sure whether it’s because of the striking man on top of you, or the sudden call of your name from a distance.

But he disappears in the blink of an eye.

And you couldn’t rip your fogged vision away - not from the calm plane of ocean that had cushioned your shipwreck, not from the absence of him. 

“A man, he…saved me.” You’re uttering, once your advisor hurries across the shoreline to help you into a stand. “He had the most beautiful voice.”

But Gakuganji only looks at you with a smile, the same one you’d grown up with that told you he would be fondly sighing about this with your parents later. 

“Ah, princess.” Throwing one of your arms over his surprisingly strong shoulders, the royal advisor bodily turns you away from the lapping waves. Ready to make the short trek back to the palace, “I think you swallowed a bit too much seawater, your highness. Birthday celebrations on a ship- I did tell the royal majesties it wasn’t a fine idea.”

“But, I swear on the crown- there was a man! He was singing and-”

Guffawing, “Off we go now.” Patting your shoulder, though, it was starkly different from the touch you swear had been mapping out your face beforehand. Memorizing. 

You throw a look of near-envy as your royal hound wades into the water, barking indiscriminately at something you could not see. With a final look behind you- “Yes. Perhaps.”

And if two molten eyes had been looking back, well, Nanami was only glad for the waves that hid his burning ears. And his glistening tail. 

.

.

.

“Yuuji-” Nanami’s sharp nose bridge crinkles as he holds back a smile, hands reaching out to grasp at the wriggling pink tail of the younger merman. Though, that doesn’t stop him from following dutifully, “Why can’t you just tell me what this is all about?”

“You’ll see—” Itadori sing-songs, splashing deeper into the prince’s grotto. 

It was their little secret; no guards or elders or merman rules that would stop the young heir from hoarding any glittering human object he could get his hands on. 

And oh, did he get his hands on them. 

It seemed that humans considered anything ‘lost’ to the sea to be truly gone. Every nook and cranny of the underwater cavern was stuffed with such fascinating trinkets— everything from soggy books unable to open, to strange dials telling the time that Nanami considered treasure. 

And as Itadori snakes past the narrow tunnel entrance n’ into the wide open space of the grotto, he’s giggling with mischief. “It’s a surprise–!”

“A surp- oh!” Nanami’s breath strangles when he finally catches up to the sprightly boy- because right there, right in the very middle of the chamber, was you.

Well, as close as a merman like him could ever get to you.

Humming in satisfaction, “I got it from the shipwreck- had fallen off the ship.”

It was one of those ‘statues’ that humans of your family seemed to be quite fond of - a frigid block of stone that somehow still seemed to capture the warmth in your smile. The proud tiara atop your scalp as you held a book in one hand, a sword in the other - gazing off into the distance like you were taking in each overspilling shelf of Nanami’s collection. 

And said Nanami felt like every gust of air in his lungs had just melted at the sight, “Yuji…” He’s daring to whisper, so quiet that it was as if a syllable too loud would make the statue crumble apart. “Yuji, you’re the best.”

With a rapid hug that sends Itadori’s laughter booming across the walls, the older merman races towards your statue. 

All speed. All power. Though, the way he softly cradles the curve of your statue’s cheek is anything but- leaning his forehead in to kiss your replica’s own. “It even has her eyes.”

At Itadori’s coos, he suddenly feels the tips of his ears scorch hot enough to make the surrounding water bubble. “You look just like a royal couple, Nanamin.”

How he’d dreamed. How he’d taught himself to use those human utensils of graphite to write about it.

Pulling back with a sudden giggle- 

“A royal couple? Why, princess-” Nanami dramatically bows down to brush his lips against the back of your hand. “-run away with you? What would the king think?” He’s looping a hand ‘round your waist the way he’s seen in those smudged paintings of human dances - the way he’s always wanted to. Pretending to shake his head. “This is all so…”

Sudden.

Sudden- Yaga was towering at the grotto entrance. 

Trident heavy in his hand, crown heavier on his head.

And never - never - in the years that Nanami had been taken in, had he felt that he was gazing at the ruler of Atlantica more than he was right now. Never had he known the ruler to spear a look back at him like so- “S-sir.”

The waters of the kingdom were constantly icy, but right now they froze Nanami Kento to his very bones. 

Itadori’s swimming to hide behind a decorated treasure chest once Yaga starts speaking - and when the king speaks, everyone listens. “I consider myself a reasonable merman.” Everyone makes note of the low, darkening tone as he glides from out the shadows of the entrance. “I set certain rules.”

Nanami backs up against the front of your statue, arms behind him as if to protect you. Even if you weren’t quite here with him.

“And I expect those rules to be obeyed.”

He shoots a glance behind him, at you. At the kingdom’s postcard pictures of you, at that one rattle you’d lost when you were a mere toddler- and he was nothing but a too-curious merchild a year older, stealing his first swim to the world above. “But, sir, I-”

“Is it true you rescued a human from drowning?” The king spits out, venom lacing his tone in a way that told Nanami he’d already been whispered the answer by one of his numerous council of elders. 

“I had to-”

“Contact between the human world and the mer-world is strictly forbidden. Kento, you know that-” As if Nanami could ever forget. “Everyone knows that.”

“She could’ve died-”

“One less human to worry about.”

Biting back tears at the booming words that echoed around the chamber, Nanami’s shaking his head as if to stop them from replaying in his mind. Tone more quiet than he would’ve liked- “You don’t even know her.”

“Know her?” Yaga seethes, baritone growing scratchier with each syllable. More out-of-control. More honed in on the very honorary son that he was rounding on, he hisses with distaste. “I don’t have to know her. They’re all the same.” His trident raises, fists clenching deeper the more the older merman takes in the statue that Nanami was clutching like a lifeline. “Spineless, savage, harpooning, fish-eaters. Incapable of any feeling or-”

“I love her.”

It’s as if lightning strikes the surface of the water, and burrows its way inside Nanami’s lil’ grotto. 

“No…” Yaga sounds more breathless than furious right now. 

With a pointed index, he’s jabbing between the other’s broad pecs. “Have you lost your senses completely? She’s a human- you’re a merman.”

Gripping onto the fingers of your statue, until his own knuckles turn white. “I don’t care.” And the elders always did say that stubbornness would lead to his doom - Nanami just didn’t think that love would, too.

“So help me, Kento, I am going to get through to you.” Somewhere nearby, he hears Itadori gasp. “And if this is the only way-” The glaring glow of Yaga’s trident makes Nanami’s heart race - right before it’s breaking in two. “-so be it.”

.

.

.

It was in pieces. All of it.

His trinkets.

His books.

You.

You were never his to keep - not even a statue of you - but you were never Yaga’s to tear apart with his trident, either. 

Which was how Nanami Kento found himself crushing beads of tears behind his palms, all the better to see the spiky, slanted handwriting in front of him. Snaking down the tattered parchment like it was luring him in with each syllable-

“Go ahead and sign the scroll—” Kenjaku purrs, squid-like tentacles nudging a skeletal quill his way. “If you’re going to cross the bridge, then you’ve got to sign the toll, my dear.”

The younger merman can only gaze up in conviction - he knew, oh, he knew there was a reason that Yaga had banished the other man from Atlantica all those years ago. 

And yet, once those two slippery eels had approached him in the grotto after the king had left, he couldn’t help but find himself following them. Couldn’t help but feel his fingerpads itch to grip the pen, inching towards the scrappy contract, despite how much they trembled.

“Three days with legs- just imagine—” Legs. 

All he needed were legs. 

Mahito preens from beside Kenjaku. “The places you could walk, the things you could do…with her.” Snickering as Nanami glares at the simple mention of you on his tongue. 

But that doesn’t seem to deter the two eels– “Yes yes— all you need to give is your voice, and all you need to get is a kiss for it to be permanent.” Jogo pushes Nanami’s figure closer, and he swears the handwriting on the paper had started to gleam with power. “Then you can truly love her alllll you want.”

Nanami’s heart jumps.

He gulps.

He reaches out—and pen meets parchment.

Kenjaku cracks a grin, “Poor, unfortunate soul.”

Then there’s a flash. 

.

.

.

“Did you see him-”

“-they say they found him wandering the shore-”

“-more good-looking than any prince.”

“Does this gown look alright, you think?” You’re cutting through the chatter, and instantly a few cooing voices are fussing over the intricacies of your outfit for the morning. 

Wincing as a few attendants behind you start to pin and prick at your sleeves, you’re catching the knowing smile on Utahime’s face and cave in on yourself. “I just think it should be appropriate for the princess to be presentable in front of a guest.”

“And that doesn’t have anything to do with this guest being easy on the eyes-” She’s drawling, tugging you away from your gaggle of ladies and closer towards the dining hall. “-does it, your highness?”

“A-absolutely not.”

At least, that’s what you’d been telling yourself since early this morning.

Since your advisor had presented you with the news that a rescued man from the beach would be residing in the palace for a few days- and here you were, much too tentative than you should’ve been for a simple breakfast occasion. 

Though, you’re blaming it all on the whispers that claimed he was other-worldly - that his eyes were piercing, and his hair was like spun treasure. It reminded you too much of that mysterious singing stranger.

“Then, you shouldn’t keep your guest waiting, hm?” Utahime’s the one to snap you out of your little reverie, just as soon as you’re reaching the chamber entrance. 

And before you can protest- before you can manage out a word, you’re being pushed in.

Having Gakuganji announce your arrival, and your peripherals immediately catching on - onto him. 

Running a metal fork through his hair like a comb, until he’s seeing you, that is- and immediately the utensil drops onto the table with a clatter. 

It was obvious that the royal stylists had gotten their hands on him before anyone else did. 

Because seated there, adjacent to the far end of the table was the most handsome man you had ever set your sights on. 

Tall. Pretty. 

Fitted in a loose, white dress shirt, tucked in to show off such a trim waist- it was obvious that your new guest was sculptured. Naturally chiselled collarbones peeking through the low waist, it was oh-so-perfect to frame broad shoulders n’ a noble face.

Blond hair pushed back, long lashes fluttering, plush lips pulled tight.

His eyes seemed to find yours like it was second nature to him, and the man lets out a slight gasp at the mere sight of you. Like you were the first speck of day he had seen in years.

Like you were a dream manifesting before his very gaze. 

He slowly rises as you curtsy, “It is an honor to meet you, my lord.” You dare to inch closer to the noble, claiming your seat right opposite him on the winding dinner table. And just the sole heat of his proximity makes something at the pit of your stomach twist. 

“Pardon me, but-” You start, head tilting as you squint your eyes in concentration at the man. Household staff bustle about you two to get the first meal of the day readied, but that was the last thing on your mind. “-you seem very…familiar to me.”

The noble only nods, nervous hands pushing back the stray strands of his pale hair. 

And you can only continue, “Have we met?”

Another nod. Another dazzling smile beamed your way- brows furrowing, heel tapping down on the marble floor, and it’s almost as if his shy excitement was contagious.

“We have met?” You’re breathing, almost in wonderment. And it’s with his third and final nod - the most fervent of them all - that his meticulously-styled strands bounce, catching the early morning sun. 

Setting it aglow like molten gold. 

Oh.

“I knew it- you’re the one!”

The next thing you do makes Gakuganji gape from his subtle position a few seats away- body moving before your mind, you’re reaching straight across the mahogany table to grasp the man’s hands. 

“Princess–!”

“Why, if his majesty knew- what about her arranged-”

“I haven’t seen her smile like that in weeks-”

“The one I’ve been looking for.” Large, slightly calloused, they rest in your hold as firmly as anchors. You brush your thumbs down his mountainous knuckles, pulling him closer. You knew he was real. You knew he saved you. You’re nearly pleading, “Pray tell, what’s your name?”

The blond-haired man opens his mouth—‘Na-’ 

Only for his words to be soundless. 

Something in his open, gentle expression crumbles- and the right of his hands immediately darts to touch his throat. With knitted brows, he’s tearing his pupils away- almost like it hurt to do so. Like it was the last thing he wanted to do, and yet…

“What’s wrong? What is it?” You watch, patiently, as he taps his voicebox and shakes his head. “You can’t speak?”

Another affirmation. And another twist somewhere in your stomach, though, it felt colder this time. 

“Oh- oh, then…” Looking down at your clasped hands, you can’t bring yourself to remove them from his just yet, no matter how many royal protocols you were breaking. Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you shake your head as if to free it from the soft, slightly raspy voice that’d been haunting it for days. “-then, you couldn’t be who I thought. My apologies, my lord.”

But the look on Nanami’s face told you that an apology was the last thing he wanted.

You just wish you knew why.

.

.

.

You didn’t know what you’d expected when you volunteered to show the mysterious stranger ‘round your kingdom, but it certainly wasn’t to stop him from leaning out of the royal carriage until his nose touched the ground. 

It certainly wasn’t personally apologizing to a puppeteer in the town square after he’d tried snatching a puppet off of his hands. 

And it certainly wasn’t having yourself be led around, hands intertwined with his engulfing ones in a way that no other in the royal palace would dare to.

“P-please!” You’re struggling to get out through your gasps of laughter, eyes caught on the broad flex of his shoulders, the way that his blond locks took light in the day. “I beg of you- have mercy on this poor princess’s feet.”

He looks at you with quirked brows, the type of look that told you you could do better than that.

You huff at the excited look on his face, his eyes seemed to be devouring every tiny ministration in your bustling town. “Oh, do as you wish. But I’ll have you know that you’re manning the carriage back-”

Immediately, your guest startles into a halt - and as do you.

Peering over his mighty shoulder, you narrow your vision towards what had seized his attention. 

He was pointing a curious finger at a band nearby, surrounding a clearance in the town square where couples were waltzing along to the wafting music. Dresses and feet a blur in time with the tender, lilting music permeating the air.

Eyes locked on each other, just as his was locked on them. Like it was painting he was aiming to capture into sweet, sweet memory. 

Your own widen, you’re looking down - just in time to spot one of his polished shoes tapping along to the beat of the crooning cello. And the longer you’re staring at your guest’s eager eyes, his parted lips- the harder you feel your heart thud once he looks down over his shoulder. Head tilted in question.

He’s so tall that you have to crane your dominant hand upwards to lace with the almost-stranger’s, grin enough to make his breath hitch. “Well, no tour of my kingdom shall be complete without a dance.”

He beams.

So bright that you’re almost recanting your statement from breakfast earlier. 

“Let me teach you.” It was obvious that the tall man wasn’t versed in dancing - though, luckily for him, the palace always did take pride in enrolling their heirs in waltzing lessons just as soon as they learned how to walk.

And you have to stifle a smile, watching the way his ears scorch crimson at the roaming pathway of your hands. One palm resting on his shoulder, the other held with his. “First you bow- oh.”

You bow, he bends to kiss the upper face of your palm. 

Fleeting lips against heated skin.

Words nothing but a mere breath once he straightens up, “R-right.” Kindly tugging you so that your chest was pressed against his— so close. Close enough that you could smell the sunny, salty air of the beach on him. 

Your mouth was dry - drier than it ever had been during any ball, any other dance partner. 

And perhaps it was the way he was lapping onto your every word like the gospel - perhaps it was just him - but you couldn’t help but step just a little bit closer. “First, you make a box. I may lead, if you’d like, my lord, then step to your left…now back…now…” 

Soft strings tinge the air with their balmy tune, but the only music that he could hear was your voice. And it was even sweeter now that you were in his arms.

.

.

.

“You know, I feel awful not knowing your name, my lord.” It was only the second day of your guest’s stay, and it was safe to say that the entire palace was enamored with him.

Yes, Gakuganji included.

And as the hulking man steadily rows the dainty lil’ rowboat of your palace’s blue lagoon, you start to think that it might include a small part of you, as well. 

Hastily, you shake your head to rid these improper thoughts. Fatigue- yes, it must be fatigue from a day spent scouring the palace with him to show off each of your little trinkets and collections from voyages afar. 

Utahime had suggested a slow cruise along the steady waters of the estuary that connected your palace’s shoreline to the ocean. Not quite open water, but wild enough that overhanging trees ripped apart the yolky glow of the setting sun. 

Romantic.

Trying your very best not to ogle the way the daylight cast patterns on his flexing biceps, you hum in thought. “Perhaps I could try to guess?” At the challenging quirk of his brow- “Is it, uh- Richard?”

At that, he’s making a face so disgusted that you have to laugh- 

“Alright, alright. Not Richard.” Tapping your chin, you’re trying to draw any ideas from the calm, lapping waves of the water surrounding you two. Something familiar. “How about Caspian?” A firm shake of his head. “Kaito-” Another shake. “Shiu-”

“Ken.”

“Ken?” Your head swivels around, wondering whether you really were too exhausted after a day wandering about the castle. Because you could have sworn you just heard the quiet, childish voice of a boy whispering ‘Ken.’

So caught up in following the voice between the thick growth of bushes, you nearly don’t notice your guest’s soft smile. Eyes widening at the sparkle in his soft peripherals, “Ken? Your name’s Ken?”

Nodding furiously- the gorgeous man stops rowing briefly to let your rowboat hover about the crystalline water as if it was a cloud upon the sky. Wading gently enough that you could almost drift to sleep- if it wasn’t for the large palm that closes over yours. 

Your skin heats as he gestures to his lips—‘To.’

“To?” You’re questioning, leaning in closer. “Ken…to?”

And the only thing he can do is nod- carefully, ever-so-carefully, lifting a palm to cradle your cheek. You make note of each letter he manages to mouth—Na-Na-Mi-Ke-n-to.

Closer.

Just to make sure you were hooked on each syllable. 

“Nanami Kento.” You’re not sure why a smile breaks across your face - but it’s one that Nanami matches. Breathing, small enough that you’re unsure whether he’d be able to hear it over the pounding of your own heart. “Okay-” Squeezing his hand, the gap tightens. And he’s letting out a warm puff of laughter against your face, “-Kento.”

A world between you two, and yet, it was only a few inches.

A few inches that was shortening as your mind screams—kiss him.

Nanami’s half-lidded gaze bores down at you with the weight of torrentials, pinkish tongue darting out just enough to wet his rosy lips. 

Kiss him.

Eyelids heavy, light pants mingling with his. You catch his stare map each of your beautiful, beautiful eyes- then down to your lips.

Kiss him.

Ones that pursue ever-so-slightly as you lean in.

Kiss him.

Mere millimeters away, as if you were going to-

SPLASH–!

As the both of you tip over into the frigid water with a sudden, striking current, you can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. Though, it melts over only somewhat once Nanami easily carries you out of the shallow water, arms underneath your legs, forehead pressing against yours- in a princess carry. All the way back to the palace, at that.

You could almost laugh at the circumstance of it all, wondering just how you were going to explain yourselves to Gakuganji. 

But that could wait- looking up, it was the perfect angle to take in the sharp line of Nanami’s jaw, the steadiness of his gait - for now, you were content burrowing yourself into his strong chest. And content with the way his hands tighter, as if to burrow a part of himself back.

And Itadori - poor, bumbling Itadori - who’d toiled so hard to whisper you Nanami’s name from the side of the rowboat, could only watch as your soaked backs disappear. 

Dammit, his plan had failed—and there were only two beings in the entire ocean who would do such a thing.

The young merman looks over his shoulder at the darkening water, shrouding with the inky stain of nightfall. Though, in the stray slivers of dying sunlight, he could make out the two escaping, slippery tails of eels. 

.

.

.

Nanami smiles tenderly - almost embarrassingly - as he combs his hair with one of those human ah- ‘forks’ in the mirror. 

It was the last day.

You would either kiss him, and he would live on as human- or, you would not, and he would be content to live on with the memories. Just one minute to stand beside you would have been enough, and he had been blessed with three entire days.

He had until sunset with you.

The pads of his feet down the royal corridor are the only thing that accompany him as he races down to meet you. 

It was nearing the afternoon, and he wanted to show you the sparkling ocean today- perhaps the new coral that had been growing last time he swam, only hoping you could love it as much as he did. And as Nanami throws himself down the winding staircase, three steps at a time, he could already hear your sweet, sweet tone wafting from the royal court. 

Empty. 

Save for you, Gakuganji, and…

“Well now, princess, it appears that I was mistaken.” The elderly man sounded uncharacteristically reserved- it’s exactly what makes Nanami stop short. Peering at the gathering of nobles ‘round a wide marble pillar leading down the stairway. “This mystery suitor of yours does, in fact, exist-”

He gasps-

“-and he is charming. Congratulations, my boy.”

Gakuganji shakes hands with the tall, medal-decorated man that held your hand. His pale blond hair standing out starkly amongst the polished floor, smile something long and sharp. 

Crooning, he bows so shallowly that the conch necklace dangling around his neck barely even moves. “The name’s Prince Zenin Naoya, and the pleasure is all mine—” Shooting a look at your quiet figure, “Isn’t that right, my dear?”

“We wish to be married as soon as possible.” You mutter, monotone.

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course.” Gakuganji smooths over, beady eyes darting between Naoya’s smug expression to your blank one. “But uh- these things do take time, your highness-”

“Today, Gakuganji.” You’re cutting him off, emotionless. Icy. No trace of your peels of laughter from yesterday. 

And the words are enough to make Nanami lean back against the shadowed pillar and clutch at his aching heart. To make him thud his head behind him, to make him unable to move a single step away. He whispers noiselessly to himself to keep from shedding a ready tear as you continue- “We shall announce the wedding with a grand ball, at sunset.”

.

.

.

Your body was walking, but you didn’t command it to move. Your mouth was speaking, even though you didn’t know the words. 

You were staring up at Zenin Naoya, your soon-to-be-husband, and you weren’t quite sure how you’d made it into his arms.

Being twirled in dizzying motions in-between powdered wigs and dresses twice the size of a normal court event. For, this was to be an engagement, and every single royal attendee knew it. They could feel it glinting in the heavy diamond tiara atop your head, and the orchestra that sang in romantic melodies. 

Naoya’s gold-tipped shoe steps on your toes and you wince–“Keep the smile on.” It’s all he has to whisper before you’re feeling your cheeks ache with the force of your sudden, plastic grin.

What…?

“Now, it’s been long enough.” He’s murmuring to himself, taking a sweeping look around the ballroom.

They’d decorated it as decadently as they could, given the short notice. From the chandelier that spilled over like a second sun, to the white bouquets of flowers that lined each corner. Every utensil, candle, and seat had been polished until they reflected your grave expression. 

And Naoya’s preening at the awed murmurs that followed your rapid, methodical waltz. Like each step was being conducted by his lead- he leans down to whisper in your ear. “You’re going to go up to where the king is and say you have something to announce.” That is it. That is all that it would take - no princess could go back on her word after such a declaration. Unless she wanted war- “And then you’ll invite me and let me-”

Tap-tap–!

You don’t hear him, but you do feel him.

Nanami.

Dolled up by the best of your palace tailors, he was wrapped in snug silks that outshone every suitor in the chamber right now. Blond locks pulled back into a small ponytail, a sword kept close by the leather belt on his waist. 

He looked other-worldly. Even with his downcast eyes intense, jaw clenched- though, not at you. Never at you. 

Nanami’s frozen mask melts just as soon as you halt your dance, looking over your shoulder at him. He doesn’t need to say a single word- only, bending forwards into a low, low bow. Brushing the back of your hand with his lips-

“Yes-” You’re surprising yourself by saying, and - seemingly - Naoya as well. Your lungs heave as if you’d just let out your first gust of air in ages. “Yes, why- I would love to have this dance, Kento.”

The other man braces forwards, hand on the hilt of his scabbard. “You won’t-”

“My boy, as future king, we should introduce you to our council.” But before he can do anything, Gakuganji’s hand snakes from behind to clap Naoya’s shoulder. Narrowed eyes flicking behind your shoulder- you seize your escape route with a thankful nod. 

Grasping Nanami’s roughened hand, “Come with me, my lord. Too many eyes.”

You always did love the open, luxurious boardwalk that one wing of the grand hall opened up to, leading out into the open waters of the splashing ocean.

Mainly used to welcome royal guests that had sailed from the far seas, though, now you were squeezing past the throng of crowd to make a break for it. Like you were running away.

Like you were dragging Nanami with you- you’re pushing past the gold-tipped double doors of the ballroom and making your way down the short marble staircase. It ended off with a large wooden plateau that bobbed above the sunlit water, welcoming you with the hum of tides, and the salt of ocean waves. 

As soon as you turn to face him, Nanami’s intertwining his fingers with yours - delicate, slow, like he was giving you all the time to run off if you wanted to.

But you didn’t.

And it takes you only a few seconds of practised movements to find yourself in his arms once more, tugging Nanami in by the width of his deltoids. “Forgive my forwardness, but it makes me happy that you are here, Kento.”

His hazel eyes widen- the setting sun casting circlets of gold ‘round his irises. 

“I don’t know why…” You’re shaking your head, it’d been slightly foggy since this morning. Almost as if he realized, Nanami’s swivels of your body are slow. 

Taking his time. Taking care. And the feeling is so soft that it makes your throat clog, enough so that you’re looking over at the expansive waters when he waltzes with you. Tenderly. “Maybe it’s pre-wedding jitters, but if I look at the ocean right now it makes me feel like I can run away- hah!”

He gulps, and so do you.

Lips quivering, you’re leaning in close with a hand planted between his pecs. He was beautiful. Just so, so beautiful, with the peach rays of the sun crowning his head in jewels. “Do you…feel that you could-”

CRASH–!

“That’s my throne- my wife! That’s my future wife out there-”

You’re bolting away from Nanami as if he burned, even though you could feel the edges of his fingertips twitch like all they wanted to do was keep you held to him. 

But what was worse than having your royal reputation tarnished, was tarnishing sweet Nanami’s. 

As expected, Naoya was at the edge of the double doors, fighting against Gakuganji and a few of your personal guards. Only a staircase away, you didn’t care to fight against that booming voice in your head that told you to walk to him.

“My- my apologies, my lord.”

Darting away.

Reaching for Naoya-

When Nanami pulls you back and presses his lips to yours.

Firm. Loving. 

The plush crevice of his mouth cushions the impact, and fuck- out of every royal delicacy in the world, you think that Nanami’s lips were the sweetest. One of his large hands cradles the back of your head, angling your mouth to press in even deeper—

“Nanami Kento, you fucking- you will never be human-”

You’re pulling back as soon as you hear Naoya’s blood-curdling scream.

As soon as you hear the steps-

With inhuman strength, he’s forcing apart your guards to the side and charging- glinting blade held high in the air, vision morphing into something monstrous. He jerks his hands back to point the tip of the sword right at you-

For but a mere second before Nanami unsheaths his own blade. Swinging.

Merciless. 

Down, down, down - it catches on something, though, not on the pale, clammy flesh of Naoya’s sour face. Rather on the thin string of his conch necklace-

The three of you can only watch in speechless awe as the tiny, unassuming shell strikes the marble staircase and splinters open. 

Somewhere in the distance, a gentle breeze sings - but your mind was only occupied by the glow. 

A small speck of sunlight that floats from the cracks in the heart-like conch, it’s floating in airy spirals around you. Around and around- before wafting near Nanami, as if it’d just remembered the other man after remembering you. 

And then it disappears - right into Nanami Kento’s beating heart. 

The spell was broken.

And he speaks—“My princess.”

In that slightly husky, deep tone that makes your mind fizz- fuck, the clouds of doubt n’ magic had finally given way to recognition. You breathe, “Kento?”

“My princess.”

A wicked voice sounds- “My dear, get away from him-”

There’s a tussle of metal and steps once Naoya’s wrestled to the ground by Gakuganji; well, he looked quite different now, and you wonder whether there even was a ‘Naoya’ - the man pinned to the floor was one with a thread-like pattern outlining his forehead, more unruly, slimy.

But that was not for you to worry about any longer. 

“You- you can talk.” Your feet have never carried you faster than they did to Nanami, and he’s waiting with open arms. Just like he was when he saved you on the beach. Just like he was right now, tucking you safely into the crook of his neck- “You’re the one.”

“I have waited for you to say that…all my life.”

.

.

.

“Mm, ngh- Kento.”

“Princess.”

Your breach hitches at the raw, primal tonality of his voice- and it’s enough to make your thighs squeeze around his clammy scalp. “Kento-”

“Princess.”

And it was like a switch had utterly gone off in your mind - instead of it being hazed by Kenjaku’s magic, now it was spinning with something else. 

The only thing you could possibly do being to grind your hips down onto Nanami’s face in a sloppy drag, knees straddling each side of his burning ears. “K-Ken.” It was driving you absolutely wild to have him murmur in his deep baritone against the outer folds of your pussy.

“My princess-”

And in the short hours since he’d explained everything to you, you’d learned that you really, really liked hearing Nanami’s voice. 

Especially when you were riding his face - something that he’d begged for, of course. 

Especially when it was gusting out from his throat in saccharine pants, sticking against the top of your drivelling slit. He’s spitting out a thick, bulbous wad of spit to glue against the front of your undergarments - the only thing you were wearing right now - just to make it wet enough so that the prince’s tongue can sliiiide it to the side. 

“N-nghhh, oh my…” Your own mouth waters at the tingling feeling of his taste buds driving between your pussylips. They were just so swollen that you’re making out each ridge stirrin’ up and down.

“Oh yeees–?”

Threatening to plug your leaky hole up by sinking his fat tongue in—

“Fuh-fuuuck- mmpf!” Yelping, it takes you gathering up every shred of rationality left in your body to smack your dominant hand in front of your gaping mouth. Just barely managing to muffle out your lewd noises, so that your entire palace won’t be getting a show tonight. 

Except– that wasn’t what Nanami had been thinking. 

And the only response you’re getting is the stern furrow of his brows, the way that he’s slapping your entrance with the velvety underside of his tongue. “I want you to be loud, my princess.”

“B-but you’ve probably had enough of me hngh- talking all these days.” You’re managing to babble out. 

Right before he renders you completely speechless anyway by swabbing the first ring of your muscle, stretchin’ it out teeeasingly with the tip-top crown of his tongue. “Enough? Enough?” Voice pitched, octaves higher than before; you’re being fucked by the treacly end of Nanami’s tongue in rapid, determined half-thrusts. “I’ve spent years aching to hah- hear your voice, my love- and I’d spent years more begging you to just- be- louder-”

Each word is ended off with a stab of his slimy, rovering muscle and you’re shrilling- “Kento- oh my god, mmm.”

“Just like that- need you to be- loud.” He’s gazing up at you through his long, tawny lashes– practically begging your drivelling maw to whine even louder. 

One of his knobbly thumbs snake upwards to latch onto your folds, pryin’ them further apart than they already were with a sluuuurp. “Need you to hear that.” He’s using the stretch to slip yet another inch of his mazing tongue inside, “And this.” 

To buck his hips upwards with a creak of the bedframe— he’s practically humping the heady air upwards. 

Sensually, one of his free hands guides your own. Down, down, down behind your back, until the trembly edges of your fingertips are feeling something long and rock-hard. You gasp- and Nanami only grins at the sweet sound. “And thaaaat.”

“O-oh, fuck, Kento.” You’re singing out, feeling the outline of his erection flinch upwards- pulsing so hard that it seemed painful.

“F-forgive me, my princess.” He’s hissing out, the honed tips of his canines sinking into your pussylips. Almost feral- Nanami’s crushing his face in until the straight line of his nose bridge crushes against your cunt. “But a-after so long in silence- these ngh- noises me- so-”

Lurching his slender hips clean off of the bedsprings, your soft palm’s being used for him to sloppily drag his bulged cock. 

Aching for friction, for the curly tip of his tongue to slither even deeper- “Do not deny me of every sound.” You’re whimpering, feeling the pointed edge of his chin hit your cunt when Nanami’s gashing his tongue along every crevice of your walls he could reach. “Every drop.”

Spitting, on purpose. 

The glittery glob of his saliva seeps into your weeping orifice and helps him slip n’ slide his mushy muscle deeper. “Every drop-” Gulping up your ounces of sweet, sweet juices. “-again.”

You’re feeling one doughy circumference slide down your teary slit and gape down at him- so hard that your chin strikes the beginning of your chest. 

Each and every mass of air escaping from your lungs - and you don’t know whether it’s because of the thick thumb that Nanami was glissading down your slit, or because of the way he was just gazing up at you. 

Pupils dilated, heart eyes. “Every-” He’s whistling out in a hollow breath, the squirming edge of his tongue making you quiver. “-fucking-” And when it can’t reach as deep as he was carnally craving for, he opens you up further with the crown edge of one thumb. “-inch of you.”

“W-wait, your fingers- hck!” You’re whining, eyes sprinting all the way to the back of your skull once you’re feeling his lengthy middle finger smear your soppy walls apart. “-oh my god, you’re so big.”

“And you’re so beautiful, my love.” Nanami whispers out, reverent. 

He’s stuffing your snug channel up with two digits until you’re overspilling- until the slick hole of your pussy was gushing out rivers of syrup all the way down to his wrist. 

Squelchin’ wetly inside, “Sounds so beautiful.” Nanami rasps out in disbelieving gasps with each inch he’s able to tunnel between your puffy folds. Sensory tips scouring across your walls like a searchlight. “Looks so beautiful.”

And you almost feel shy when his free thumb swerves apart your pussylips, taking a gooood long look at you. Before Nanami spits-

“F-fuck, oh fuck—”

“Oh, your walls are sucking me up so…” He’s so hypnotized by the sight of your heated core swallowing him up that he’s trailing off. Panting, hot breath sticky against your cunt, “So hot. So needy.”

So wet, with thrust after thrust of his dual fingers scraping where you were most tender. 

Nanami’s rovering fingertips probe a thorough bash somewhere near your most favorite spot and you feel your tired hips lurch- “C-can’t get enough, Kento-”

“Ride me.”

You’re blinking through your pearly tears, “What?”

“Ride me.”

The mere notion has your slobbering mouth unfastening in shock - it was such an unlady-like idea. Though…you could feel your thighs pathetically attempting to squeeze together. 

Cushioning Nanami’s sweaty, blond locks- the pressure of your legs trying to cutely suffocate him makes him flush all the way up to the tips of his ears. “You heard me this time, my princess.” Moaning, he’s planting open-mouthed kiss after kiss across your dripping pussy. 

“You see this?” Your hazed peripherals manage to catch the very sultry moment that the prince taps his forehead. Free hand drawing an invisible line dooooown his handsome face- “You see all of this?”

Rendered wordless by the utterly raw stretch of him squeezing in a third finger, you can only nod. 

And the grin that you’re being granted is devilish- something you’d never expected to twist Nanami’s perfectly swollen lips. “I expect you to ride alllll of my face, my love.”

He wanted you to use him.

And ‘use him’ you were going to - whether your fuzzy brain could keep up or not. 

Because before you can move- before you can even respond, a shaky hand of his grips onto the left of your ass cheek. Trembling. Ravenous.

Nanami’s pale white button-up was still partially worn, but even through it you’re making out the way that his beefy biceps flex. Manhandling your sloppy cunt deeper onto his ajar maw, “Atta girl.” Grinning against your pussylips as if he wasn’t the exact force driving your hips. “A-aaaatta girl.”

Back and forth, back and forth.

He wasn’t just digging the plush curves of his fingerpads into your every wall, he was making out with your pussy in a way that was feverish. 

Tongue lapping open kisses all up the sheeny interior of your thighs, up your slit, up to your clit until you trembled cutely on top of him. “Ride my face- use me.” Just filthy, his honed digits were stretching you wide open for his mouth to gulp up. “Again- again again again.”

You’re wailing out in unison with your ancient bedframe- though, that wasn’t the only thing drawing out a noisy background noise. 

Because with a lewd squeeze, you’re rubbin’ your palm down Nanami’s bulging erection and making him rut. “O-oh, princess-” He’s unsticking his maw away from your pussy with a glutinous slurp, “-you don’t have to.”

Your hand slips inside his heavy pants, “I want to, my prince.”

That lil’ title makes him gasp– nearly as much as he is when you’re finally letting a few of your fingers scratch down Nanami’s golden happy trail. Drenched with pre. 

Shit, even like this you could tell that his size was staggering. 

Throbbing in your eager touch, you skid your fingerpads down and experiment with a slow, laaazy pump of his veined girth. “My prince?”

“Ohhh, ngh.” He’s purring ‘round your perked clit, and you swear you feel the nibs of his canines elongate—some part of his tongue slathering between your pussylips, long enough that he’s kissin’ straight past your clit-

Gasping, you feel his sagging erection swell even thicker. “Wait- wait, Kento, are you-”

You could feel it.

You could feel that there was something happening with his chiselled body- that something inside of Nanami was going out of control. 

He was just so pussydrunk that his human form was fracturing, and the salivating cavern of his mouth was gaping even wider. “Look what you’ve done-” The slimy, curling tendril of his taste buds bully inside the tiny gap within your hole, pokin’ inside your bubblegum walls in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. “Look how you m-make me.”

“Kento—” Your backs arching into the perfect curvature, hamstrings aaaching where you’re struggling to keep up with his merciless pace. “Don’t stop- just like that- ngh, fuck.”

His tongue was growing- oh, was it growing inside of you.

And not only was the merman burrowing three separate fingerpads down your walls, he was letting it all wash down with a glide of his superhuman tongue. 

Fucking you senseless– the crowned end of his taste buds travel precisely onto the target of your g-spot. And there’s no waiting, no hesitation before Nanami’s drilling up into you like he was crazed.

Dual stimulation.

Just with the swirling, stirrin’ inches of his tongue smoothing out your ridged walls, “S’sweet.” And he’s rubbing your splotchy g-spot raw with the smacks of his digits right after, thrust after thrust. “Hot.”

“S-stop talking like that- ngh.” You’re whining, each word of his sending you into a frenzy. 

And it’s just then that all four - three of Nanami’s stout, thorough fingerpads and the lavish curve of his tongue - smash a direct hit to your g-spot. At the same time. At the same frequency over n’ over to drive you craaaazy—

“W-wetter than the fuckin’ heh- ocean, my princess.” And he could almost control those fluctuating powers of his, almost pace his repeated strikes against your sweetest bundle of nerves. Almost. “Now, I need you to c-cum like this.”

He’s groaning, hips thrusting the cylindrical bump of his dick against your hand. Nose thrusting against your throbbing clit- “Need you to cum on my tongue. Can you feel it?”

‘Feel what?’ - the question doesn’t make it past your trembly lips. 

Because, just then, the hand manhandling your urgent tempo starts to snake up your stomach. Lovingly flicking his fingers down the pathway to your womb - Nanami’s lovingly trying to feel for his tongue inside your walls. 

You’re being eaten out primally until you were stupid-

Letting off in a throaty gasp, “Can you feel- feel me?” His right hand has fully claimed your saccharine cunt by now, flexible thumb craning over to roll on top of your clit like a button. “Feel me claiming every inch of you?” 

Right in time for his slippery tongue to push against your g-spot once more, glissading right past that pulsing spot to reach for your cervix. 

“Feel me riiiight here?”

“Yes-” Glassy tears decorate your eyelids, and the only thing you can do is throw your head back and buck and buck- Your hands squeezes his pre-spraying cock, “Yes yes yes- yes.” Harder on his face, sloppier. “M-m’gonna cum…”

Oh, that final sentence of yours rings out like a death sentence for the last of Nanami’s sanity.

Groaning oh-so-sexily till the vibrations reach your very core, “Have no idea h-how bad I’ve wanted this- how long.” His thick, bulbous shaft creams out even more heated precum like it was attesting to all those long nights. “Want you- want you so bad that- it- hurts-”

Nanami’s slashing his curled tendril against your battered n’ bruised g-spot once more, smiling at just how ruined it makes you. How it makes you see stars-

“So you better cum on my face…my love.”

It’s all that it takes for you to throw your head back and splatter Nanami Kento’s attractive, grinning features with all your soppy syrup. Sticking to the sides of his jawline, his high cheekbones- there isn’t an inch of him that wasn’t covered in your slick by now. 

And that’s exactly how he wanted it. 

To have you ridin’ your sultry orgasm out on his face, rubbing each peak of your high on his high nose bridge. “Oh-oh my god.” You’re slurring out, pathetically. “It feels so- so good. Didn’t know it could feel so…”

The utter, raw wave of bliss leaves you completely weak in the knees. Too exhausted to even grind your hips down properly, Nanami’s the one rovering his princely face up n’ down your pussylips.

“It could. It can.” Feeding into each of your zaps of pleasure, he’s swervin’ his tongue around your insides until your vision splotches with white. He presses down on your overstimulated clit as he speaks, “And from now on, it will.”

“F-fuck.”

Again and again and again-

Until your hamstrings were screaming at you, and your dewy walls were massaged raw. 

You weren’t sure that you could’ve gotten even wetter than you already were - but that lil’ promise seems to do just the trick.

And a web of your arousal hits the pointed curve of Nanami’s chin with a splat! “Kento—” Whining, you struggle to unplaster his mouth from between your legs. “I want you to- f-fuck me now.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Yeah, you really were making him lose his sanity.

Nanami reels the lengthy expanse of his tongue out of you with a resounding squeeelch - one you’re sure rings across every corner of your royal bed chambers. One you’re sure you’ll have to explain to the personal guards outside. 

But right now you couldn’t care.

Not when Nanami’s merman tongue flops out of your treacly cunt with a final flick at your clit. “Anything for you, my wife.”

Wife?

Shit- your eyes widen once the realization strikes you. Nanami Kento was…pussydrunk. Completely, utterly pussydrunk.

Enough that his greedy mouth is damn near chasing the puffy lips of your pussy- before he has to physically smack himself upside the head and remember to break away. To seat you down all pliant n’ pretty on top of his raging erection.

You’d barely even made a dent in Nanami’s royal robes, and the only thing you could do as you sat down on his massive bulge was to gawk. “Sh-shit, something so big- Kento, I don’t think I’ve ever-”

“Me neither, my princess.” He’s breezing out in muddied pants, “I’ve never.” Slowly, sensually, the prince leans in closer until his ruddied lips graze yours - slick-glazed tastebuds scratching the crevice of your mouth. “And there’s no other way I’d want this.”

He was kissin’ you sloppily with the very same tongue that had been tunneling your walls wide open mere seconds ago. 

And it’s so filthy that it’s enough to distract you from the RIP-RIP-RIIIIIP–!

“Oh my god- the royal garments-” You gasp, scandalized as the rugged man before you wastes no time flinging off the drenched layers of his blouse and your underwear.

So eager that they’re tearing.

Every and any complaint on the tip of your tongue dissolves as you’re drinking in the heavenly vision of him. 

Naturally ripped, muscles flexed, it looked as if Nanami was hand-carved by the devil himself. 

And you couldn’t get enough- unsure where to look. The rippling cushions of his pecs, his ladder-like abs, or the thumb that was hooked onto the hem of his trousers. Merely tugging, he’s instantly setting free the thick, looong length of his erection.

Bigger than any experience or anatomical illustration you’d ever possibly seen. Heavily standing upright underneath two swollen, aching balls. 

You’re mentally counting about eight- nine, maybe ten inches if you really appreciated the cherry-red globe of his tip. And he was so plump, too, throbbin’ even wider in circumference with each passing second. 

You can feel your body gulp as a fat glob of translucent precum spurts out of Nanami’s weepy orifice, dripping down the multiple veins of his shaft in a way that was delicious. 

“D-don’t look at me like that.” Nanami’s low, gravelly voice seeps through your whirlwind of lecherous thoughts. 

And you can only challenge, “Why not?”

“Because…” He trails off, as if the answer should be obvious. Only once your hazed mind shows no chance of understanding does he push his unruly blond bangs back, “Because- forgive me, my princess, but I’m going to ruuuuin you.”

And he sounded dead fucking serious. 

A tone that makes your poor cunt throb- and Nanami, as if moving on a sixth sense, grabs at your hips like he was about to eat you out again. Drunk on your pussy.

Before you’re halting him straight in his tracks with one singular huff- “Ken.”

“Yes- yes, anything for you.” He’s crooning, shoulders shaking with bolts of electricity when your hand weaves through his clammy roots and pulls. Letting you manhandle him.

He’s gliding a gentle hand down the expanse of your spine, “Absolutely anything. You wan’ my- ngh- cock, my love?” Cooing at the shivers that run through your legs once he aligns his fat, pre-glossed cockhead against your hole. “Then you’re gonna get- it-”

You’re getting it in two sharp half-ruts of his flared mushroom tip - squeezing past the snug rim of your pussy. In and out in and out-

“F-fuck.” Nanami’s length is so plump n’ big that he’s getting stuck on that tiny orifice of your cunt, furiously jerking. You can only balance your open palms on his pecs and whine- “Oh my god- I-I fear I spoke too- ngh- soon.”

Your hips lurch tentatively, trying for the life of you to swallow yet another pulsating inch. But a particularly prominent line of his veins scrape your bruised insides and make you yelp-

“Don’t run.” 

“What did you- ngh.” Your mouth snaps open and shut, just so dizzy from the utter stretch of his stout girth. 

“Don’t run.” Nanami repeats, more breathy this time. More impatient.

Like each unsteady gyration of your hips was driving him closer and closer to simply snapping- he’s furrowing his brows and stretchin’ out your tight hole with a rugged push. “You’ve spent s-so long running from me.” Guttural groans sparking at the back of his throat when he backs away his hips to surge upwards. “Don’t run now. Don’t run- don’t-”

Each plea was tinged with such primal need - with soft, begging whines that were turning into hums.

“You’re unfair—” You’re crying out. You were already hypnotized by his rummaging cock, you didn’t need his sing-song baritone to add to that as well. 

“Am I—?”

Nanami’s gracing you with a grin so sleazy that you almost have to double-take. “Come on—” The deep tremor in his voice makes your own cunt flutter, “Take it-” Right before he’s flattening the slope of your pussy with a push. “Take it, take it- take it.” 

Push after push.

It doesn’t matter how much you’re clenchin’ and shaking prettily around his cock, he was rovering his mazing length as deep as your poor walls could take.

Barely even having to try to fill up your textured channel, Nanami’s only about halfway in when it feels like his fat, bludgeoning tip was scraping all the way near your lungs. “Th-there’s more?”

Instead of an answer, Nanami’s pushin’ aside your bloated lips to spit. 

Vertically down your slit, the messy puddle of his drunken drool helps the final few inches of his veiny cock fit inside. “Come on come on come-” The final few. 

The final few that have him bashing in your spongy cervix.

Glazed tip swiping down the end, his divot marks out a wad of precum that sticks to the bottom of your pussy like Nanami was claiming it. 

And the feeling of him sploshing about inside of you was so great - even if he was just moving in slow, sultry little jerks - that you can’t help but claw at the mahogany headboard in front of you. Trying to cling on like a lifeline-

“For what purpose do you humans- haaaah- need those?” His curious, probing tone hits you like whiplash. 

“I-I don’t know it’s just- hck!” Hiccuping on your own answer, you weepily manage out a few words. “Having you inside me like…this, it’s just so much that I have to- oh, grab…on…”

His plush lips fall into a soft ‘Oh.’ 

And before you know it, both your hands are being gently pried off of any bedframe you could’ve clung onto. And Nanami’s wrangling both your wrists with one of his, easily bending them behind your back—

“Bite on this.” Puffing out in a heady pant, you can only look on in confusion once he bears you with one of his strong, vein-covered forearms. Urging it closer to your maw- “Bite.”

And you can’t help but gnaw on.

Sensually, you’re digging the fringes of your teeth into his muscular arm- perfectly in time for Nanami to drive out a loooong drag of his cock that leaves you screaming into his sculptured flesh. All the way from his globular crown to the veeeery hilt, he’s stuffing you full and watching as your eyes circle. Comically.

Stupidly, Nanami’s tunneling out whack after whack of his aching hot cock.

Each one harder than the last, longer.

He’s bottoming out near the door to your womb- and the next few jackhammers would be probin’ his curvaceous tip even deeper. It’s like he couldn’t get enough. Never will.

Nanami’s holding you in his arms like a lover, and pounding up into you like anything but.

With a forceful tug of his right arm, he’s pinning your wrists behind your back and bending you into the perfect semi-circle. “Fuck-” Spitting out fiery profanities between his pearly whites, “S’this what you wanted? To have my c-cock like this? Hngh, to have me like this?”

“Yes- yes yes yeeees—” Finally letting go of his forearm, your mouth floods with sizzling saliva, ass hitting Nanami’s toned v-line constantly. 

His prolonged tongue comes up to lick the dollops of saliva escaping your maw, “Mhmm—”

And, truly, you’d never have imagined that kind, gentlemanly Nanami Kento would ever fuck you like this. 

With his soaked happy trail scratching the nub of your clit, meaty cocktip probing into your cervix until you could feel a circular bruise. “So d-deep inside me-.” He’s claiming every nook and cranny inside of you with each stir-stir-stir of his weeping precum. “Having you feel so- oh.”

But whatever sinfully sweet compliment was about to fall from your mouth, Nanami doesn’t get to hear.

For the exact reason that he’s the one fucking it straight out of you lungs. Grazin’ the slimy area of your g-spot with his cock, he teasingly maps out his next target. “Oh, you h-have such a wondrous body, my princess.”

Immediately, he lets go of your rawly massaged wrists- already knowing that you were limp enough to merely fall between the prince’s plush pecs.

Your maw hangs open, bubbling out a puddle of saliva that makes his sculpted chest gleam like a polish. “Want more, Ken.”

“More-” Echoing, you swear the mere word is enough to make Nanami’s bulged erection swell even bigger. So big that he was swabbing hidden spots that you didn’t even know existed before. “More?”

“Yes- please.” And you never did forget your royal manners, at least. Not even when you were glissading down his washboard abs, glued to his towering body. 

Mouth unfastening just a little bit more after each riotous plap! of hips-on-hips, “I w-want you to go even-” Clawing down his pectorals, hard enough that Nanami’s golden skin reddens. “-harder, Kento—”

And if he were any lesser man, then he might’ve just cum right then and there.

But no- no, Nanami doesn’t think he could stop even if he wanted to.

Simply lining the insides of your gooey walls with wiry ribbons of precum, his half-lidded eyes can’t help but ogle. “I…I can do that?” At your needy nod- “I can do that.”

More to himself than anything.

More in pure shock - because Nanami Kento himself can’t fucking believe it once he feels his sloppy, human-molded length throb. Hard. Fast. 

Something superhuman that manages to swell up your velvety walls. You can’t believe when his drilling cock only manages to grow even bigger from inside you- completely ruining your tight channel n’ stretching you out to the maximum.

Merman…cock. Partially, at least.

You’re noticing that Nanami’s cock has more of a ruthlessly upright curve than before, and the honed angle was perfect for scrapin’ straight down your g-spot. “Look what you’ve made me-” He’s out of control. And his shapely girth was easily slithering past your walls- more so than before. Wettened. Slimy. “-look how you’ve ruined me.”

Mewling, “C-can’t help it-”

“Awwww, my poor princess can’t h-help it—?” He lovingly babbles, mouth mean. But his cock was even meaner. “No need to help, my love. I’ll do all the- hah- work.”

And before you can get in a word edgewise, he sits up. 

Unabashedly, unapologetically.

Carrying you right along with him, Nanami takes a seat right in the middle of your damp silken sheets. With his thighs cushioning your ass cheeks, your ankles locked against the dimples at the bottom of his spine. 

He had his capped knees bent and usin’ the steady leverage to push n’ push his probing cock up deeply.

One of Nanami’s hands latches onto the side of your hips for support, the other snaking between your legs to find your clit and pinch. “I’ll give you all the- mmm, pleasure.” He’s whispering, as if he never stopped. “All the-” Each rapidfire thrust reeling his swollen, red tip back until it circles your entrance for brief nanoseconds. Before he flexes his meaty thighs and glues the swollen end of his shaft allll the way against your cervix. Bottoming out. “-streeeetches.”

Not just once, not just twice. 

But over and over. 

And the only thing you could do was babble brokenly, fisting his perspirated locks. “And- and me? What can I- nghhh- do, my prince?”

“Well…” You were just too cute when you were hypnotized by his dragging cock, and if Nanami was in any less of a drunken state of mind then he might’ve just teased you for it.

Lovingly grazing the patterns of his veins against your g-spot, “You can p-pull on my ngh- hair, my wife.” Groaning once you instantly do. “You can bite on my lip- claw down my back-”

Your gooey insides clench particularly hard, the exact way it did when he could feel your orgasm building up tightly. 

Shakily breathing, “You- you could milk my cock dry.”

“Really wanna…” You admit, with a spit-glossed pout. Vision blurring with splotches of pure white at each stretchin’ probe of his cock, your body was practically shaking at this point. 

“Yeah- wanna? Wanna?” Nanami’s comforting baritone cracks at the very tail end. Begging. Palm pressed so close to toy with your clit that you half-wondered whether his wrist was aching. “Anything- and everything, m’all yours to use.” 

As his cadence grows faster, sloppier, as if he was trying to mark each veiny line of his shaft down your walls. The heavy slap of his balls practically a blur, each thump-thump-thump of his roaming cockhead matching your racing pulse. 

You’re soon cradling one of his hollowed cheeks; such utter loving. You feel the tempo of Nanami’s breath hitch just as soon as you do—“You make me lose my mind, my love.” 

And it takes only one, two, three more of his vulgar strokes for the two of you to crash land into your high. 

Toes curled, digits tugging on his hair.

Taking you each by surprise, you don’t know who cums first - nor do you have the brain capacity to compute it right now. “O-oh, cumming—” Squealing out, moments too-late. The sparks of pleasure make your eyelids brim with tears. “Ken- Kento, Ken, m’cumming…”

His specially-shaped cock was just perfect to prick your sweetest spots through your wave of bliss. 

Thud after dull, heavy thud.

Your boneless limbs tighten ‘round his shoulders to help grind through your high- and simply being in your arms is enough to make his molten peripherals glaze over with tears.

“Sh-shit, my princess.” Burying his face into the crook of your neck, Nanami’s keeping a hand pinned on your hips to prevent you from straying too far. 

Especially once he’s plugging up the soft bottom of your cunt with a generous layer of syrupy white seed. “Take- all- oh.” Unable to even articulate, to even think. His hips are moving ferally on their own, splurging out wads of cum that web up your walls. So hot. So wet. 

If you thought that he wouldn’t have been able to make even more of a mess out of you, then you were wrong. 

And even the notion made electricity zing down your spine, the mere scratch of Nanami’s winding veins leaving your legs twitching. 

Soundless, he’s smearing your pussylips apart juuuust enough to watch the overspilling knots of ivory cream from your hole, he’s letting out a tear—

You gasp, body still restless with the copious amounts of saccharine sap splashing between your walls. Making your inner thighs stick together like glue, “Are y-you okay, Ken?”

“Mhm.” He nods, sniffling. Brows scrunched, eyes half-closed - he’s gazing down at you with such open love. 

Both at you and the buttery ring of cum your folds were painting at the base of his cock. Filling you up to the very brim. The man marvels at the utter spillage, so much being greedily swallowed by your cunt- and that fact made him…thirsty.

You’re gawking, heart pounding once Nanami swirls one of his thick thumbs between your oversensitive pussylips. Letting them slobber all the way down to his mountainous knuckles- before lifting his wettened thumb up to his mouth and sucking. “The sweetest delicacy in all the hah- seven seas.”

Oh, something about the way he’d worded it makes your heart pang. 

His aching, ravaged cock throbs at the sound of your voice once more. “Ken, so- so despite your…well-” Nodding pointedly at the squelching ministrations of his prolonged cock, “-you really can’t be fully merman again, can you?”

Wincing, even at his reassuring nod. “Do you…regret it? For, if you do I-”

“Never.” It’s such a sudden, straightforward answer that your rambling falters. And Nanami presses his perspiration-slicked forehead against yours, balmy breaths mingling. He’s looking you dead-on into your glassy pupils, “You’re the best thing I’ve found in two worlds, my wife.”

Fuck. 

You were gone for. And the only thing you can manage to do is fling yourself even deeper into Nanami’s big, beefy arms - luckily for you, he was always ready. 

Always waiting. 

“Always loved you.” He whispers, “Always will.”

“I love you, too.” And he can only hold you tighter. Though, feeling your hips jostle slightly back n’ forth in the embrace, that’s when it hits you- “Wait- you’re still rock-hard?”

And that makes him chuckle - loud, booming in your ears. 

You think it’s a song that you wouldn’t mind constantly replaying on loop- even when it’s accompanied by the meanest thrust of his hips. And a few knotted drops of cum that twitch out from Nanami’s leaky orifice as he leans down to whisper in your ear. 

Slow, sensual, like one of his infamously beautiful songs—“Well, you did just trigger my mating period, my love…”

.

.

.

“I do.” Nanami’s echoing after Gakuganji’s reedy question, palms engulfing your own. He rubs a roughened thumb down the hills of your knuckles as he murmurs - quiet enough that just you would manage to hear. “As I always have. And I always will, my princess.”

Gakuganji shuts his officiating book with a knowing chuckle, “By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride-”

His lips are on yours before the sentence ends.

And you can hear the cheers, the sobs, the splashes from outside of your wedding cruise as the merfolk dance through the waters.

They surround the wading hull of the ship, making your audience of subjects and court-attendees alike gasp at the flurry of flashing tails. Your husband’s own had been golden.

“I love you, my wife.”

“And I love you, Ken.”

Nanami’s hand tightens in your own once you two lean slightly over the decadent gunwale to fly kisses at Itadori- only lock eyes with a stoic ruler Yaga. 

Who only nods once- before cracking a smile. 

Your heart stutters, and you’re looking up at Nanami for a delighted nod in return. He waves down at his honorary father; receiving a flash of his trident, a drizzle of seawater that sparkles in the sun like the most precious of jewels. 

Multicolor, it showers down on the two of you with the traditional white flower petals being thrown by your kingdom. 

“I can never thank you more, my love-” He hums, forehead kissing yours, molten eyes crinkling at the sides. And you’re sure you catch numerous members of the audience - Utahime at the forefront of it all - coo at he unabashed affection. So many people, and yet it just felt like the two of you on this singular ship. “-for letting me be part of your world.”

Blessed by the people of the land, and the folk of the sea, the colors are hoisted to set sail. 

And it’s all clear skies ahead.

A/N. PART OF YOUR WOOOOOOOOOOOORLD-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[perleaore]

yearner!dick who goes quiet whenever you laugh, not because he doesn’t have anything to say, he just wants to memorize the sound like he needs it to survive.

yearner!dick who keeps every voicemail you’ve ever left him, even the ones that are just you rambling about something mundane. he listens to them when he can’t sleep and pretends you’re right there beside him.

yearner!dick who pretends he isn’t looking for you in every crowded room, even though his eyes always find you first. like gravity works differently for him when you’re around.

yearner!dick who rearranges his schedule without telling you just so he can walk home with you, claiming it was “on the way” despite it being absolutely not on the way.

yearner!dick who always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, subtly nudging you closer to safety with the gentlest touch on your lower back.

yearner!dick who writes down little things you mention wanting to try so he can surprise you with them weeks later like it’s nothing, even though he’s been planning it meticulously.

yearner!dick who buys two of everything. drinks, snacks, little trinkets “just in case you wanted one,” acting casual as if he hasn’t actually been thinking about you all day.

yearner!dick who keeps an extra toothbrush for you at his place even before you start dating, hiding it away in a drawer like a tiny secret wish.

yearner!dick who gets jealous in the quietest ways,his fingers tapping faster, his posture a little straighter, his smile a little tighter. all because he never wants to make you uncomfortable by showing it outright.

yearner!dick who melts when you reach for his hand for the first time, his fingers curling around yours slowly, reverently, like he’s holding something sacred (he is).

yearner!dick who stays up late staring at the ceiling, wondering if you know how much of his world you take up. and hoping, quietly, that he takes up even a tiny part of yours.

yearner!dick who kisses you for the first time like he’s afraid you’ll disappear halfway through, one hand in your hair and the other gripping your waist, holding you like a promise.

yearner!dick who becomes even softer after you get together, constantly brushing his thumb over the back of your hand, tugging you closer by the loop of your jeans, smiling whenever you say his name like it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

yearner!dick who still can’t believe you chose him, who sometimes pulls you into his chest out of nowhere, pressing small kisses to your temple, grounding himself in the reality that you’re here, and you’re his.

[fawnindawn]

The Only Exception.

summary: getting a list of everything damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re damian’s only exception.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: fluffff, pre-established relationship, tim drake uses the wrong words and ensues a chaotic week.

“You want to know what Damian hates?”

Your inquisitive nature has become a known trait to Damian's family, and if anything, it fits you right in. Damian credits your 'detective work', he terms affectionately, as a perfect fit to his own.

Tim’s busy digging through another case, but your question surprises him enough to pause, an incredulous look crossing his tired features. “You know that doesn’t apply to you at all, right?”

“You’re the only person available to ask.” You plead. “It's a little awkward to storm right up to him with a ‘Good morning! Do you secretly hate me and I should jump off the face of the Earth?’”

“Define available.” Tim mutters, before snorting softly. “And Damian hating you? That’ll be impossible.”

You don’t budge, eyes purposely wide as saucers, hoping your pleading's visible enough to coerce his sleep-deprived brain cells to work on something that wasn't the large Bat-Computer, illuminating a spotlight on his eye-bags.

He sighs. “Fine. It shouldn’t be that hard to think of.”

“I guess..” He mutters distractedly, multitasking your strange request and his work and an indulgent sip of his over-steeped tea. “He hates clumsiness? One time, Dick knocked over his printed Bat-Cow mug and even though he caught it immediately, you should’ve seen the look on Damian’s face.”

Not off to an amazing start. You don't dare recall the amount of times he’s caught you from face-planting in your shared apartment—or the number of plates you’ve broken when they slipped from your hands while washing them.

“Right. Clumsiness.” Your laugh comes out forced. “Anything else?”

“Hoarders.” He mutters through another sip, even as his nose scrunches at the bitterness. “I keep a bunch of files in the Bat-Cave, because forbid a man for wanting physical archives in case the Bat-Computer’s compromised. He snapped at me on the amount of useless cases I had collecting dust in the corner.”

Your heart squeezes traitorously, already aligning yourself with the trait before you could even deny the semblance. You didn’t expect him to accurately describe someone like.. you?

Your collection of junk is still stored inside a designated cardboard box, keeping letters he’s given you throughout your relationship, receipts from closed-down restaurants, or even the bed that's littered with your worn plushies. You rarely threw away anything as long as it held a small amount of sentimental value.

“Uh-huh.” You mutter distractedly—thinking back on your shared apartment and the amount of drawers you took up.

“I suppose—people who can’t protect themselves?” Tim shrugs apathetically. “He’s already so strict on his own training regime, I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.”

You feel like you’re going to pass out. Tim finally stops, looking over to your distressed expression. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to you.” His mug’s 'Best Detective' claim flashes at you, sipping awkwardly at the realisation that he may have made a huge error with his words. “I just think he naturally has a lower tolerance for anyone that isn’t you.”

Tolerance, something that wears out in time. What if Damian was holding in all these things and it could potentially lead to resentment that you’re a combination of all the traits he finds annoying?

“Don’t take it to heart.” Tim says, his expression akin to one trying to disarm a bomb. “Seriously, hell will freeze over before that demon spawn ever hates something about you. You’re like—his only exception.”

You nod faintly, mind too preoccupied to truly listen. Your phone buzzes, lighting the lock screen and a notification for one of your packages has arrived. “Ah, I better get back! Nice seeing you, Tim. Thanks for the.. information.”

“No problem?” He answers, sounding unsure. “Don’t tell Damian I said anything!”

—

“Beloved?” Damian calls.

You barely hear his voice over the furious typing on your laptop, much less his trained footsteps that you could never detect. You raise your head, casting him an over-enthusiastic smile. “Hey, Dami!”

He tugs his coat off, placing it on the coat rack—gaze lingering on your laptop. “What are you doing?”

You feel as if you’re caught in the middle of a heinous act. “Um—” It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong. Maybe he might even be proud that you’re being proactive about improving your self-defence. “I’m signing up for a martial arts class.”

His brows furrow, his expression perplexed. “All of a sudden?”

“Just thought I’d try something new.” Your white lie slips out easily. “With how Gotham is, I realise I should probably learn some moves. Just in case.”

He frowns. “Is there something concerning you regarding safety?” Looking around the apartment, he analyses the astounding upgrades he’s done with a displeased frown. “I was thinking of thickening the window’s glass to have an increased bullet-proof rebound rate. Or installing motion cameras-”

“No! No.” You stop him, already detecting the pattern of his mind, unravelling into a never-ending state of over preparation. You’re sure that even if the Earth splits into two, your apartment would still be standing unscathed with what he’s already done to the structure. “It’s just a hobby, Dami. You did a great job already.”

The last thing you wanted was to add on more burdens for him. He’s been taking on more cases than usual, back on another silent war with Tim on a silly tally-off, not like either has been keeping a fair count, and him being away for more hours meant that you had time—the chance to show him this improved side to you.

He pauses in his fretting, blinking slowly like a feline before beckoning himself over to where you laid, chin tucked to your neck as you hoarded your favorite corner of the sofa.

Brushing your hair aside, he places a soft kiss on your forehead. “Alright. Anything you want.” He obliges. “You’ve already charged it to my card, yes? If you feel anything inadequate about the instructor, cancel it immediately. I’m more than willing to train you myself.”

From the way he’s looking at you, it’s almost like he wants you to say you prefer his suggestion. You almost do, tempted to let him teach you instead—because a hot trainer who is also your boyfriend sounds like a match-made in heaven, then you remember Tim’s words. I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.

If Damian saw you with his own eyes on how ill-equipped you were to protecting yourself, what if he sees you as even more inadequate? You shake your head, a perfect vision of Damian's disappointment swarming your thoughts. “I’ll see how the first class goes. Apparently, it’s super beginner-level so it should be perfect for me.”

He stares at you, and you can feel his mind racing in its analysis before he nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll join you.”

“What!” You splutter.

“I have to ensure the instructor is truly capable in teaching you.” He states casually.

“Damian. You’re probably more knowledgeable than he is.” You deadpan. “It’s going to feel like how advanced calculus was for you. Toddler’s work.”

His expression doesn’t so much as shift, but you spot tension in his shoulders. “He? Even more reasons to join then.”

Oh god, what did you just unleash?

—

“Welcome to ‘Gotham Martials-Beginner’s Class'!”

The instructor is in the tightest, most neon-green outfit you’ve ever seen and under the intrusive lights, it nearly blinds you with its reflective power. Damian doesn’t bother hiding his grimace at the sight.

“Don’t be intimidated, folks. I've only held a black belt in Taekwondo for the past fifteen years.” He boasts. “If there’s anyone who’s going to make you Nightwing-material, it’s yours truly!”

The mention of his brother sours Damian’s expression, visible in the tick of his jaw. Sibling rivalry was only ever intensified among him and his brothers. He schools it into perfect nonchalance when you look over at him, trying to contain your laugh.

“Now, who’s a willing volunteer to come up and let me show them the ropes?” The instructor calls out. “As I always say, learning from example is better than theory!”

The instructor eagerly scans the room, and his mark makes its target. “What about you, lady? You look excited to start your journey in becoming a Martial Arts expert!”

It must’ve been your nearly-dying expression over Damian’s scowl that caught you in the web of his gaze. Your smile drops, feeling nervous with the numerous eyes on you from the other trainees. “Well—”

”There’s no need.” Damian calls out, his hand brushing against yours in reassurance. “I volunteer.”

“Ah! An enthusiastic young man.” The instructor claps. “Very well, come on to the front.”

Damian casts you a grimace, before he strides to the front. It was almost a comical sight with how he towers over the instructor, his arms crossed in disinterest. His gaze flickers over to you, clearly unimpressed.

“Ah, the first rule is to never cast your eyes off your opponent—”

It happens in a flash. One moment, the instructor is charging at Damian, and the next, he was on the ground with a loud bang!, with Damian pinning him down.

“Agh!” The instructor chokes out, and a chorus of gasps echoes through the room.

Damian lifts himself off, brushing his hands against his shirt. “You were saying?” He says dryly.

Your own hand is clasped over your mouth, but unlike the others, you’re trying so hard not to laugh. Damian's clearly terrified the rest in the room, as the circle of trainees distance themselves from the spectacle.

The instructor lifts himself off the ground, gripping onto his lower back for dear life. “Ha-ha—Right! I was going easy on you. Good example, folks. This is exactly how you pin someone down.”

His eyes avert Damian’s raised brow, sweat pooling at his brows. “Now, let’s resume the class at its usual distance. I’ll be in the center, and all students will be behind the red circle.” He points down at the faded drawn line, suddenly not willing for an up-close demonstration.

The class continues on with a series of stretches followed by beginner poses. You doubt any moves you were taught would actually save you against an actual criminal on the streets, but seeing Damian being forced to do such minimal movement with a disgusted expression made it all worth it.

“I think I gained a six pack just by watching you.” Your core was still burning from the restraining laughter as he inserts the key to the door of your apartment. “Never seen you so—restrained.”

He casts you an unimpressed look. “The mystery of how this city has so many civilian kidnappings was all answered by that lacklustre session. If that’s the highest rated ‘self-defense’ class in Gotham, it’s no wonder this city’s crime rate hasn’t gone down.”

“It must’ve been a pain for you." You sympathise as best as you could with an Al Ghul prodigy. "Even if the session had been a hundred times better than Mr. Neon Tights, I doubt it would’ve been useful compared to your experience.”

His narrowed eyes soften, hand kept extended to hold the door open for you. When you enter, he swiftly closes the door, arm still hovering over you and cornering you in. “That wasn’t my intention.” He says. “If I had attended for self defence, that would’ve been highly unproductive. But—”

His free hand comes up to caress your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his eyes fully. “My intention was to spend time with you. And seeing you have a good time, regardless of the quality of the session, had always been the goal.”

Your cheeks warm, and he’s doing that weird thing again where he makes you feel special for doing absolutely nothing. “You’re cheesy.”

“Hm.” He hums. “Maybe I’ve been too affected by Mr. Neon Tights.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out, and his smile deepens—highlighting a soft dimple that you secretly obsess over. Falling into character, you clear your throat. “Aren’t you aware, Mr. Wayne? It’s not always about the result, it’s the journey.”

He huffs in amusement. “I wasn’t aware of such peculiar words of wisdom. From now on, you’ll be training with me. No more of that nonsense, even if it entertains you, beloved.”

“What?” You pretend to gasp. “Whatever shall I do without his neon tights to motivate me, Dami? You’re cruel.”

Leaning in, he murmurs. “I can think of other ways to motivate you.” Hands parting from the door, they wrap comfortably around your waist, gently pushing you back against the wood as he leans in. His lips press softly against yours, and it’s the soft moments of domesticity like this that you wish so desperately to stay longer.

By the time he parts from you, your lungs were screaming for more air than they’ve ever did in that class.

“How’s that?” He taunts lowly.

“Not bad. I feel pretty motivated to do a push-up right now.” You affirm, a little dazed.

Damian’s rare laugh is heavenly to the ears.

—

Damian’s away on another patrol, and in the midst of his absence, you’re uncovering your hoard of memories that look more kindled to trash now that it’s laid out on the floor. Damian’s letters, still too precious to ever even consider throwing away are stacked in a pile to your left, and your childhood stash is on the right.

You stare seriously at your pre-school drawing, a horrible attempt of drawing the Bat with fangs coming out under his mask. It's abstract, and you're much too biased to throw away a four year old's masterpiece. Maybe you could use it as a birthday card for Bruce?

“Beloved, what are you doing?”

You quickly hide the card, your body covering the junk as Damian enters the bedroom from the window. He’s covered in soot, but no blood is seen on his suit. Your immediate relief soothes your body, but his gaze set on the mess behind you seizes you to stand.

“Dami!” Your voice sounds way too chirpy to be anything but suspicious. “Nothing, I was just cleaning out some old stuff.”

“At 3 A.M.?” He asks incredulously.

“Cleaning jitters.” You shrug.

“Alright.” He says slowly. “I’ll take a quick bath, then I’ll assist in sorting it out with you.”

“No, it’s fine!” You quickly interject. “You must be tired after patrol. I’ll just quickly clean this up. So you can go to sleep, I know you don’t like mess.”

His hand lifts to detach his domino mask. Nothing stops his trained eye from sweeping the floor for this supposed ‘mess’ you’re talking about.

“My letters?” He asks, surprised.

“Oh, I just wanted to store them somewhere safely.” You explain. “If it hadn’t been for the letters, we.. wouldn’t be here now. I didn’t want dust mites to get to them.”

His lips quirk up faintly, softening at the memory. He looks over to the corner, where Mr. Paddington, one of your remaining childhood plushies was stuffed into a paper bag.

“Why is Mr. Paddington there?” He interrogates.

You swallow, averting your gaze. It's just a bear. A bear who's been through your ups and downs for the past decade. “I realised he’s—in really bad condition. And I keep hoarding things because of sentimental value, but it’s taking up space over the apartment. Like the bed is 55% my plushies and I don’t want you feeling like you’re running out of space because it’s your apartment too.”

He stares long enough that you start to feel it dig into your skull, before he turns fully and stops in front of you, lowering himself to your eye level.

“Is this an indirect method of asking me to expand our living quarters?” He asks, straight to the point as ever. “I can have us a new apartment by the end of the week.”

“No way.” You say flatly, his words stoking a flame of protectiveness over your shared home.

It’s an understatement to say you love this apartment. Call it being biased, but it was the first place you and Damian truly created into a home, and the memories stored within the brick walls (another addition you love), is something that will have to be pried, tooth and nail, from your cold hands.

“I just—I want to be more considerate, of the space and my junk. You may need more hanger space for your 10% shade differences in sweaters.”

He doesn’t so much as shift at your teasing, a blunt attempt at distraction to his skeptical eye. “Whatever is mine is yours.” He emphasises. “I got us this place because I wanted you to have a comfort space. I want you to use it.”

He bends, taking Mr. Paddington into his arms and patting away some dust that’s gotten on him. “You’re right, the stitching in his eyes has come loose. I’ll send it over to Alfred. He has been itching for something to do ever since most of us moved out, and he’s adequate in sewing.”

You don’t know why, but Damian being so considerate despite you having full evidence of your hoarding habit splattered over the bedroom floor tugs your heartstrings hard. You can’t resist hugging him, even when his suit is dirty. He holds you tight, Mr. Paddington squished between the two of you.

“Is there anything else you want?” He asks gently, his other hand gently rubbing your back. “You can always ask, beloved.”

You shake your head. “No, this is perfect.”

He hums. “Leave it be. We’ll sort it out tomorrow, together. I’ll run a quick bath, so why don’t you put Mr. Paddington back on the bed where he belongs, and I’ll accompany you to sleep as soon as I’m done?”

He’s perfect. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to lean into his arms and accept his help. You should take care of your mess, not give him another task to do when he’s already tired from patrol. Still, when he places a soft kiss over your forehead, you find it hard to disagree tonight.

When he sinks into the bed, the faint smell of his body wash envelopes your senses. His weight tips you towards him, but even gravity isn’t as quick as your boyfriend’s instincts, pulling you into his arms till his frame shields yours. His chest moves in synchronicity with your breathing against your back, and the thought hits again that you don't deserve him.

Somehow, against all odds of your bad luck where he’s discovered your flaws two times in a row now when you're only trying to improve them, the softness in his gaze has never shifted, annoyance never once making its way into his expression.

Was Tim really right? That Damian’s intolerance for the flaws he listed out fades when it comes to you? You want to ask, but hearing Damian’s slowed breathing, meaning he’s fallen asleep—you think not all hope is lost yet. There’s still one more flaw you could work on, to make his life a little easier for all the times he’s loved you despite your flaws.

—

If you’re not going to get better at self-defence or the habit to hoard, at least you’ll master tackling your clumsiness. You’ve managed in avoiding plate arson for the past week, and call it over-confidence, but when you spot the clock’s hand frozen over the kitchen, you think it’s finally time you get over your fear of ladders.

“Beloved? What are you doing?” Damian calls out, a hint of distress in his voice when he spots you, on the second highest level of the ladder, hands fumbling with the clock.

“Taking out the clock.” You answer, distracted with the hook that’s stuck onto the nail. “Its battery needs changing.”

“I can do it.” He offers, his hands coming up to stabilise the ladder. “You need not concern yourself with small matters like these.”

”Yeah, but I want to.” You answer, finally unlatching the clock. “Got it!”

When you feel your balance tilt, you realise your miscalculation. With both your hands on the clock, you’re no longer holding the wall, and your feet stumble as your back arches backward. You yelp, falling backwards—right into Damian’s arms.

The clock is still in your hands, covering your face halfway to hide your shame as Damian stares at you, and you see the waver of relief, worry, and amusement playing out in the flickers of his gaze.

“That’s so embarrassing.” You mutter to yourself, still using the clock to shield your face from his prying eyes. “Let me down. Oh—can we please pretend that never happened?”

He doesn’t respond, hands still firmly wrapped around your torso, leaving your feet dangling in the air as he pins you under his gaze. “No, I think I quite favour this position.”

“Don’t tease, Damian.” Calling him by his full name doesn’t do the trick. If anything, it makes his smugness triple in size. “I seriously thought I accomplished getting over my fear of ladders. Now it’s hyper-intensified and my fears have turned to actual trauma.”

He snorts softly, carrying you over to the sofa and settling down. You lay there in his arms, which is admittingly, very comfortable, making it difficult for you to climb out of his hold. Not like he’d let you, the only time his arms wasn’t wrapped around you was when he took one hand to tear the clock out of his hands, settling it at the coffee table.

“What is bothering you?” He finally asks.

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“First, the training classes, then Mr. Paddington, and now, the clock?” He lists out. Damn him and how observing he was. “Something’s bothering you.”

You hesitate. It’s irrational, but what if you list out the traits he hates, and he realises that you’re really all the things he despises? Your mind knows Damian loves you, but at moments, your heart wonders why.

”Well..” You swallow. “Promise not to get mad?”

“I could never be mad at you.” He answers immediately.

You don’t even know where to start. “You always take care of me. And you rarely complain. So I was starting to wonder if there was anything I did that could.. piss you off that you never mentioned.”

His brows pinch together. “Was there anything I did to make you reach that assumption? I know my communication of my feelings still needs.." He grimaces as he manages the word out. "Improvement. If I ever made you feel at unease, it was never my intention. I’ve never felt that way about you. Ever.”

“No—no.” It’s a relief to hear him say that, but it’s much harder to sound convincing when he’s looking down at you with his unbridled concern, his gaze softer than you’ve ever seen. “I just didn’t want to accidentally do something in habit that irritates you when you’ve been nothing but good to me.”

Averting eye contact, you focus on the jammed hands of the clock. “I asked for a list about what you hated and—it felt as if each description pierced right through me, so I panicked and over-compromised.”

His gaze sharpens. “What list?”

“Um—” You discreetly feel Tim’s lifespan shortening. “Just a couple of things. Hearing them made me realise that I could be a burden to you because of all the annoying things you have to deal with—so I tried to improve them. I don’t want you feeling like you have to take care of me because I’m not good in doing it.”

He shakes his head, mouth pursed and ready to argue but not quick enough to avoid the finger you place on his lips. “It’s not that I don’t want you taking care of me, because I love that you do. I appreciate it so, so much that I’m scared that I’m relying too much on you.” You admit, feeling a lump growing in your throat. “And I’m scared that taking care of me gets tiring.”

He gently caresses your wrist, pulling it aside so he can speak. “I want to take care of you.” He reassures you.

“But you hate clumsy people.” You croak out.

“I love your clumsiness.” He answers in a factual tone. "It's easier to get you into my arms."

“And you hate people who hoard.”

“I hoard things you gift me.” He bites back. “It’d be hypocritical of me to judge you for that when I partake in the same habit."

“You—“ Somehow, his easy way of dissuading your worries is working, and you can’t think of much else. “You hate people who can’t protect themselves.”

“Then what is my purpose, beloved?” He asks. “If not to protect you. If I could not fulfill even that duty, I would condone that hatred on myself. Never you.”

“Then what has this week been for?” You moan. “Felt like a humiliation ritual—Like I was horribly incapable as Damian Wayne’s partner.”

His lips quirk up. "Adorable." He whispers, as if he can't help himself. "You are capable. Of more things than you think.”

“You understand people better than I do, which is why you tried to be considerate of me by doing this.” He adds. “I appreciate your efforts, beloved, but you don’t need to be anything more or change yourself because I cherish you as you are. You’re already perfect for me.”

Damian’s love has always been shown through his actions, his unwavering patience he’s harnessed just for you, evident by his siblings’ complaint of unfair treatment. Yet, to hear him say it so directly—you can barely think of what to say back without sounding like an emotional mess.

“Where did you obtain such an unreliable list?” He asks after a moment.

You wince. He stares and stares, akin to a falcon, till it comes out of you. “…Tim?”

He scowls, gaze hardening with a familiar murderous intent. “I’m going to kill Drake.”

“Please don’t.” You plead. “It’s my fault, really. And if it hadn’t been for him, I would still be avoiding this conversation and I wouldn’t have gained the guts to say it out loud.”

His lips purse in a thin line, which is his best attempt at consideration. “I’m still not pleased that he indirectly made you feel unworthy when that’s never been the case. But you are right.” His free hand brushes over your cheek, growing serious. “Next time, if you ever feel this way, tell me first. I’ll listen, always.”

“And believe me when I say—you could never irritate me.” He declares. “You’re my gift in this world, and there’s no other person who brings me peace the way you do. You’re not meant to exist without flaws, and I love every single one of them. It makes you human, and more precious in my eyes. So don’t hide your worries from me. Bear them with me instead, and I’ll reassure you.”

Your eyes feel wet when you blink, your lashes clumping together, and your heart is thumping louder than it should. “Oh, man.” You mutter. “You just made me fall for you all over again. That’s not fair.”

His lips twitch into a soft smile, and presses a feather-light kiss over your forehead. “Then you’ve been unfair on me too. I suppose I'll have to be more unbearable in my affections to not let such silly worries get to you. I haven't been doing a good job in my duty if you could believe in a list like that."

“And for the record.” His gaze softens. “I didn’t see anything we did this past week as a burden. I enjoyed spending time with you, at the martial class, and the morning we spent organising your childhood memories, and even now—because that’s the reason I want to be with you. To be in your life, to be your support, your person.”

Your throat clogs together, and if he wants to succeed in making you a wreck, he's done it well.

“Cause..” He murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Isn’t that what we promised?”

“Then, do you also solemnly swear, Damian Wayne—” Lifting up your pinky finger to him, you muster your most serious expression. “That you’re truly in this even with my flaws, on the good and bad days?”

He links his pinky with yours, wrapping it close to his chest right above his heart. “I solemnly swear.”

Damian always keeps his promises. You could ask him to capture the Sun for you, and he'd somehow find a way to do it before Monday.

“What else did that lunatic say?” Damian interrogates.

Your mind scrambles for anything to save your future brother-in-law’s life. “Tim did say I was your only exception.”

He huffs. “I suppose there’s one thing Drake finally got right.”

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <3333

dc masterlist -> other damian + dc works

[deepsummitfate-deactivated20260]

how do we feel abt beefy mirio…

YES YES YES!! i saw someone request this and i was slowly getting to it! :))) but HERE WE GOOOOOO !!!

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

beefy! mirio togata: who is still that beaming ray of sunshine, even as the number one pro. and with being number one, means he has a lot of weight to carry. which is why he’s bulked up SO MUCH!

beefy! mirio togata: who will come home and huddle over you for the rest of the night. his large body pressed against your back as he kisses your cheek, always stating how much he missed you and how much he loves you!! when you turn your head to look at him, he always gives you his famous cheeky smile as his bright blue eyes shimmer while looking back at you

beefy! mirio togata: who will unknowingly drive you crazy with how much he can pick up. he’ll walk around your shared home with just his sweatpants on, his hair messy from his shower as you’ve called him to help move a bookshelf. obviously, he was on the case immediately, since you’ve already taken down all the books and because he moved to help you!! he easily lifts it up and moves it to where you want it to be. his massive biceps flexing and the muscles in his forearm tense as you watch in awh. when he sets it down he gives you a big smile as be kisses you. “see! how does it look now, sunshine? do you need help putting the books back??!”

beefy! mirio togata: who knows that his cock got bigger. the thickness fills you as you cry out from the stinging and burning feeling. he leans down to kiss you as he lays his large hands on your hips, rubbing them up and down. he looks at you with such love as he breaths heavily, your tightness sending him into overdrive. but he doesn’t want to hurt you. “you’re so amazing, beautiful. it’s okay, we can go as slow as you want. the last thing i want to do is hurt you!!”

beefy! mirio togata: who is a sucker for handjobs. the way your hand can just almost fit around his large cock as you read a new case your work put you on. it always has him seeing stars. you’re always so lazy with your strokes, so slow, so tight. he genuinely needs to remember that his feet are planting to the floor because he thinks he’s floating. and when he cums? god. he bucks his large hips into your hand, basically fucking your fist as white spurts of hot cum end up on his chest from how hard he cums. “h-holy.. beautiful!! hngh- love you s-so much!”

beefy! mirio togata: who will finger your pussy as you both watch the nightly news. his thick fingers slowly thrusting in and out of your sopping pussy as his eyes are fixated on the screen as the news reporter talks about new villain outbreaks and just overall news about the city. as you lean your head on his shoulder, he’ll speed up his thrusts, curling up his fingers to hit your sweet spongy spot as he kisses the top of your head. “you take them so well beautiful. i’m sorry we can’t do anymore, i’m tired from patrol. but you are so beautiful. please cum. i know you can.”

beefy! mirio togata: who will wrap you and him up in a blanket burrito and drift off to sleep as you watch some random show you guys put on.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

i’m actually watching adolescence atm, and it’s so good. if you haven’t seen it, you should! i highly recommend

[pinkprincess]

[beennoiserie]

thinking about jason todd with hanahaki

jason todd with hanahaki who doesn't give the spit-soaked petals a second glance before chucking them in the trash

jason todd with hanahaki who puts his training to good use to hide any trace of his affliction from his family

jason todd with hanahaki who knows he could handle dick's teasing and steph's shit-eating grins and tim's smug looks and barbara's knowing glances. what he couldn't handle was their pity.

jason todd with hanahaki who understands deep down that it was a little pitiful, the way he was choking on his own feelings because he refused to let you know they exist

jason todd with hanahaki who realized earlier on that being around you was as easy as breathing, which might be why his lungs were acting up the way they were now

jason todd with hanahaki who couldn't stand the thought of staying away from you even if it was literally killing him. how could he, when his breath came out an ounce lighter whenever you smiled at him?

jason todd with hanahaki who had to start small. not replying to your messages until you stopped pinging him altogether. doing more patrols. taking more missions out of town.

jason todd with hanahaki who thinks that maybe if he was busy enough he could distract himself from the garden that had started to wilt between his ribs

jason todd with hanahaki who might have actually inflicted it upon himself. not because he fell for someone he couldn't have, but because he had convinced himself that you wouldn't return his feelings so much that his body gave into the symptoms

jason todd with hanahaki who almost stopped breathing altogether when you demanded answers from him, voice hurt and eyes pained. he doesn't stop to ask how you found out he was back in gotham so soon

jason todd with hanahaki who couldn't hold back the cough that escaped him when you asked if he still cared about you

jason todd with hanahaki turns away from you, ashamed, but the damage was already done as the petals gently -almost mockingly- flutter to your feet

jason todd with hanahaki who has apologies ready at the tip of his tongue even as the flowers crawl back up his throat

jason todd who suddenly feels his lungs clear up when you wrap your arms around him. the flowers were just gone, replaced with the warmth of your body against his

jason todd who says nothing but quiet, almost reverent "Oh,"

© beennoiserie 2026. you may not copy, repost, translate, nor feed my work into AI

[tonycries]

Doctor! Doctor! - N.K.

Synopsis. How many doctors does Dr. Nanami Kento (MBBS) consult regarding his strange symptoms as of late? Six. How many different solutions is he given regarding them? Six. How many of those solutions include being ridden right back to health by you (MBBS, MS)—the cute lil’ surgeon he’s had his eyes on? Only one.

Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!surgeon!reader, doctor!Nanami, hospital AU, 5 + 1 if you squint, Nanami’s DOWN BAD, symptoms of yearning, slight crackfic, first times (Nanami’s), oraI (fem rec.), PÚSSYDRÚNK NANAMI, he goes feraI, fíngering, spítting, stopping you from running, p talking, improper use of stethoscopes, cúmming in his pants, ríding, MANHANDLlNG, improper use of examination tables, overstím, science talk, teaching him, being taught by him, p babbIing, slight bréeding, creampíes, cúmpIay, getting together, Gojo cameo, pet names, swéaring..

Word count. 14.9k

A/N. Since Santa Tony thinks you babygirls have been good this year mwahaha (jk y’all are amazing and I lob y’all sm)- inspired by this tiktok by the amazing @/v4mpyrf4e (SUCH a sweetheart y’all)!!

The first opinion.

“So…heart palpitations, chest tightness, tremors, poor concentration, and a lack of sleep. Is that all?” Dr. Haibara’s thoughtful tone carries above the buzz of the hospital canteen. It was like a never-ending pulp of noise—cries, conversation, and the remnants of consultations all brewing into one with the smell of coffee. 

Nanami needed it. He’d gotten less than ten hours of sleep this week and was on his fifth cup already.

Decidedly not the healthiest lifestyle meant to be led by a general practitioner (and especially not by the ever-sensible Nanami Kento)- but that’s exactly why he was here.

Lying to his best friend of over ten years, “Yes…yes, that’s all the symptoms.”

“Hm…” Haibara taps the edge of his pen on his chin, “Is there any specific time when the symptoms worsen?”

“Not quite, it’s just…” Nanami furrows his blond brows, “-they inexplicably seem to flare up most when I’m around—”

And that’s when he sees it.

The flash of your white coat.

“-her.”

Haibara echoes, “Her?”

With the faint curve of your smile and your intelligent eyes.

With that uniform you seemed to make look like a wedding dress a beautful gown.

With the slight halo around you that seemed to blur out the rest of the world.

Younger than the both of them, and yet higher in rank (Nanami would never be ashamed to admit it, in fact, out of the entire hospital you might be a rare case that could rival him in grit. And for some reason that made him…well, he liked it to say the least). The sweetheart of the General Surgery department. A favorite amongst patients and staff alike.

You were everything that he had trouble becoming.

And the word blurts out of Nanami’s traitorous mouth faster than he can stop himself.

So awkward and feeble—weakly falling between his usually-stern lips that had no trouble telling off their most stubborn patients, directing lectures for the new residents, and earning him a reputation as one of Tokyo Jujutsu Hospital’s toughest doctors.

The Ratio Doctor, for his steady hands.

The Blond-haired Sorcerer at GP.

The Ice Prince (Nanami wasn’t quite sure whether he should be insulted by this one- though, given that it’d been created by a particularly annoying blue-eyed surgeon down in the ophthalmics department then maybe he should be…)

People both respected and slightly feared him - after all it took quite some doctor to climb the ranks and become the best in his department, the best of the best. And the youngest, at that!

Which is why most of the hospital staff would laugh in your face if you told them that Nanami Kento was suffering from a particular…malady himself, and had been wracking his brains day and night trying to correctly administer himself a diagnosis.

With nothing yet.

Hell, they might even prescribe you a neurological exam. 

It’s with this thought in mind that Nanami had confided in his best friend, his oldest, his only confidant all through high school to university to medical school. Dr. Haibara Yu from the pediatrics department, who swivels around in his seat to catch sight of you—he brightens up…and commits the most heinous atrocity to friendship - he calls you right over.

He grits his teeth as the other man waves you down in the middle of scanning the canteen for a free seat- “Yu!” Nanami hisses underneath his breath, pulling down one of Haibara’s hands where it was dangling in mid-air. He pins it down onto the faux-wooden plastic of the table- only for Haibara to start waving at you with the other. “Yu, what do you think you are doing—”

“What?” Haibara turns to him with an innocent expression, both arms put down now.

But it was too late - and you were already heading their way with a polite smile and your tray steaming with your lunch.

Nanami feels like his face was much the same temperature.

Fuck—there it was again! With his eyes pointedly downturned, Nanami snatches Haibara’s prescription book right out of his hands to start jotting these strange symptoms down.

“Hey there!” He’s looking up at the sound of your voice- and is immediately turning away (for good reason). Palpitations. Perspiring. Possible heart murmurs or arrhythmia? The table rattles ever-so-slightly as you place your tray down and take a seat besides Nanami—jitters? “Thanks for having me, the canteen’s absolutely packed today.”

He can feel your warm smile against the side of his face, and the only thing that Nanami can possibly do is spare a half-glance your way and nod.

Heart attack?!

But you seem to take it in stride, and turn to Haibara - who beams right back at you, as he was always prone to doing. Now it seems that there’s a strange new symptom of stomach churning. Acid reflux. Not quite pleasant…He wonders how the brown-haired man seemed to never let you affect him in this way.

“Always happy to have you!” Haibara leans over the table to start the conversation, as he always seemed to do between the two of them. “How’s your day been? Kento and I just barely managed to squeeze out for lunch.”

You sigh, “Busy nonstop. Mostly recovering patients than anything-” And Nanami had the faint, fleeting thought that he’d make an appointment with you every day had he been one of your patients—thoughts of delusion. 

“Tell me about it.” Haibara nods understandingly, “I have four walk-ins already waiting.”

“Mm, just had one for an acute abdomen.” You’re poking and prodding distastefully at the grey mush of potatoes they’d served up for the set lunch - and honestly, even after years of working at the hospital Nanami never understood why the food had to be like…that. Unbeknownst to the rational part of himself, he was halfway through jotting down a better recipe for mashed potatoes before he catches himself.

Automatic behavior.

He jolts at the sound of your voice continuing the conversation, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil that your colleague was in. “There were a few more that I sent for counselling, and then one case of gastritis which wasn’t too bad.”

“Mhm, I missed my rice for breakfast today and I’ve been kinda feeling it too.” Haibara places both hands on his stomach with a huff.

And Nanami—Nanami feels a lightbulb go off inside his brain.

With a sudden rustle of papers (that weren’t quite his, but he had more important things to worry about right now), he’s furiously jotting down. So rapidly, so urgently, that he starts to feel the metal nib dig into his fingertips, and the ink stain dangerously close towards his white sleeves.

Acute gastritis?

Stress and irregular intervals between eating.

Simethicone.

Antacids.

Possible ultrasound abdomen if doesn’t reduce-

“Do you have a patient that suffers from gastritis, Kento?”

Nanami flinches so hard at the sound of your voice so close - the feeling of your warm presence pressed up against his shoulder, the curve of your breast through your clothes - that the pen he was holding flies halfway across the canteen and makes a certain grey-and-black-haired urologist slip on it.

“I’ll go get it!” Haibara announces—and Nanami almost has half the mind to reach his hand out and grab his best friend. To stop him by the scruff of his collar. To make him forget about that damned pen and fucking help him because he’s near the point of requiring resuscitation.

But it’s too late - Nanami’s fingers are barely even twitching, and Haibara’s already slipped away to gather his belonging. Leaving the two of you very, very alone in this crowded canteen.

Was it getting hot in here or was he experiencing some sort of hot flash?

But listen! Nanami Kento has made it through the sleepless nights it took to pass his entrance exams, he’s trudged through the mind-aching years of medical school, he’s survived all the being-yelled-at it took to finish his residency. So surely - surely - he could try and not make an even bigger fool out of himself in front of you? Especially as someone so senior in terms of rank?

So subtly that one almost couldn’t see him moving, he semi-turns to you with a bow of his head. “H-hello.”

You giggle—that one was definitely a heart palpitation. “Why hello, Kento-san. I apologize if I interrupted you in the middle of your work.”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head and pushes up the sagging golden rim of his glasses, “I apologize for being so rude at the table, I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings.” And then he looks at you with a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “You could never interrupt.”

To which you seemed to stare at him for a lingering few seconds - was he just imagining it? Was there something on his face? “W-well, that’s good to hear.”

“It’s simply fact.”

“And the pen?”

“Not mine.” There were slight dimples on the sides of his cheeks, you’re noticing. They never did have a chance to pop out given the handsome doctor’s stoic nature. Nanami tilts his head slightly to the side, gaze somehow scrutinizing all of you at once. “If it’s not mine then why bother?‘

You startle out a slight chuckle, “Oh, you’re awful.”

“Who’s awful?”

You and Nanami lurch away as if the proximity between you two burned.

Never realizing just how close you’d been until you’re sliding about a meter away on the bench, never realizing just what it might have looked like until someone else was coming along to pop your little bubble—never realizing that there had been a bubble in the first place.

You’re sinking your teeth into your lower lip to silence your yelp of surprise, Nanami’s eyes meeting yours across the gap you’d just created as if two parts of the same heartbeat. Ba-dump—! The steady tips of his fingers twitch- shortness of breath, oncoming fever.

It seems to take him an age to break the charged eye contact, and by the time he does- Haibara had already taken his seat once more. Pen in his hand. Easy grin not dampened a single bit at the strange air between his best friend and you. “Who’s awful?” He asks once again.

“Kento.” You respond instantly, though he notices that the tone of your voice was slightly out-of-breath (not that Nanami spent time memorizing your exact pitch, inflection, and melody!) With a smile spreading across your face- you seem to lean in as if you were about to nudge the man with your shoulder, but thought otherwise. And you jab at him with your thumb instead, “Kento’s awful for throwing your pen halfway across the canteen.”

“I’ll say.” Haibara knits his brows in a show of joking anger, “Kento, what have I told you about getting so caught up in your work? It’s not healthy.”

“I know I know.” He grumbles.

“What are you working on anyway?” Learning your face in your hands, you take a good look at the towering man. “Within HIPAA, of course.”

“I-” To which…the alleged ice prince of the GP department seems to pale. He seems to let his lips part. He seems to look at his brown-haired best friend and signal for help—

“Ah- ah—!” Haibara starts up abruptly, catching your attention. “You see, Nanami here has been having just a bit of trouble with this new case. New patient. New consultation.” He looks between you and Nanami, wobbly smiles. “Wh-whole new person, of course…”

You narrow your eyes, “Right?”

“You could help us, actually!” Haibara babbles out at the sheer intensity of your stare - and Nanami understood the predicament, he really did. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to reach out and strangle the man. Though, before he could do anything of the sort, Haibara’s reaching over for his notebook and flipping through to the page he’d initially been writing on.

Placing it in front of you and thumbing through the scrawled writing, “These are just my observational notes, you see- heart palpitations, chest tightness, tremors, poor concentration, and a lack of sleep. I was thinking gastritis but-”

“But that would be more in line with more symptoms of intermittent GI discomfort.” You hum, thoughtful now. “Have you conducted any labs?”

Haibara shakes his head, subtly looking at Nanami. “Not yet.”

“I’d recommend an ECG, a CBC to rule out anemia, and a thorough examination of the patient’s sleep history.” You rattle off, and both men were slightly in awe at the ease with which you did. “If the tremors haven’t been accompanied by any tingling or brain fog then we might be able to rule out anything serious that needs an MRI for now. Did you already consider that?”

Nanami’s lips part, “N-no…”

Honestly, something in it made him…tighten in his pants-

“And what if the patient has symptoms of increased libido?” Nanami’s the one to ask at this time, to which you squint down at the paper.

“It hasn’t been written on here, but if there really is such an issue then maybe a hormone check can be done?” A furrow between your brows, one that he wants to kiss away—what?

“What about if they have delusions?”

“They’re displaying signs of delusions?” Your eyes widen, “Maybe we crossed off the MRI too soon- there are many things it could be, I really do think it’s subclinical anxiety, however.”

“Subclinical anxiety?” Nanami asks- did he get anxious around you? That made no sense. He sure did respect you, but that didn’t mean he was afraid in any way- “I disagree, I rather think it’s something to do with pylori-induced gastritis.” It has to be, right?

Your furrow deepens, “With GI symptoms, yes. But notice the context, the epigastric discomfort is likely functional rather than stands on its own-” 

“You can’t just assume anxiety.” Tutting, and Haibara watches the debate like a tennis match. “What if it’s a deeper underlying condition? We can consider anxiety only after the appropriate labs have been done-”

“And what do you suggest then?” Crossing your arms.

“An endoscopy-”

“Hah! An endoscopy?” It was almost condescending, the way you laughed—so why the fuck did it only make his dick throb even harder between his legs? “An endoscopy now might be going too far, if you simply did the basic labs and rule them out-”

He squirms, “F-fair point but what if it’s necessary-”

“Then do it.” You raise a brow sharply, and Nanami has to crush his meaty thighs together. “I have never encountered a general practitioner so thoughtless. Ignore the basic labs and likely prognosis to over-medicate this patient.” You lean in even closer—fuck. “Do it. Worsen their somatic symptoms with your own distress, Dr. Nanami Kento.”

He stares at you, utterly breathless, for a few silent seconds.

Heavy breathing.

Before Nanami’s shooting up in his seat, and scrambling to wrap his stark-white coat tighter over his body. “F-forgive me-” All eyes at the table follow him as he staggers to his two unsteady feet and slips out of the bench. “Forgive me, I seem to have just remembered that I have a ah- terribly urgent walk-in-”

“What?” Even Haibara - who’d taken the opportunity during the heated conversation to dig into your mashed potatoes - questions his best friend. “But I thought you said you were free until-”

“Terribly urgent.”

And the withering glare that Nanami shoots his way is enough to make even the chatty man shut his mouth with a click! stuffing his face with a spoonful of mush. You’re looking between the two that seemed to be having a silent conversation that you weren’t privy to. “Oh um…alright, Kento-san, I apologize if I was rude to-”

“No, never—” And if anything, he was firm on this. Even if the rest of his body was so thrumming with feverish energy that it felt like he was about to break. 

He turns his fiery eyes your way, melting a bit at the look of slight surprise on your face. “Never. I just ah- this is just a really important case. And it has nothing to do with our conversation - which I would love to continue sometime - I simply have to- go-”

And with that, Nanami Kento - the star practitioner - darts through the busy canteen as fast as he could without running. Still, he topples over a particular urologist once more.

It leaves you and Haibara stunned and speechless at his departure.

And Nanami being the only one to know where exactly he’d run off to: the nearest men’s bathroom. Where he’d locked himself inside a stall and jerked his aching cock raw.

.

.

.

The second opinion.

“Insomnia and heart palpitations…” Shoko furrows her neatly-plucked brows at the man before her, tapping her pen on her empty notepad. “And you’re saying that you’ve been experiencing some mild nausea?”

Nanami sighs, running a hand through his golden locks. “Only on some occasions-”

Her slightly deadpan tone cuts through, “And when is ‘some occasions’, Kento?” Those dark eyes of hers seemed to look right through him - not in the way that yours would, too. But rather they made him squirm just like a child caught doing something wrong by his mother.

His hand in the cookie jar and all that.

You made him squirm in a different way entirely…Nanami shakes his head free of that strange thought.

Dr. Shoko Ieri of the cardiovascular department.

Nanami supposes that if there was any one of his friends he could go to inquire about his strange heartbeat these days, then it would be her. “Some occasions being…” Mindlessly, he’s reaching a hand up to paw at the right side of his chest. Where he could feel his heartbeat - steady now - beat away in a normal staccato. “-when I’m around- people- sometimes.”

“Anxiety, perhaps?” Shoko hums, and Nanami squirms at how closely she seems to echo your words. “But I’ve never known you to be anxious around people, Kento—dislike them, surely. But anxious? The Ice Prince?”

Nanami grumbles, “Why thank you.”

And Shoko seems not to notice the slight hint of sarcasm in his tone, “Is this around the general public or someone in particular?” Ah—what did Nanami say about her seeing right through him? Her judgemental gaze seemed even more stark against the clinical room. And as he struggles to answer, she reaches for the stethoscope that was snaked around her neck.

“W-well—” His prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, “-well nothing like that, really-”

“Right.” 

She didn’t sound like she believed him a single bit.

And before he knows it, she’s snuck the cold metal chest piece past his medical coat. With years of practice, she slips it right above where his heartbeat ambled along. “Regular rate. Breathe in and out deeply for me?”

Nanami does as she says, lifting the button-up underneath his coat so that she can listen without the obstruction of fabric. He’s keeping his sights above her head on the dizzying diagrams and posters of anything to do with hearts. Certain memes that he couldn’t possibly imagine Shoko browsing through the Internet to pick. “I could have done this myself.”

“And yet, you didn’t.” She scoffs boredly, “Shut up and keep breathing before I stop you breathing myself.” The doctor hisses slightly as the icy circle skates across his skin. “Seems to be a normal S1 and S2. Regular rhythms, no murmurs or rubs either- I honestly don’t think you need an ECG.”

“But about the palpitations-”

“I’ll recommend one just in case, all boxes ticked for your own peace of mind-” There’s a sharp craaaack–! as she removes her rubber glove on one hand, murmuring underneath her breath. “-and mine.”

Nanami still holds his shirt up as she places the chest piece on him once more, “Quite the impeccable beside manner you have.”

“I get that a lot.” She counts down something underneath her breath and reaches over for the pen on her desk, starting to jot down something on her prescription pad. A handwriting far worse than even Haibara’s. “Hand this over to that new nurse Ken-”

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!

Shoko sighs wearily, “Come in.”

And Nanami turns his head just in time for the clinical door to open and display…you.

In all your glorious, put-together beauty.

In all your intelligent gaze and the reports in your pretty hands—“Ieri, would you mind being a dear and giving me cardiac clearance for this patient before I-” Only then do you seem to notice him, “Oh! Kento-san.”

He thinks he whispers out your name like a prayer but he can’t be too sure.

He’s merely dazzled.

Shoko looks between the two of you with narrowed eyes. 

You’re bowing - and only then does the frazzled man remember to do the same. He slightly grunts at the realization that Shoko’s stethoscope was still on him and she wasn’t showing signs of setting him free any time soon. He still holds his shirt up—and your eyes sweep down his exposed front…“I see you’re getting a check-up done. My apologies, I just seem to be interrupting you today-”

“Never.” It comes out so quickly that Nanami isn’t sure who it surprises more - you, Shoko, or himself. His breath slightly hitches as his friend presses the chest piece deeper against his left pec, “I-I mean, you could never interrupt- this wasn’t even a check-up anyway, this was just…”

“Just?”

Fuck, you were sharp. “Just…”

“Testing my new stethoscope.” His friend swoops down to save him - Nanami Kento always was a bad liar. She presses it harder against his chest as if to prove her point.

Your eyes narrow at the scuffed tubing of the device, which Shoko (not so) casually covers with her other hand. “Wanted to make sure that there was nothing out of the ordinary before using it on patients- wouldn’t want to let our patients down, right?”

“Right…” You supposed it made sense. And with a final flicker of your eyes towards Nanami’s thoroughly ripped core - tannish skin, the ladder-like indentations of his abs, the plumpness of his pecs, that slight tawny happy trail that seemed to just go on…(was he dreaming or did your eyes linger just a little), you’re patting the thick report in your hands. “Well- anyway, what I was here to ask was whether you could look through this patient’s report and clear him for anesthesia for me by tomorrow.”

“Of course, just leave it on my desk.” Shoko nods. And with that, you’re walking away.

And for how painfully his heart seemed to beat out of his chest when you were around, it ached even more to see you leave.

You’re going up a short distance to open the door, and turning around just before you step out. “And good luck with the stethoscope-testing, Kento-san! And remember, subclinical anxiety and basic labs~”

“E-endoscopy…”

The door clicks shut.

They’re both heeeeaving out in breaths of relief, and the flattened end of the stethoscope finally leaves Nanami’s chest. He rubs over the frigid sensation that still prickles at his skin, “I might not have specialized in cardiology but I do know that it doesn’t take that long to investigate with a stethoscope.”

Shoko doesn’t answer. Instead, Nanami’s fixing his button-up and raising his gaze—

Only to find that she’d picked up her little prescription for him and was rip-rip-riiiiiiping it straight down in half. And then in half once more. And then in half about five times more just to add insult to injury before she throws it in the trashcan placed underneath her desk.

She dusts off her hands neatly, “You won’t be needing that.”

“What-” Nanami sputters, as if he was about to lunge down and pick up the pieces of that paper right now. “For what reason?”

Shoko looks at him with tired eyes, “Is this a joke?”

“Why I’d never-”

“Forget that- Nanami Kento doesn’t joke.” She’s raising one of her hands as if to silence him, and using the other to massage her temples. For what reason Nanami has no idea - in fact, he should be the one so distraught over this inconceivable medical neglect! She continues, “You had a heart rate of 120 beats per minute precisely the moment that she entered my office. And no other time prior to that or after.”

He furrows his brows, “And so?”

“No other time prior to that or after.”

“And so?”

“…”

“…”

Wordlessly, Shoko shuffles through her drawers and brings out a slim pen light which she uses to flesh into each of Nanami’s eyes. And he’s not quite sure why he lets her go on with it - but he does, dammit! Maybe she saw something there that he didn’t.

Finally, with her inspection complete, she drops the flashlight back into her drawer and hums. “Would you like me to recommend you for a neurological exam?”

“Excuse me-”

.

.

.

The third opinion.

“Hmm…honestly, Kento-kun-” Dr. Geto Suguru’s handsome face simpers just a little bit in that feline way that made it hard to tell whether he was being made fun of or not. He’s leaning against the clean, clinical hallway of his department. Residents bowing in respect at the pair as they passed. The ENT sign hanging overlooking them. “-from all the symptoms you’ve told me, I think what I’d recommend to you is just some rest and relaxation.”

Nanami finds himself sighing - it might not be much, but at least it was something different from what Haibara and Shoko (and you, he supposes) told him. “Thank you, Suguru-san.” He’d accosted him just after a line of patients, on a direct path out to Shoko’s clinic, though the blond-haired man doesn’t have it in his urgency to feel too bad about it.

Dr. Geto Suguru was among the best in his department - and the most popular, he had to admit.

The man just had a way about him that made you blissfully unaware he was examining you to the T. And though Nanami couldn’t recall a single conversation with the man that didn’t leave him feeling as though he was having an aneurysm, he did admit that he one of the best to consult.

“Don’t worry about it.” Geto waves off, tearing off the thin black tie in his long hair to redo it. “Sounds like something stressful or anxiety-inducing in your life right now. Like I said, just take the day off: maybe watch a movie, go out and take a walk, lap some sun—wait, are you jotting this down?”

Nanami looks up from Haibara’s notebook (yes, he’d stalked down the man and taken it from him), with a pieced-together imitation of what Shoko had said during their consultation. He blinks, “Yes? Is that a problem?”

That feline smile only grows. “No- no, not at all. Keep up.”

“Of course, Suguru-san.” And Nanami keeps scrawling down.

“Then take a shower. Make your hair look nice.” With a furrow growing between his brows, Nanami keeps scribbling the words down as they came. “Rev up your nicest car. Go out to dinner- someplace fancy.”

“O-of course?”

“Meet a babe.”

Nanami snaps his molten eyes up to meet Geto’s amused ones.

“Take her home and fuck her real good.”

“Suguru-san, I think that’s highly inappropriate—” Times like this, he really did understand why this was Gojo Satoru’s best friend. Even more so when something beyond Nanami’s blubbering figure catches Geto’s eye.

“As a matter of fact-”

And to Nanami’s utter horror, he’s calling out your name across the hallway.

Nanami’s almost fearful to turn around- but how could he not when your very footsteps tread out softly behind him. Your presence. Your voice. Your chuckle. “What’s this all about now, Suguru-san? I have a consultation waiting for me at five.” Nanami turns to face you, and finds that you’re already looking at him. “We meet again, Kento-san.”

“W-we do-” He’s abruptly cut off by the feeling of Geto chummily throwing a hand over his shoulder.

“Kento here—” Geto starts, and Nanami already knows that he doesn’t bode anything well. “-was just wondering whether you were free next Friday night?”

“Oh, I believe so?” You think to yourself, “I don’t have any surgeries lined up- why? Did you want to discuss something about that mystery case of yours?”

“Not quite…”

Geto snorts, “Actually, I don’t think there’d be a lot of talking-”

“I do not wish to discuss this any further.” Nanami had grown slightly taller than Suguru over the years, though both did manage to tower above most of anyone who entered the hospital. And it gives him easy leverage to clap a hand over the dark-haired man’s mouth.

One he’s plucking away with an eyeroll, “Well fine then.” He turns to you - who’d been watching the conversation with your bouncing pupils. And with his most alluring smile added on, “I would like to know if you’re free next Friday?”

You raise a brow in suspicion now, “For?”

“Oh, don’t you know?” And Nanami already hated where this was going, “A handsome man like me, a beautiful woman like you. A nice car. A nice restaurant. A nice apartment that we go back to and- fucking hell.” 

Nanami elbows Geto deep into his stomach.

Thankfully they were in the ENT department.

Geto hunches in on himself with a choked-up noise, and Nanami’s face doesn’t betray a single emotion of what he just did. “Forget he said anything.” Except for the burning blush that scattered across his cheeks.

“I usually do.” You answer, turning back to walk to whatever important case it is that you had to walk back to. He could see it - that importance, the utter respect you demanded - in your stride. Even more of the young medical residents spared you awed glances than they did to him, and it made a part of him…fuck. Calling out over your shoulder, “Headed to the labs for that subclinical anxiety case?”

He reaches a hand up to place over where his stomach was slightly fluttery, “Endoscopy, actually.”

Your giggle follows your departure.

And so does his heart.

.

.

.

The fourth opinion.

“Hey, ice prince Nanamin~” Such an annoying, graaaaating voice that he unfortunately knows too well calls out from beyond the open elevator doors. “Did you know that down in ophthalmics they’re saying that you’ve got a little condition because you’re a virg-”

Nanami closes the elevator right in Gojo Satoru’s smug face.

He breathes out in relief as the metallic box keeps moving upwards - sure, he was desperate for another medical opinion, but he wasn’t that desperate…

And from where you’d just-so-happened to have been standing in the same elevator with him, you’re laughing behind your clipboard. “You’re too much, Kento-san.”

“I am merely not enough.”

“Labs-”

“Endo-”

.

.

.

The fifth opinion.

The director of the hospital himself.

Masamichi Yaga stands across from where Nanami was sitting, facing the floor-to-ceiling window. It was one of those offices where all it took was just one look to tell that its owner was someone of high importance: where almost every surface was made of glass, where Nanami could see his own nervous reflection wherever he turned his eyes upon, where there was a perpetual ringing silence in the room.

Now, however, it seemed to have grown twice as deafening since the blond-haired man had entered. He’d confided in Yaga - a former emergency surgeon, his senior during his residency years, the one that had taken him under his wing during his blustering mistake-riddled days - about his malady. His symptoms, so to say.

But the silence only stretches longer, and Yaga keeps staring at the cityscape beyond.

Nanami fiddles with his fingers in his lap - and when even that grows too tedious, he’s just about to open his mouth and ask for a dismissal to return to his duties. Forget this damn strange illness and all!

But almost as if he knew what the younger man was about to do, Yaga speaks up with his gruff baritone. “You know, Kento, you have always been one of the smartest minds that I’ve had the pleasure of observing in this hospital. The sharpest. The most sensible.”

“Th-thank you, sir?” Nanami questions - he wasn’t quite sure where his former teacher was going with this…

Yaga turns around with a look that wasn’t quite one of anything but disappointment, “And yet, I never knew that you could be so fucking dumb-”

Nanami’s mouth parts—he doesn’t know what else he expected. But it certainly wasn’t for his ever-poised teacher to ever speak words like that-

“I’m afraid I don’t understand-”

“And that’s exactly why, Kento.” Walking towards him now, Nanami almost flinches at the heavy hand that the director places on his shoulder. Almost fatherly, to be quite honest - at least he seemed to have a slight bit more empathy than all the others he’d consulted. Slight bit. “You don’t understand, my boy, and that’s not entirely your fault-”

“But-”

“After all you’ve never had a girlfriend, have you?” Yaga asks. And Nanami? Nanami can only…shake his head. “Boyfriend? Love and Deepspace?”

He shakes his head to them all, “What even is a-”

“Nevermind that! You already have so much on your poor, overworked mind.” The man tugs down his shades and examines Nanami’s handsome face, tutting. There seemed to be something here that he was missing…“It’s alright, as your director I understand the consequences of not properly balancing your work and your personal life. But we have time, my boy, don’t we?”

“I don’t understand-”

“Exactly.” Almost as if every word he spoke only made Yaga dig his feet deeper into his notions. And before he knows it, he’s being roused from the cushioned seat and onto his feet- ushered in the direction of the tall doors. “Go- go downstairs and set this right.”

He’s stopping Yaga’s pushes by clasping onto either side of the glass door, “But- but really! I don’t understand what you mean the cure to be?” He wrestles out of the man’s hold and turns to face him, “Do I have to do an ECG? Maybe blood pressure monitoring? Echocardiogram?”

Yaga looks at him squarely - and he almost smiles. “That is, I’m afraid, something you’ll have to figure out on your own.”

And as Nanami is (for a lack of better words) thrown out of the establishment, he’s landing almost on top of the new visitor to Yaga’s office—

“You.”

“You.” Amusement splits your face as you take in Nanami’s harried expression, the way his eyes seem to glimmer ever-so-slighty as he takes in that yes…this can’t be anyone but you. He’d never mistake it to be anyone but you. “We just keep running into each other today, don’t we, Kento-san?”

“Endoscopy.”

“I haven’t even said a word about the subclinical anxiety yet!” You giggle. Before looking over Nanami’s broad shoulders at the older man behind him, “I believe we were supposed to meet regarding the cafeteria food improvements, Yaga-san?”

“Oh-” Yaga looks between the two of you, smacking a hand on his slightly-balding (though he would never admit it) head. “Oh! It completely slipped my mind- oh yes, do come in do come in!”

With a final wink at Nanami, you’re being ushered inside.

And Yaga turns back to the other man with an expression that looked as if he was trying to hold back a smile. “Kento? Would you also like to stay behind and join us in discussing the erm- cafeteria food quality?”

“I uh…” He catches your beautiful, beautiful eye from inside the office. And suddenly it feels as though every speck of marrowbone in his body had turned into lava. “I would love to, but I fear I have an urgent consultation that I must get to—now.”

And with that he’s speed-walking to the elevator, faster than your voice can call out to him.

The palpitations had started up again.

.

.

.

The sixth opinion.

Heart palpitations

Heart palpitations Brittanica

Shortness of breath, chest tightness, palpitations

Connection between early hyperthyroidism and heart murmurs

Why do I feel my heart race when I’m in the presence of someone?

Nanami blinks, taking off his glasses to wipe them down before putting them back on again. He always did make sure that they were crisp clear, and that not a single letter could be mangled out of place by some misplaced smudge (he’d been to the bathroom with his cock in hand about…five times today, you see). But that was neither here nor there.

His office room was slightly dimmed with night, the primary source of cold light coming from his glaring computer screen. And he’s blinking at his device once more - namely the suggestion that Google had written down underneath his search bar.

Did you mean: Why do I feel my heart race when I’m in the presence of someone I like?

Those strange heart murmurs start up once more—lighter, this time. But present nonetheless.

And Nanami Kento was just about to stab his tabs closed and conclude that he was dying, when a soft knock echoes into his room.

“Come in.” He grunts, absent-mindedly. Probably some resident who wanted to ask a question or two about a case they’d been handed.

And he’s looking up, fully prepared to lock gazes with some blustering youth who wasn’t sure whether they should refer the patient to a thyroid panel or a cortisol, when instead he sees none other than…you.

How was it always you?

He’s reaching for the place where his heart was, a slightly irrational fear that you’d be able to see it thundering through his coat seizing him. “It’s you.”

The door clicks shut. “It’s me. Subclinical anxiety and all.” And no truer words have been spoken—was he actually spot on about the brain fog?! You’re waving your hand in what almost looked like a truce - it was late into the night, and your shift must be long over by now. It seems that you’d dropped by just before you left, with all your cases lined and competently over, and that makes something within him stir. “I hope it’s alright, I just felt like checking up on you.”

Nanami swivels his chair slightly away from his computer, “Checking up on me?”

“Yeah- I always seemed to run into you today, and every time you seemed to have something on your mind.” You shift by the door, “Is that overstepping?”

“You could never overstep.” He doesn’t think about his answer - and he doesn’t need to.

“Never, huh? You say that a lot.” You’re raising a brow with a smile. There were enough chairs inside the office - his, whoever the patient is that needed to be treated, the examination table…but you weren’t quite like any patient, were you? 

And so you’re sitting down on the edge of his mahogany table, and Nanami Kento has to fight to keep his eyes from drifting down, down, downwards.

He fails.

You grin.

Crossing your legs, you let your tight skirt hike up juuuuust a little as you lean over him. This particular angle helps him see the jumbled mess of sentences on his search engine. It makes you slightly chuckle, gaze sweeping down the words. Resting on that final sentence. “Tell me the truth. Do I make you nervous, Dr. Nanami Kento?”

The air seems to sizzle with heat. “N-no-”

“Tell me, there’s no patient is there?” In an easy motion, you reach out and slide the tip of your finger down the stethoscope at his neck. Twiddling it softly.

He rasps, eyes flicking down to where your index had started to intertwine—he has to bite back a damn groan. “I admit, no.”

“There’s no one other than you is there?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps, “No…” Staring at your slightly exposed legs so intensely that it almost burned into your skin. You knew. You knew, you knew, you knew - but of course you knew, you were far smarter than him, weren’t you?

You start to lightly tug on his stethoscope - lightly. Light enough that it shouldn’t even phase him…and yet he can’t stop himself from edging even closer to you. Even closer. Even hotter. From tilting his head up to let your warm breath fan his face, “And you didn’t expect that I wouldn’t find out, did you? Did you lie to me because you thought me stupid?”

“No! Not at all-”

You’re inching even closer - and he could pinpoint the exact shade of your bra. Pray tell, was there a reason they were the very same chestnut color as his eyes? You then pull him in properly by his stethoscope, lips a mere centimeter from his. “So what do you think about getting a sixth opinion on that from a general surgeon, hm?”

“Please…”

.

.

.

“And this is your first time?”

“My first time, doctor.”

“Mhm, go ahead.”

“L-like this, baby?”

“Mmm—” A full body check-up. You’re sprawled back on the soft comforter, the faint swirling shapes pressed against your back. Nanami had insisted that you don’t find yourself laid back against the examination table by itself, and you’d simply asked him to make you feel so good that you won’t even notice the frigid platform.

With your legs partly cracked, you stare down at the handsome man that found himself standing between them. With his stethoscope at the ready and the chest piece placed down between your legs—“She’s beating quite fast.”

You whimper at the cold sensation, “Yeah? And why do you think that is?”

His cock twitches in his pants. “Perhaps our precarious position? Perhaps the feeling of the stethoscope end causing a physiological reaction? Or perhaps because of…” He looks almost sheepish, “-me?”

“What an astute observation- oh.” 

The doctor slides the metal piece right down your slit, making your body zap with the contrasting sensations. “Is that sarcasm I hear, doctor?”

“N-not at all…” You flutter your lashes, “You can just call me by my first name if you’d like, Kento.”

Tall and attractive.

His high cheekbones blushing, his throat gulping as he looks from the sopping patch on your panties to your pretty face. Molten eyes flicking as if he didn’t know which pretty pair of lips he wanted to stare at the most—“Actually- can I call you…doctor?”

A thrill runs down your spine, and you have to stop yourself from arching. “Oh- of course you can.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Nanami spits out immediately, as if the words had been waiting on the tip of his tongue for a long time. Your skin-tight skirt was still on you- and without even hiking them up your legs, he’s pressing his rugged palms upon either side of your thighs until they’re stretch-stretch-streeeetching apart. 

“Now let me see…” Pressing the chest piece even harder.

Colder. 

Cock throbbing in his pants at the slight rips n’ tears that ring out across the stuffy medical office, “Fuck, your transudate is overflowing, and just so sweet-smelling—just so fuckin’ wet. I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time, doctor.” And Nanami was just so strong - you’d thought as much given his hulking figure. But right now you could see the way his beefy biceps would twitch and bulge underneath his crisp white button-up. Letting the metal edge of it slide between your folds and smooch your cutesy clit, “I’ve really…”

Just bearing your sopping wet cunt all fully for him.

His strong arms firmly keep your legs apart as Nanami leans his head down and moves the stethoscope aside to triiiiickle out spit onto your swollen pussylips. That glistenin’ wad splatters all over your core and leaves straight down your crevice. “Now that’s just filthy-”

“I’ve really been- oh.” His mouth just seems to water even more at the way you squirm and whine and oh—he’s holding you down as if it’s nothing. “I’ve really been wanting to eat this pussy for a loooong time, doctor.” 

“You have?” You question with wide eyes.

“Mhm.” He hunches over the examination table, close enough that his hot breath scorches your face. Your entire body shivers with his next words, “I have a feeling she’s the only thing that’d cure me.”

Fuck.

Every hair on your body seems to stand on end.

He sounded absolutely ravenous.

The stethoscope is dropped onto the floor in a second.

And in a flash of golden-blond and rustling—Nanami wraps both arms around your legs and draaaaaags you bodily towards his gaped maw. Manhandling you to him. Bringing your pussy between his spit-slicked lips as if you were the sweetest dessert he ever did have the pleasure of encountering. “Mmmm…fuck- fuck, your pussy is just so- ngh.” 

Nanami’s words muffle out against your honeyed cunt and you see stars- “Oh f-fuck—” Hands flying down to scramble through his sweaty locks - you expected Nanami to be eager, but you didn’t expect him to act like he’d been starved. 

“This is what a pussy tastes like? They didn’t teach this in medical school—fuck, it should be illegal for all pussies to taste this good.”

Parched for ages now.

“Oh, who m’I kidding? I’d be addicted to this sweet pussy no matter what she tastes like- just the fact that these pretty pussylips are yours that makes them all the more delicious.”

Mouth gasping and plastering anywhere on your cunt he could reach.

“If only I could eat your puffy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner instead of this damned hospital food…”

He doesn’t even hesitate before gripping ahold of both sides of your thighs and hauling you until he was placing himself nose-deep between your folds. The straight nub of his nose ending right where your clit was and press-press-preeeeeeesssing. “Sh-shit- most guys can’t find the clit even when it’s been pointed out to them. Beginner’s luck really is coming in clutch, huh?”

“Actually…” His hazel eyes look up at you - all half-lidded and drunk just from kissing your pussy through your panties. Almost dazedly, he’s opening his mouth even wider. “I did do some reading up and research…in case I’d ever get s-so lucky as to have her on my face like this.”

He’s shifting just a little, leaving you wetly squirming at the way that he was intensely massaging your nub. Slide after slide—every time you’re leaning backwards and Nanami edges in to chase your cunt, his nose rubs on top of your clit.

Rub after rub.

Kiss after open-mouthed kiss. 

He feels your quiverin’ entrance splash out in even more slick and fucking groans. “Like I know that r-right now my nose is pushing on your bulbo-clitoral organ and causing the nerve endings to cause you immense pleasure right now.” He lurches away with a wet gasp, “She feels good right now, doesn’t she?”

Fuck, you didn’t expect him to use those terms. But you really weren’t complaining. “Y-yes- also her? Her being my pussy? You did research for my pussy?”

He blushes, “O-only for you, doctor.”

And you can only hum, unable to keep the smile off of your face. You can’t help but grow just a bit more excited at the fact, and Nanami can’t help but lap his textured tastebuds even harder. “Then go ahead- show me what that ‘research’ has taught you, baby.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And you’d have expected the ever-stoic, sensible gentleman that was Nanami Kento to be a neat eater. You’d have expected for him to take his time, work you up into a frenzy and stay cool throughout it all. 

But one taste of your splashin’ sap and he was gone for.

He was hearing that command slip from your mouth- and acting on it with pure carnal instinct. It’s as if something…breaks within him.

Something breaks.

And in a split-second Nanami grips your wrangling thighs so hard that you can feel his neat crescent nails leave marks. Nanami drags your unsuspecting body down roughly enough that the metallic examination table rattles with the sudden movements.

Dr. Nanami Kento slips his tongue past your panties and tastes your wet pussy properly for the first time- and his eyes roll to the back of his skull as if he’s seeing heaven. “Mmmm—” A guttural sound escapes his mouth before he can help himself, and he roughly thrusts his face even deeper. The frame of his glasses kisses your clit. The pointed end of his chin strikes your pussylips with a ringing smack! “And h-here I can feel your vaginal orifice squeezin’ around my tongue, your mucosa is just so soft…make me wonder what it’d feel like around my cock.”

“Sh-shit—” You’re bucking your hips up for more, more, more.

Which Nanami doesn’t need to hear from your mouth to crane his neck even deeper and start flicking the tip of his tongue inwards and outwards. Fleeting and feverish.

He was fucking you with his tongue.

He was letting the girthy end of his tastebuds slash inwards past your entrance, circlin’ a few times at your stretchy orifice before he’s fishing it back in. in and out. In and out. The honed tip used to maze between your silky walls, and expanding midway through to massage your walls thoroughly. “Shit– that cute mucosa really is soft, takes my stretches so well.” Thickly chuckling, he swipes your pussylips apart with two fingers and kisses you with his whole mouth in a way that leaves even you feeling shy. “You really are overflowing in transudate, it’s like a damn waterpark down here. Don’t the capillaries of your parietal pleura get tired after so much?”

Almost as if to prove his point, a sheeny layer of your slick slides down the inner part of your thighs. And you viciously smeeeear it all down the attractive sides of Nanami’s face by crushing his head between your legs- “Fuck, my capillaries won’t get tired.”

“And I won’t mind being suffocated.” The way he says it is so casual and matter-of-fact - as if there was nothing truer in the world. Emphasizing his point by clawing onto either side of your limbs and making you smush him even deeper, “Go on- harder now, it’ll only engorge that pretty vascular network of yours even more.”

“Like this?” You clench your thighs around his sweaty scalp.

“Even harder.”

“Fuck!” And you swear you can feel his thrashin’ muscle all the way deeply at your very throat- just the sheer mess he was leaving your insides driving you wild. “Like this then-”

“Even harder.” He humps his hips.

Nanami was like a man possessed- like a man gone completely feral. He’s drilling into you with his slurpin’ tongue hard and purposefully nosing at your clit even harder. 

Jaws lapped open to tongue at your hole again and again and again.

He hears those cute noises of yours and wishes he could record them, replay them over and over - but since he can’t exactly right now, he’s doing the next best thing. Increasing the speed of his ministrations until you’re all but babbling on his tongue, your entire body twitching with pleasure any time the tip of his tastebuds were edging in just a liiiiittle too deep. 

He swears he could count the exact timing of your cunt’s pulsations - regular, smooth rhythm, if rapid when compared to normal. And he swears - he just swears - that the constant ba-dump! Ba-dump! Ba-dump! sounded as if your pussy was spelling out his very name—

“S-spelling out what now, Kento?” You ask, not sure if your popped eardrums were hearing things clearly.

“Oh? Have I said that out loud?” The doctor’s asking - a genuine note of surprise in his voice. And you don’t know whether you’re more shattered by the fact that the intelligent man was so damn pussydrunken that he was babbling, or the fact that he didn’t even realize when he did.

You can’t keep the sheer awe out of your own voice, “Y-yes…yes, you did.” 

“Hmmm…” Nanami hums thoughtfully, “It seems that your lubrication somehow s-seems to have liquor-like- almost addictive properties to it - I’ve never read about anything like this before in my life.” Before the most sleazy smirk spreads across his face - and you can feel it plastering across your throbbing pussylips and making his kisses disrupt your insides even further. “Allow the doctor to heh- investigate this, my love.”

“I thought I-I was the doctor here…” You’re mindlessly prattling.

But it wasn’t anything against the way that the inexperienced man was holding onto either side of your body and eatin’ away at your core like a madman. He didn’t care for propriety. He didn’t have the experience.

He was simply plastering your plump folds against his gaping maw and letting his tongue do all the work. Your slick sliding all down his throat and drenching the top of Nanami’s white coat, “But she’s the one in need of attention.” Talking to your pussy. 

“F-fuuuuck—” Flipping from side to side, letting his tongue plunge juuust an inch deeper before he’s pulling back out - and with it, most of your sanity. Gluing his face between your legs again and again- at one point he’s helping your fervent hips slip n’ slide up his features. Such sloppy drags. And he’s rutting his hips in time with them, “I didn’t know you’d be so filthy- are you s-sure this is your first time?”

Nanami looks up at you with misty, blown-out eyes- your slicked plastered across the lower half of his face and all the way up to the top of his cheekbones. “Positive.”

“Shit…” You don’t even know what to say - only making the rickety examination table creak with your bucks. Each and every one that Nanami Kento meets by dragging you right back onto his greedy mouth- one such particular angle makes him swipe his tongue right near one of your sweetest spots and you moan. “Deeper then, Kento, deeper- wanna feel you.”

“Deeper?” He groans out in a gravelly tone, eyes completely dazed by now. 

“Yes- deeper.” You choke out, so many whines and moans and wads of spittle clogging up in your throat. “Please please please, go deeper-”

And something shifts Nanami’s gaze, as if he was mentally flipping through countless textbooks. “With my tongue?” He ponders out loud, still not calming down the roughened movements of his tastebuds. “Y-yes you’re right, it certainly would make the endings of your pudendal nerve feel really good- and as for the Gräfenberg spot, she’s about 3 inches deep-”

You cut him off with a shrill- “Enough with the anatomy and just f-fuck me!”

He peers up at you with serious, sultry eyes. 

“Is that an order from my doctor?”

You’re just barely managing to blubber out, “Y-yes- fuck.”

And, as expected, Nanami’s not even letting you finish your affirmation - not even letting you finish that thought - before he has two of his plump, puckered fingers nudging at your entrance and his mouth fastened to your clit.

They swivel and slide all down your ridged walls- and your cunt welcomes them so thoroughly.

So needily. 

So greedily.

In and out, in and out.

You feel the sparks dart up your curved spine as he starts pistoning his lengthy digits inside of you—“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck- you’re almost there, Kento.”

“Heh- s’like a study.” He croons out, letting his tongue alternate between licking up every translucent bead of sap that escapes you, and rolling over your poor nub. Nanami manages to synchronize it with the way he’s slashing his insides with his ruthless fingers - curving against your gooey entrance to stretch you wide open, thumpin’ at the roof of your cunt just because, scouring inside for your g-spot. “I already know. You don’t have to worry ‘bout a thing, ma’am. You’re in goooood hands.”

“Good—oh.”

“Literally.”

And even though Nanami Kento might not have been the most experienced when it comes to the matters of your pussy—he was the most precise. They didn’t call him the ratio doctor for nothing.

And with only a few vulgar strokes, he’s skiddin’ his orbed tips straight to bang against your scorched bundle of nerves. The sheer force of his thrust - so confident - ending shockwaves through your veins and making you bawl out in pleasure. “What the- so fast, fuck! How did you even-”

“Oh, quite easily, doctor.” Nanami hums out, pulling back his fingers with a wettened squeeelch! to pound another few strikes directly on your bundle of nerves. “I can hit it once.” Proving hit point by reeling those thickly glazed fingers out and delivering yet another spank! at your throbbing nerves once more. “Twice.”

And once more.

“Thrice.”

Once more as you can only yield and hatch out primal sobs at the back of your throat, tears rolling down your cheeks as the pleasure almost gets too much for you to handle- 

“Four times. Five times. Six times-” And accompanying each of his slamming impacts, your clits being sucked on as if it was the cutest piece of candy that Nanami Kento has had in a loooong time. And he was the type of man overtly conscious about his health, rarely indulging in delicacies of sugar - but something like this?

He’s sucking on your clit as if to make up for all the candy that he hasn’t eaten before. Addicted to the way your pulse would rapidly increase whenever he sucked on it, he’s slobbering out. Rutting and rutting his hips wildly, “It really was quite easy. According to what I’ve read, the Gräfenberg spot is about 3 inches d-deep on the anterior vaginal wall and is said to be an erogenous area that-”

“Oh just shut up and keep doing what you’re doing.” You’ve had enough - you’re so close by now that you feel absolutely zero guilt grabbing Nanami by his silken scalp and shoving the man impossibly deeper between your legs.

Something that he welcomes. He salivates down the crevice of your pussy, gluttonously gulping down any pearly wad of sap that you might leak out. Wrenching that sweetness out of you with he ruts of his fingers-

They start swabbin’ and scissoring inside you and you almost sob.

The curvaceous tips always somehow finding your g-spot precisely and attacking it with a thorough few slashes, “Mmm—” Nanami groans out against your pussylips, Adam’s apple bobbing as his tone struggles to take form. “Fuck- this is…oh.”

“What is it, Kento?” You’re raising your bleary head to ask. Confusion growing as he doesn’t quite speak- “Why aren’t you- oh, you silly man. Is it because I told you to sh-shut up and keep eating me out?”

With his pinkish lips wrapped around your clit, he’s both sucking and nodding.

“Well—fuck! Just tell me what you were trying to say…” And with a particularly trilling tone, you’re losing yourself to the bounces of your own hips against his handsome face.

Again and again.

You barely even hear what Dr. Nanami lists off next, “Hyperventilation, heart rate increase, rhythmic contractions in the pelvic floor-” Reaching for your pelvic floor with the accelerating pushes of his fingers. “-perspiration, pupil dilation, tingling sensations, and excess of transudate-”

Somehow managing to raise your head off the soft comforter to look at him, “A-and?”

“And the diagnosis is…” He’s pumping out just one final press of that cute lil’ button of your g-spot, and then the most innocent peck on top of your clit. “-you’re cumming.”

Your question gets trapped in your throat as you really do tumble into your orgasm - faster than even you could compute it. Toes curling. Back arched perfectly.“C-cumming, cumming- ngh.” It’s predicted accurately by Nanami who then proceeds to gash at your most tender of spots right on time with the peaks for your high and you don’t even know how-

“In time with the contractions, my love.” He explains away, his smart voice so deep and husky with need. The vibrations shoot straight down between your core and make you see white.

You’re not sure whether you’d been the one babbling the questions, or whether he was the one babbling the answers. All you know is that this might just be the strongest orgasm you’ve experienced in your entire life - and Nanami was the sole cause of it all.

He’s bucking against the air wildly, making the table clatter a little. He drivels away dragging at your clit with his lips, making those waves of bliss last even longer than they usually would. And whenever he feels you restlessly squirming away with stimulation, he’s hooking a hand tighter around your waist and pulling you in even deeper. “Still not yet- the tension in your mucosa is s-still high, you’re still cumming-”

“With you like this then it’ll be impossible for me to stop-” You’re crying out, breath stuttering every time he plunges his tongue in and out. 

And you wonder whether Nanami’s jaw must be aching by now. You wonder whether his fingers were rubbed all raw. You wonder whether he was tired and weary and yet somehow still addicted to your cunt…

“I am.” Nanami slurps, a sleazy grin on his face. “I am addicted.”

“K-Kento-” You’re breathily wailing, foolishly attempting to push back on his sweaty forehead - but the only thing that does is make him delve his slippery face even deeper—“Kento, the rhythmic involuntary muscle contractions have decreased and-”

“And so?”

It didn’t matter that your high was petering out, Nanami Kento doesn’t stop eatin’ your pussy out until you’re well and thoroughly overstimulated. 

Brought well enough to tears with the lashing ridges of his tongue, and his mouth that simply quirks up - he’s chasing you right back any time you run away. “Kento, I swear if you don’t get your head out from between my legs and actually fuck me then I’m going to diagnose you with something so heinous-”

“Nothing heinous about it.” Though he’s finally managing to detach his puffy maw with a loud and ringing plop! “M’simply pussydrunk.”

Your heart races as you take a good look at him, “W-well at least you’re admitting it…” Because oh, fuck—was he just incredibly sexy right now. 

With his usually-neat blond locks all disarrayed. 

With the lens on his glasses all cloudy with your slick.

With his mouth all rawly pink and puffy.

Covered from the handsome tip of his chin and all the way up to his earlobes with a clingy layer of your syrup. He wears it like a medal, that tongue of his that was inside you mere minutes ago darting out to catch a few stray droplets. And without further ado, Nanami’s raising himself from where he’d been leaned over the examination table to eat you out.

He pats at the nail marks left by him on your thighs, “Best to put some iodine on that.”

Eager to repay him for the jittery mess he left you as, you’re reaching out to fumble with his belt. 

“F-fuck, wait.”

Only for you to urgently tug them down and discover that…Nanami’s black boxers were absolutely soaked through. With his precum, yes, but more than that it was creamy wads of his cum clinging onto the thin fabric.

Slightly dripping down the insides of his thighs, a dark splotch that you couldn’t look away from

He’d cum just from eating you out?

You’re looking up at Nanami with your mouth slightly unfastened, “Did you really just-”

“Yes.” He replies, pressing both hands of his to his hot cheeks. Though it didn’t hide much - you could see the furious red of his ears peaking out from the sides, “Yes, I did. And I would argue that it’s a perfectly normal physiological reaction to having such a sexually-charged experience with the woman I lov-”

“Oh, just get in here.”

And it takes absolutely no time for you to tear off the rest of Nanami’s clothes (though he was neatly stacking them on a nearby chair) and flip your positions. Now with him sprawled out against the slightly-dampened examination table, and you hovering above him in admiration.

You take in all of him - all those details that you’d only gotten a fleeting glimpse of (out of sheer politeness, you’d have stared had it been socially acceptable) in Shoko’s office. 

The rippling skin of a ripped body he kept hidden away underneath so many coats and layers.

The ripeness of his pecs.

The ridges of his abs all flexing.

The dusting of his golden happy trail that you follow like a yellow brick road down, down, down to the base of his aching cock. 

The thing was- Nanami’s hilt was massively thick and covered in so many veins that it left your throat dry to imagine what he’d feel like from the inside. And not only did this apply to his base - but the rest of him was just as incredible as well.

A glistening layer of sap and seed clinging to him. A long few inches that you wouldn’t be shy to count as perhaps eight or nine. A rounded ballsack underneath him that still looked to be so full. A pinkish shade that brightens the further upwards you eye him. His red globular tip splatters out a few more droplets of creamy white and twitches—“D-doctor?” Nanami’s hoarse voice echoes out in your ringing ears. When you look up at him, he has a hand placed over his left pectoral once more. “M’feeling those symptoms when you s-stare at me again.”

“Aw, is that so, baby?” You coo - he was just too adorable when he was flushed a needy pink all the way down to the roots of his hair. This was his first time, wasn’t it? You’re pushing down on his clammy shoulder, “Then just sit back and let the doctor examine you, s’that alright?”

“Mhm.” He nods, biting down on his bottom lip. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Well you have absolutely nothing to worry about.” And as the towering man lies down flatly against the table, you straddle his hips and sigh as you slide-slide-sliiiide the front of your pussy down his thickened length. Long drags, uuuuuuup and down. “You’re in- haaaah, good hands.”

“I-I trust you, ma’am.”

And Nanami was just so thick and ready and rock-hard between the folds of your pussy- that all it takes is the slightest swerve of your hips for your tight hole to swallow up his tip.

With a gasp, you’re letting your head throw behind- fuck, the sheer stretch of him was enough to make you see pure white. He’d already molded your cunt to the shape of his multiple fingertips, but the girth of his cock was unlike anything you’ve ever felt.

As if he was filing up every bit of your elastic hole without even trying, and each pulsating ba-dump! he’s giving off makes your teeth set on edge. Red-hot.

And the ‘ice prince’ Nanami Kento wasn’t faring any easier, either.

Because Nanami was heaving underneath you. Nanami was groaning. Nanami was kicking his feet against the soft comforter as if he couldn’t handle the heat of your cunt for the first time, as if he was struggling to hold himself back.

His fingers sear upon either side of your body like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to pull you down or pull you off of him for the mere sake of his sanity. Ultimately—he’s at your complete mercy and doesn’t do a thing until you’re settling your hips down just a single inch deeper. “What’s the- hah- matter, Kento? Can’t handle my pussy anymore?”

“Oh, my love, if there’s anything m’made to handle it’s her-” He spits out with the wobbly attempt of a smug grin- only for it to immediately slip off his face the moment you clench your pussy.

The moment your velvety walls hug all ‘round him, squeezing as if you were trying to suck him dry already. You can feel the dewy excess of his cum start to beeeeead out into your tight channel, creating a slick coating that makes you even easier for him to slip into.

Nanami scrunches his eyes up and turns his flushed face to the side of the table - as if merely locking eyes with you would be enough to send him over the edge right about now. And neither of you would be surprised if it did. “W-wait—like I said, m’perfectly fine…just give me a second or two to catch my breath-”

“But, Kento you don’t understand-” He could practically hear the pout in your voice. The stern man looks up to catch you fluttering your lashes just the way you knew he liked, and you swear you can feel his bulging tip start throbbing even harder inside of you. “-it’s urgent, your sickness. We can’t waste precious time like this-”

“But move and m’gonna fucking cum again-”

“I don’t mind.”

With that said, you’re leaning your body slightly towards him - hands placed on top of his panting pecs and your ass raised slightly in the air.

Gaining the leverage for when you’re slamming his thickened length into you-

“O-oh—” Your shrill whines echo out across all four corners of Nanami’s office room, sounding like music in the man’s ears. And before that broken symphony is even finished departing from your glossy lips, you’re churning your hips back down again.

Up and down.

Up and down. Up and down.

It just feels too good to have his overlarge cockhead intruding between your pussylips like this - spreading them so far apart that you can’t even begin to describe the sheer stretch. The rounded beginning of him entering past your orifice and plugging up the sultry wads of slick that kept on leaking out of you, bullying his way iiiiiiiinside no matter how much your tight orifice starts to protest. 

You wanted him inside.

And you were going to get him inside - just say the word.

Or, in this case, babble out the words whilst you’re mindlessly bouncing your hips down onto his in a struggle to fit all of Nanami’s massive erection. Barely even past the pinkish line that denoted his slit, and yet you were still keening—“I-inside. I want all of you inside, Kento.”

“All of me?” He breathes out, eyes widened. There was a breathless tone of his voice that made you remember all over again just how inexperienced he was-

“Mhm, all of you, Kento.”

Through the gaps of your teary lids, you notice the shy blush that spreads across his handsome face. 

“Something the matter, baby—?” You’re cooing in that softened tone that makes his plump tip swell just a lil’ bit bigger inside of you, it was the perfect size to massage the most tender parts of your walls whilst still managing to maze inside. “What happened to all that- hngh, research you were telling me about?”

Nanami nervously avoids eye contact with you, “Y-you see, my love, I have researched and prepared for days on end in the wildest hopes of this very moment ever happening.” And he’s looking up at you with something utterly reverent in his eyes, “But now that I’ve finally felt your pretty pussy, I can’t remember a thing.”

You shiver- and you’re suddenly remembering that both of Nanami’s steady palms have been placed upon either side of your hips. “The Nanami Kento can’t remember a thing when you’re inside me?”

He shakes his head with glittering tears in his eyes, sweat beads at his forehead. “C-can’t! Can’t remember a single thing…don’t even think I can even remember my name if you asked?”

“And what is it?”

He looks up with a slightly dopey smile, “Your husband- hopefully?”

To which you have to stifle a fond chuckle, “We can see about that when you’re less…pussydrunk, baby.” Cutting of the fervent protests that were about to spill from his usually-stern lips with a single smushy clench of your walls. “How about- ngh, this - I teach you all that you need to know when you fuck me? Hm?”

Leaving him utterly speechless and drooling once you’re fitting inside a few more inches of his swollen shaft. 

You eye the cute line of saliva that trickles down the side of his mouth, “How abooooout it, Kento?”

“Y-yes—” And you can’t believe the way that Nanami’s attractive baritone was breaking at the tail end of his response. You were utterly ruining him. “Yes, ma’am, oh my god-”

“Good.” 

Still jostling your hips down to meet his throbbing length, you’re lifting one of Nanami’s hands off of your hips and setting them down at your core. Right on your very front. Right where he should be able to feel the slight bump—! of his crowned red tip entering and moving out of your cunt. “Can you feel the stretch? Feel the way your c-cock is so fucking big that you’re stretching out my walls like that?”

“The distention is just…” All that Nanami can respond, his parched lips dropping open in sheer awe. “And you’ve just gotten so lubricated with that sweet transudate that it just makes it so- oh—”

“Yeeeeeah, easy, huh?” Huffin’ down with a sultry smile, “How about making me even wetter, Kento? Pop quiz! Do you know how to make me wetter?”

He fervently nods, “L-likely with a mixture of pressure given at the anterior vaginal wall and the clitoris. As innervated erectile organs they activate mechanoreceptors and convert physical stimulation into electric nerve signals that travel through the spinal cord and activate the limbic system, somatosensory cortex, and hypothalamus.” Listing off as if his life depended on it - and you’re quite pleased to say that his palm only puts more pressure on your stomach. Thus make you twitch and whine with the added layer of stimulation pushing his thickened shaft against every ridge inside your walls. “I-in other words…it makes her feel good.”

“Full marks.” You respond. Fuck, did it get him hard to have you bossing him around and teaching him like this. “Now to put that knowledge to good use and actually bottom- oh!”

You should know by now never to underestimate Nanami Kento. Because with a few more sloppy drags- he’s shovelling all of his thick, throbbing inches between your pussylips.

Having them spreeeeead-spread-spread so widely open to take up his entire shaft - you could feel the curvature of his bulbous tip hit your cervix and splurge it in his dewy sap. You could feel his darker curly hairs kiss your cunt n’ scritch-scratch at your clit. You could feel him bottom out.

Finally. 

After what feels like so long fucking you simply trying to get his immense size to fit inside - now Nanami was free to drill upwards into you like a madman.

“There-” Nanami takes the signal to reach down the looooong digit of his thumb down from where his palm remained splayed atop your core. Pressin’ down on your clit - still so sensitive after your last orgasm. “Does it feel good now, doctor?”

You’re jerking upwards as he thrusts and thrusts, “S-so good-” You moan out, your entire body wracking with primal shivers. You were already down so many inches of his vein-covered cock, and yet there seemed to be even more—“Fuuuck yeah, try to aim for the Gräfenberg spot, baby, try to aim.”

“T-trying…”

With his blond brows furrowed in concentration, he holds his left hand still on the side of your waist and manhandles your body into the most sultry figure-eights and curves.

You didn’t even know if Nanami even realized what he was doing - the way he was churning his thickly-covered shaft all deep inside of you. With the way he was moving you like this, it made it so easy for the patterns of his veins to kiss up against your sweetest spots, aiming for that one particular spot—

“A-and you said it was how deep along your canal, my love?” Nanami gusts out his scalding moans, and- fuck, was he so far gone that he’d forgotten that, too? It wasn’t even too long ago that he was reciting the same facts at you.

“Right at the front, remember? Where it feels so good?” You’re attempting to tone it down for him, “Anterior…”

“Anterior vaginal wall.” He nods, suddenly remembering now.

As you’re being fucked with all his rapid half-ruts and hammers - too ravenous to even properly pull out of your pussy to fuck you with his entire length - Nanami’s palm skids down where his cylindrical intrusion was turning you utterly stupid. And within absolutely no time, he’s splaying his fingers out - thumb rolling over the knob of your clit, the edge of his pinkie stretched out wide about halfway down your stomach. From the beginning of your treacly cunt and all the way to your—“Womb.” Nanami pants out, more to himself. “S’about this distance from th-the vaginal orifice and up to the cervix uteri.”

“I-is it?” Your mouth waters at just the way he was taking this so serious - all while he as fucking you so sloppily… 

The general practitioner tilts his muddled head, “So measuring from here- my apologies, doctor, I can’t quite remember the exact distance so m’measuring…” And you can see the way those intelligent, half-lidded eyes of his twinkle behind his glasses. “-the Gräfenberg spot should be somewhere over…here.”

Trial and error.

Trial and error.

Trail through the thorough slashes he was placing with his mushroomy tip, and error at the way he…actually, Nanami Kento doesn’t make errors. Who did you think he was? With only a singular slam! planted against a spot in your walls, you’re feeling so much pleasure that you have to close your eyes and let your body be taken over by the raw pleasure.

And Nanami seems to notice this change in you immediately, “I-is that the one, doctor?” He’s breathily chuckling out, absolutely loving the way your walls seemed to melt around him. “Anterior vaginal wall. About three inches deep. Rapid palpitations—oh! I think I read about this.”

“Y-yes, that one—” Your mouth drips with watery spittle as he reaches straight for that spot once more.

“Heh, that was rather easy I must admit.” You wonder if Nanami realizes just how much he’s echoing his words from earlier, and simply bangin’ and bangin’ away at the treasure trove of your g-spot. “How could I ever think to miss this beautiful spot? Not when she’s callin’ out f’me every time I hit it?”

Your pussy was letting out just the most sinful squelches, “Yes- yes yes yes, keep going.”

“Mhm—” He’s slowly but surely learning then that he faster he’s roverin’ his thick inches up your channel, the stupider you’re growing on his cock. “Fucking this pussy f-feels so right. Having her pretty walls s-squeeze me like this- there’s no better medicine in the woooorld and I don’t need a single medical textbook to tell me that.” With each one of his jackhammers leaving you lurching on top of him until he pulls you back down with the hand plastered onto your hip. Like adhesive. 

And now that he’d found your favorite spot once more, Nanami Kento wasn’t showing you any mercy.

He juts his hips upwards- he holds onto your pliable body as you try to move- he pins you back down onto his thickened base and simply keeps on ruinin’ you on his prolonged length. Fingers still twiddling on your clit.

A particularly harsh bang! against your throbbing g-spot leaves you scrambling on top of him and Nanami snapping up and letting his left hand bring your neck into a chokehold. He’s tightening his grip on your airway as you struggle, “D-don’t run away, ma’am. If you run away then who’s going to teach me-”

You gasp, being pushed and pulled by him. “There’s nothing more to teach-”

“But there is…” He’s looking up at you through his slightly pale lashes, something dark glinting within those kindred irises. “Won’t you teach me how to impregnate this pussy, doctor?”

“You- you should know that already-”

“But you’re the doctor.” Nanami insists in his predatory tone, holding your cunt deeper against the scruff of his happy trail. Not only does it cure a carnal itch at your clit that you didn’t even know you had - but it also makes the white-hot shockwaves of pleasure you were experiencing increase tenfold. His thumb starts edging all over that sweet nub, “You’re the one senior to me. You’re the one smarter than me-”

“Fuh-fuck but right now…” The words are being entirely fucked out of you by the maddened drilling of his hips.

His pistoning red tip swipin’ at your g-spot and leaving a few rotund bruises right at your cervix. Thud, thud, thud. “So go on- tell me something smart, doctor.”

And you’re left momentarily speechless by the way that Nanami’s toned pelvis only plummets up harder in anticipation for your response. It wasn’t you riding him any longer, right now it was him dragging his veiny cock down your walls and driving you absolutely wild with it.

He slobbers out a creamy droplet of pre right where the door to your womb was calculated to be - right where he could almost feel your pussy begging for him to empty out into you. “K-Kento—” You whine.

“Yes, doctor?”

“Shut up and cum inside me unless you want me to ban you from my pussy.”

Now wasn’t that genuinely the smartest thing he’s ever heard.

With a few more nudges against your puffy clit, Nanami pulls you down by the hand at your throat to kiss you. And that’s what does it for him.

That’s what sends him over the edge.

The two of you are crashing into your highs faster than you could count. Your orgasm crashing through you like an intense storm, and Nanami’s speed spurting deeeeeep inside of you—he’d been holding back this high for ages now, solely waiting to fuck you through yours before he eventually edged into his inevitable one.

And if you thought that the bliss he’d given you from earlier was the best high of your life, then you surely weren’t ready for this one.

Bulbous tears falling down your face. Throat wretched with constant sound. Your thighs shaking tiredly on top of his upwards-drilling hips, “Cumming.” You mewl out belatedly, your vision turning into one of a kaleidoscope. “Sh-shit you’ve made me cum-”

“The afferent nerves are carrying up the signals straight to those—ngh…parts of your brain.” Even he was having trouble keeping up by now, the blushin’ tip of his shaft twitching more sensitively than ever. “And then- and then here-”

“S-so sensitive…” You’re drawling out through the shakes of your high as he presses down the hand still latched onto your pretty stomach. The perfect position.

Because when Nanami was piling on the pressure, that meant he could feel the sensation of your channel bulging with the wads of his ivory sap. Folds fluttering as you tried to suck back in the miry ribbons, but there was so much that you just couldn’t help but overspill-

Nanami mindlessly prattles out his scientific knowledge, “From the vas deferens to the…ngh- s’gonna collect in the posterior urethra and become expelled through S2-S4 reflexes…” Slightly trailing off, he slides his hand to right above your womb. “Deposited riiiiiiiiiight here at your cervix- can you feel it, my love?”

“Yes yes yes yes-” You’re fucking back down onto his incredible cadence, even the slightest movements making Nanami’s cum splosh! deep inside you. All warm and gooey. “-can feel it so deep inside, baby-”

“In your womb.” He insists, something crazed in his eyes. “Oh, all in your womb like she deserves.”

Your toes curl.

Your hips start to feel sticky with the excess of sweat and slick that keeps spraying out.

It’s then that his steady fingertips start scooping up the white cum you were leaking out in a big ol’ puddle on top of Nanami’s abs. It’s like some glaze he’s getting on his fingers and stuffin’ between your swollen pussylips- still fucking you like a madman while he does so.

Letting his fingers probe inside.

Allowing your greedy cunt to gobble up each ounce of sap he’d given you.

Making your greedy cunt gobble up each ounce of sap he’d gifted you - and Dr. Nanami Kento always was the biggest stickler about cleanliness in his office room. Even though he was making the biggest, sloppiest mess out of you—

He doesn’t stop until every single dewdrop of his cum has been swiped clean inside of you, and you’ve been overstimulated until you were nothing but a whining, babbling mess. His hefty cockhead shoved deep and still throbbing inside of you, “S-say something- ngh, else from that smart mouth, my love?”

“Kento—” And that’s all he ever wanted to hear. 

“Perfect.”

Your tearfully blubbering mouth continues, “Are you finally cured of your symptoms now?”

Nanami looks at you, he looks at where you two were connected. And he places a hand right above his rapidly beating heart, always eager to let himself be known around you. Always. “How about a second opinion of that sixth opinion? You may use the stethoscope this time.”

.

.

.

The seventh opinion (?).

You’re not sure how the two of you didn’t sound any alarms.

But sunlight seemed to be spying in through the blinds of Dr. Nanami Kento’s (MBBS) office, and the two of you had quietly snuck into his specially attached bathroom to freshen yourselves up. And it’s with immense, immense difficulty that you two don’t pursue an nth opinion in there, too. 

Oh, alright…maybe you did pursue at least half an opinion. 

But! You digress, it’s the early morning hours by the time that you and Nanami finally step out of his sex-saturated office. 

It’s as if your little bubble of lust has - not popped - more so dissipated into the air until it was clinging onto every particle in the atmosphere around you two. Until wherever you went, even if you were merely stepping out into the hospital corridor, made you want to feel more of the man.

To hold him.

To touch him.

To kiss him.

Nanami, it seems, was facing the same internal battle. The need was palpable on his face and his hand reaches out—to fix the collar of your stark white coat. 

With a soft chuckle, you’re sweeping a look around the hallway but ah- luckily the coast was clear. And it leaves you two enough privacy to check each other for any hairs out of place (Nanami, expectedly, was looking as impeccable as ever), to check for your disinfected stethoscopes, to fix each other’s medical coats.

It’s only once you’re done that Nanami leans down without any warning and presses a soft yet lingering kiss to your lips—“Yeah.” He murmurs into your mouth, “Still facing those symptoms.”

“We’ll have to check up on that.” You quip back.

“Basic labs?”

“Endoscopy.”

And it’s with a final nudge at Nanami’s shoulder that you’re leaving with the promise of calling him right after your shift (the two of you had a date planned for next Friday night, after all!). His eyes leaving you for the first time, and your back turning to face the other side of the hallway when—

Dr. Gojo Satoru, ophthalmologist.

Wide-eyed and even wider-grinning at the sight he’d just-so-happened to stumble upon in his valiant pursuit to give Nanami an unsolicited seventh medical opinion. What’s that saying about finding diamonds in the pursuit of gold.

“You two…” He points between the two of you, and before you can open your mouths to say anything- “Wait there- pose!”

In a split-second - so fast that you almost think you imagined it - Gojo’s plucking out his phone from his white coat pocket and snapping a picture of you and Nanami. Freshly-fucked aura and all. 

The glaze in your eyes. The bite marks on your neck. The scratches peaking above his collar. The slightly unsteady quality of your gait.

The only thing that prevents you from thinking this was all some bad dream was the undeniable bzzzz—! vibration coming from your coat pocket.

And Nanami’s.

You both reach down into it and fish your phones. 

GROUPCHAT: Dr. Johnny Sins but better (Hospital groupchat)

Six Eyes: Look who I just caught fucking in their office MWAHAHAH σ(≧ε≦σ) ♡

Six Eyes: *insert attachment*

SUGONDEEZNUTS: LMAO

Shoko Ieri: oh my god.

SUGONDEEZNUTS: KENTO MY MAN I SAID AFTER DINNER. AFTER.

Shoko Ieri: you all owe me 4000 yen

SUGONDEEZNUTS: I’m broke and Satoru will pay for the both of us

Six Eyes: I never said that??

Six Eyes: Wait how is no one surprised?? AND Y’ALL HELD A BET WITHOUT ME (；￣Д￣)

Shoko Ieri: satoru you would’ve cheated

SUGONDEEZNUTS: Truth, bro.

Director Yaga (who tf added him??): Truth, bro.

Director Yaga (who tf added him??): And congratulations, Kento. You have finally lost your virginity, overcome your emotional constipation, and made me proud (we will ignore this breaking of hygiene policy for today).

Sunny Haibs: Congratulations, Kento!! I always knew you could do it!! (That’s why I bet the highest on you, you all actually owe ME 8000 yen).

Shoko Ieri: fuck.

SUGONDEEZNUTS: Fuck.

Director Yaga (who tf added him??) left the groupchat.

“Those bastards.” Gojo sighs heavily, looking up from a text exchange that you, too, had been present in the live to. “I can’t believe they started a bet without me.” And the two of you stare down the handsome blue-eyed hotshot of the ophthalmics department in suspicion.

Gojo sweeps his eyes lingeringly down you both in slight impatience, “So? Yaga said he’ll overlook any breaking of the hygiene policy for today.”

“Yes…?” Nanami asks, resting his hand on your shoulder.

“So don’t you need a seventh opinion?”

A/N. YES GOJO I WOULD JOIN YOU- also don’t quote me on most of the medical stuff because I had Wikipedia and a dream….

Plagiarism not authorized.

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ your mom will make you soup later yeah?

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Damian is too scared to go home like this, so Jason calls you to them. His home that makes good soup, his home with soft hands, his home that Damian is about to steal the heart of. word cnt. 9.6k

aka ›››› "Father...?" "Yeah bud?" Jason replies so casually you want to strangle him.

To say Jason was pissed didn’t even begin to cover it. The anger sat low and molten in his chest, a constant burn he couldn’t shake no matter how carefully he replayed the night in his head.

The mission was supposed to be nothing. A quick, forgettable errand before something that actually mattered. Before you. He’d timed it down to the minute, even swallowed his pride long enough to loop Bruce in, asking—reluctantly, irritably—for advice on evidence collection. In and out. Clean. Efficient. Four hours, max.

He’d planned it like a promise.

Seven o’clock: cuffs, charges, done.

Eight: showered, blood washed from his hands, the city scrubbed off his skin.

Nine: knocking on your door, pretending he hadn’t been counting down the hours since morning.

Damian hadn’t factored into any of it.

That was the problem.

Jason could have handled anyone else. He always did. Dick would’ve laughed it off later, bruised and dramatic. Tim would’ve brushed past it with that tight little smile, already turning the pain into data, into something useful he could throw back at Jason. Jason could’ve dumped either of them back at the warhouse—bloody, scowling, alive—and walked away without looking back.

But Damian—

Damian is a kid.

And that truth claws at him now, sharp and relentless. Because this time, the weight doesn’t slide off his shoulders. It settles. It presses down until his ribs ache with it. A kid got hurt, and Jason was there, and suddenly the mission isn’t clean anymore. It isn’t forgettable. It follows him, sticky and stubborn, refusing to wash away.

He drags a hand over his face, exhales hard through his teeth, and thinks of you—how he was supposed to be with you right now, how you were supposed to be the thing that grounded him at the end of the night.

Instead, he’s left standing in the wreckage, anger curdling into something uglier.

Guilt.

And Jason hates that most of all.

And now he’s fumbling with his cracked phone, thumb slipping against the spiderwebbed glass as Damian Wayne clings to his back, breath coming shorter, rougher by the second. The kid’s forehead presses into Jason’s shoulder, voice thin and stubborn even as his grip tightens.

“Not the manor,” Damian mutters. Again. Like a plea. Like a command. “Not the manor.”

Jason clenches his jaw.

He wants to grab the kid by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Wants to sit him down, shove him into a metaphorical time-out until he’s Bruce’s age and then go find Bruce himself and shove him into the same corner for good measure. Wants to scream about contingency plans and backup and the fact that he thought he agreed that children should not be bleeding in alleyways while pretending they’re indestructible. How the fuck did he get past the security system?

Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose.

“Screw you,” Jason huffs, shifting his grip, hooking his arms under Damian’s knees and hauling him higher, more secure against his back. The kid’s weight settles there—too light, too fragile for someone who carries a sword like it’s an extension of his spine. “You’re going home. Fuck—do you know how much trouble you’re in, kid?”

Damian doesn’t answer. Just breathes. Too fast. Too shallow.

The night bites at them, cold even by Gotham’s standards. An ugly, cutting wind snakes through the alley, carrying smog thick enough to taste, clinging to the back of Jason’s throat. The city feels especially mean tonight, all sharp edges and dim lights, like it’s watching to see what breaks first.

They’re wedged between a burger joint and a narrow antique shop—the kind that smells like dust and old paper and forgotten things. Jason recognizes it with a jolt of something unwanted. One of the places you dragged him into after a date night once, all soft laughter and teasing commentary about cursed objects and ugly lamps. He shoves the memory away before it can root itself.

Now he’s crouched between two dented dumpsters, knees protesting, Damian pressed against his back, and his phone trembling slightly in his hand. The screen flickers when he taps it, the crack splitting light in the worst possible way.

Jason swallows, anger buzzing beneath his skin, tangled tight with fear he refuses to name.

He doesn’t drop Damian.

He never would.

But God—he’s going to have words for Bruce.There are no trackers. Not on either of them. Nothing Oracle can latch onto, no quiet safety net humming in the background. For one, Barbara was never looped in—this wasn’t supposed to be that kind of mission. For another, Jason and Damian had both taken the same unspoken ‘precaution’, stripping themselves clean of anything the family could use to find them.

Independence, they’d called it. Control.

Now it just feels like a mistake.

“Your either going to B or you’re going to Dick,” Jason hisses, the words sharp as he adjusts his footing. The stench of stagnant alley water crawls up his nose, mixing with the copper tang of Damian’s blood until it makes his stomach roll.

“No— no, no, Dick.” Damian’s protest is weaker than it was about Bruce, but the conviction is still there, stubborn even as his voice slips, fraying at the edges.

Jason stops short. “What the fuck is your problem now?”

“Father will know,” Damian coughs, the sound wet and wrong. “If I go to Dick.”

The words land heavier than Jason expects.

He tightens his grip without thinking, fingers curling beneath Damian’s knees, anchoring him there. Of course Bruce would know. Of course it would get back to him, echo through the manor halls, sharpened into disappointment and anger and whatever passes for concern in that family.

Jason exhales through his teeth, staring down at the glowing fracture in his phone screen.

Great.

Jason is two seconds away from popping a blood vessel.

From yelling at the kid that this is his own damn fault for following him in the first place. From telling him he’s dragging him—by the ankle if he has to—straight to Dick and Kori’s apartment whether he likes it or not. From letting the fear burn off into something loud and ugly and easier to carry.

And then—

“Father will be angry.”

Damian’s voice comes out small. Not sharp. Not defiant. Just… thin. Frayed.

“I— not today,” he whispers, breath hitching. “Just— just leave me here. I’ll find a drugstore in the morning and—”

Whatever argument Damian is trying to build collapses before it reaches Jason. The words blur together, fading into static.

Father will be angry.

Jason freezes. Because that’s it, isn’t it? Not the pain. Not the blood soaking through Damian’s clothes. Not the fact that his breathing is still wrong, still too shallow. It’s that disappointment—Bruce’s particular brand of it, sharp-edged and suffocating, wrapped in concern that feels a lot like judgment.

The kid would rather bleed out in an alley than face it

Jason swallows hard, throat tight, hands curling reflexively where they hold Damian in place. The anger drains out of him all at once, leaving something heavier behind.

Yeah, he thinks grimly.

Yeah. He would too.

And that realization settles deep in his chest, ugly and familiar, as the city hums on around them like it doesn’t care at all.

Damian’s argument cuts off abruptly when Jason lets out a long, frustrated groan, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Fuck—my phone’s broken,” he mutters, staring at the shattered screen like it personally betrayed him. “Couldn’t—god, you’re fucking annoying. I can’t even take you to Dick if I wanted to.”

The lie stutters where it leaves his mouth, uneven and rushed, but Damian’s already too far gone to catch it. His weight slumps heavier against Jason’s back, breath hitching once, twice.

“You better be—” Jason swallows, jaw tightening. “Fuck. You better not say a damn word to her. You got that?”

There’s no answer.

Damian goes limp, consciousness slipping away before the warning can reach him. Jason feels it immediately—the shift, the sudden dead weight—and his heart kicks hard against his ribs.

“Shit,” he breathes, softer now.

The alley feels colder. Narrower. Like it’s closing in.

Jason shifts his grip, careful now, but every movement sets fire through his muscles, tendon and bone screaming in protest. The anger is gone, replaced by something sharper, something primal—a protective rage that doesn’t care about pride, or rules, or consequences. Only survival.

He hauls himself up the side of the antique shop, scraping against rough brick, the ache in his left leg a screaming reminder of the bullet that tore through him. Blood seeps past the torn fabric of his pants, warm and sticky against the cold bite of the night. Fantastic. Perfect. Wonderful.

A few blocks later, he reaches a rooftop and finds the water tower looming like a dead sentinel. He collapses on his side against it, letting the world tilt and sway around him. Damian is still draped across his back, pale and trembling, a thin line of blood seeping from a cut near his temple, matting strands of hair to his forehead.

Jason lowers him into his lap, careful but clumsy, hands slick with his own blood and Damian’s, pressing him against his chest to stop him from sliding off. He peels off his jacket and wraps it around the kid, ignoring the wet patches that cling like a second skin. His cape already wraps around him, but the darkness has its own weight, and Jason tucks the jacket over Damian’s small frame wherever the fabric of the cape won’t reach, shielding him from the cold—but unable to shield him from the horror still clinging to them both.

The city smells of smoke and rot tonight, alleyway blood and smog curling up through the night air. Every distant siren, every echoing footstep feels like it’s coming for them, and Jason presses his forehead against the top of Damian’s hair, whispering words he doesn’t trust to carry weight. 

Safe, he tells him. For now, you’re safe.

And yet, beneath it all, the taste of iron is on his tongue, and he knows—knows—that the night isn’t finished with them yet.

Jason pulls his phone out with hands that tremble just enough to make the cracked screen wobble under his grip. Each movement feels jagged, raw, as though the cold has leeched into his bones, sharpening every ache, every burn in his muscles. He positions the phone near his ear, thumb hovering over your name.

“Pick up… pick up… pick up…” he mumbles, each repetition ragged, desperate, a whisper swallowed by the bitter wind that curls under his helmet. The chill isn’t just outside—it snakes through the lining of his armor, seeps into his chest, into his fingers, into the taut, coiled terror of his gut.

Every second stretches, unbearable. The night presses in from all sides, black and cold and smelling faintly of iron and smoke. He can feel Damian’s small weight against him, limp and bleeding, the blood warm but thin beneath his hands, and the city hums like a predator circling, waiting.

Jason bites back a curse, pressing the phone closer, willing it to connect. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

Because if you don’t answer… he doesn’t even want to think what comes next. He has only expired antiseptic and old and opened gauze that is probably half of Damian’s age. His apartment doesn’t even have heating. It works for him but he doubts it’s what the kid needs right now.

So he breaks his rule to never contact you when he’s hurt.

The ringing stops.

“…Jason.”

Fuck. You sound mad. You should be. He was supposed to pick you up five hours ago, roses in hand, pretending the world hadn’t tired to chew him up first.

“I— I’m sorry,” he blurts, the words tumbling over each other. “I need— I can’t walk, babe—”

He hears movement immediately, fabric shifting, something clattering as you scramble to your feet. “Hey—what—where are you? Jason, what’s wrong?”

“I need blankets. Water—” His gaze drops to Damian, slack and frighteningly still in his lap, blood darkening the fabric beneath him. Jason’s voice accelerates, tripping over itself until his throat burns. “Medical supplies. A heater, maybe? There should be an outlet up—”

“Jason—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats, the apology coming apart at the seams. “I can’t go into a drugstore like this with the kid, anyone could be there and—and they could— I don’t know—do something? I could fight back but— but I don’t want him hurt more in a tumble and I can’t just leave him here to get supplies so—”

“JASON!”

Your voice cracks through the night like a gunshot.

He jerks, yanking the phone away from his helmet, wincing as the sound rings through his skull. The city seems to pause with him—sirens distant, wind howling low, Gotham holding its breath.

“Send me your location!” you snap, sharp and steady and terrifyingly competent.

Jason swallows, chest heaving, fingers slick as they fumble across the screen. Relief hits him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t apologize again.

He sends it.

And then he looks back down at Damian, tightening his grip just a little, bracing himself against the water tower as the cold creeps closer—counting every second until you arrive, because right now, you’re the only thing standing between them and the night swallowing them whole.

“How—how bad is he hurt?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to, fraying at the edges. “Is it—wait, is it Tim or Damian—”

There’s a pause, thin and awful, stretching just long enough for your stomach to drop.

“I need to know if I’m buying painkillers since they make adult and kid—”

“It’s Damian,” Jason exhales into the line, the sound tired and wrecked and heavy with things he isn’t saying. “It’s the kid.”

Your breath catches.

You’ve never even spoken to Damian before. Not once. He’s always been a name—sharp-edged and distant, orbiting Jason’s life like something dangerous and untouchable. Tim, at least, is familiar in passing: the accidental mall run-in, Stephanie’s laughter, Cassandra’s quiet smile, Jason trying—and failing—to tug you into a store like proximity alone might shield you from the madness of his family. Dick you met once, briefly, waiting outside Wayne Manor, polite and warm and watching Jason like he was something fragile.

But Damian—

Damian is a child you don’t know, bleeding somewhere in Gotham’s dark, clutched in Jason’s arms.

“Oh,” you whisper, the word hollow. “Okay.”

You don’t ask why. You don’t ask how this happened. There will be time for that later—when the night isn’t pressing in, when no one’s breath is shallow and wrong.

“Stay with him,” you say instead, steadier now, resolve snapping into place like a blade locking open. “Don’t let him fall asleep if you can help it. I’m on my way.”

Jason closes his eyes at that, forehead tipping briefly against the cool metal of the water tower. The city groans beneath them, sounds of people bleeding into the distance, but your voice cuts through it all—real, solid, terrifying in its calm.

“He’s already unconscious,” Jason says, voice flat, distant, like he’s reading it off a report instead of holding a bleeding kid together with sheer stubbornness. “But he won’t die. Won’t have any major injuries either.”

There’s a beat of silence on the line.

“…Jason,” you hiss, sharp and furious, and for a second he thinks—dimly—that if laughing wouldn’t crack his ribs clean through, he might’ve tried.

“Honey,” he answers instead, soft and stupid and dopey, because his head feels like it’s splitting open and the world keeps tilting sideways.

And somehow—somehow—you still melt at that. He can hear it in the way your breath stutters, the way the anger doesn’t quite stick. Maybe that means he’s not a lost cause yet.

“…How bad are you?”

Jason drops his gaze to his leg. To the two bullet wounds, ugly and swollen. To the slash at his knee, raw and half-congealed. He’s still using that leg to brace Damian in his lap, muscles screaming every second he asks them to hold.

“I’m okay.”

“Jason.”

He hears it then—the click of a car door, the rush of movement, your breathing going too fast, too tight. For a second, the thought of your fear scares him more than the blood.

“I’ll be okay,” he repeats, quieter now. He sets the phone down beside him and fumbles with the clasps of his helmet, fingers clumsy and slick. When it comes free, the Gotham night slams into his skin, cold and wet and real. He hesitates only a second before lowering it over Damian’s head instead—too big, swallowing his small face whole, ridiculous and wrong and necessary all at once if it means shielding him from the cold slightly better then the kid’s hood could do.

“I just need ya to kiss the boo-boo,” he adds weakly, because deflection is easier than admitting how bad it hurts.

“I hate you,” you say, exasperation thick in your voice, edged with fear.

Jason smiles.

Then winces immediately, sharp pain blooming across his mouth. He lifts a hand, comes away with red. Ah. Right. Of course.

“Give me twenty,” you snap, and now he can hear the engine, the unmistakable sound of you driving like the city owes you something. “We are not doing this on a rooftop. Stay on the line.”

Jason leans back against the water tower, exhales slow and shaky, and tightens his hold on Damian just a fraction more.

Twenty minutes.

He can do twenty minutes.

“What if someone breaks into the car?” he asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He lets his temple rest against the cool metal of the water tower, the chill seeping into his skull like a weak attempt at relief.

“You have a gun,” your voice cuts back immediately, sharp and unyielding. “Use it.”

The blunt certainty in your tone lands harder than reassurance ever could.

Jason huffs out something like a laugh, breath scraping. Yeah. Right. Of course he does. He adjusts his grip on Damian, fingers tightening reflexively.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes sliding shut for half a second. “Yeah. I know.”

The city groans beneath them, distant and uncaring, but your voice stays in his ear—firm, present, real—keeping him upright when his body is more than ready to fold.

“Mm… sorry about our date,” he murmurs after a moment, the words slow and slurred at the edges, half apology, half anchor—something to keep himself awake, to keep the dark from creeping in too close.

“You should be,” you answer after a beat. Softer now. The edge dulled, worn down by worry.

“I— I’ll take you to the botanical garden?” he offers, grasping for normalcy like it’s a lifeline.

There’s a pause.

“The last one you took me to, they had litteral poison ivy next to the lilies because the tulips died and that was all they had.”

“She was hiding from Catwoman,” Jason says, forcing the joke out past the ache in his jaw, past the copper taste pooling in his mouth. “G-Get it? Cuz Poison Ivy? You know the villain and…cats and…”

“Jason.”

The joke doesn't land.

“Babe…” he starts, slow and heavy, like each syllable has to be dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest. “I— I think I’m gonna take a nap, okay?”

“Jason—” Your voice cuts in immediately, sharp now, edged with panic. “Hey—no. Stay awake.”

“Just… just a quick one,” he murmurs, eyelids fluttering despite himself. The city feels distant, muffled, like he’s sinking underwater with every breath. Damian’s weight in his lap is warm and real, but even that is starting to blur at the edges.

“Jason?” you say again, louder this time. “Hey—Jason!”

He tries to answer. He really does. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His tongue feels thick, useless. His head slips further against the cold metal, the chill no longer biting—just dull, just quiet.

“Jason!” you shout, his name breaking over the line, fractured and scared.

The phone slips slightly against the rooftop concrete, your voice echoing tinny and distorted through the speaker as the night closes in. Jason exhales, long and shallow, and lets his eyes fall shut—not because he wants to, but because his body finally stops asking his permission.

–

Your fingers are brushing blood from his brow by the time Jason drifts back into something like awareness. Consciousness comes in pieces—warmth first, then sound, then the steady hum of an engine fighting the cold. His body aches in places he hasn’t catalogued yet, but he’s not on a rooftop anymore.

That’s something.

The car is parked crooked in some narrow alley, illegally close to a dumpster, the heater blasting like it’s trying to resurrect him through sheer spite. The passenger seat is laid all the way back, giving him just enough room to exist without hurting worse. Every breath fogs faintly in the air before the heat catches up.

Damian is in the back seat.

Jason’s eyes slide toward him slowly. The kid’s bundled in lightweight throw blankets—yours, he realizes dimly—the kind that usually live folded over the arm of your couch. Clean bandages peek out where blood used to be. You must’ve patched him up somewhere in the blur between panic and movement, hands steady even when your heart clearly wasn’t.

The back seat light is on. Just one.

It casts a soft glow over your face, turns your eyes glassy, makes your skin look unreal and warm in the dim car. Jason smiles, stupid and unguarded, because even through half-lidded vision and a pounding skull, you look perfect.

“Prince Charming saved me,” he murmurs.

You sniff.

It’s small. Broken.

Oh.

You’re crying.

Jason’s brows knit together slowly as he notices the way your hand shakes, the way you dab gently at the corner of his mouth, wiping away blood like it offends you personally. Your thumb trembles, betraying everything you’ve been holding in since you heard his voice crack through the phone.

“Idiot,” you whisper, voice thick.

Jason exhales something close to a laugh, then thinks better of it. He reaches—slow, clumsy—and lets his fingers curl weakly around your wrist, grounding himself there.

“Hey,” he mutters, softer now. “I’m okay. You're okay.”

It’s a lie.

But you’re here. Damian’s breathing. The heater’s on. And for the first time tonight, the fear loosens its grip just enough for him to stay awake.

“He’s so tiny,” you whisper, the words barely louder than the hum of the engine. The alley presses in around the car—brick walls slick with old rain, shadows pooling thick and oily where the streetlight can’t quite reach. Somewhere nearby, water drips steadily, each plink echoing like a countdown. “Who would do that to a baby?”

Jason doesn’t respond how that ‘baby’ almost put those men six feet under if they even landed one hit. Torture to the line of honoring Bruce’s wishes to not kill. That honoring of Bruce’s wish is the only reason that ‘baby’ is passed out right now.

“He’s okay,” Jason says softly instead. His head rings like it’s been struck with a bell, sound warping at the edges. He shifts slightly and pain lances up his leg, bright and nauseating. The bandages you wrapped are already blooming dark again—blood seeping through in slow, stubborn stains. Beneath them, his flesh aches where bullets tore through muscle, where you dug metal out with shaking hands and grim determination. There’s a deep, angry slash at his knee too, stitched tight but swollen and raw, skin pulled red and uneven like it might split if he moves wrong. Much better stitching than he’s ever done on himself.

Jason glances down, jaw tightening. “You got the bullets out,” he murmurs, half impressed, half stunned. “Didn’t think you’d be so good at that.”

“I’m dating you,” you say quietly. “Gotta be.”

Your voice sounds scraped raw, like the alley itself has clawed at it. Jason’s chest tightens when he realizes—again—that you’ve been crying this whole time. Not loud. Not hysterical. Just silently falling apart while you worked, while the dark watched.

“…He’s patched up fully?” Jason squints as a flicker from outside—the passing headlights of some distant car—cuts through the windshield, making his skull throb. The alley smells like rust, oil, and old blood that doesn’t belong to him, it seeps into the car even as your car freshener tries to fight it. “How long was I out?”

You swallow. The sound is loud in the confined space.

“An hour and forty-two minutes,” you say softly.

The number settles between you like something alive.

Jason exhales, slow and shaky, the sound rattling in his chest. Too long. Long enough for the alley to feel like it could have swallowed all three of you whole. Long enough for the blood to cool and the fear to sink its teeth in.

Said exact enough that he knows he’s going to owe you for a life time.

“Do you need help with him?” Jason asks gently.

You shake your head on instinct, shoulders tightening, but Jason is already moving—gritting through it as he forces his body to turn, muscles screaming, wounds pulling wet and hot beneath the bandages.

“Jason, I said no—”

“I’m here,” he cuts in, voice low, deliberate, stripped of humor. He’s breathing harder now, jaw clenched, but his tone stays careful, steady. “I can help. Just tell me what to do.”

You stare at him.

The car feels impossibly small, the alley outside pressing close like it’s listening. The heater rattles softly, fighting the cold that seeps in through rusted metal and cracked seals. Somewhere beyond the brick walls, something skitters loudly—rats, maybe. Or just the city settling around its secrets.

Your eyes shine in the dim backseat light, tears gathered but not falling, and Jason hates that look more than any gunshot wound. He’d take another bullet before seeing it again.

Your gaze shifts—not to him, but to Damian. Like the kid is safer to talk to. Like if you speak toward him, your voice won’t break.

“…I patched him up as best as I could,” you say quietly. “It was… a lot of blood loss.” Your throat tightens. “He has a fever. We—I need to buy medicine. I didn’t go to the drugstore. Once you passed out, I just… I came straight to your location, so—”

Jason nods once, rough and immediate, cutting you off before the guilt can finish forming.

“I’ll go.”

The words are simple. Certain.

Your body snaps toward him so fast it’s almost violent. Fear flashes across your face, sharp and immediate, like you’ve just watched him step back toward a cliff’s edge. Jason can feel blood sliding warm down his leg again where the bandage’s loosened, can feel the deep ache in his ribs grinding with every breath—but none of that matters.

He’s already reaching for the door.

“Are you an idiot?!”

Your hands snap up to grab his shoulders before you can stop yourself, and Jason lets out a sharp groan, pain flaring bright and nauseating. Immediately, you recoil—hands flying away like you’ve been burned—only to settle again at his sides, grip gentler now but no less firm.

“You can barely walk,” you hiss.

“I’ll be fine,” Jason grunts, breath hitching as he steadies himself. “The kid— the damn brat needs the fever gone by morning or B is gonna—”

“I will kill Bruce Wayne myself if he is the reason you’re getting up right now,” you snap, voice low and lethal as you tug uselessly at him.

Jason actually pauses at that.

Raises a brow. Even now. Even bleeding.

“You think you can kill Bruce Wayne?”

“I have two of his bleeding sons hostage,” you say plainly, pinching hard at his side until he jerks and lets out a small, involuntary, “Ouch—!” “What do you think?”

Despite everything, something like a breathy laugh escapes him—cuts off immediately when his ribs protest.

“Look—” Jason starts, slower now, choosing his words carefully. “The… the kid doesn’t want Bruce to be mad at him.” His jaw tightens. “So it’s best we at least try to get him back to something normal by tomorrow morning. So B doesn’t notice.”

The alley outside seems to lean closer at that, darkness pressing against the windows like it’s listening. Damian shifts faintly in the back seat, blankets rustling, a small sound slipping from his throat.

Jason’s hand curls against the door frame, knuckles white. Blood seeps again through the bandage at his thigh, slow and inevitable, but his eyes stay fixed on Damian in the rearview mirror.

“This isn’t about me,” he adds quietly, glancing back at you. “I…I don't want the kid to be scared to go home.”

“You—” You start, then stop, exhaling hard through your nose. Because this is how all of Jason’s worst ideas are born—not from recklessness, but from care twisted into something self-sacrificial and stupid. You still try, though. You always do. “Why can’t I go?”

Jason’s smile is stiff, pulled tight at the edges like it hurts to hold. “Babe, I— I’d rather have you in a locked car where you’re safe,” he says gently. “Not out in Gotham at three in the morning.”

You scoff, sharp and disbelieving. “I can protect myself. I dragged you and Damian off a fucking water tower.”

“I know…” Jason murmurs, nodding even though the motion makes his face pinch, pain flaring behind his eyes. “But that was when I was unconscious.” He pauses, breath shallow. “And I wasn’t able to worry about you.”

The words settle heavy between you.

Outside, the alley exhales—trash shifting, a distant siren wailing and then cutting off too abruptly. The shadows beyond the windshield feel thick, hungry. Gotham at its most honest.

Jason looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s committing your face to memory in case this is the last quiet moment he gets. His voice drops, rough around the edges.

“If something happened to you while I was awake,” Jason continues, slowly, like he thinks it sounds stupid but says anyways. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

Not the night. Not the guilt. Not himself.

The heater hums on, Damian breathes softly in the back seat, fevered and alive. You stare at Jason, jaw tight, eyes shining again despite your best efforts.

He reaches for one of the guns you left on the driver’s seat—careful, deliberate, like his hands don’t entirely trust themselves anymore. The keys are still in the ignition. You’re in the back seat. Another reason he doesn’t exactly trust you loose in Gotham at two in the morning, because what the fuck, babe. Yeah—leave guns in a car with the key in and drivers seat empty.

Jason moves slowly, almost hunched as he opens the door, the cold knifing in immediately. His leg protests viciously when he puts weight on it, blood tugging warm and sticky beneath the bandage. Jason locks his jaw, breathes through his teeth, and forces himself upright anyway.

Before he closes the door, he turns his head just enough to look back at you. His neck is stiff, movement jerky—like it still remembers the way it hung uselessly while he was out cold.

“Just medicine?” he asks, voice low, roughened by pain and exhaustion.

“And more gauze if you can,” you reply softly. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t rush him. Like you’re afraid sudden sound might shatter him. “And get a change of clothes if they have any… I know that store. It’s full of random shit.” A beat. “Buy some soup from the 24/7 place next to it.”

Jason nods once, committing the list to memory. Antibiotics. Fever reducers. Gauze. Clothes. Soup. Simple things. Normal things. Things that feel unreal against the blood still crusted under his nails.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, though neither of you believe it.

The door closes with a soft, final thud. The lock clicks.

You watch through the window as he limps away into the alley, silhouette swallowed piece by piece by shadow. The brick walls loom tall and damp, graffiti bleeding into darkness, trash bags shifting in the wind like something breathing. A flickering streetlight buzzes overhead, casting Jason in and out of existence as he goes.

He keeps one hand near the gun. Keeps the other tight against his side, pressing where it hurts the worst.

Behind you, Damian stirs faintly, fevered breath fogging the blanket.

Ahead of you, Gotham opens its mouth.

And Jason steps into it anyway.

You watch him disappear into the alley, figure swallowed by shadow, then slowly shift your gaze to Damian’s sleeping form. His chest rises and falls unevenly, breaths shallow and rattled. You murmur softly, almost to yourself, “I guess it’s just you and me now, huh, bud? This wasn’t exactly how I thought I’d meet you.”

The boy stirs, a faint twitch in his head, eyelids flickering, as if the pain in his sleep is clawing at him from the inside. You let out a quiet sigh and reach to lower the window, the cold biting your fingers even through the glove. Carefully, you lift Damian’s small body, resting his head outside the frame. His brow scrunches at the chill, but your hands move quickly, smoothing and adjusting, trying to steal comfort from the night itself.

You had two thermoses of hot water with you. Even cooled slightly, steam curls upward in lazy spirals as you unscrew the lid. One hand steadies the boy; the other pours, careful not to scald, letting the warmth seep into his hair. Dirt, grime, and streaks of blood run down in small rivulets, slipping through your fingers like a cruel reminder of the alley’s violence.

And for the first time all night, Damian’s shoulders sag—not fully awake, not fully conscious, but somehow lighter. Relief seeps slowly into his small form as you run your fingers through the dark strands, gentle, deliberate, trying to scrub away the horror of the night with nothing more than warmth, water, and your touch.

“You’re so tiny,” you murmur again, in the dark, for what has to be the twentieth time that night.

Because he is. So small. Too small for burns across his ribs, too small for deep slashes on his arms. Too small for the cut on his lip, the scrape on his temple, the blood matted into his dark hair.

You hope whoever did this to him is dead. If not… this might be the first time in your life you actually encourage Jason to kill.

“So stupid,” you whisper softly, letting your wet fingers brush the blood from his brow. “So small and so stupid… who do you think you’re fighting, hm? Elmo? You think Joker is Elmo?”

Your voice is ridiculous. Maternal, soft, broken—but it’s the only thing you have that feels safe.

Maybe that’s why Damian’s eyes flicker open, just barely, through the haze of steam and heat you’ve conjured around him. They’re so slight you almost don’t notice—he doesn’t look conscious, not really.

Not until a soft, hoarse whisper escapes, barely audible over the faint hiss of the water and the heater.

“…Mother?”

The word lands in your chest like a punch you didn’t expect. Small, trembling, impossibly young. And you realize your heart has been holding its breath this entire night—and now it doesn’t know how to stop.

You don’t say anything. Nothing. Words feel wrong here—clumsy and insufficient. You don’t know this boy, and he doesn’t know you. And yet… if you were ten, alone, hurt, and cold, you would have called for your mother too.

Maybe that’s why your hands move almost on instinct. You snap the thermos closed, slide the window up, and gently lower him fully onto the back seat again. Carefully, like he might shatter, you settle on the floor of the car beside him. One hand tugs the blanket higher over his small frame, the other brushing his damp hair in slow, patient circles, using Jason’s jacket to dry it.

The alley outside presses against the glass, dark and hungry, but inside, it’s quiet. Only the heater hums. Only the distant thrum of the city filters in.

“Sleep…” you murmur, voice low, soft, steady. “You’re safe.”

“It’s not my fault,” Damian mutters, voice hoarse, eyelids fluttering as he finally closes them fully again. “…M… it’s all Todd’s fault.”

“I know,” you whisper, fingers brushing lightly over his brow, gentle and deliberate. “A true idiot he is.”

He exhales slowly, a tiny weight leaving his body, like he had been bracing to defend himself from more blame than the words could carry. “…M’not sorry,” he mumbles, stubborn even in exhaustion.

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. What a brat. Of course this little boy is Jason’s brother. Who else could be like this?

“Sleep,” you murmur again, voice soft as velvet, wrapping around him like the blankets, like the warmth you’ve coaxed into him, trying to shield him from the dark waiting outside the car.

“Will… will you be here when I wake up?”

The words hang in the air, soft and fragile, and before you can even start to answer, Damian is asleep again—his breathing shallow but steady, chest rising and falling beneath the blanket.

You let yourself focus on something else, anything else, and continue to dry his hair, tracing the dark strands with the soft interior of Jason’s leather jacket. Each stroke is careful, slow, a small ritual to keep yourself from spinning.

Your arms ache from holding them, dragging them down from the roof. Your feet throb from the rush of movement, your head pounds from the fear. But your fingers can’t stop themselves, and they move over every feature like memorizing a map you’re terrified of losing.

Brows just like Jason’s, dark and expressive. The small bump along the bridge of his nose—you hesitate, heart tightening, because it’s swollen and red and he winces whenever your fingers graze it. You pray it’s not fractured, that he just took a hit there, that the world hasn’t carved him up any further.

His lashes are impossibly long, dark and silky, catching the dim glow of the backseat light in a way that makes you pinch your own face in envy, just like you do with Jason’s.

You trace every line that belongs to the love of your life—small echoes in Damian, the same stubborn, defiant, beautiful bloodline that somehow betrays the laws of adoption—because it’s the only thing keeping your body still, keeping you from spinning apart while you wait, counting the seconds until Jason comes back through the alley, bruised, bleeding, alive.

And you’re crying again after five minutes of silence.

Because your life is never this quiet. Not like this. No sirens bleeding through the walls, no voice in your ear, no weight shifting beside you. Just the low hum of the heater and the soft, fevered rhythm of a child’s breathing. Maybe the tears are your body’s way of filling the space—something small and controlled, something only you can hear. You keep them silent, careful, so gentle that Damian doesn’t even stir.

You’re not scared.

That surprises you, a little.

You knew what you were signing up for the moment you watched Jason fire a gun with such effortless precision it was almost disarming. The ease of it. The familiarity. The way violence sat on him like a second skin he never bothered to shrug off for you—only softened, reshaped, made gentler where he could.

You knew this life came with blood. With nights like this. With waiting.

So you cry anyway. Quietly. Practiced. Letting it leak out without letting it take you apart. Your fingers keep tracing Damian’s features, grounding yourself in something real and warm and breathing, while the alley presses close outside the car and Gotham holds its breath with you.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, inhale slowly, and stay right where you are.

Waiting.

There’s a sharp knock on the window about twenty minutes later. You jump, heart hammering, and almost fly off the floor when you see Jason standing there, smiling stiffly despite the blood, sweat, and grime clinging to him. When you lean over the passenger seat, he gestures for you to open the door.

The moment you slide it open and help him inside, he crawls toward you, still unsteady, and presses a firm, grounding kiss to your forehead.

“There’s my Penelope,” he murmurs, voice rough but warm.

“I’m not waiting twenty years for your ass,” you whisper, voice cracking as he carefully wipes away the tears still streaking your cheeks. “You’re broke as fuck. At least Odysseus was a king.”

“Well…” Jason hums, brushing his lips across your cheek where he just wiped your tears, “the Gods made you stuck with me.”

You can’t help the small laugh that bubbles up through the tension and exhaustion. He’s bleeding, bruised, and exhausted beyond reason—and still somehow grounding you in the middle of the chaos, a tiny sun in a Gotham night that refuses to stay quiet.

The plastic bag full of supplies crinkles between you as you share a slow, lingering kiss, the sound pulling you both out of the moment. You break away, fumbling for the contents inside.

“Put on this hoodie,” you instruct, tossing it toward him.

Jason blinks, holding it awkwardly. “I bought this for you.”

You pause, staring at the fabric in his hands. “Baby… it’s a men’s large.”

“Is this… not the size you like?” he asks, genuinely confused.

You blink at him, letting your disbelief settle.

“You steal all of my hoodies that are this size,” he reminds you.

You snort, shaking your head. “Yeah, babe, because they’re yours. Wear it. Make it smell like you. Then I’ll wear it, hm? How about that?”

Jason opens his mouth to protest, but whatever argument he’s forming dies when he notices you reaching into the bag for the plastic container of soup. It’s not gourmet, but it’s hot and exactly what you need right now.

“Isn’t he still out?” Jason asks softly, glancing toward the back seat where Damian is bundled in your blankets and Jason’s jacket. His eyes flicker to the faint stains of blood on the fabric, and his chest tightens. Fuck. He’s going to have to buy you new ones. And a hundred more things you’ve patched together in this ridiculous, exhausting night.

“It’s not for him,” you say softly, popping open the center armrest box to fish out a packet of mild chilli oil and a tiny sesame seed packet from past fast food runs. One goes into the soup, along with the seeds for the vegetables. “I’ll make the kid real good soup at home. This? This is for you.”

Jason snorts, shaking his head, still leaning against the seatbelt. “Babe, it’s fine, I’m—”

You glare at him.

The first time all night.

Because of course. Of course you wouldn’t be mad at Jason for calling in the middle of the night, bloodied and panicked, after missing your date. Of course you wouldn’t be mad at him for passing out in the alley, forcing you to drag him and Damian down from a water tower with nothing but sheer will and a handful of blankets.

No. You’d only be mad if he refused to eat shitty soup.

“And don’t even think about saying no,” you hiss, poking him lightly with your elbow. “You will eat it. I don’t care. Otherwise, no sex for a month.”

Jason groans, but there’s a flicker of a smile, tired and bloody, as he finally takes the soup from you.

“Go to the back with Damian,” you murmur softly, eyes on the road. “I need to make sure the kid doesn’t roll off the seat—the seatbelt would hurt too much if I strapped him in.”

Jason nods, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the backseat at the same time you crawl into the driver’s seat.

He settles carefully, broad back brushing against Damian’s small frame, right arm stretched to keep the boy from slipping, left hand cradling the soup bowl. Small sips escape his lips every now and then, careful, deliberate, like the weight of the night isn’t enough without this little ritual.

A few minutes in, Damian shifts, sliding until he’s resting fully against Jason. The older boy doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t mind. Not at all.

And then the little boy’s eyes flicker open again, hesitant, small. “Father…?”

Your hands tighten on the wheel. Heart pinching painfully, even as your eyes stay fixed on the road.

Jason, as usual, doesn’t care about shame. He leans a little closer, voice low, measured, coaxing the small flicker of life from Damian.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Why are you here?”

“Mm… always here,” Jason replies, and you notice the subtle change—the slow, deep cadence, the careful inflection he borrows, unintentionally echoing Bruce’s tone. “M’Batman. You’re my son.”

Damian blinks once, eyes heavy but curious, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the dark Gotham streets outside fade into quiet. The backseat becomes its own small world—blood, fear, and all.

“You’re… you’re warmer today,” Damian mutters softly, his voice matching his age for once.

“Yeah,” Jason shrugs, shifting slightly so he’s closer to where Damian’s head rests. Steam rises from the soup, curling around the boy’s face. “Probably the soup.”

“Did… did Mother cook that…? Can I have some?”

Jason glances down at the soup—bought with your card, warmed in a hastily scavenged container—and then at Damian. Talia wasn’t exactly known for her cooking. He suppresses a smirk, letting the boy take a small sip from the corner of the bowl. One hand steadies Damian’s neck, careful, protective.

A sharp cough escapes Damian as a streak of chili oil hits him wrong.

Jason glances toward you, catching your hands twitching at the steering wheel like you want to jump in and help.

The sight makes him smile, quiet and fond, even as the Gotham’s shadows press close outside the windows.

By the time the apartment building comes into view, Damian has fallen completely asleep against Jason. His small body is impossibly light, yet heavy in all the wrong ways—slumped, warm, limp against the older boy’s chest.

“I’ve got him,” Jason mutters automatically as you reach the car door, moving to help.

“No,” you cut him off sharply, eyes narrowing. “You’re not carrying him yourself.”

Jason frowns, just a fraction, confusion and pride clashing. “I can—he’s not that heavy.”

“Jason,” you snap, voice firm enough to make him pause, “your leg.”

He shifts slightly, the wound at his thigh protesting sharply. He swallows, eyes flicking to Damian’s sleeping face and back to you. “I can manage—”

“Nope. I’m helping. And you’re not arguing,” you insist, sliding your arms beneath Damian’s small torso and legs, careful not to jar the boy. His head lolls slightly against your shoulder, warm and soft, hair damp and smelling faintly of the soup and Jason’s jacket.

Jason groans, rubbing the back of his neck as he steps forward to help support Damian’s upper body, but you turn away to get him off. “You’re hurt. You need to let me do this.”

He huffs, half exasperated, half defeated, and lets you take the lead.

Together, you maneuver Damian securely on you, careful not to wake him. His small hands twitch in his sleep, one brushing lightly against Jason’s chest, and you notice the way the older boy stiffens, heart twisting with worry that the kid might stir.

Once you’re inside the apartment, you guide Damian carefully to the couch, laying him down beneath fresh blankets. Jason flops onto the floor beside the couch, groaning in pain as he stretches his leg out, still leaning close to Damian.

“See?” you murmur softly, brushing a strand of damp hair from the boy’s forehead. “Much easier when you’re not trying to kill yourself doing it.”

Jason mutters something under his breath, but there’s no bite to it—just the tired resignation of someone who’s been through too much in the last few hours and knows you’re right.

Damian shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft whimper escaping him, and both of you freeze, watching, hearts tight.

It shouldn't surprise Jason, the way you rush to the little boy's side and stroke his brow to get him to calm in his sleep. But it does. Because he's never seen someone able to care for Damian that easily.

“Okay,” you say after a long, careful minute of settling Damian, “you’re filthy. You need a bath before you pass out on the couch like some injured soldier in a cheap war movie.”

Jason groans, flopping back against the wall like the weight of the night is finally catching up to him. “Im…not that stinky.”

“No arguments,” you say, voice soft but firm. “You can’t stay like this. Your hair and skin is wet with puddle water that was on that rooftop. You’re going to freeze, you smell like alley and smoke and it might help your muscles stop aching so… no. Just get in the bath.”

He drags himself to the bathroom slowly, every movement careful, deliberate, like each step reminds him of the bullet holes in his leg, the ache in his ribs.

“Dont use my bodywash.” You whisper yell before Jason closes the door.

He does use your bodywash.

—----

Damian wakes while Jason is still in the tub, the sound of water muffled behind the closed door. His eyes flutter open, heavy and slow, but a familiar scent draws his attention immediately—a faint, soft sweetness clinging in the air, like perfume he vaguely recognizes, like a memory tugging at the edges of his mind.

His lips quiver involuntarily as he forces his eyes to focus, muscles stiff from sleep and fever. And there, in the dim glow of the lamp, they land on you.

You’re asleep on the coffee table, curled slightly, a precarious stack of books tucked under you as a makeshift pillow. The blanket you’d thrown over yourself barely covers the curve of your shoulders. Every breath you take is soft, measured, steady—a quiet, human rhythm that Damian realizes he’s been holding his own breath against for hours without noticing.

Then it hits him. Dumbly, slowly, as if the world outside could wait: You’re Jason’s.

The image clicks into place like a puzzle he hadn’t known he was assembling. The photo in Jason’s wallet—one that had fallen out after a mission, grabbed by Stephanie, tossed to Tim, and then laughed at mercilessly by all of them—your face had been there. Now, here you are. Real. Alive.

Damian’s gaze drifts to the small chaos surrounding you: a newly opened package of gauze, a tiny cup of fever medicine, half-empty and sitting just beside your hand. You must have given it to him while he was asleep. Every careful, impossible movement you made to tend to him without waking him floods through Damian’s mind, and for the first time that night, his tense body relaxes a fraction.

He shifts slightly on the sofa, still bundled in blankets and Jason’s jacket, staring at you with wide, dark eyes, his small chest rising and falling unevenly.

“She’s almost as good as Alfred,” Jason’s voice cuts through the quiet, and Damian’s head snaps toward the sound despite the ache in his neck. Every muscle tenses as he listens, wary but curious.

“Patched us up in no time,” Jason continues, wet hair plastered to his forehead, a towel wrapped around his waist, another in his hands as he methodically dries his hair. The casual ease of it makes the room feel warmer somehow, less like the chaos of the alley outside.

“Does—” Damian starts, his voice small and strained, throat catching unexpectedly, raw and fragile.

“Don’t talk,” Jason interrupts softly, a quiet authority threading through his words. His gaze flickers to Damian only for a fraction of a second before he leans down, careful and deliberate, and scoops you up from the coffee table. Your body is light in his arms, limp from exhaustion, and he moves like he’s balancing both a feather and a brick at the same time.

He lays you gently on the opposite end of the sofa from Damian, tucking the blankets around you with the precision of someone who has done this a thousand times, though this is the first time it’s been you.

“No one knows what happened,” Jason murmurs, voice low, almost intimate, as he straightens. “I texted B that you’re sleeping over at Jon’s.”

Damian blinks at him, the words and the quiet authority sinking in despite the fever and fatigue. His small chest rises and falls unevenly, shoulders slackening just a fraction as Jason steps back, towel in hand, keeping watch like a silent sentinel.

“Im not going to yell at you right now.” Jason says after a moment, grabbing a throw and tucking it around you. “Ill do it in the morning.”

Damian’s brows furrow in frustration, sharp and tiny, and Jason mirrors the expression instantly, leaning into it like a seasoned older brother that he isn't.

“Damian,” he says, voice low but firm, “you scared her half to death. You’re staying until morning and thanking her at the very least.”

“I didn’t ask her to do anything,” Damian hisses back, words brittle with fever and pride. “I told you to leave me there. You didn’t listen. That’s not my fault.”

Jason blinks at him, momentarily caught between exasperation and something softer, then mutters under his breath, moving toward the kitchen. “Kid… she cried her eyes out at the sight of you. You can think it’s dumb all you want, but I’m asking you to stay until morning so she at least gets the peace of knowing you’re okay.”

Damian’s small chest rises and falls, voice cracking despite the bravado. “I didn’t say it’s dumb.”

Jason pauses mid-step, eyebrows raising in mock surprise. “Oh? Really?”

“I said you’re dumb,” Damian snaps, words sharper than intended, honesty raw and jagged, fever and frustration threading through each syllable. “You could have spared her all of this if you just left me there like I asked. I get it. You love her, but this isn’t my fault—”

“I’m not blaming you for her, Damian!” Jason blurts, voice rising to be firm but still a whisper in fear of waking you. “I didn’t bring you here because she told me to, I brought you because—…”

There’s a long moment of silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the apartment and the faint rhythm of your breathing from the coffee table. Jason exhales, hanging his head and rubbing the back of his neck, voice tired.

“I’m going to make pasta,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

“I hate pasta,” Damian whispers under his breath, small, resentful, almost pained.

“I know,” Jason grumbles without turning back, the scrape of his steps fading as he moves into the kitchen.

The apartment settles into a different kind of quiet. Damian’s gaze drifts back to you, to the way you’re sleeping, curled slightly on the coffee table beneath the thin throw blanket. Every blink, every soft inhale reminds him painfully of Talia—the same warmth, the same scent clinging faintly in his memory, the same question if hes even going to be able to feel this again in a day.

His small hands fidget with the blanket around him, tightening it slightly as if to anchor himself to something solid and human. The fever still weighs him down, every movement a little sharp, a little slow, but he can’t pull his eyes from you.

You blink your eyes open softly, and Damian almost jolts, caught off guard by the sudden warmth of your gaze. With the way Todd had been barking orders and how exhausted you looked last night, Damian had been sure you wouldn’t stir for hours.

“Damian,” you murmur gently, voice low and even, carrying the weight of calm and care.

“...Hello,” he replies, voice hoarse and small, pulling the blanket closer without thinking, as if the fabric alone could shield him from the world.

You study him in that way—the way his mother used to, scanning for bruises or scratches, checking for injuries with a practiced tenderness—and it tightens something in his chest. He flinches slightly, half-expecting the sharp reprimand he deserves for getting blood on your sofa, for all the chaos he’s caused.

Instead, your voice remains soft, elegant in a way he’s only ever glimpsed in Talia during rare quiet moments.

“Would you like me to make you some soup?” you ask, each word deliberate and gentle, a soft anchor in the dim apartment.

Damian hesitates, small, fevered fingers tightening around the blanket, eyes flicking between you and the sofa cushions. Something in the way you hold yourself—steady, patient, unshakably calm—makes him feel like it’s safe to nod, safe to accept, even if it’s just a little.

“…Yes,” he whispers finally, voice barely above a breath, and you can see him relax fractionally, the tension in his shoulders easing as the promise of warmth, of care, settles around him.

⤷ series masterlist

tag-list [ check pinned post for tag-list info ] ᯓ★ @marenyearlylover444, @psysgr, @sourstrawburry, @bloomfaery, @prettysweet02, @r-4-y-v-3-n, @backtonormalthings, @milam03, @animegamerfox, @tamyyyy2005, @arachniis, @k-pevensie28, @thetruecardinalsinner, @dreammarereads, @lllucere, @vieenr0se, @deadbeatphobos, @k-pevensie28, @nyxisnotok,@lemmonpiie,@yo-soy-yo, @starfiremylove, @whosmev, @avlizio, @indigoscribe, @yo-soy-yo, @appalost, @c4xcocoa, @mystic-is-here-to-love, @its-me-mila, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @smiithys, @oh-buttercup, @jcks29, @naessheart, @bungunz, @atomicpeachmaker, @lulasgna, @givemefinganame, @dap11, @screamingsilence3, @woderfulkawaii, @radicalcannoliqueen, @itachisrealm, @missmillivanilli, @fluffalorianflash, @koibleufish, @liuope, @athenalive, @idiotussupremus, @foquest, @justamarsbar, @lordbugs, @rosehoneycomb, @bibiznbyler, @andraax2, @lemmonpiie, @mournersinketterdam, @wrenisrad, @chaosandcandies, @saltedcoffeescotch, @0lives10, @s0uz4s, @girl-so-gay, @sharkabb, @blackthemiller, @strawbrysapphic, @inherdiary77, @chknnwffls, @famoushoshi, @gotham-lady, @blobygree18, @smithieandy, @lettucel0ver, @archxve, @shark01, @demon-master-zero, @cattleray, @rosehoneycomb, @byzantiumhollow, @1-800-l0v3rgrl, @a-taken-url, @judevv, @n3versatisfied

[inloveinsickness]

❝ SPUN IN YOUR WEB ❞ — yukimiya kenyu

tags: gn!reader, spiderman!yukimiya, college!au, fluff, non-descriptive depictions of wounds

masterlist

spiderman!yukimiya who’s vision got repaired after getting bit by a radioactive spider in the middle of the academic year and gained powers.

spiderman!yukimiya who sits in front of you in class with his thin metal rimmed glasses that you're convinced he doesn't need because he should not be squinting like that, and when confronted about it says it's a fashion choice. not convincing.

spiderman!yukimiya who is effortlessly the top student of his class and cohort for sciences and mathematics.

spiderman!yukimiya who the professor assigns as your tutor for chemistry, but as the semester progresses, he starts showing up less and less, sometimes even rain checking at the last minute.

spiderman!yukimiya who always brings you pizza to share as an apology for being late or no-showing. you're not sure if he actually paid for it or just stole it from his part-time job.

spiderman!yukimiya who seems to have more and more wounds littered on his skin and bandages wrapped around his arms.

spiderman!yukimiya who refuses to tell you the truth on what happened and just says he got them from skating. also not convincing in the slightest.

spiderman!yukimiya who, battered and bruised, barely makes it to your house on time for tutoring one day and feels his heart crack at the look on your face when you force him down onto your bed and return from the bathroom carrying a first aid kit.

spiderman!yukimiya who just smiles through a wince while you're kneeled in front of him cleaning his gashes, softly asking what's gotten into him and begging him not to get into fights anymore because that's not like him.

spiderman!yukimiya who thinks you look rather cute even just dipping cotton balls into disinfectant.

spiderman!yukimiya who tries and fails to use humour to try lifting your concerned frown and make light of the situation.

spiderman!yukimiya who jokes that you're the only person he knows that prefers a man smelling like antiseptic than looking bloodied. you don't laugh.

spiderman!yukimiya who tells you that you're much better at patching him up than he does himself despite your shoddy job at stitching. you argue that sewing up holes in clothing is nothing like sealing cuts shut.

spiderman!yukimiya who would rather you think he gets into fights on the regular than get dragged into his world of danger.

spiderman!yukimiya who keeps showing up to your place in tatters despite his reservations, his trust in you surprising himself.

spiderman!yukimiya who wants to keep you as far away from him and his double life to protect you, but it's becoming increasingly difficult with his growing feelings.

spiderman!yukimiya who against his better judgement and spidey senses, begins falling for you, one assignment and one bandage at a time.

taglist. open (link to form) @saucejar @kurogira @returntothefae @daisy-room @stellar-headquarters

@whatisnureotypical @haruhi269 @ayatakanosstuff @cyxjz @irethepotato

@mwezieclipze @chuurinnie

© inloveinsickness. please do not repost, plagiarise, or translate my work.

[beennoiserie]

name change!

ochakourarakah ⁀જ➣ beennoiserie