MHA owns my soul

|| I am over 18, so some things I write may be NSFW, and aren't meant for minors to read. view discretion is advised|| Hello! You can call me Foxy, and I'll be writing some My Hero Acadamia stuff here! I'm very new to writing in general so please be nice, and I won't be writing any requests for a while but feel free to yell with me about any ideas or hcs. Hope y'all enjoy!!

[luveline]

Hey lovely, How about Hotch and wife!reader having their first family outing with new baby, a walk in the park or grocery shopping something like that you can pick.

Hope your having a good weekend lovely Xx <3 🌼

ty for your request ily <3 —you and Hotch juggle your small family for the first time. fem, 1.2k

“Please hold my hand?” 

Having a baby has activated some intrafamily jealousy, but you don’t mind. You’re cooing at Noah adoringly when Jack interrupts, thrusting his hand in the air, the very beginning of a tantrum lining his eyes and his thin eyebrows pinched like a threat. 

“Baby, don’t you wanna come and sit up here with Noah?” you ask. There’s not much room next to the carrier, but Jack's slight. 

He shakes his head, hand poking your tummy. Grocery shopping with Jack has always been hard, he wants to look at everything, wants to take the list, and doesn’t ever wanna sit in the cart, but it’s proving harder today. 

“Aaron, you have to push the cart.” 

He’s been begging you to let him for the last half hour. “It’s gonna tire me out,” he says, nudging you aside by the hip, “but I think I can handle it for you. You did call me by my first name for once. We reward good behaviour in this family.” 

You roll your eyes and take Jack’s little hand. Calling him Aaron now you’ve had a baby together should feel natural, but it doesn’t. It feels more like a loving nickname than his actual name —over two years of calling him Hotch is hard to ignore. 

Jack gives you a loving look that makes the fuss worth it. “This is fun,” he says. 

“This is awesome.” 

You and Jack got used to doing grocery shopping by yourselves while you were on your maternity leave without his dad. With Hotch now on his own paternity leave to accompany you, it is admittedly easier, and much more fun. You and Jack swing your hands together as Hotch steers the cart and your baby into the cereal aisle, which’ll take hours to get through, no doubt, but it doesn’t matter. What else is there to do? 

You make it Hotch’s job to say no to the boxes that are mostly sugar, and, unfortunately for Jack, get distracted by Noah in his baby carrier where it’s locked into the cart. His eyes reluctant to open, tired, dark lashes threaded together at their corners, his tiny mouth. “Aw, look at you, handsome, you’re nearly smiling. You look just like your daddy, he never wants to smile either,” you say, tapping his nose. 

Your saccharine tone prompts distress. “Y/N,” Jack whines, “you need to help me choose the cereal.” He yanks at your hand. 

“Jack, don’t start, bud.” 

“Dad,” Jack pouts. 

“No, it’s okay. We’re supposed to be sharing everybody now, so Jack gets to share me too. I’ll help you pick some cereal. I don’t mind,” you say. 

You sort of do mind, just a bit. This is Noah’s first time out in the world that wasn’t sitting peacefully in the backyard, and you don’t want him to be scared. Maybe baby’s can’t be scared, you don’t know. It’s nicer to feel close to him in these big moments. But it’s Jack’s first time having a baby brother at the store, too, so you’ll have to make it work. 

“You don’t have to,” Hotch says. 

“It’s fine, it’s okay.” You bend down to see the cereal selection. “They have your favourite, Cinnamon Toast Crunch. And your second, Fruity Pebbles. It’s up to you, it’s your treat.” 

Jack gasps and hits a box of Fruity Pebbles, “Barney’s on the box now!” he says, pointing at the blonde character behind the cereal bowl. 

You give a soft laugh quickly lost as Jack’s force topples the box. It hits the floor with a light crunch. “Oh, whoops. Let’s pick this up,” you say, popping down into a crouch without thinking. 

“Honey–” Hotch says, which would surely be followed by a Should you be doing that? if you weren’t already flopping onto one knee in pain. 

Bad idea. Terrible idea. Having a baby tears a mixture of tissue and muscle, and while the fiery pain of labour has since become a bad memory, a spike of trauma erupts between your legs. “Ow,” you yelp, eyes welling with unbidden tears. 

“Y/N!” Jack and Hotch say simultaneously. 

“Are you alright?” Hotch asks, bending at the waist to grab you, never cruel but clearly perturbed as his hands grasp your shoulders. They slip down under your arms. “Come on, can you stand up?”

You blink away tears and force yourself to stand with his help. He’s quick to pull you close, one hand on your wrist, head ducked to see your face. “Are you okay? What happened?” 

You let out a queasy breath. “Something’s not done fixing itself,” you joke weakly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks again, lower. 

“I’m fine.” You’d love to sit down. The pain is a thrum like your heartbeat now, hurting but half as intense. “I’m okay. Really, it just shocked me.” 

He slips his arm around your neck to encourage you in for a temple kiss. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You wiggle out of Hotch’s hold. Jack stands with a large pout near the fallen box of cereal, his hands twisting together over his tummy. “It’s okay,” you say. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, panicked tears slipping down his cheeks. “You hurt getting it and it was mine, I’m sorry.” His voice squeezes out of him in guilty pangs. 

“It’s okay!” you repeat, leaning over with a wince to offer your arms, “It’s really okay, it’s not your fault. Don’t be upset, baby, I’m fine.” 

You hoist Jack into your arms as he begins crying in earnest. His crying startles Noah, who starts to whimper, and then sob despite Hotch’s gentle shushing. You look at one another in mild defeat, your hand cupping the back of Jack’s head as he clings to you for reassurance. 

Noah’s sobbing is like a ringing bell. Jack says he’s sorry into your neck, and it’s such a desperate scene you let a laugh slip out. “Aw, baby,” you say, smiling as you press your nose to his cheek, “it’s really okay. It wasn’t your fault at all, it was just ‘cos I’m out of practice. I’m just tired.” 

“You fell.” 

Noah gurgles behind you. “I know,” Hotch says quietly. “I know. You’re okay, bud. Jack’s okay. Mom’s okay. Shh, shh.” 

It’s obviously not how you’d want your shopping trip to go, but Jack’s crying eventually slows, sapping all of his energy, and so he finally agrees to sit in the cart. The only problem is that he doesn’t fit there as well as you’d thought he would. Hotch ends up carrying him the entire time you’re in the store, and Noah doesn’t ever settle. You’re like zombies when you get back to the car, a headache stark between your ears and evident in his pinched brow. 

“Let’s try again in a few weeks,” Hotch suggests. “I can go by myself. Or we can make somebody else.”  

You wish you had the energy to kiss his brow, giving a defeated nod as you slouch down into your seat, grateful at least for his hand on your knee. “Okay.” 

[satomiu]

— pink mist ℘

　18+ ❤︎ . . . ⁠ when a mission with him goes terribly wrong and ends with him deep in your guts...

satoru gojo ℘ fem!sorcerer!reader . . . aphrodisiac ( reader affected ) : reader is kind of mean but he's into it, canon-universe — explicit smut !! oral (fem rec.), fingering, p in v, slight overstim, cock drunk reader, messy confessions, mutual pining, slight brat taming, cocky gojo, reader cries during sex, orgasm denial ( in a way.. ), slight after care, cutetiful ending ♡ w.c 8.2k

you and satoru gojo were partners. best friends even.

in his eyes at least.

no matter how many times you swore you hated him whenever he pissed you off, he was somehow insanely persistent in trying to get you to like him. it was as if riling you up was his love language.

not that you didn’t like him — you did. more than you should. you just didn’t show it very well, per se..

you were kind of like a black cat girlfriend to him, while he was your golden retriever boyfriend. and he knew it. always did. even when he insisted on asking you the stupidest questions:

“so! if i got bit by a snake on my dick, would you suck the venom out to save my life?” ... “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

yeah…

so even if he was the strongest sorcerer alive, he still insisted on tagging along on your missions whenever he could. not because you needed protection—you were perfectly capable of handling yourself—but simply because, according to him, you were his favorite person.

“and you are here again because..?” you hummed, stepping through the warped entrance of the abandoned inn where the special grade cursed object was rumored to be hidden, floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet.

behind you, gojo followed without a shred of caution, hands tucked behind his head like some sort of casual stroll instead of a mission for grade one and above.

he chuckled. “why can’t i? i just wanna spend time with my favorite girl.” his voice tilted into a teasing sing-song. “don’t act like you hate it~”

you stopped and turned to face him.

“im not acting. and since you’re here,” you began flatly, crossing your arms, “why don’t you ... go find whatever it is we’re looking for.”

he gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “i came all this way and yet you decide to dismiss me? i guess they were right…” he sighed, shaking his head. “you truly are a cruel woman.”

your eyes widened and you slapped his chest. “what? whose they?!”

he let out that stupid familiar giggle of his before turning and dashing off in the opposite direction, disappearing down the dark hallway.

“stupid idiot…” you huffed under your breath.

you wandered through the inn for a while, your flashlight sweeping slowly across warped walls and half opened doors as the old hallways creaked with every careful step.

the place smelled like dust and rotting wood, the kind of quiet that made every little noise feel louder than it should be.

you walked endlessly, the hours blurring together as every room you entered stood just as the last—dusty, abandoned, and hollow.

and despite knowing satoru was somewhere nearby, you couldn’t help the small tension settling in your shoulders.

“satoru?” you called once, mostly out of habit.

no response.

rolling your eyes, you continued down the hall, pushing another door open with your foot and flashing the light around the empty room before stepping back into the corridor—only for a voice to suddenly appear right behind you.

“boo.”

you yelped. the sound tore out of you before you could stop it, your flashlight jerking wildly as you spun around to find gojo standing there, already laughing.

god you just wanted to slap that infuriating smirk off his face. or kiss it off. you weren’t exactly sure of anything whenever it came to him…

“satoru!” you snapped, slapping his chest again, warmth spreading in your face from embarrassment. your punches and hits always landed easily, because, for reasons you’d never quite questioned, satoru gojo never kept his infinity up around you.

you dusted yourself off, ignoring the crippling wave of embarrassment that washed over you. “have you seen anything?”

even behind the fabric of his blindfold, it felt like his gaze hadn’t left you. it was always so heavy, unwavering, like he could you and pin you in place with his eyes alone if he really wanted to.

“nope!”

“gosh.. you are seriously useless.” you muttered, walking toward one of the last rooms in the hallway. one where the cursed energy felt strongest.

“well you could try to be nicer to me instead of mouthing off to me all the time, maybe i’d be nicer to you.” he pouted, following right behind you.

“really? be nice? how old are you again???”

in the center of the room sat an old incense box, the wood darkened with age and wrapped loosely in forgotten talismans. you knelt down beside it while gojo leaned against the doorway behind you.

“seriously…?” you murmured, opening the box. a faint pink mist drifted upward, slow and almost pretty in the dim light.

“this is our cursed object? they couldn’t have sent one of the second years? ridiculous.”

the scent that followed was surprisingly sweet and warm, something soft and calming that made you pause for a second longer than you meant to.

you took a breath.

“uh..” gojo spoke suddenly from the doorway, his voice losing some of its usual laziness. “i don't think you should go around sniffing random cursed objects princess.”

you huffed, rolling your eyes. “whatever.. besides, what did i tell you about the pet names?”

“well, i think they're cute.” he hummed, taking the box from your hands, slender, cool fingers brushing briefly against yours before he snapped the box shut with a quiet thud. the sudden shift in his energy left you slightly confused, but he only gave you a reassuring smile like nothing had happened.

“i’ll call ijichi and we’ll be on our way, yeah?”

you nodded slowly, thinking nothing of it.

the two of you waited outside the inn with your arms crossed against the cool night air while gojo paced in loose circles nearby, talking loudly enough into the phone that you could hear half the conversation even from where you stood.

when he finally finished, he stuffed the cursed object into his pocket.

“good news!” he announced. “ijichi said it’ll be handled. bad news is he thinks it’s some weird—”

oh.

satoru's voice softened slightly. “hey.. you okay?”

you blinked at him slowly.

there was a warmth spreading in your stomach that wasn’t there before, a heavy, unfamiliar sensation making your thoughts feel a little slower, a little foggier around the edges. you pushed yourself straighter against the street pole, trying to ignore how your face felt slightly warmer than it should.

especially around gojo out of all people.

“m’fine…” voice small in a way he’d never heard before.

that’s when he noticed it properly.

you, who never slipped. you, who never needed anything from everybody, especially not from him. the weariness and hesitance in your eyes.

“you don’t look very okay..”

he frowned slightly, stepping closer, his hand rested lightly on your arm as he spoke. “you sure? you look sick. if you want i can get us to shoko and—”

and the warmth in your stomach sharpened, more intense than before.

“—no!” you blurted suddenly, louder than you meant to.

gojo blinked.

“sorry,” you said quickly, already turning away from him. “no. i- i’m gonna go home, you can wrap this up.” you huffed, breath more shaky and worn out than you’d like it to be.

the night air clung to your skin, biting and sharp, a stark contrast to the warmth still lingering in your body. the moment hung quiet, too quiet, before gojo shifted closer, spinning you back around gently.

his free hand lifted, cool fingers brushing your cheek as he gently angled your face toward him. the chill of his touch seeped into your warmth, but this time there was nothing casual about it. his movements slowed, more deliberate as he studied you.

his thumb hovered near your cheekbone, lightly turning your face side to side checking for any physical markings as for what was making you act so strange.

“how can you even go home like this? i'm serious, let me.” he muttered under his breath, the usual teasing edge in his voice replaced with worry.

a soft whine slipped from your lips, more reflex than intentional, and you immediately swatted his hand away—half protest, half instinct—breaking the contact as you huffed in quiet defiance.

“i’m serious too.” annoyance bubbled in your chest, turning on your heel and storming off into the night, leaving behind a very confused satoru.

+ ❤︎ ℘

as soon as you got home, you showered.

once.

then twice.

letting the cold water run over your skin until your fingers went slightly numb and your breathing felt slower under the steady hiss of the faucet. the warmth in your stomach didn’t leave. it only sat there stubbornly, dull and heavy like something pressing quietly beneath your thoughts.

you turned the water colder, leaning your forehead briefly against the tiled wall, trying to focus on anything else — the sound of water hitting the floor, the faint echo of your own breathing in the empty bathroom — but every time you closed your eyes you kept remembering the way he had touched your arm earlier, light and warm and far too distracting to shake off.

fuck.

it felt like your body couldn’t settle no matter what you tried, you changed into the lightest, thinnest clothes you had, hoping the strange heat under your skin would ease even a little bit.

but it didn’t.

satoru had been pacing the emptied out office ever since you went home, anxiety slowly gnawing at the back of his mind. it had been hours—no call, no text, nothing at all—and even though he told himself you were probably just resting.

the silence felt wrong.

so when his phone finally lit up with your name and his favorite photo of the two of you: where you had fallen asleep and slumped against his shoulder on the train back home, cheek squishing against his chest — his heart fluttered with a pang of hope before he answered.

“hey, i was just thinking of you,” he said when he picked up, voice instantly softening. “did you get home safely?”

he frowned when you didn’t answer right away. “uh, helloooo?”

on the other end of the line, you were clutching your phone tightly, his voice alone making the strange warmth in your chest feel sharper, harder to ignore.

“satoru—” you called, practically moaning out his name, breath uneven. body burning in embarrassment and taut with need as you buried your face into the arm of your couch, the scratchy fabric pressing against your sweaty forehead.

“i’ve tried everything. my fingers, my fucking shower head, my vibrator–” you whined, voice strained as you couldn’t stop yourself from blubbering everything out to him.

“i just— s’no use.” you wailed in defeat. the way your top brushed against your overly sensitive nipples each time you moved, the way your panties rubbed against your throbbing clit — it was all so overbearing, you couldn’t even think properly.

poor satoru couldn’t help but feel like a pervert.

the image of your legs spread, cunt swollen and fluttering around nothing, desperate to relieve the ache... just front and center in his mind, making his chest flutter. and well..

his dick throb in his trousers.

“hey, hey,” he said quickly, doing his best to ignore the slow strain against fabric. “it’s alright. what do you need me to do?”

“can you come over? please.”

the words were quiet, but they carried a weight he understood immediately.

not just any “come over.”

that kind of “come over.”

“be there in ten.”

“no.” you said immediately, voice stubborn and a little whiny. “five.”

he huffed quietly on the other end of the line.

“…fine. i’ll be there in three.”

you could’ve swore you heard the man smirking as he spoke.

truthfully, satoru wasn’t sure he had ever moved this fast in his life. he made a quick stop at a 24 hour convenience store on the way to yours.

if whatever this shit was had you asking for his help and using your manners???? it had to have been serious.

he avoided eye contact with the elderly lady at the register while she scanned his items, a faint beep cutting through the silence.

his items of choice?

a container of your favorite flavored mochi’s.

for you! post sex..

and a box of xl condoms.

also.. for you.. during sex.. if the two of you were to have sex that is.

soon enough, satoru was standing at your front door in just about two minutes, thanks to his inhuman abilities of course.

he was also a man who, annoyingly enough, did stick to his word.

he knocked once.

no answer.

he was about to knock again when the door suddenly swung open, revealing you standing there. a soft sheen of sweat on your skin, eyebrows knitted together in irritation—or arousal—lips stubbornly pouting while your body was enveloped by one of his worn out shirts with some faded digimon print on it—the same one he had left at your house last time he was there.

worn because you likely wanted to hide the fact you only had panties on under there.

“you said three minutes,” you said, frowning up at him

“yes. and i got here in two princess.” his tone was light, but his gaze dipped briefly below your chest, taking in the scene in front of him.

normally, his pet names pissed you off. so what the hell was this? why were you getting lightheaded??

“…is that my shirt?” he hummed, unable to fully hide the amusement threading through his voice, a grin already tugging at his lips, “—where exactly are your pants?”

you let out a groan, already regretting calling him in the first place. “it’s too hot for anything else.” you muttered, pulling the fabric of the shirt down a little.

as if that would make a difference…

you glanced down at the bag in his hand, raising an eyebrow, ignoring the way your pussy throbbed maddeningly at the sight and faint smell of him.

he noticed the shift.

of course he did.

his head tilted just slightly, quietly piecing together a thought he didn’t bother to say out loud, the corner of his mouth tugging up in quiet amusement.

“it’s stuff for you, don’t worry about it,” he spoke with a small, reassuring smile.

he stepped inside fully, the door clicking shut behind him as he locked it without a second thought.

“you’re gonna listen to me for a bit, yeah?”

his voice was light. easy. infuriatingly so.

his hand came up anyway, despite the fact you usually punched him if he tried, tilting your chin just enough to make sure you were looking at him.

his touch softened, less insistent now, more reassuring than anything.

“don’t get shy on me now,” he murmured, voice dipping just enough to make your breath catch.. “what is it you want?”

your breath hitched. “i… i wanna see you. please.” you mewled, embarrassed at how such a low level curse made your libido and sex drive skyrocket – to a point beyond your control.

he caught on right away.

slowly, he lifted his blindfold and unraveled it, the fabric falling away in one smooth motion. his blue eyes were clearer now without the barrier, sharp but unusually soft when they settled on you, the loose strands of his hair framing his face in a way that made your chest tighten.

you didn’t think about what was to come next. couldn’t, really.

the words died somewhere between your thoughts and your tongue, and before your mind caught up, you grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer on pure instinct, locking your lips with his in a bruising kiss.

one large hand shot up instinctively, steadying you, while his eyes fluttered shut for a split second. he leaned down, meeting your eager lips.

he caught himself with ease, grip on you firm but controlled. satoru had always been ready for anything… just not that.

as you clung to his jacket, satoru tossed the bag aside—quick, almost careless in its urgency.

with his blindfold gone, his sharp gaze met yours without anything in the way. one hand settled on your hip, firm enough to steady you, but gentle in its hold—quietly letting you take the lead, giving you exactly what you needed.

you pushed him back until the couch hit the back of his knees, forcing him to drop down onto it with a soft thud, instantly following him down, settling on top of him.

a soft grunt slipped from him as you crashed into him, your whole body shuddering before you buried your face into the crook of his neck, trying to regain some form of self control.

you let out an embarrassingly loud moan as you slotted yourself right over his clothed cock, warmth seeping through the point of contact and spreading throughout your body.

“fuck… m'sorry toru,” you groaned, your face burning with embarrassment, frustration, and something you couldn’t name.

his breath hitched. toru…? well that was new.

he blinked, caught off guard, a grin threatening to slip past his composure. fingers tightening just enough on your hip, not to control, just… to keep you upright.

“…toru, huh?” his voice was low, teasing, but there was something raw beneath it, something he barely recognized in himself.

his smile dropped slightly when you didn’t indulge in his teasing.

“hey… look at me,” he hummed, gently tilting your head up, his finger resting lightly under your chin as he guided your face toward his. “don’t apologize, okay? aphrodisiacs aren’t that bad… you just need a bit of help is all.”

his hands settled at your waist to steady you, thumb brushing lightly against your sides as he met your gaze.

your eyes kept avoiding his, unable to settle. he noticed, gently tilting your chin up once more to meet him halfway.

“nuh uh—eyes on me, princess,” he murmured. “i’ll only do anything you want,” he hummed, booping your nose, making you blink abruptly.

“now tell me,” his teasing tone returned, though his gaze remained attentive. “this you or that cursed thing talkin'?”

you scanned his face rapidly, heat pooling in your stomach, growing heavier the closer he leaned. his large hands molded against your curves with ease, and his scent—soft, yet intoxicating—made it impossible to think straight.

“i—” you tried, but the word caught uselessly in your throat.

he cocked his head to the side, gaze sharp behind the faintest smirk. “don’t tell me you’ve gone all shy on me...” he murmured, his thumb pressing soft, steady strokes against your hip. “you were just mouthing off to me a couple of seconds ago.”

your grip on his shirt tightened immediately.

“yes—fuck, it’s me talking, satoru!”

his gaze lingered on you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “yeah… i know,” he murmured softly. “that’s my girl. we’ll go at your pace.”

you groaned, still visibly annoyed, though the edge in your voice gave you away. “you don't need to coddle me satoru…” you muttered, pout lingering.

he let out a quiet breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “sorry for trying to play nice,” he murmured, though there was no real bite to it. “don’t wanna break you sweetheart... now c’mere.”

his hand slipped to the back of your head, steadying you as he kissed you first. slow, deliberate, giving you time to change your mind.

a chance to back out.

you let out a sigh as his lips met yours again, hands gripping at his jacket, entire body on fire as your hips moved on their own, gently grinding against him.

a purr of delight rumbled inside his throat as your hands hiked up underneath his shirt, tongues brushing against each other in tandem. you moaned into his mouth as his hands found your hips, rolling you against him, firmer than you had been doing — an attempt to ease the raging pool of arousal in you.

and only after a long, quiet moment did he pull back just enough to breathe, eventually (and regrettably) pulling from your lips, a string of saliva bridging the gap between you two. his forehead still hovered near yours, close enough to feel every shallow inhale you took.

“please… toru,” you whispered, voice small, urgent, almost trembling. “i need it…” grinding down on him once more, a spark of warmth building up and throughout your nerves.

he let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, tilting his head at you.

“mouth or fingers then?”

…

“w-what?”

you fumbled over your words, the need coiling tight in your chest, twisting sharper with every second he kept teasing.

if anything, it only made you wetter.

“w-w-what?” he echoed, a quiet laugh slipping out. “you heard me. mouth or fingers—pick.”

“now’s not the time to be fucking around, you dickhead,” you bit out, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.

you hated it—hated how he was still trying to be playful when you felt like you were falling apart inside.

he always knew exactly which buttons to push.

and somehow, you always reacted anyway.

“fucking around? i just want to be thorough.” his voice low but not unkind.

…

“h-hands…” you muttered, barely getting the word out, eyes refusing to meet his.

he let out a soft chuckle, clearly entertained, canines catching in the dim moonlight that creeped in through the cracked curtains. “there it is,” he murmured. “see? that wasn’t so hard.”

he hummed, a faint smile playing at his lips, canines catching the dim light.

“though, i was hoping you’d aim higher.” — making you roll your eyes with a heavy scoff.

normally, you’d tell him off. tell the six-eyed freak to go fuck himself.

but not tonight.

tonight was different.

he shifted slightly, guiding you with careful, deliberate movements until your back rested against the arm of the couch, lowering himself to his knees in front of you.

your thighs pressed together instinctively, a small whimper slipping out as if you could hide from him—hide how badly you really wanted it.

“c’mon… what'd i say about getting shy?” he murmured.

“can’t help you if you’re hiding from me pretty.” his grip shifted, and with an almost unfair ease, he used just the span of his hand—thumb and pinky guiding your legs apart, your slick having already soaked through the thin cotton of your panties.

if you knew satoru gojo was going to be fingering you until you came all over his hands tonight… then you definitely would’ve worn something a lot cuter.

maybe something silky, with lace around the edges, something easy to slip off.

but it’s not like he minded.

his breath caught in his throat. “…fuck,” whispering under his breath. and for a brief moment, his usual composure slipped. his gaze lingering just a second longer than before..

he was just so fucking obsessed with you.

with one slender digit, he hooked your panties, knuckle slightly grazing your entrance, collecting some of your slick along his knuckle. he pushed your panties aside with a slow, careful motion. exposing your sopping cunt to the cool night air.

after about a minute of tense silence, he hadn’t even realized he’d been gawking at your pussy. he couldn’t help himself. the way it was practically leaking, every curve, every clench.

so fucking pretty…

“satoru!”

he blinked, dragged back to the moment, and after a brief pause, finally looked up at you, a faint chuckle escaping.

“heh… sorry.” his voice steadied again. “just tell me if it feels good, okay?”

and with that, he inserted two of his slender digits past your wet folds, your juices coating his fingers entirely as he slipped in and out of you. a loud, sinful ‘shlick’ shattering the quiet of your living room.

your jaw went slack and your eyelids fluttered shut instantly with a loud moan as he angled them deep inside you, occasionally curling up and reaching spots you couldn’t even dream of reaching yourself—whining each time he did so.

you reached for the nearest couch cushion and pulled it over your face, attempting to muffle your moans, but you just couldn’t help yourself.

you weren’t normally vocal in bed. you had no reason to be, not with others or when you got off on your own.

you couldn’t tell if it was satoru’s effect on you… or just the curse wearing you down. everything felt contradictory, like it shouldn't make sense.

and yet… it did.

it felt wrong and right all at once, as if somehow, he was the only one meant to see you like this.

it just felt so good. so perfect.

you bit your lip, holding back a sob, trying to ignore the aching in your tummy temporarily ceased to make way to utter bliss as waves of pleasure wash over you.

his free hand lifted, fingers catching the edge of the cushion. he didn’t yank it away.. instead, he tugged it down slowly, giving you a chance to stop him.

but you didn't.

“you’re doing a terrible job of hiding from me, you know that?” he hummed, tossing the cushion somewhere behind him.

“such a messy girl..” he added, adoration oozing through his voice. the way your cunt refused to let go of his fingers was almost hypnotizing, his knuckles glistening in whatever light came through the curtains, covered in your wetness.

“better than your own?” he hummed.

though it may have come across as condescending in practice, there was a hint of concern underneath it. his tone softened just enough to reveal something more genuine beneath the usual teasing edge.

“t-toru… fuck,” you whined, tears already brimming at the corners of your eyes. “yes! somuchbetter.” mewling as he continued to work your pussy open.

his smirk widened, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“you mean that?” he asked, tone playful, cocky, as if daring you to take it back.

he wasn’t going to let you live that down.

not ever.

“hmm… that good, huh?” he murmured, leaning just a little closer, thumbs brushing at your waist, letting you feel him, letting you know he knew exactly what he was doing.

“you sound way too easy to please, princess.”

“please. just. shut. up— hngh–!”

your complaints died in your throat, as an unexpected stretch pulled at you, sharp and delicious, and you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped.

satoru had added another digit.

“gojo—” you choked. “toru! w-wait—” writhing against his grip, mind going fuzzy.

without a second thought, his other arm wrapped around your thigh, hand slithering down with deliberate ease, thumb circling your clit with a quick light hand, making you arch into the couch. moans getting louder with each press and swipe.

“i take it you like it?” hummed, curling all three his fingers up against you, his fingers grazing a perfect spot inside you, vision going hazy as your pussy clenching desperately around his digits, refusing to let go.

“hah… easy…” he hummed, watching the way your body tensed under him.

there weren’t enough words in any dictionary to capture how overwhelming it all felt.

too urgent, yet the perfect pace.

like it had been building far longer than you’d like to admit. everything amplified beyond reason, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed.

you needed this. needed him.

but still… it wasn’t enough. the aphrodisiac clawed at your senses, twisting every nerve into ache and frustration rather than pleasure.

“toru… please… i can’t—” you gasped, desperation lacing every word, trembling against him.

huh…

normally, this would have anyone else gasping and cumming in seconds, he was satoru gojo afterall.

this shit really was taking a number on you.

not that it mattered to gojo. he could keep up just fine.

“yeah… yeah.. of course you cant” he murmured underneath his breath. “you always this hard to handle?”

“j-just stop talking. so fucking—annoying.”

“annoying??” he huffed, warm breath ghosting your cunt.

“i’m hurt. thought you’d have something better for me than that princess.” a low purr escaped him as he brought his fingers to his mouth, savoring the evidence of you as his lips glided over them, tongue insistently circling around his digits, all while making eye contact with you.

every nerve in his body ached. he’d waited for this moment for so long. too long.

his thighs clenched underneath his slacks, his dick pressing up against his zipper, a painfully obvious bulge in his pants.

but he ignored it, for you.

the only thing on his mind was making you feel good. he could handle himself later; right now?

it was all about you.

the couch groaned beneath him as he leaned in, arms snaking around your thighs, yanking you down to his waiting face.

and without a second thought his plush lips latched onto your cunt. his tongue lapped up your juices, slipping in between your folds, eagerly exploring your velvet walls. “oh– satoru!”, you moaned, voice coming out cracked and quiet, eyes snapping shut in pleasure.

you choked on a sob as his tongue dipped lower, teasing your hole, completely drunk on how sweet you tasted. he fought back a smile as he practically made out with your pussy, working you open with his tongue before dragging upwards, tongue pressing flat onto your clit.

you sobbed again, hands flinging down to his messy white strands while he tucked his arms under your thighs.

tighter.

harder.

as if you were trying to run.

well… maybe because you were.

he lifted your hips to meet his mouth. your thighs trembled as your small whimpers filled up the room.

he was good at this. too fucking good.

you gasped, arching against him, brain melting into pure chaos.

tears brimmed at your water line as your body trembled, betraying just how far gone you were.

you tugged on his hair, some sort of signal that you were close. or so you thought.

your pussy pulsed under his tongue as he continued to lap at your hole. tongue swirling faster. the occasional digit plunging inside you over, and over, and over, juices coating his entire hand.

his cock achingly hard, pressing into the couch — the small friction relieving the ache in his pants.

you were certainly going to have a talk with him. about where the hell he learned all this, how he always gets it right, and why it feels like he knows your body better than you do…

you were so out of it, you hadn’t even realized he’d been speaking until a low, humming vibration shot through your body.

“good?” he murmured, muffled by your puffed up folds, reinforced by the soft slurp of him drinking you up.

when you finally forced your eyes open, satoru was already staring straight into you—bright blue eyes cutting through the dim room like he’d been waiting for this exact moment the entire time.

normally. such a sight would've made you cum immediately.

you had the strongest sorcerer on his knees… for you. every movement, every sound he drew from you, made your chest tighten, and your mind screamed at you: how the hell is this happening?

but the loudest thought pounding through your dazed brain was simple.

more.

your thighs began to quiver, hot tears of frustration spilling down your cheeks before you slapped your hands over your face—and out of his hair—letting out a frustrated groan.

your body didn’t wanna let you come.

it was the same thing over and over again: the pleasure built, warmth spreading, but no peak. it was never enough.

normally, crying in front of someone didn’t faze you—no one would believe them if they tried to say otherwise. so why did it feel different with satoru?

he noticed immediately, a wet pop breaking the quiet as he paused, wiping his face with his sleeve, leaving a dark mark on the navy fabric. his eyes met yours as he rose to his knees, eyebrows furrowed as he took in your flushed, trembling body.

“fuck… was it too much? i—”

“fuck me.”

he froze, eyes wide. “what?”

you sat up on your elbows, cheeks wet with tears, lips red from biting down on them so much.

it was so incredibly sexy.

“need your cock— toru. fuck me.”

he blinked once, them twice. “well, that escalated real fast..” he murmured. “you sure about that angel? or are you just talking all big again?”

“do it.”

“bold,” he chuckled under his breath. “but i didn’t hear a ‘please’,” a faint smirk forming. “try again, sweetheart.”

you groaned, hands gripping into the couch, brows furrowing.

“please.” you deadpanned.

“pretty please with a—”

“satoru!!”

he broke into a quiet laugh, clearly entertained, shoulders easing as he looked at you again. “alright, alright,” he murmured, still smiling. “you don’t have to shout.”

“where do you want it? here or—”

“—bed. now please.”

without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you effortlessly and placing you gently onto the mattress.

he leaned over you, slotting himself in between your legs caging you in completely, capturing your lips in a messy bruising kiss.

he pulled away from you, leaving you panting, that maddening, insufferable flutter in your stomach returning tenfold.

in one swift motion, he stripped off his uniform, tossing it somewhere across your room, revealing a chest and arms sculpted like they’d been carved from stone.

every muscle was defined, taut and powerful, a perfect balance of strength and sleekness. his shoulders were broad, his biceps solid yet flexible, his torso a masterclass in controlled power.

even the faint line of his abs beneath the pale skin hinted at raw endurance.

underneath all those fabrics, satoru gojo was full muscle. a sleeper build if you’d ever seen one.

he couldn’t help but let out a low, amused chuckle as you shamelessly ogled him, eyes wide and stomach twisting.

his gaze lingered on you as he exhaled a quiet chuckle.

“go ahead, princess. it’s all yours.”

you let out a small whimper, pushing yourself up onto your knees, hands instinctively finding his waistband.

your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the waistband, tugging slowly, deliberately. every motion was careful, teasingly slow, letting satoru see exactly how desperate you were, every second stretching out, electric with tension.

his eyes stayed locked on you, bright and sharp, a small smile tugging at his lips. the way he watched you… it made your pulse race even faster, stomach fluttering with anticipation.

after a shaky moment, you finally succeeded, the last piece sliding free under your fingers. you froze mid-motion.

“hello kitty… boxers…?”

your eyes widened, staring up at him.

“what? i have class.” he said, utterly unfazed.

you couldn’t believe you were about to fuck this idiot.

he hummed, interrupting your thought process. “hold on, let me go get something.”

you shot up instantly, grabbing his wrist. “what could you possibly need right now??”

“err… condoms?” he hummed, tilting his head innocently.

condoms.

“satoru. are you fucking serious?” you barked, frustrated and need overriding all rational thought.

“well… yes!” he huffed. “gotta be safe, princess.”

with a sharp tug on the waistband of his boxers, you pulled him forward, and suddenly he was hovering over you again, chest just above yours, a flash of surprise in his bright eyes.

“i’m on the pill,” you murmured, eyes glinting with unadulterated lust. “don’t worry about it.”

he paused for a moment, letting out a low hum. “god… you really are something.” he spoke, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

then, with a soft, deliberate movement, he pulled back slightly, settling on his knees and locking eyes with you—cocky, amused, and just a little surprised by how bold you were.

he dipped his thumbs into the corners of his boxers, tugging them down completely, his hardened cock coming up with a ‘thwack’ to his stomach.

it looked borderline painful… his tip was a crimson red, clear rivulets of precum dangling off, threatening to hit the sheets beneath.

the weight of it was unmistakable. large, thick, and traced with faint veins that made him feel even more…

big.

it was almost impossible to ignore—you couldn’t help but stare, eyes tracing every twitch, pulse, and everything in between. unsure if you should laugh at the absurdity or flat out cry...

he dipped back down over you, close enough that you could feel his breath fan across your skin, his cock sliding in between your folds, the tip occasionally nudging against your clit, a small squish each time he made contact.

“say the word,” he murmured. “and we stop.”

you shook your head almost immediately, breath uneven.

“does it look like i wanna stop?” wrapping your arms around his neck for support.

his brows lifted slightly, then relaxed as a small smile tugged at his lips.

“fair point. didn’t think you’d be this eager.” he murmured. “…but you tell me if that changes, alright?”

and with that, he lined himself up with your entrance, making your breath hitch in your throat. he tilts your chin up slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, eyes sharp with focus.

“eyes on me pretty.. it's a big stretch.”

he slowly pushes in, inch after inch, your pussy swallowing him entirely, the two of you choking up in unison as he bottomed out inside you.

he filled you up entirely. cunt already spasming around him, nails digging into his back leaving small red crescents.

he was so close you could feel every exhale, every uneven beat of his heart—like it was syncing with yours. and he felt it too.

“fuck—” he choked, voice rougher than before. “are you okay? can i move?”

“satoru.”

“alright, alright…” he huffed, a breath of a laugh slipping through. his forehead dipped closer to yours, lips brushing the air between you.

“so bratty…” he murmured. “maybe i should stop going easy on you.”

“oh please, like you—mmph!”

he silenced you with a hard thrust, knocking the wind out of you.

then another.

and another...

they started coming back to back, all perfectly timed.

and for a minute, neither of you said anything.

the only sounds were the occasional whine from you, a groan from him, and the soft smacks of his sack against the curve of your ass as he gradually sped up finding his rhythm, a white ring already forming around the base of his cock.

lewd thwaps bounced off the walls, filling up the room, his eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unblinking, lips a breath away from your own.

a faint smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, his hand finding the flesh of your hip, voice low and teasing, tickling the shell of your ear.

“this what you needed?” he hummed, lengthy cock stirring up your insides. “hm? some dick—hah—just to make this pretty pussy feel better?”

“satoru—” a pathetic whine ripped through your throat as his mushroom tip grazed one of your sweet spots, picking up his pace, your tits bouncing upwards with each slam, digimon shirt covered in sweat and the smell of sex.

“shh, m’gonna take care of you baby, gonna take care of this pretty pussy, gonna feel so nice..” he hummed, teeth grazing your pulse point.

and unfortunately, you couldn’t deny it.

you felt every inch of him, every movement, and it was impossible to ignore. you always felt this way with him—like the world had narrowed down to nothing but heat and sparks. your vision danced, stars bursting behind your eyes, heart racing, completely undone.

he always made you feel good.

this time it was just with his dick.

your sopping cunt squeezed down on his cock, as if trying to milk him, simply refusing to let go each time he pulled back away from you.

he choked on a laugh, eyes flicking down at you, lips twitching with amusement. “s-so needy…” he murmured.

you tugged him down, just enough to bury your face in the crook of his neck.

he fucked you so good. almost too good.

you weren’t surprised, he was satoru gojo after all. your arms curled around him, clinging tighter, while your body pressed closer, desperate for every inch of contact you could get.

“been thinking about you for so fucking long.” he grunted, the slaps of his hips knocking into you, the force sending waves of shock throughout the meat of your ass. “always wanted you on my cock, to be mine—”

your legs wrapped around his waist, pressing into him instinctively, pushing him deeper inside you. every small movement pressed your bodies together, your arms clinging tight as you let out soft huffs of breathless laughter, face buried in the crook of his neck.

he let out a soft, almost pathetic whimper, chest rising rapidly. “fuck… feel what you do to me baby?” he hummed, pressing a large hand over your tummy, pressing down so that he could feel his cock inside you, drawing out pathetic syrupy moans from you.

his voice was rough. strained.

and just low enough to send shivers down your spine.

satoru was in heaven. the way you clamped down on him refusing to let go of him. the way his cock slid in an’ out of you with ease — a loud wet squelch echoing each time, length completely covered in your juices, the soft sheen of his cock blinding him every time he pulled out of you, just to slam back into you once more.

so wet… and so… nasty.

and all for him.

your mouth went slack, drool pooling at the corner, threatening to spill over. he couldn't help but let out a sharp laugh.

who knew that all you needed was a little bit of dick to act right?

every touch sent shivers down your spine, every stroke of his cock made your pussy flutter helplessly, the way his cock filled you up was so… perfect. his tip grazed every nook and cranny of your walls, a white froth coating your folds and dripping down his sack as they slammed into you.

it was all too much. your folds were puffy from hours of torture pleasure: his slender digits working you open, his tongue lapping up at your cunt like a man starved. and now. this. fucking you so good as if he was trying to imprint himself into every part of you.

you couldn’t even form a proper sentence, just blubbering and whining about how good he felt, how big he was. he pressed down on you further, pressing you into the mattress as he slammed into you, curving up right into your sweet spot.

“such a good girl.. so perfect for me…” he breathed out, eyes locked on you

“ngh!— satoru– pleaseplease–” you whined helplessly, lips finding his flesh, biting down softly to muffle your moans and cries.

“look at youuu…” he murmured, pressing a small kiss to your sweaty forehead.

“so fuckin’ cute. gonna cum all over my cock like the pretty little princess you are?” crooning, as if he wasn't drunk off you and you alone.

he let out an absurd laugh, sharp and breathless, like he couldn’t believe how much he was unraveling under you. “m’close already.. you’re giving me a bad rep here..”

he looked down at you, expecting some sort of answer—only to be met by a small glare, or at least what you were trying to manage. your eyes were hazy, brows scrunched up, and it was laughably pathetic, but in the best way.

he let out a soft huff of laughter.

“right… sorry,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips at the fact his dick rendered you speechless.

“f-fuck— toru, m’close—” you whined, burying your face into him, squeezing your eyes shut.

he pulled back just enough to get a good look at your face, taking in the tremble of your lips, the warmth radiating from your cheeks, the sweat glistening off your skin…

so fucking pretty.

“don’t hide that pretty face from me, angel… i wanna see you,” he murmured, placing sloppy kisses along your neck and jaw.

you couldn’t help it—breath coming in short, uneven huffs, eyes locking onto his as if begging for more. your hands curled around his shoulders, clutching him tightly, legs instinctively wrapping closer, pushing him deeper into you.

he chuckled low and absurdly, leaning in so your faces were inches apart, breath mingling. “there you are… see? wanna see your face when you cum all over my cock.”

small, desperate whines escaped your lips, soft and almost helpless, and every tiny movement pressed you harder into him, “satoru—”

before you could react, he cut you off with a bruising kiss, noses knocking together, lips pressing hard and claiming, stealing your breath. your hands fisted against him, pulling him closer, while your legs instinctively curled around his waist, clinging like you couldn’t get enough.

he dragged his tongue from your bottom lip, down to your chin, before placing a sloppy kiss right below it. his hand slid down from your hip, his thumb carelessly found your clit — pressing hard firm circles making you cry out, his hips stuttering and becoming sloppy.

“…fuck… i love you, so perfect f'me” he gasped, voice raw and trembling, eyes locked on yours like he couldn’t look away.

the warmth in your stomach multiplied tenfold, spreading through every nerve and pulse.

“w-what?” you choked dumbly, voice trembling, before your body betrayed you and locked up, every muscle tightening as if it couldn’t handle him.

your orgasm had snuck up on you, hitting you like a truck.

your pussy spasmed helplessly as your lips pressed into a thin line, eyes crossing into each other as all the air got knocked into your lungs, toes curling uselessly in the air.

“that’s ittt...” he purred, smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you shiver, rolling his hips against yours.

soon enough, his own orgasm came rushing up on him, choking on a soft gasp as thick hot rivulets of his seed spilled out inside you.

rocking his hips back and forth, slow and controlled, pubic bone crushing down on you, burying his cock as deep as it can go.

his body locked up over you, thick white ropes still spilling out inside you, his balls clenching until they completely emptied out inside of you.

you slowly regained your senses, breath heaving, the warmth in your tummy slowly dying.

for a quiet moment, the two of you just stayed there, hearts racing in unison. he pulled out of you slowly, thick warmth slowly rolling out from your cunt.

he practically collapsed on top of you for a brief second before rolling onto his back, pulling you with him as he leaned back against the headboard, instinctively settling you on top of him. your head resting on his bare chest, listening to the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath you..

his hand reached for a nearby throw blanket, careful not to move you too much, dragging it up and over the two of you, covering you both as he settled you against his side.

as your chest rose and fell against his, his touch lingering in your hair, soft and grounding

he let out a small cough.

“did it work?” brow quirking as he glanced down at you.

“uh-huhh,” you croaked out, chest still rising and falling fast, eyes still hazy and utterly exhausted.

another quiet minute passed, him absently stroking your face and tracing lazy patterns along your back.

“i got you mochi,” he spoke softly, his gentle caresses not ceasing.

you lifted your head from his chest like a newborn just learning how to use their motor skills for the first time.

“you did…?”

“mhm… thought it'd make you feel better.. though it might have melted. you didn’t give me a chance to put it in the freezer.” he added with a small chuckle.

“i hate you…” you groaned, plopping your head back onto his chest.

“don’t think you’re off the hook, satoru.” you slurred, poking his cheek lightly.

“wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips, thumb idly tracing along your arm.

“soooo..” he began, brimming with way too much energy for what he just put you through, practically vibrating on the spot. “this means you'll go on a date with me right?”

you blinked up at him, lazy and teasing, then simply patted his cheek.

“don't make it weird.” you hummed, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“i didn't even get to say anything weird..” he pouted incredulously.

“don't have to.”

“date me. please.”

“you seriously are so annoying.”

“considering we just had sex, i can't possibly be that annoying.”

...

with a roll of your eyes, you pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his cheek. the soft press of your lips lingered longer than you intended.

despite your gruff exterior, your heart was pounding in your chest, betraying just how flustered you actually were.

“fine. only one,” you muttered, trying to sound indifferent, though it was clearly a lie.

he blinked, smirk tugging at his lips, eyes glinting with amusement. “hm… i’ll take it,” he said, voice low and playful, tugging you a little closer as if to savor the moment.

he leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially, “you know, one of these days, i’m gonna get you to confess your undying love for me.”

your breath choked up — “dont get greedy.” you huffed before laying back down against him, your cheek squishing against his bare chest.

he pulled you closer, fingers lazily tickling your back.

you were perfect.

absolutely perfect.

❤︎ inspired by this tweet by @baobei-bu . . . more likes && reblogs appreciated ໒꒰ྀི っ ⸝⸝ ˂ ꒱ྀིა !

[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k

c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here  

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”

You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks. 

“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.” 

“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out. 

“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”

You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask. 

“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says. 

They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world. 

There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.

Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation. 

You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person. 

Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about. 

“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.” 

Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him. 

“He was nice,” you murmur. 

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“How come you fell out of touch?” 

“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?” 

“You’ll be alright?” 

“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”

You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands. 

You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare. 

What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought. 

The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.

Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage. 

Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little. 

“Darling.” 

You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand. 

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says. 

Me, you think. 

“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.” 

“You didn’t,” the woman says. 

“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.” 

Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense. 

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says. 

Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.” 

“Hardy-har.” 

“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks. 

“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”

“But?” 

“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.” 

“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”

“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.” 

“Gentleman and the tramp.” 

“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.” 

You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape. 

You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth. 

You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water. 

What the fuck? 

You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down. 

Your head races with hurt feelings. 

You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman. 

You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees. 

What had they meant by usual woman?

Mismatched? 

It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is. 

“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.” 

You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky. 

He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“

You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in. 

Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal. 

Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing. 

Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse. 

She was unbelievable. 

“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?” 

“What?” 

“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.” 

You startle at his scolding. “I–”

“You should feel my heart.” 

“I didn’t mean to come out here.” 

“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?” 

“Scavenging for food.” 

That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.” 

—

Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?

You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…” 

After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones. 

“I love you, too,” you say. 

His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”

“Mm.” 

“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…” 

You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable. 

You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it. 

“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath. 

You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands. 

“These aren’t good tears,” he says. 

He’d know. They’re not. 

Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out. 

“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not you.” 

“But something does hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs. 

“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.” 

It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not. 

He looks sick. 

“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage. 

For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring. 

“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly. 

“It’s so stupid.” 

“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?” 

You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.” 

You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin. 

He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.” 

He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs. 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.” 

You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.

“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.” 

You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh. 

“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble. 

“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.” 

“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.” 

“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says. 

You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying. 

“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.” 

“Aaron.” 

“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.” 

You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.” 

“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown. 

You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.” 

His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.” 

“Aaron!” you laugh. 

“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.” 

“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased. 

“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.” 

“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.

“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” 

“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.” 

“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.” 

You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask. 

He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.” 

“You said you weren’t getting any younger.” 

“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze. 

”You said it.” 

“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.” 

“I’m glad you asked me.” 

You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now. 

“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders. 

He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress. 

“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.” 

“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.” 

He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”

You shush him quickly.

He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.” 

“And you can make me feel even better.”

His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear. 

—

Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast. 

The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast. 

Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind. 

“Are you eating that one?” you ask. 

Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?” 

“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”

“You could’ve made dad cook.” 

“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?” 

“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?” 

“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.” 

Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.” 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.” 

“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says. 

He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour. 

“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.” 

“I thought Miss Jareau went?” 

“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.” 

“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks. 

You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.  

“Hey,” Aaron says. 

You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw. 

“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe. 

Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?” 

“I didn’t take any, sorry.” 

“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says. 

“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.

“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.” 

He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text. 

Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal 

Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding? 

Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that 

Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless. 

Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette 

Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right? 

Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online. 

Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D 

The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️

also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake

[moviecritc]

head over heels!tim drake and nonchalant!girlfriend headcanons ˚.✦

Tim, who screams your name when he sees you, practically running to meet you and then lift you and spin you around.

You rolls your eyes with a tiny smirk and wrapping your arms around his shoulders, just waiting for him to get tired and put you down.

He showers you on compliments every time. Your hair always looks amazing, you clothes are always perfectly matched, your make up is always stunning.

He's obsessed with anything you do. If you sit side by side at classes and you answer a question right, he gasps and blushes, how can his girlfriend be so pretty and smart?

Always blushing, by the way. It doesn't matter what you do, he has permanent red ears when he's with you.

He might be a too much of a jealous boyfriend, but compensates it on how cute he looks when he gets it. You can be talking to another guy, letting him take a picture of your notes and he sulks in a corner. If you were in an anime, he would get a dark aura and sad music around him.

He doesn't wait for the interaction to finish, he comes to you, resting his chin on your neck and watching everything. You don't say anything, already used to it.

Tim, who, the second the other guy finally walks away, immediately turns his face into the side of your neck and mumbles “he was standing way too close” against your skin.

You just pat his head once like he’s a grumpy cat. “He needed the notes, Tim.”

“He has eyes. He could’ve photocopied them from three feet away.”

You let him hold your hand in the hallway even though you normally walk with your hands in your pockets.

The moment your fingers lace with his he lights up like a Christmas tree and starts swinging your joined hands like a middle-schooler.

You don’t pull away. You do sigh very dramatically though. He finds the sigh adorable. Of course he does.

He has a folder in his phone called “❤️” that is just… you. You eating a sandwich. You glaring at your laptop during a late-night study session. You mid-yawn. You asleep on his shoulder in the library with your cheek squished. He scrolls through it when you’re not around and sighs like a Victorian poet.

You once absentmindedly reached over during movie night and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He froze. Completely. Didn’t breathe for a solid eight seconds.

Then he whispered, “Do that again. Please. I need to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination.” You did it again. Slower. He made a sound that can only be described as a strangled baby seal.

Tim tries (and fails) to act cool whenever you wear his hoodie. You just pulled it over your head because you were cold and it was closest. No big deal.

To him it’s a marriage proposal. He’s staring like you’ve personally invented oxygen. “You look… that’s mine… you’re wearing… oh my god.”

When you’re tired or overstimulated you go very quiet and kind of blank-faced. Most people think you’re mad at them. Tim knows it’s just your battery at 3%. So he immediately starts damage control: dimming lights, handing you your favorite hoodie (his), putting your playlist on low volume, and sitting close enough that your knees touch but not crowding you.

You eventually lean your head on his shoulder without a word. He doesn’t say anything either. Just dies inside a little.

He once tried to give you a dramatic confession in the rain because he saw it in a movie and thought it would be romantic.

You stared at him getting progressively soggier, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Tim. We’re five feet from the dorm entrance.”

“I know but... romance!”

You grabbed his wrist, dragged him inside, shoved a towel on his head and muttered “you’re so stupid, we've been dating for a year you didn't need to confess.” while drying his hair.

He was grinning like an idiot the entire time.

You call him “Timothy” when you’re teasing him. Just flat “Timothy” in that deadpan tone.

Every single time his soul leaves his body for a second and then he’s blushing so hard his ears look painful.

“Stop that.”

“Make me, Timothy.”

He’s gone. Done. Deceased.

He keeps trying to learn your exact coffee order even though you change it depending on your mood. He shows up with four different cups sometimes. “I got options. Just in case.” You pick one, take a sip, then wordlessly hand him the other three to carry.

When you’re both cramming for finals and you finally lean back, stretch, and say “I think I’m gonna die” in the flattest voice possible.

Tim drops everything. Literally drops his stylus. “No you’re not. You’re too pretty to die.”

You stare at him.

He realizes what he just said.

You just pat his cheek once and go back to typing.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

A/n: THANK YOU @gaangsign for giving me permission to write this wonderful HC out!

Sokka absolutely refused to admit the anklets were for selfish reasons.

“They’re practical,” he insisted proudly while holding up yet another delicate chain decorated with tiny silver bells and polished blue beads. “See? Water Tribe craftsmanship.”

You stared at him from across the room.

“Sokka.”

“They also match your other jewelry.”

“Sokka.”

“And,” he continued confidently, “if you get lost somehow, I can hear where you’re walking.”

You narrowed your eyes. “…you made them because you like the sound.”

His grin immediately gave him away as he scratched the back of his neck.Maybe he should have looked ashamed.

Instead, the idiot looked proud of himself.

The first time he heard them during sex, he nearly lost his mind.

Your legs rested over his shoulders while he held you beneath him, broad hands gripping your thighs as he thrust slowly into your pussy. The room was warm, filled with soft breaths and the occasional creak of the bed beneath you both,

And then the anklets jingled.

A tiny delicate sound.

Sokka froze.

Your brows lifted slightly. “Sokka?”

Another thrust.

Jingle.

His pupils visibly widened.

“Oh no,” you whispered, immediately realizing what was happening.

Sokka looked down at you with the expression of a man discovering religion. “You wore them.”

“You made them!”

“You wore them during this.”

The jingling happened again when he shifted your legs higher onto his shoulders, and the sound dragged a groan straight from his chest.

“Oh spirits,” he muttered weakly. “That’s…that’s unfair.”

You burst into laughter, your head turned to the side to stiffen your giggles but unfortunately for you, Sokka enjoyed your laughter all a bit too much too.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, already sounding breathless.

“Yes?”

“Okay. Cool. Great.” He nodded once. “I’m about to become the most annoying man alive.”

“You already are!!! ah!” You cried out as the rest of the sentence dissolved when he suddenly thrust deeper, forcing another chorus of tiny jingles from the anklets.

Sokka made a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine. “There it is again,” he muttered.

Warmth creeped up your neck as he deliberately moved your ankle slightly just to hear the charms chime.“Sokka!”

“I made these with my own two hands,” he informed you seriously while rocking his hips again. “I deserve this.”

“You’re insane.”

“You love me.”

Another thrust.

Another jingle.

Sokka’s head dropped dramatically against your thigh that was rested against his shoulder as he placed a kiss to the exposed skin. “I’m never surviving this.”

You were laughing again now, though it kept breaking into breathless little gasps every time he moved. The position had him deep, his cock dragging against that sensitive spot inside you while the metal charms sang softly with every shift of your legs.

And Sokka was obsessed.

“You have no idea how pretty you look right now,” he muttered, eyes flicking constantly between your face and the anklets around your ankles. “Spirits…”

His hands slid up your thighs slowly before he kissed one of the anklets directly.

Your stomach flipped, one of your hands gripping his bicep as the other clutched the sheets.

“Sokka,” you breathed softly.

“Hm?”

“That was weirdly attractive.”

He grinned immediately. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“Good.” He kissed your calf this time before dragging his gaze back up to you. “Because I’m about to get worse.”

And he did, of course he did.

Every little sound from the anklets made him more worked up. He’d shift your legs just to hear them. Roll his hips slower so the charms chimed softly against each other. Sometimes he’d pause entirely just to listen while you whined beneath him.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you accused breathlessly.

“Oh I Absolutely am."

“Sokka—”

“You sound so pretty when these little things jingle,” he groaned, gripping your thighs tighter. “How am I supposed to act normal?”

“You’ve never acted normal a day in your life.”

“That’s fair.”

The laugh that escaped him melted quickly into another moan when you clenched around his cock.

“Spirits..…” His forehead pressed against yours as his pace finally started breaking apart. “You’re gonna kill me.”

The anklets chimed again.

Sokka visibly suffered while you couldn’t stop giggling.

“Stop laughing at me while I’m inside your pussy,” he complained weakly.

“No.”

“Cruel woman.”

But his grin betrayed him completely as he kissed you again, hips snapping harder now that he’d finally lost whatever composure he started with.

The anklets jingled wildly between you both and Sokka looked like he was ascending.

[purplespiritimagines]

ultraviolet - tim drake

content tim drake x gn!reader, vigilante! reader, reader's hero name is vesper, hurt/comfort, angst, mutual pining, confessions, first kiss, emotional vulnerability, shame, self-worth issues, self-desctructive tendencies, workaholics, burnout, ultraviolet corps, ultraviolet lantern, psychic/emotional manipulation, mission gone wrong, soft, shame spirals, intrusive/self-critical thougts, emotional manipulation by an external force, forced confessions, non-graphic injuries, blood mention, concussions, brief hostage situation, panic/fear, violence, first kiss

masterlist

wordcount 10k

Gotham at four in the morning was made of bruises.

The city wore them openly: purple-black clouds pressed low over the skyline, rainwater gathering in potholes like oil-slick eyes, neon signs bleeding colour down brick walls already scarred by a century of bad decisions. Even the gargoyles looked tired, crouched on their ledges with their stone mouths open, as if they’d been screaming for years and no one had bothered to listen.

You stood on the roof of the old Kane shipping depot with your cape snapping behind you and blood drying under the edge of your glove.

Not a lot of blood. Not enough to matter.

That was the problem with you, really. You had developed a complicated moral philosophy around the phrase not enough to matter.

Three fractured ribs? Not enough to matter. Thirty-six hours awake? Not enough to matter. A shoulder that clicked when you raised your arm because you’d dislocated it last week and popped it back in behind a dumpster? Not enough to matter.

Your comm crackled.

“Vesper,” Red Robin said, voice sharp with static and exhaustion. “Status.”

You breathed through your teeth, counted the ache in your side, and filed it away. “North roof clear. Two hostiles down, one running east toward the loading bay.”

“Copy. I’m cutting them off.”

There was a burst of movement across the neighbouring roof: a streak of black and red, a staff snapping out, boots skidding against wet concrete. Tim moved like a thrown knife. Precise. Brutal only when necessary. Always measuring angles, momentum, exits, consequences.

You had always hated that about him. You had always loved that about him.

Both facts had been living in your chest for months, growing roots around your lungs.

Below, sirens wailed in the distance. Too far away to matter, naturally. Gotham sirens were less a promise of help and more the city clearing its throat.

You moved toward the skylight at the centre of the roof. Beneath it, the warehouse glowed with a strange, pulsing violet light. Not the soft kind. Not lavender, not neon, not anything that belonged to clubs or signs or children’s bedrooms. This was deeper. Wronger.

Ultraviolet, Oracle had said, voice low over comms an hour ago. Not visible to the human eye unless something forces it into the spectrum.

Something had forced it.

A smuggling ring had been moving alien tech through Gotham Harbour. Lantern-adjacent, Bruce suspected. Emotional spectrum-adjacent, Tim corrected, because of course he did. You’d rolled your eyes even though no one could see it.

Then the first guard had screamed without making a sound. Then the light had spread under his skin like ink. Then the mission became something else entirely.

You crouched beside the skylight and looked down. The main floor was scattered with crates, most of them torn open. Black-violet light pulsed from a metal sphere suspended in the air by nothing you could see. It was roughly the size of a human heart, if a human heart had been designed by someone who hated warmth.

Around it, five men stood frozen. Not dead. Not conscious. Their eyes glowed the same awful purple. Their mouths moved around words you couldn’t hear.

At the centre of the room, chained to a support column, was a girl. Maybe sixteen.

She was awake.

She was terrified.

Your stomach dropped so fast you almost lost your balance.

“Red,” you said.

“I see her,” Tim replied immediately.

Of course he did. Different angle, same conclusion. His voice tightened, barely noticeable to anyone who didn’t know him. You knew him enough to hear the microscopic fracture.

The girl’s head tilted back. The violet light flickered over her face. Her mouth opened.

This time, you heard the scream. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It cut through the warehouse, through your comm, through your bones. Every figure around the sphere turned toward her at once, as if pulled by strings.

Tim cursed softly. You were already moving.

“Vesper, wait—”

You shattered the skylight beneath your boots. The fall punched rain-cold air up under your cape. Broken glass spun around you, catching violet light in jagged little stars. You twisted midair, grappling line snapping out, boots striking the floor hard enough to send a warning flare through your ribs.

Not enough to matter.

The nearest enthralled guard lunged. You ducked, drove an elbow into his sternum, swept his legs, and caught his head before it hit concrete.

Tim dropped in three seconds later, because he always followed you when you were stupid. Or maybe you always jumped first because you knew he would.

“Get the civilian!” he barked.

“I’m closer to the device.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, it’s what you should’ve said.”

You heard his staff crack against bone. “Not the time.”

“Never is.”

The violet sphere pulsed.

A voice slid through your skull.

Look at you.

You froze. The warehouse fell away—not physically, not visually, but in importance. Like someone had turned down the volume of the world and turned up the part of your mind that hated you.

Always first to bleed. Always first to prove you can take it. Does it feel noble? Does it feel useful?

Your fingers twitched near your utility belt.

The sphere pulsed again. Or are you hoping someone finally notices how hard you are trying to disappear?

“Vesper!”

Tim’s voice snapped you back. A guard had gotten too close. You barely blocked the strike in time, pain blooming hot through your forearm. You drove your knee up, shoved him back, and threw a restraint disk that wrapped around his ankles.

“Device has psychic influence,” you said, breathless.

“Yeah,” Tim said. “Picked that up.”

He vaulted over a crate, landed beside the captive girl, and started working on the restraints. His hands were steady. They were always steady when someone else was in danger.

You hated that too. You loved it worse.

“Almost there,” Tim said.

The sphere hummed.

The girl stopped screaming.

For one second, relief flashed through you.

Then she looked at Tim with glowing violet eyes and whispered, “You should have known sooner.”

Tim went still. Not much. Just a fraction. A hitch in his shoulders, a slight pause in the lockpick’s motion.

But the sphere noticed.

So did you.

The light flared.

And the world cracked open.

You were no longer in the warehouse.

You were in the Cave. Not the Cave as it was, but the Cave as your memory had curated it: enormous, shadowed, humming with machines that never slept. Case files floated in the air around you like accusations. Photos of people you hadn’t saved. Names you remembered too clearly. Dates you had carved into the private architecture of your guilt.

Tim stood ten feet away, mask gone, face bare and too pale under violet light.

Between you, the sphere hovered like an eye. A voice rolled through the darkness.

SHAME REVEALS WHAT WILLPOWER HIDES.

You forced yourself to breathe. “Tim?”

He looked at you.

There were circles under his eyes. Not the ordinary ones. Not the Gotham vigilante standard issue. These looked carved in. His hair was damp with rain, plastered to his forehead, and his mouth was set in that awful line he wore when he had decided feeling anything would be inefficient.

“Are you real?” he asked.

You swallowed. “Unfortunately.”

A laugh almost escaped him. It died before it became sound.

The violet light rippled over his chest.

Not a ring. Not exactly.

A sigil.

The mark spread from his sternum like a bruise made of light: ultraviolet veins crawling under the armour, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

You looked down. The same light burned under your own suit.

“Oh,” you said faintly. “That seems bad.”

Tim’s eyes sharpened, because danger gave him somewhere to put himself. “It’s tethered to us.”

“You say that like there’s an us in the technical sense and not in the cosmic shame parasite just friendship-braceleted us sense.”

His mouth twitched. Barely.

Then the Cave shifted. A Robin suit appeared in the glass case beside him.

Not Jason’s.

Tim’s. Small. Bright. Empty.

Tim went very still.

The voice whispered, softer now, almost intimate. You begged to be useful.

His face changed. You saw the boy under Red Robin. The one with a camera in his hands and loneliness pressed behind his teeth. The one who had looked at grief and decided the only solution was to become necessary. The one who had built himself into a bridge because everyone else kept falling apart.

You made yourself into what they needed. You called it choice.

“Don’t listen to it,” you said.

Tim didn’t look away from the suit.

Batman needed a Robin. Nightwing needed a brother. Gotham needed another body between its teeth. And you needed to matter so badly you mistook being consumed for being loved.

“Tim.”

He flinched like his name hurt.

Then the Cave shifted again.

You were standing in a training room.

Not Batman’s.

Yours. Not the actual room, either. Memory had sharpened it into cruelty. The mats were spotless, the mirrors endless, the fluorescent lights too bright. You saw yourself reflected from every direction: younger, trembling, bleeding from the mouth, getting up again. And again. And again.

Tim turned toward you.

You wished he hadn’t. You wished he would never see this.

The voice purred. Show him.

The mirrors filled with scenes. You at fourteen, maybe fifteen, staying up until dawn because someone had called you gifted and you thought that meant you were only valuable when exceptional. You at seventeen, training until your hands shook too badly to hold a glass. You last month, peeling armour away from bruised skin and telling Alfred you were fine.

You yesterday, deleting Tim’s message asking whether you had eaten because you didn’t know how to answer without admitting no.

Tim’s expression fractured. You hated that most of all.

Not disgust. Not pity.

Recognition.

“Vesper,” he said softly.

“Don’t.”

“You’re hurt.”

“We are in a hallucination made by the goth cousin of a mood ring. Maybe let’s prioritise.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t have to joke.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You don’t.”

The mirrors laughed in your voice. You do. Because if you stop being useful, clever, sharp, hard to hold, easy to admire, then what is left?

You clenched your fists.

The ultraviolet mark under your suit burned hotter.

Tell him. Tell him why you jump first. Tell him why you never ask him to stay. Tell him what you want from him so badly it makes you sick.

The floor tilted under you.

Tim’s eyes widened.

The mirrors changed. Now they showed him.

Not patrol-Tim. Not Red Robin. Not the brilliant strategist with a plan inside a plan inside a contingency that probably had its own password-protected spreadsheet.

Just Tim. Tim asleep at the Batcomputer with one hand still resting on the keyboard. Tim laughing under his breath at a terrible joke you’d made on comms. Tim handing you a protein bar without looking at you, as if caring for you could be disguised as logistics. Tim patching a cut above your eyebrow, fingers gentle, voice too quiet, saying, “Hold still,” like a prayer he hadn’t meant to speak.

Tim looking at you when he thought you were looking away.

Oh.

The shame-light noticed your surprise and brightened. There it is.

Tim’s breath caught. “Is that—”

“No,” you said immediately.

His eyes flicked to yours.

You wanted to crawl out of your own skin.

“No?” he repeated.

“Whatever this thing is showing you, it’s manipulating us.”

“It uses real shame.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” Tim said, voice bitter. “I do.”

The ground split between you. The Cave and training room collapsed into each other, stone and mirror and shadow folding inward. The violet sphere rose higher, opening like an iris. Beyond it was not space, exactly, but something like it: a black ocean pricked with stars that burned ultraviolet at their edges.

A planet-sized shadow moved behind them.

Umbrax, you thought, though you had only seen the name in one of Tim’s case files. The unseen sun. The hidden spectrum. The light that fed on what people buried.

The voice was no longer a whisper. YOU ARE BOTH SO BRIGHT.

Your knees nearly buckled.

SO MUCH SHAME. SO MUCH WILL. SO MANY LITTLE WOUNDS WATERED LIKE GARDENS.

Tim stepped in front of you. Even here. Even now.

A laugh tore out of you, raw and ugly. “Seriously?”

He glanced back. “What?”

“You’re shielding me from a cosmic shame god inside our shared trauma hallucination.”

“Seemed practical.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You jumped through a skylight.”

“There was a hostage.”

“I had a plan.”

“You always have a plan.”

“And you always assume the plan doesn’t include you surviving.”

Silence. The ultraviolet light pulsed between you like a second heartbeat.

Tim looked as surprised as you felt, like the words had escaped before he could interrogate them, redact them, bury them under seven layers of mission analysis.

You stared at him. He stared back.

The shame-light laughed softly. Yes. There. Touch it.

Tim’s face closed.

“Focus,” he said.

Coward, you thought, and immediately hated yourself for it.

As if you weren’t one too.

The scene shifted again. This time, you stood on a rooftop under a sky full of impossible stars.

No Gotham. No sirens. No rain.

Just height. Endless height.

The stars above burned white and violet, close enough to seem reachable. A set of stairs rose toward them, narrow and silver, climbing into the dark.

At the foot of the stairs lay your weapons. Tim’s staff. Your grappling gun. Utility belts. Armour pieces. Masks.

A bargain, then. A very unsubtle one.

The voice curled through the air. CLIMB. BECOME BETTER. BECOME WORTHY. LEAVE BEHIND THE WEAKNESS.

Your chest tightened.

Tim looked up at the stars. 

You knew that look. You had seen it on him before. In the Cave at two in the morning, when a case refused to break. In the field, when someone was dying and the math was bad. At galas, when he smiled with dead eyes and perfect posture while board members praised his discipline.

It was the look of someone being offered permission to destroy himself for a noble reason.

You wondered if your face looked the same.

Probably. Maybe that was why you recognised him so easily. Not because you were opposites. Because you were mirrors angled toward the same flame.

Tim took one step toward the stairs.

“Hey,” you said. He stopped. “We’re not doing the obvious cursed staircase thing, right?”

“It might be a test.”

“It is absolutely a test.”

“Or an exit.”

“Tim.”

His shoulders rose and fell. “The energy tether is feeding on shame response and aspirational drive. If we climb, it may intensify. If we resist, it may escalate. If we understand the mechanism, we can—”

“Tim.”

He stopped again. You walked around him, forcing him to look at you.

His eyes were too bright in the violet dark.

“It told you to become worthy,” you said.

His jaw worked.

You softened despite yourself. “That’s not an exit. That’s bait.”

He looked past you at the stars. “They’re close.”

You turned too.

The stars did look close. Cruelly close.

All your life, you had been reaching for something. Excellence. Control. A version of yourself untouched by need, by failure, by wanting too much. You had spent years turning your body into a ladder, breaking pieces off to make the next rung.

And still. The stars stayed just out of reach.

Tim whispered, “What if it works?”

Your throat tightened. “What?”

“What if becoming better actually fixes it?” His voice was so quiet it almost vanished into the dark. “The mistakes. The fear. The… wanting. The parts that make everything harder.”

You looked at him, and for one terrible second, you saw exactly how young he had been when he learned to treat himself like a tool.

Not because Bruce forced him. Not because Gotham demanded it.

Because Tim had looked at the world falling apart and decided the only acceptable answer was to become someone who never did.

“You think wanting is a flaw?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “No,” he said.

But shame-light crawled up his throat.

Liar.

You stepped closer. “Tim.”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m something you’re trying to save.”

Your heart twisted. “You are.”

His eyes opened.

The stars pulsed overhead.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

The honesty landed between you like a blade. You had no joke for it.

The staircase shimmered. The first step glowed, inviting. Your own shame stirred. He is telling you the truth. What will you do with it? Hold it? Drop it? Ruin it?

You wanted to say something brave. Instead, you said, “Me neither.”

Tim’s mouth parted slightly.

You laughed once, without humour. “I don’t know how to be saved. I know how to be useful. I know how to be impressive enough that no one asks questions. I know how to turn pain into proof. That’s it. That’s the whole trick.”

The ultraviolet mark under your armour flared.

Tim’s gaze dropped to it. You felt exposed down to the bone.

The voice hissed. Weakness confessed is weakness multiplied.

Tim’s hand twitched near yours.

He didn’t touch you. He wanted to. You knew because you wanted it too, and the shame between you had made everything hideous and clear.

“They’ll die if we don’t get out,” he said.

“The girl?”

“And the guards. And maybe everyone in range if the sphere expands.” His eyes hardened. “So we need to move.”

“Not up.”

“No.”

“Then where?”

Tim looked at the stairs. Then the stars. Then you. His mind was turning. You could practically see the gears catching light.

“The construct is built around aspiration corrupted by shame,” he said. “It’s offering transcendence through self-erasure.”

“Hot take: bad.”

“Yes. But the tether is emotional. It needs us to believe the premise.”

“That we’re not enough.”

“That becoming better requires becoming less human.”

Your breath caught.

Tim looked down at his bare hands. You didn’t remember when his gloves had vanished. Hallucination logic. Nightmare couture. 

“So we reject the premise,” he said.

“How?”

His mouth twisted. “I’m… working on that part.”

Despite everything, affection punched through you so hard it hurt.

The voice deepened. CLIMB.

The first step blazed brighter.

You felt it in your bones. Every failure. Every night you pushed past pain because stopping felt like confession. Every time you mistook exhaustion for devotion. Every moment you wanted Tim and shoved the feeling down because loving someone gave them a map to hurt you.

Tim sucked in a breath.

You turned. The violet light had wrapped around his wrist like a chain. Another chain circled yours.

The staircase began pulling. Not hard. Not yet.

Just enough. A suggestion with teeth.

Tim planted his feet. “Don’t let it separate us.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.”

The chain tightened.

Pain flashed up your arm. Not enough to—

No.

You stopped the thought.

Tim saw something shift in your face. “What?”

“I almost said it.”

“Said what?”

“Not enough to matter.”

His expression changed. Something like grief. Something like anger. Not at you, never at you.

“I hate that phrase,” he said.

“You’ve never heard me say it.”

“I’ve watched you live it.”

Oh.

The chain pulled harder. You dug your heels into the rooftop, but the surface beneath you had become slick as glass. The stairs waited. The stars burned. The shame-light crooned.

He sees you. Poor thing. Now he knows how ugly your devotion is.

You gritted your teeth. Tim reached for you. 

This time, he did touch you. His fingers closed around your hand.

The second his skin met yours, the entire hallucination flared white-violet.

You saw him. Not memories displayed in mirrors.

Him.

Tim at twelve, standing outside a circus trailer with a camera in his hands and grief in his eyes, understanding too much. Tim in the Cave, offering Batman a way out of darkness and pretending he wasn’t terrified. Tim after Bruce was gone, running on caffeine and desperation, everyone telling him he was wrong, wrong, wrong, and still searching because love had made him stubborn beyond reason. Tim alone in a bedroom too clean to feel lived in, staring at his phone, your contact open, thumb hovering over a message he never sent.

Are you okay? Deleted. Do you want company? Deleted. I miss you and I don’t know what to do with that. Deleted before it fully formed.

Your breath broke. Tim’s hand tightened on yours.

You realised he was seeing you too.

You at your worst. You at your softest. You sitting on a rooftop three weeks ago beside him, pretending to watch the skyline while actually memorising the slope of his nose. You standing in the Cave doorway with a blanket you never gave him because you were afraid he’d know caring about him had become instinct. You bleeding in an alley and refusing to call for backup because needing help felt too close to asking to be loved.

Tim whispered your name. Not your codename.

Your name.

The stairs vanished for half a second. The shame-light screamed.

The sound dropped you both to your knees. The chain around your wrist burned cold.

Tim was still holding your hand.

“Okay,” you gasped. “Data point: emotional honesty hurts the evil light.”

He choked out something that might have been a laugh.

“Good to know.”

The stairs reappeared, closer now. The first step was inches from your knees. CLIMB. BURN. ASCEND.

Tim looked at you. There was fear in his face.

Real fear.

Not of death. Tim Drake had been frighteningly casual about death since before you met him. No, this was worse.

Fear of being known.

You squeezed his hand.

“I don’t want to climb,” you said.

The chain faltered. Tim stared at you.

You forced the words out before shame could steal them. “I want to stay.”

The stars flickered. Your heart hammered.

“I want to stay here. In the awful middle. With my stupid ribs and your horrible sleep schedule and the city that keeps trying to chew us up.” Your voice shook. “I want to be better, but not if better means empty. Not if it means losing every part of me that wanted anything.”

Tim’s face had gone painfully open.

You looked at him and nearly stopped.

The shame-light whispered. Too much. Too much. Too much.

You kept going.

“And I want you,” you said.

Silence.

The stars went still.

Tim stopped breathing.

“Not because you’re useful,” you said. “Not because you save everyone. Not because you’re the smartest person in every room and the most stubborn person on every rooftop.”

His mouth trembled, just slightly.

“Because you’re Tim,” you said. “And you’re impossible and kind and so tired you get sarcastic in footnotes. Because you care like it’s a wound you keep reopening. Because you look at broken things like they might still become doors.”

The chain around your wrist cracked. Tim made a sound like he’d been struck.

The voice snarled. AFFECTION IS WEAKNESS.

“No,” Tim said.

The word was quiet. The entire sky flinched. He looked at the stars, then at the shadow behind them, and his hand tightened around yours.

“No,” he said again, stronger. “Affection is data.”

You blinked.

Despite everything, you stared at him. “Did you just weaponise love with nerd phrasing?”

His cheeks flushed faintly. “Let me finish.”

“By all means.”

He looked back at you, and the flush faded into something rawer. “It’s evidence. That something matters beyond efficiency. That survival isn’t the same as success. That being needed isn’t the same as being known.”

The chain around his wrist cracked now.

His voice shook, but he didn’t stop. “I don’t want to climb either. I always think I do. Every time. There’s always a higher standard, a cleaner solution, a version of me with fewer mistakes. I keep thinking if I reach it, I’ll finally be…” He swallowed. “Acceptable.”

Your chest hurt.

Tim looked down at your joined hands. “But I don’t think the stars want us whole,” he whispered. “I think they just want us on fire.”

The staircase splintered. Violet light burst upward, violent and cold. The voice howled, no longer seductive, no longer intimate. YOU ARE ASHAMED. YOU ARE MINE.

The rooftop collapsed.

You fell.

This time there was no grappling line, no cape physics, no clean strategy. Just darkness and Tim’s hand in yours.

You slammed back into the warehouse floor.

Real pain detonated through your ribs. Real rain dripped through the shattered skylight above. Real alarms screamed from Tim’s gauntlet.

The violet sphere hovered ten feet away, cracked down the middle. The captive girl slumped against the column, unconscious but breathing. The guards lay scattered, restrained by disks you didn’t remember throwing. Tim was beside you on one knee, face pale, blood at his temple.

His hand was still wrapped around yours.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Tim released you and stumbled toward the sphere.

Because of course he did.

“Tim,” you rasped.

“Need to shut it down.”

“You can barely stand.”

“Neither can you.”

“Yeah, but I’m charming about it.”

He huffed a breath and nearly fell into a crate.

You pushed yourself upright, vision whiting out at the edges. Not enough to—

No. Enough. It was enough to matter.

Pain mattered. Bodies mattered. You mattered.

Annoying revelation. Very inconvenient timing.

You staggered after him.

The sphere pulsed weakly, leaking ultraviolet light into the air like smoke. Tim scanned it, fingers flying over his wrist computer. His hand shook.

You noticed. He noticed you noticing.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Wasn’t going to.”

“You were making a face.”

“I have several.”

“Concerned face.”

“You’re hallucinating.”

“Still?”

“Maybe.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, then flattened when the scan finished. “It’s bonded to the victims,” he said. “If I disrupt it wrong, feedback could cause neurological damage.”

“And the right way?”

“I need to invert the emotional resonance.”

You stared. “Explain that like I’m concussed.”

“You might be.”

“Tim.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of blood near his hairline. “The sphere amplifies buried shame by linking to the victims’ nervous systems. If we can feed it a contradictory emotional frequency—acceptance, connection, something non-coercive—it should destabilise.”

You blinked. “So we beat it with the power of friendship?”

His expression was grim. “I hate that you’re not entirely wrong.”

“Beautiful. Gotham finally became a kids' TV show.”

Tim crouched near the sphere’s base, pulling a small transmitter from his belt. “I can modify this to broadcast through our comms and piggyback on the tether residue.”

“Our tether residue sounds like something we should wash off.”

“Focus.”

“I am focused. I’m coping loudly.”

His fingers trembled again. You caught his wrist gently.

He went still.

Not because of the touch.

Because you had chosen gently.

“Let me,” you said. Tim’s eyes flicked up. “I know the modification,” you added. “You showed me last month.”

“You remember that?”

“You used three napkins, a salt shaker, and Bruce’s gala champagne glass as a model.”

“It was a good model.”

“It was unhinged.”

“It worked.”

“It was a gala, Tim.”

“There was a bomb threat.”

“There’s always a bomb threat.”

His mouth softened. Just for a second.

Then he handed you the transmitter.

It should have been nothing. A practical choice. A mission necessity. But Tim Drake handing over a task he could barely do himself felt like watching a star decide it didn’t need to collapse to keep shining.

You got to work. Your hands hurt. Your side hurt. Your head swam. But you moved carefully, not punishing yourself for every slow second.

Tim watched the exits, staff ready despite the tremor in his stance.

“You should sit,” you said.

“So should you.”

“After.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Learned from the best.”

He didn’t answer.

The sphere pulsed. Around the warehouse, the unconscious guards started whispering. At first, the words overlapped too much to understand. Then they separated, each voice speaking its private poison into the air.

“I should’ve been stronger.” “I ruined everything.” “I don’t deserve to go home.” “Should’ve known.” “Should’ve stopped it.” “Should’ve been better.”

The girl against the column whimpered.

Tim’s face went cold.

Not numb. Cold. The kind of cold that meant he was about to turn himself into a weapon and call it mercy.

“Talk to me,” you said quickly.

His eyes stayed on the girl. “Finish the transmitter.”

“I am. Talk to me anyway.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Liar.”

His jaw tightened. The whispers grew louder.

Your fingers slipped on a wire. Sparks snapped against your glove.

Tim turned sharply. “Are you—”

“Fine.”

His expression darkened.

You exhaled. “No. Not fine. Still doing it.”

Some of the tension left his face. A weird little victory.

He crouched beside you, too close and not close enough.

“I keep thinking about the girl,” he said.

“I know.”

“I saw the crate manifest before she screamed. I knew it wasn’t ordinary tech. I should’ve recalculated faster.”

“Tim.”

“If I’d moved sooner—”

“You were ten seconds behind me.”

“Exactly.”

You stopped working and looked at him. He looked furious with himself. God, it was unbearable. Loving him was unbearable. It was like watching someone hold a blade by the sharp end and insist the bleeding was proof of grip strength.

“You are not responsible for every second before you understand something,” you said.

He laughed once, bitterly. “That’s generous.”

“That’s true.”

“In Gotham, ten seconds kills people.”

“And sometimes ten seconds saves them.” You nodded toward the girl. “She’s alive.”

“She’s hurt.”

“And alive.”

His eyes closed.

The whispers pressed in.

“Tim,” you said, softer. “You’re allowed to arrive late and still matter.”

He opened his eyes. Something in them broke quietly.

“You believe that for me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“For you?”

Your fingers stilled.

There it was. The trapdoor. The old, ugly answer rose automatically.

No. Never. Not when being late meant failure. Not when failure meant bodies. Not when your worth had always been a race you could only win by breaking the clock.

Tim saw it before you could hide it.

The sphere brightened.

You forced your hands to move again. “I’m working on it.”

He held your gaze. Then, quietly, “Okay.”

Not a demand. Not disappointment.

Okay.

The word landed inside you like a blanket.

You finished the transmitter. “Done,” you said.

Tim took it, scanned the modification, and nodded. “Good.”

“Was that praise?”

“Technically an assessment.”

“From you? Praise.”

His ears went faintly red.

The sphere cracked wider. A thread of ultraviolet light shot out and wrapped around the transmitter.

Tim’s eyes widened. “Move!”

The floor erupted. You hit the ground hard, Tim half over you, one arm braced beside your head. The transmitter skidded away, sparking. The sphere rose higher, its two halves peeling open like a mouth.

Inside was darkness.

Not empty darkness. Hungry darkness.

The voice thundered through the warehouse. YOU WILL NOT DENY WHAT YOU ARE.

The guards began screaming again. The girl’s back arched against the restraints.

Tim shoved himself up, face twisted in pain. “It’s overloading.”

You reached for the transmitter. Too far.

The sphere’s light lashed out.

It struck Tim in the chest.

He froze. His eyes went violet.

“No,” you breathed.

Tim staggered back, one hand pressed against the glowing mark beneath his armour.

The voice lowered. You know what to do.

His staff clattered from his hand. “Tim?”

He looked at the sphere.

Not at you.

His voice was hollow. “It needs a conduit.”

Ice slid down your spine. “No.”

“If I let it route through me, you can trigger the inversion manually.”

“No.”

“It’ll save them.”

“You don’t know what it’ll do to you.”

“I know enough.”

“Tim.”

His expression flickered. For half a second, he was there, terrified and determined and already leaving.

“I can take it,” he said.

The words were worse than any scream.

Because you knew them. You had built churches out of them.

I can take it. I can handle it. Not enough to matter.

You pushed yourself upright and grabbed his arm. “No.”

His violet eyes snapped to you. “This is the efficient solution.”

“This is the shame talking.”

“It’s math.”

“It is not math just because you say it with cheekbones.”

A pulse of energy threw you backwards. You crashed into a crate. Pain burst through your ribs, bright enough to steal your breath.

Tim turned toward you. The violet in his eyes flickered. You saw him fighting it. The sphere whispered through his mouth.

“I become useful. They live. Clean outcome.”

You forced yourself to stand. There was blood in your mouth. Rain on your face. Purple light crawling over your skin.

You were so tired.

The stars had never looked farther away.

“Tim,” you said.

He flinched.

Not the sphere. Him.

You stepped closer. Every instinct screamed at you to move faster, push harder, ignore the damage, prove yourself by force.

Instead, you slowed down. One step. Then another.

“I’m not letting you burn yourself alive and call it a strategy.”

His face tightened. “You would,” he said, and the words came out in his voice now, wounded and accusing. “You would do it.”

“Yes,” you said.

That stopped him.

You swallowed blood and shame together. “I would. I have. In smaller ways. Quieter ones. So quiet no one could stop me.” Your voice shook, but it held. “I know exactly why it feels right. That’s how I know it isn’t.”

The sphere shrieked. Tim pressed both hands to his head.

You moved closer.

“Red Robin,” you said. “Look at me.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“Tim.”

He opened them.

Still violet. But listening.

You reached up and touched his face. His skin was cold.

“I need you to stay,” you said.

The sphere snarled. NEED IS A CHAIN.

“No,” you said, not looking away from him. “Need is a hand.”

Tim’s breath hitched.

“I need you to stay,” you repeated. “Not because you’re useful. Not because you can solve this. Because I want a world where you get to wake up tomorrow and complain about my field technique.”

His lips parted. “Your field technique is reckless,” he whispered.

You almost sobbed. “I know.”

“And your stitches are uneven.”

“You’re literally possessed right now.”

“I can multitask.”

A laugh broke out of you, cracked and wet.

Tim’s eyes flickered blue. Then violet. Then blue again.

The sphere’s light constricted around him.

He gasped, knees buckling.

You caught him. Badly. Painfully. Perfectly enough.

The transmitter lay five feet away.

Tim’s hand found yours.

“Manual trigger,” he rasped.

“You said it needs a contradictory frequency.”

“It does.”

“What frequency?”

He looked at you. Even half-possessed, dying of stubbornness, he managed to look embarrassed.

“Us,” he said.

Oh.

Oh, the universe had a sick sense of drama.

“You are telling me,” you said shakily, “that the way to defeat the evil shame orb is emotional vulnerability.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“Later.”

“Promise?”

His eyes softened. “Yes.”

The word lit something in your chest.

Not shame. Not will. Something warmer.

You dragged him toward the transmitter. Or maybe he dragged you. It was hard to tell where one effort ended and the other began.

The sphere screamed louder. The guards thrashed. The girl cried soundlessly.

Tim grabbed the transmitter with one hand and your wrist with the other.

“Speak into comms,” he said.

“What?”

“Not a confession,” he added quickly, then winced. “Unless— no. We need authentic emotional contradiction. Shame says isolation, worthlessness, self-erasure. Counter with connection, acceptance, refusal.”

“My brain is leaking out of my ears.”

“Say something true.”

The transmitter sparked. The sphere gathered itself for another pulse.

Something true. Easy, then.

Terrible.

You clicked your comm open. Your voice shook across the warehouse. “I thought being better meant hurting less.”

The sphere faltered.

Tim stared at you. You kept going.

“I thought if I trained hard enough, worked long enough, needed nothing, wanted nothing, I could become someone no one could leave behind.” Your fingers tightened around Tim’s. “But that isn’t better. That’s just lonely.”

The transmitter hummed. The violet light around the guards flickered.

“I am ashamed,” you said, and the words felt like pulling glass from your throat. “I’m ashamed of wanting help. I’m ashamed of wanting love. I’m ashamed that no matter how much I give, some part of me still hopes someone will choose me without needing proof.”

Tim’s hand trembled in yours.

You turned to him. “But shame doesn’t get to be the only thing that knows me.”

The transmitter flared white.

Tim’s eyes cleared. He lifted the comm to his mouth.

“I thought if I became necessary, I’d never be unwanted,” he said.

The sphere recoiled.

Tim’s voice was low. Shaking. Real. “I thought every mistake meant I had to earn my place all over again. I thought rest was a risk. I thought love was something I had to deserve by being useful enough not to lose.” He looked at you, and Gotham itself seemed to hold its breath. “I’m ashamed that I don’t know who I am when no one needs me.”

Your heart cracked clean down the centre.

“But I want to find out.”

The transmitter blazed. The sphere screamed. Tim’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“And I don’t want to do it alone.”

The ultraviolet light snapped. For one impossible second, the warehouse became a negative image of itself: black rain, white shadows, violet cracks spidering through the air.

Then the sphere imploded.

No explosion. No cinematic fireball. Just a sudden, violent absence.

The pressure vanished. The guards collapsed. The girl sagged, breathing. The transmitter died in Tim’s hand.

Silence fell. Real silence this time.

Rain tapped gently against broken glass. Somewhere outside, police sirens finally approached, late as always. You and Tim stayed on the floor, leaning against each other like the world had forgotten to give either of you bones.

His hand was still in yours. Neither of you mentioned it.

For about eight seconds.

Then Tim said, “We should move before GCPD arrives.”

You closed your eyes. “Romance is alive and well.”

He made a strangled noise. “I didn’t— I mean—”

“You called our emotional bond a frequency.”

“That was scientifically relevant.”

“You said you didn’t want to do it alone.”

His face turned spectacularly red. Even in terrible warehouse lighting, it was a masterpiece.

“I was under duress.”

“So was I, and yet I managed not to make it sound like a thesis defence.”

Tim looked away, which was rude because you were injured and deserved entertainment.

Then he looked back. His expression had shifted. Softened, yes, but not safely. There was nothing safe about being seen by Tim Drake. He saw too carefully. Like he could build a map from your silences.

“I meant it,” he said.

Your smile faded.

The world narrowed again. Not because of shame. Not because of cosmic horror. Because of hope, which was honestly more terrifying.

“Which part?” you asked.

Tim swallowed. “All of it.”

You looked at your joined hands. His glove was torn. Your knuckles were bruised. Both of you were shaking.

Not exactly storybook material. But Gotham didn’t breed storybook endings. It bred stubborn ones. Bloody ones. Ones that crawled out of wreckage and muttered again.

“I meant it too,” you said.

Tim’s fingers tightened.

A groan came from across the warehouse. The girl stirred. Duty slammed back into both of you at once.

Tim pushed himself upright. You did the same, slower this time, and let him notice. Let him help. His arm came around your waist with careful pressure, supporting without trapping.

You hated how good it felt. You loved how good it felt.

“Ribs?” he asked.

“Probably.”

“Concussion?”

“Maybe.”

“Blood loss?”

“Rude.”

He shot you a look.

You sighed. “Minimal.”

“Not enough to matter?”

You froze.

Tim’s voice was gentle, but the phrase landed hard.

You looked at him. He looked back.

Waiting. Not correcting. Not scolding. Holding up a mirror without making it a weapon.

You breathed in. It hurt.

“It matters,” you said.

His face softened. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”

Together, you moved toward the girl. She blinked awake as Tim crouched in front of her, hands visible, voice calm.

“Hey. You’re safe. My name is Red Robin. This is Vesper. We’re going to get you out.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“The light,” she whispered.

“Gone,” you said. “You beat it.”

Tim glanced up at you.

The girl shook her head. “I didn’t.”

“Yes,” Tim said, and his voice went warm in a way that made your chest ache. “You survived it. That counts.”

The girl cried then. 

You looked away to give her privacy and found Tim watching you. Not with accusation. With understanding.

Maybe survival counted for you, too. Maybe it counted for him.

What a dangerous thought. What a bright one.

By the time GCPD arrived, you and Tim were already gone.

Not far. Neither of you was in any condition for a dramatic rooftop exit, which felt personally offensive. You made it three buildings over before your knees gave out.

Tim caught you. Then immediately swayed so hard you had to catch him back.

For a second, you just stood there, clutching each other in the rain like two idiots in tactical armour who had defeated a psychic shame entity but could not defeat basic human balance.

“This is embarrassing,” Tim said.

“For you, maybe. I’m making it look graceful.”

“You almost fell into an air-conditioning unit.”

“Modern dance.”

He huffed a laugh. Then winced.

You frowned. “Ribs?”

“Probably.”

“Concussion?”

“Maybe.”

“Blood loss?”

He gave you a look.

You smiled despite yourself. “Minimal?”

His mouth twitched. “It matters.”

“Yeah,” you replied softly. “It does.”

The rain fell between you, silver under the Gotham night. You should have called for pickup. You should have reported to Oracle. You should have done any number of practical things that responsible vigilantes did when injured after alien emotional spectrum incidents.

Instead, Tim leaned back against the rooftop access wall and slid down until he was sitting. You stared.

He looked up at you, defensive. “I’m sitting.”

“I see that.”

“You should try it.”

“Did you just voluntarily rest?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, it’s weird. Historic, even. Someone alert the archives.”

“Vesper.”

You sat beside him. Shoulder to shoulder.

The city breathed around you. For once, neither of you filled the silence with work.

It was uncomfortable at first. Of course it was. Silence without a task had always felt like an unlocked door behind you. Anything could enter.

Shame. Want. Truth.

Tim’s hand rested on the concrete between you.

Not touching yours. Close enough.

You looked at it. He noticed.

“I’m not good at this,” he said.

“Hand placement?”

“Feelings.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Your warehouse speech was very compelling.”

He groaned quietly. “Please never call it that.”

“I’m absolutely calling it that.”

“It was mission-relevant.”

“Your yearning was mission-relevant.”

He covered his face with one hand. You smiled, then sobered.

“I’m not good at this either,” you said.

Tim lowered his hand. The rain had flattened his hair. Without the mask, without the posture, he looked painfully human.

“I know,” he said. You raised an eyebrow. “Not as an insult,” he added quickly. “I mean… I know. I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah.” You stared out at the skyline. “I guess you have.”

Tim’s voice softened. “You scare me sometimes.”

The words hit wrong for half a second.

Then he continued. “Not because of what you can do. Because of what you’ll let happen to you and call acceptable.”

Your throat tightened. “You do the same thing.”

“I know.”

You looked at him.

He looked exhausted. No armour against it now. No cleverness sharp enough to cut the moment open and escape through it.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you admitted.

Tim nodded slowly. “Me neither.”

The confession should have felt hopeless.

It didn’t. It felt like the first honest brick in a foundation neither of you knew how to build yet.

“But maybe,” he said, eyes on the skyline, “we can interrupt each other.”

You blinked. “That sounds deeply annoying.”

“It will be.”

“Mutual accountability, but make it emotionally constipated.”

His mouth twitched. “Probably.”

“What does that even look like?”

Tim considered it with entirely too much seriousness. “Checking injury reports. Enforcing sleep minimums after patrol. Food.”

“Food?”

“You skipped dinner yesterday.”

You stared at him. “How did you know that?”

“You ignored my message.”

“I could’ve eaten without answering.”

“You didn’t.”

You hated that he was right.

“You skipped sleep yesterday,” you countered.

“I slept.”

“Passing out at the Batcomputer isn’t sleep. It’s losing a fight to furniture.”

His lips twitched again.

“You noticed,” he said.

“Unfortunately, I have eyes.”

“And?”

“And I…” You exhaled. “I worry about you.”

Tim went quiet.

The city hummed below. A siren passed two blocks over, Doppler-wailing into the wet dark.

Finally, he said, “I worry about you too.”

There it was. Small. Ordinary.

Not cosmic. Not dramatic. Not screamed into a transmitter to defeat a shame god. Just two people on a rooftop, admitting they had been quietly holding each other in mind.

It felt bigger than the stars.

Tim’s hand shifted. His pinky brushed yours.

Barely. A question.

You looked down. Then, before fear could make a religion of hesitation, you hooked your pinky around his.

Tim let out a breath.

The shame did not vanish. That would have been too easy. It still lived in you, old and stubborn. It muttered that you were too much, too needy, too broken to be held. It told you Tim would regret seeing you. That tenderness was a temporary malfunction. That tomorrow you would both return to old patterns because people like you did not get softer; they got sharper until they snapped.

But Tim’s pinky was warm against yours. And the shame, for once, did not get the last word.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Depends how devastating.”

“It might be.”

“Cool, cool, love that.”

He turned his head. “When you said you wanted me…”

Your pulse jumped. “Ah. That.”

His ears were red again. “You don’t have to answer.”

“That’s not a question.”

“I’m building up to it.”

“Take your time. We’re only bleeding.”

He shot you a look, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Then he grew serious.

“Was it because of the tether?” he asked. “Amplification, emotional bleed, adrenaline—”

“No,” you said.

He stopped. You stared at your linked fingers.

“No,” you repeated. “It’s been true for a while.”

Tim’s breath changed. You didn’t look at him. If you looked, you might lose your nerve. “I didn’t plan to tell you while being psychologically flayed by space radiation. I had a whole plan to never tell you, actually. Very organised. Colour-coded.”

“That sounds inefficient.”

“It was emotionally efficient.”

“It was cowardly.”

You looked at him, offended.

Then he realised he was smiling.

Barely. But still.

“Bold words from the man deleting texts like he’s defusing bombs,” you said.

His smile faded into something tender and embarrassed. “You saw that.”

“I saw that.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want…” He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “Me.”

Your heart hurt with it.

Not because the thought was surprising. Because it was familiar.

You turned your hand under his and laced your fingers together properly. Tim stared down at the contact like it was a new form of evidence.

“I want you,” you said. “Not Red Robin. Not the contingency plan. Not the version of you that never needs anything.”

His fingers tightened.

“You,” you said. “Messy. Tired. Brilliant. Kind of a disaster.”

“Kind of?”

“Don’t push it.”

His laugh was quiet and shaky.

Then he looked at you. Rain caught in his lashes. His mask had left faint red pressure marks around his eyes. There was blood at his temple, a bruise forming along his jaw, and something painfully hopeful in his expression.

“I want you too,” he said.

The words entered the world gently.

No explosion. No cosmic flare. No stars falling.

Just truth, soft as breath.

Your eyes burned. You hated that.

Tim noticed, because of course he did, but he didn’t point it out. He just leaned a fraction closer.

“Can I…?” he asked.

You nodded before he finished.

He kissed you like he was afraid of hurting you. Which was ridiculous, considering the night you’d had.

But also devastating.

His lips were cold from rain and soft with hesitation. The kiss was careful, almost questioning, and for one aching second, you wanted to grab him, pull him closer, turn all the fear into heat and pressure and proof.

Instead, you let it stay gentle. You let yourself be kissed like something that mattered.

Tim pulled back first, barely. His forehead rested against yours.

“Okay?” he whispered.

Your laugh trembled. “You just kissed me after we trauma-bonded through alien shame magic and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“Yes.”

You closed your eyes.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m okay.”

A pause. Then, because you couldn’t help yourself, “You?”

Tim huffed. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m okay.”

Neither of you was, obviously. You were concussed, bruised, emotionally exposed, and sitting in the rain after nearly being recruited into the universe’s most toxic self-improvement cult.

But also, somehow, you were okay. A little.

Enough.

No. Not enough.

You caught yourself. Tim felt you tense.

“What?”

You shook your head. “Just… recalibrating.”

He seemed to understand. Maybe that was the best and worst thing about him.

He understood.

Your comm crackled. Oracle’s voice sliced through the moment with surgical precision. “Red Robin. Vesper. I’m seeing GCPD on scene, unconscious suspects, one civilian recovered, and a lot of ultraviolet readings dropping off the map. Report.”

Tim closed his eyes.

You whispered, “Busted.”

He tapped his comm. “Threat neutralised. Civilian alive. Suspects stable. We’re three rooftops east.”

A pause.

“Are you injured?” Oracle asked.

You and Tim looked at each other.

Old habits rose.

Fine. Minimal. Not enough to matter.

Tim inhaled.

“Yes,” he said.

Your chest warmed.

Oracle was silent for one beat.

Then, dryly, “Wow. Growth.”

You snorted. Tim looked personally attacked.

“We need extraction,” he continued, dignified despite being soaked and bleeding. “Possible concussions, rib injuries, emotional spectrum contamination.” 

Another pause.

“... Emotional spectrum contamination,” Oracle repeated.

You leaned toward Tim’s comm. “Evil shame orb.”

“Thank you, Vesper. Deeply scientific.”

Tim muttered, “It was more complicated than that.”

“Was it defeated by emotional honesty?” Oracle asked.

You froze. Tim froze.

Oracle sighed. “I’ll take that as a yes. Black Bat is inbound for extraction. Do not move.”

“Copy,” Tim said.

The comm clicked off.

You looked at him. He looked at you.

Then both of you started laughing.

Not because it was funny. Because it was too much. Because you were alive. Because Tim had admitted he needed extraction, and you had admitted your injuries mattered, and somewhere in the universe, an ancient shame entity had been defeated by two vigilantes with intimacy issues and terrible sleep schedules.

The laugh hurt your ribs. It was worth it.

Tim’s head dropped back against the wall. “Oracle is never letting us live this down.”

“Nope.”

“Steph will find out.”

“Absolutely.”

“Dick will have thoughts.”

“So many thoughts.”

“Damian will call it weakness.”

“Then secretly check the ultraviolet readings and hover.”

Tim’s expression softened. “Probably.”

You rested your head against the wall beside him.

The rain began to lighten. Above Gotham, the clouds thinned just enough for a few stars to appear.

Real stars this time.

Distant. Cold. Honest.

You looked up at them. Earlier, in the shame-place, they had seemed close enough to reach if only you were willing to burn.

Now they were far away again. Thank God.

Maybe stars were supposed to be far. Maybe the point wasn’t to reach them by turning yourself into fuel. Maybe the point was to let them remind you there was light you didn’t have to earn.

Tim followed your gaze.

“You know,” he said quietly, “most visible stars are already burning themselves apart.”

You turned your head slowly. “Tim.”

“What?”

“I am begging you not to make astronomy depressing right now.”

“It’s relevant.”

“You kissed me once and immediately started negging stars.”

“I’m not negging stars.”

“Sounds like star slander.”

He smiled faintly. Then he looked up again. “The light still reaches us. Even after all that.”

Your teasing faded. The stars shimmered in his eyes.

You thought about shame. About distance. About burning. About the parts of yourself you thought would only be beautiful if they were destroying you.

You leaned your shoulder against his.

“Yeah,” you said. “It does.”

Tim’s hand found yours again. This time, neither of you pretended it was accidental.

Cass arrived without a sound five minutes later, because Batman had apparently trained half his children to manifest from shadows like judgmental cats.

She took one look at your joined hands. Then at Tim’s red ears. Then at your face.

Her expression did not change. Somehow, this made it worse.

“Hi,” you said.

Cass tilted her head.

Tim cleared his throat. “We need medical extraction.”

Cass signed something one-handed. You knew enough to catch hurt, stupid, and finally.

Tim groaned. “Not you too.”

Cass’s mouth curved. She helped you stand first, gentle and no-nonsense. When your knees wobbled, Tim reached for you automatically, then winced because he was also wobbling.

Cass gave him a look. He subsided.

“Okay,” you murmured. “That one’s fair.”

The trip back was a blur of rooftops, grappling lines, Cass’s steady presence, and Tim refusing to let go of your hand whenever physically possible. You suspected he thought he was being subtle.

He was not.

At the Cave, Alfred was waiting. That was when the real fear hit.

Not alien shame. Not cosmic darkness. Alfred with a medical tray.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

Tim looked grim. “Be brave.”

“I fought the evil orb.”

“Yes.”

“Can I tap out now?”

“No.”

Alfred raised one eyebrow as Cass guided you both toward the medbay.

He greeted both of you by name and did not beat around the bush. “I understand you encountered an emotional-spectrum artefact.”

Tim sat on the exam bed with the posture of a man facing execution. “Yes.”

“And sustained injuries.”

“Yes.”

“And informed Oracle of said injuries without requiring outside intervention.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Did she tell everyone?”

“Miss Gordon believes in celebrating progress.”

You covered a laugh with a cough.

Alfred turned his gaze to you. You straightened badly.

“I’m also injured,” you said, because apparently, honesty was your new terrible hobby.

Alfred’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “So I see. Thank you for informing me.”

That nearly broke you worse than the orb.

Tim noticed. He looked away, giving you privacy with the precision of someone who understood that being treated kindly could feel like being skinned.

Alfred worked in silence for a while. Ribs wrapped. Concussion checks. Cuts cleaned. Bruises catalogued with the resigned disapproval of a man who had been keeping vigilantes alive for too long and had no patience for their artistic commitment to denial.

Tim sat on the next bed, armour peeled down to undersuit, hair damp, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Every time Alfred touched a bruise, Tim answered honestly. Not downplaying. Not deflecting.

You did too.

It felt humiliating. It felt holy.

At one point, Alfred stepped away to retrieve something from the cabinets, and you looked at Tim. He looked back.

“You okay?” you mouthed.

He considered. Then mouthed back, “No.”

Your heart squeezed. You mouthed, “Me neither.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. Progress, apparently, was not a grand staircase toward the stars. Sometimes it was two people admitting they hurt in a basement full of bats.

After Alfred finished, he instructed both of you to remain under observation for the next twelve hours. Tim opened his mouth, probably to argue.

Alfred looked at him. Tim closed his mouth.

Wise.

You ended up in the recovery room beside the medbay, each under a blanket, monitors clipped to your fingers like tiny glowing witnesses. The Cave hummed beyond the glass. Somewhere, Bruce’s chair at the Batcomputer sat empty and ominous.

Tim lay on the couch opposite yours, staring at the ceiling.

“You awake?” you asked.

“No.”

“Convincing.”

He turned his head. You were both too tired to be embarrassed now.

Mostly.

“I keep waiting for it to come back,” you admitted.

His eyes sharpened despite exhaustion. “The influence?”

“The voice.”

His expression softened. “Me too.”

The honesty helped.

Not because it fixed anything. Because it made the fear less solitary.

“What if it does?” you asked.

Tim was quiet for a moment. “Then we tell someone.”

You laughed weakly. “Radical.”

“I know.”

“Scandalous, even.”

“Very off-brand.”

You looked at him across the dim room. His face was soft with fatigue, but his eyes were clear. Sad, maybe. Frightened too. But clear.

“I’m serious,” he said. “If it comes back, we tell someone. Oracle. Alfred. Each other.”

Each other. The phrase folded itself into your chest.

“Okay,” you said.

Tim’s hand shifted under his blanket. You realised he was reaching across the space between the couches, though he couldn’t quite make it.

You smiled. “Tim.”

“What?”

“You are not going to injure yourself further for hand-holding.”

He froze. Then sighed. “I wasn’t.”

“You super were.”

“I miscalculated the distance.”

“You have never miscalculated a distance in your life.”

“I have a concussion.”

“Convenient.”

You pushed your blanket aside.

Tim immediately frowned. “You shouldn’t get up.”

“You started this.”

“I did not.”

“You emotionally did.”

He seemed to consider arguing. Then he looked at you, really looked, and stopped.

You crossed the short distance carefully and sat on the edge of his couch. He shifted to make room, wincing.

“This is probably against medical advice,” he said.

“Almost definitely.”

“We should care.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

You paused.

He continued, “But I also want you here.”

That one hit you straight through the armour you weren’t wearing anymore.

You lay down beside him carefully, not quite touching anywhere that hurt too much. Tim adjusted the blanket over both of you with painstaking awkwardness. His arm hovered for a second before settling around you.

Loose. Asking.

You leaned into him. Answering.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Your bodies hurt. Your minds hurt. The shame had not vanished. It never did that quickly. It lingered in corners, whispering through old vents.

But Tim’s breath was warm near your temple. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear. The stars were very far away.

You did not need to reach them tonight.

“Hey,” Tim whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you stayed.”

Your eyes burned again. You closed them.

“Me too.” A pause. Then, softer, “I’m glad you stayed too.”

His arm tightened slightly.

Not enough to trap. Enough to hold.

Sleep approached slowly, wary as a stray animal.

You let it.

For once, you did not try to earn rest by breaking first. For once, Tim did not fight unconsciousness like it was an enemy combatant. You drifted in the blue-black hum of the Cave, wrapped in pain and warmth and the strange new terror of being wanted without proof.

Just before sleep took you, Tim murmured something.

You barely caught it.

“What?” you whispered.

His voice was drowsy, unguarded. “We’ll be better,” he said.

Your stomach tightened.

Then he added, “Not like that.”

You opened your eyes. Tim’s were closed, lashes dark against his cheeks.

“Together,” he whispered.

The shame in you stirred. Then quieted.

Not gone. Never that easy.

But quieter.

You rested your hand over his heart, where the ultraviolet mark had vanished, leaving only bruised skin and a boy who had made himself into a star because he thought darkness needed him more than he needed dawn.

His hand covered yours.

Outside, Gotham kept bleeding neon into rain. Inside, beneath the earth, two exhausted vigilantes slept through sunrise.

They did not reach the stars. They did not burn themselves hollow trying.

They stayed.

And for the first time, that was enough.

[notmclovinn]

- satoru gojo firmly believes eating pussy is a form of art…

wc: 1.0k || not proofread

contains: x fem!reader, oral (r receiving), pet names (baby, sweets, pretty,) squirting, aftercare if u squint, i think that’s it

note: im so v sorry for my weird release schedule, ive been dealing w my mental health issues and stuff. i’m also sorry if this isnt good 😓

note 2: happy 4/20!! 🫰🫰

____

"i mean, you can get messy with it, you can take it slow— hell, you can even hold hands!" he drunkenly explains, beer sloshing in its can as his hands fly around. "it's the best thing ever."

…

messy with it…

"oh.. mfgh… slow dooownnnn!"

satoru's head shakes against your sex— spit, wetness, squirt, a mixture of all three pooling under your ass and dripping down his chin as he eats you out.

"taste soo fuckin' good." his words are muffled as he attempts to shove his face deeper into you, tongue dipping in and out of your cunt as it slides along your slit, often circling around your clit.

satoru pulls back just an inch to spit a nice fat glob of salviva onto your clit and watch it dribble down your soaked folds

his hands hold your thighs pinned against your chest, your knees nearly reaching your ears. your hips would be bucking and rutting against his face if it wasn't for his tight hold.

"satoruuuuu!! 'm gonna- ohhh…." your words trail off and your thighs begin to tremble under satoru’s palms.

"yeah? gonna cum?"

with a faint nod of your head, your eyes roll back and you cum with silent gasps of air, squirt gushing in the same rhythm satoru's tongue moves.

satoru's tongue slows and he loosens his grip on your thighs, thumbs caressing your smooth skin.

"you okay, baby?" he whispers, pressing a soft kiss on your ankle as he extends your leg. you couldn't even bring yourself to answer, eyes still squeezed shut with your chest heaving.

satoru bends low, hand traveling to extend your other leg as he does so. "i've got you.. just relax." he whispers even lower, pressing a soft kiss to your chin as his hand caresses your skin.

…

take it slow…

satoru worked his lips from your lips to your cunt. soft plump lips making a quiet smooch with each kiss planted on your skin.

"toru.." you whine and buck your hips as you feel his tongue flatten against your swirled navel. "shh.." satoru's tongue drags further and nudges just against your throbbing clit.

“tryna take it slow f’you..”

you let out a quiet gasp as satoru dips lower, tongue gathering the wetness that drips to your taint and licks all the way up to your clit where his lips suction around the bud.

a whine leaves your lips and you buck your hips, jaw slacking open as satoru stuffs his face into your sex as close as possible, tongue moving slow with heavy pressure.

"oh god.. satoru…"

your moans are breathless as satoru's large hands grip your hips and guides you through rolling them, bright blue eyes locked on your face the entire time. "doin' sooo good for me, pretty" satoru mutters as he pulls away just an inch before latching right back on

you could only gasp and arch your back, pleasure spreading all across your body. "toru.. feels so good…"

satoru hums in response and the vibrations only cause more pleasure that makes you whine and make your thighs tremble as they rest on satoru's shoulders.

"i know, sweet girl. taste like fuckin' candy-"

satoru's words make you whine once more, fingers snaking into his white hair and tightening.

"satoru-" you whined, back bowing as his tongue continues lap up and down with pressure. "mmm.." your hips roll in a circle in the hands of satoru, his tongue dipping lower and sliding into your cunt.

satoru lets out a low groan, digging in deeper so his nose presses against your clit.

curses float in the air from your lips, your back bowing as the pleasure spreads and increases.

"'s so pretty f'me."

his words are muffled, but god the vibrations from his voice and the way his eyes look into yours is enough.

"toru…" the back of your head meets the mattress. "'m gonna cum.."

so he doubles down— grip tightening, mouth suctioned, and thick tongue sliding up and down your dripping folds, mainly focusing on your clit.

your thighs shake on his shoulders as you cum, back bowing and mouth gaping in pleasure.

"toruuuu-" you croak, tears stinging in your eyes as his tongue slows but the pressure he applys increase. "mm- i got you." he mumbles, words barely reaching your ears as he continues his slow, sensual assault.

…

holding hands…

"cmon, pretty, lemme hold your hand— thaaat's it." satoru coo's, breath grazing your already throbbing clit. your hand slowly slides into his, your warmths merging together.

the tip of satoru's tongue sticks out to lay a slow kitten lick on your clit, blue eyes watching your face contort and jaw slack.

your hand tightens and breath hitches.

"just relax. i got you, baby."

satoru's tongue darts out further, laying a proper lick from your cunt right to your clit.

"toru.."

satoru mumbles a 'shh…' hand squeezing yours as his lips suction around your clit, wispy white lashes batting up at you. satoru pulls back, tongue licking from your dripping cunt to your clit where it circles around the bud.

"so perfect f'me." he whispers, mouth moving to suction and suck on your lips, tongue sliding right down the middle and dipping into your wetness.

your back bows off the mattress from satoru's actions, hand squeezing his with a new force.

satoru hands were definitely going to be aching from the way youre squeezing them, but it's honestly not your fault— with the way satoru focused on your clit, his pretty pink lips suctioning around your swollen bud with only one sole purpose: to make you cum.

"sa- ah! satoru!" a gasp moan mixture leaves your lips, intertwined fingers starting to ache as the pleasure only increases.

satoru only hums into you, diving a little deeper with a shake of his head— eyes still trained to your face.

with one more hum from satoru and one more suck on your sensitive clit, you cum with a cry and shaking thighs, hands of course still squeezing your boyfriends.

"thaaat's it.. cum for me, pretty." satoru mumbles, now pulling away to lick all your juices and cream as your body still shivers from your orgasm.

[ryoride]

ꮼ world's best earthbender!toph is also the world's best lover

ᦸ girlfriend!toph has her own special ways to romance ⸝⸝ not proofread.

girlfriend!toph does not play when it comes to your relationship; even when she doesn't take anything seriously, nothing would make her let someone disrespect the love you share.

She can and has defended you whenever she's caught someone making obscene comments about the relationship.

girlfriend!toph isn't openly affectionate in the traditional sense—she can be at times, though rarely—opting to share loving words or grounding touches whenever in the presence of others.

The touch she goes for the most is tracing her fingertips over your features & taking a deep breath as she feels your heartbeat—the others have long learned to never bother her when touching you.

girlfriend!toph is an entirely different story in private; while she rarely seeks out affection, the moment she feels your touch, she melts—leaning into your touch, carefully reciprocating & relaxing.

There's only been one instance of your friends catching her being so vulnerable with you, and she's been extra careful to protect the sanctity of keeping private moments private

girlfriend!toph finds it peaceful when she lies in bed with you & you take turns whispering how your days went, taking turns with kissing each other's skin and scratching your backs.

It's always so soothing to feel her strong hands massaging your tense muscles while you're grumbling about a shitty day, and it's always so calming for her to be there for you.

girlfriend!toph has better muscles than most men, and she's well aware of it; it doesn't matter that she's short when it's easily made up for in her biceps—whether it's wrapping them around you at night, carrying you, or just letting you toy with them, she loves to show them off.

It's so gentle how she'll touch you, even with her arms anchored around your thighs or her bicep shoved to your lips to let you kiss her skin.

girlfriend!toph likes to take you outside and guide you to sit with her, carefully describing how the earth feels beneath her feet & how serene it is to just exist in the dirt sometimes—and how comfortable it feels to have you with her.

Something about holding hands with you, breathing, and sharing the peace she feels when one with the earth is so intimate she'll crave it sometimes.

girlfriend!toph lets you touch her hair. Brushing it, tying it up, braiding it, and toying with it. Every time you ask to mess with her hair, she'll grudgingly sit there and let you do whatever you want.

Even though she can't see what you've done, she'll touch over her hair and assure that it 'feels as pretty' as you said it looked.

girlfriend!toph will get very annoyed whenever one of her friends tries to guide her around, though whenever it's your hand clasping hers. Not tugging, not pulling, just holding on.

Though if anyone took her being okay with you doing it as they could, she'd go for their head.

girlfriend!toph is very protective of you. Even though she's well aware you can handle yourself, if she has the chance to defend your honor, she'll go all in, crass words, fists clenched, and threatening.

Not much gets her pissed, but insulting or being rude to you is the quickest way to get there.

girlfriend!toph hates it whenever her friends catch her being mushy. It's happened far too many times for her liking; a blush dusts her cheeks, & she'll groan whenever she hears the teasing starting from Sokka's lips.

Though that doesn't stop her from risking the occasional intimate moment, resting her head against your chest, kissing your hand, and using affectionate words that the entire gang has heard.

It never fails to surprise them how soft she is with you, though, no matter how many times they've witnessed it.

[ryoride]

ꮼ firelord!zuko has a special way to relieve his stress

ᦸ unprotected sex ⸝⸝ p in v ⸝⸝ pet names ⸝⸝ cervix kissing ⸝⸝ husband! zuko is sweet with it ⸝⸝ creampies ⸝⸝ a sprinkle of aftercare.

"Fuck. There's my sweet girl." Zuko rasped out, his face kissing your neck with one needy thrust, burrowing to the hilt. "You don't know how much I needed this."

His long hair draping over you both as he sucked softly on your skin was a feeling you'd grown fond of each night when he came to bed.

"My poor baby—fuck, slow down," you gasped, thighs twitching around his hips, nails digging into his back instinctively as he tried to move. "Do you want to talk about what's got you so upset?"

"Got a little pissed off at work; sorry—" he whispered, pulling his hips back with a groan, bangs brushing your forehead as he attempted to roll off of you. "—you okay? Fuck, I didn't mean to hurt you."

Just to be stopped by your legs quickly wrapping around his hips, holding him there.

Your fingers rubbed softly over his back. "Yes, yes. My love, I'm okay." You hummed, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheeks. "What happened at work?"

"Just people being arrogant." He groaned, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek in return. "It gets on my nerves more than I'd like to admit, and I'm sorry."

"Don't be, idiot," you hummed, knocking your heel teasingly against the small of his back. "I didn't say I didn't like it."

"Watch it." He mused, squeezing your hip just a little as his gaze softened. "Promise you're okay?"

"Baby, if I couldn't handle your size without being in pain, we wouldn't be married." You teased, wiggling your eyebrows as Zuko averted his gaze, a furious blush dusting his cheeks.

"That's so uncalled for, my love." He groaned, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. "A simple 'yes' or 'I promise' would have been fine."

"Well, I am okay; you just didn't give me time to adjust, and I thought for sure by now you'd know it takes a minute." You combed your fingers through his silky hair, pressing your lips to his temple, leaving quick kisses.

"What can I say? I feel your body and get greedy." He rasped, leaning into your touch, his strong arms wrapping around you. "Very greedy."

"Yeah? Then I think you'll be pleased to know you can move again." You whispered into his ear, teasingly nipping at the lobe before leaning back to rest against your pillows.

No words had ever sounded quite like heaven as those to Zuko's ears.

It took no time for him to give a testing thrust, grinning wildly at the desperate noise that escaped your lips.

"You're so pretty." He whispered, bringing a hand to cup your jaw as his thrusts turned relentless, white-hot pleasure drilling into you both with each brush of his blushing cockhead to your cervix.

It took a moment to speak, trying to steady your voice. "You're one to talk; look majestic up there."

"My love, you must be delirious. I'm sweaty and gross," he cooed, choking down a moan as you clenched around him, abs visibly tensing. "Oh, don't do that; this'll be over far too soon."

"It's sexy," you whined, clawing helplessly at his back. "Fuck. It's so sexy; you're an idiot if you think you aren't right now."

"My crazy wife," Zuko sighed, watching your eyes flutter as he quickened the pace of his hips. "I could be covered in dirt, and you'd still want me, wouldn't you?"

Your voice was barely cooperating, wavering heavily—showing off just how close you were. "Wouldn't you?"

"Find you sexy? Always, my love." He sighed, eyes fluttering as he leaned down to capture your lips with his. "Fuck, you're perfect."

"Zu," you gasped, arching against him, fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulder blades. "m'gonna—"

Zuko nodded, pressing a kiss to your jaw. "Me too." He admitted, hips stuttering against yours. "Fuck, my love, I'm sorry—"

Just as you felt your thighs spasming around his hips, the warm, fuzzy feeling of your orgasm ripped through you, clenching tightly around Zuko.

"Oh god—" you mewled, resting your palm flat on his back. "—you should never feel sorry. Ever again."

Zuko sighed as his orgasm hit, slowly pulling out & staring at the mess dribbling out, his lips finding your shoulder quickly.

"I can run you a bath, though, as a thank you, my love." He whispered, a hand intertwining with yours.

"Mm. Are you feeling better?" You squeezed his hand, your thumb rubbing the back slowly.

"Much better." He nodded, lying beside you as his messy hair spread behind you on the mattress.

"Then yes. I'll take you up on that bath, as long as you let me wash your hair." You hummed, bringing your free hand to toy with the damp strands before kissing his forehead. "Deal?"

"Deal."

[ryoride]

ꮼ HONEY, BABY, DARLING !

cw: teasing, cunnilingus, squirting, male moaning, pet names, eye contact, aang is devoted to his craft, tugging at his bald head, not proofread.

ⓘ Featuring Aang going down on his girlfriend for the first time.

Aang was in heaven the moment you asked if he wanted to try going down on you—a loud & eager "Yes!" coming from his lips before his brain could process.

Now, he was breathing heavily & sitting close to your glistening cunt with a dopey grin as he watched a small bead of sweat roll down your thigh.

"Aang, quit staring," you hissed, pulling your knees together slightly, attempting to block his view. "It's embarrassing."

"Oh, baby," he hummed, reaching out to rub your knee. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! You're just so pretty; I got a little distracted."

Aang slowly leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh, sucking softly on the supple skin as he kept his eyes trained perfectly on you.

"That's so unfair," you breathed, reaching out to press a palm to his cheek, guiding his face away from your thigh; the crimson flush dusting your cheeks was amusing to him as he raised a brow. "Please?"

"What's that, darling?" Aang teased, turning his cheek in your hand. "Please, what? Use your words; I'm not a mind reader."

"You're an asshole," you groaned, pinching his cheek before pulling back. "Will you please just eat and stop stalling?"

"Mm. Maybe." Aang's eyes darted between your thighs and back to yours before sighing, "Fine, fine. Rush perfection."

Aang stuck out his tongue, giving a slow, experimental lick, watching the way your eyes flutter & your body tensed up at the contact.

"There we go." He whispered, grasping your hips to pull you closer, quickly licking up & down your slit a few times to see how you'd react.

The sweet gasp that escaped your lips and the feeling of your palm quickly pressing against the back of his head to hold him in place were proof enough that you were enjoying yourself.

"Shit, slow down." You whined, thighs trembling against his head as he sucked your throbbing clit between your lips, eyes perfectly trained on yours.

Aang slowly moved one of his hands up your stomach, grasping your free hand and intertwining your fingers, squeezing softly as he moaned into you.

The vibrations were enough to drive you crazy, a sharp moan escaping your mouth as he flicked it with the tip of his tongue.

"Aang!" You gasped, nails scratching at his scalp, but quickly calmed at the sight of him wincing. "Just... fuck, don't stop."

He rubbed the back of your hand, moaning against you again, before pulling back for just a moment, showing off the juices glistening on his chin, and tensing as your hand pushed him back between your thighs.

"Sorry!" He mused, muffled by your flesh as your hips bucked up against his mouth. Aang pressed a tender kiss to your clit, feeling the little nub twitch helplessly against his lips.

Slowly, almost cruelly so, he rolled the tip of his buttery soft tongue against the hood, sucking it back between his lips with a desperate groan, his hips instinctively rutting against the mattress at the whine you made.

With each roll of your hips against his face, every sob of his name, and the way he could feel your hand squeezing him tight enough to cut off circulation, Aang knew you were about to finish.

"Baby," you cooed, toes curling at the sensations running rampant through your body, "please, just like that."

He softly squeezed your hand in acknowledgment, gasping softly as you screwed your thighs tight around his head, hips furiously rolling against his tongue; he felt the moment white-hot pleasure struck.

The evidence was far too obvious to ignore; it was actively soaking his lower face and neck.

"Well." Aang blinked, watching your mortification as you quickly pulled off of him, trying to cover your face as he licked his lips. "That was unexpected."

"Shut up, asshole. Never mention it again." You hissed pitifully in your palms, glaring at him between the cracks between your fingers.

"Darling." He cooed, quickly wiping his face off so he could comfortably kiss up your stomach, wrapping around your waist. "Won't need to mention it if you let me keep doing it."

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I'm Coming....Wait for me || Sokka ||

A/n: I got some people telling me to do it! So I did.

AU where Kya is still alive.

The camp had been too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind either, the kind that pressed into your lungs and made every breath feel heavier than it should. The fire crackled softly in the center, but even that sound felt wrong, like it didn’t belong without your voice cutting through it, without your laugh, without you there at all.

Sokka sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, dragging a whetstone across his boomerang for what had to be the hundredth time. The metal didn’t need sharpening anymore. It hadn’t needed it hours ago. But his hands kept moving anyway, because stopping meant thinking and thinking meant remembering the last time he saw you.

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. His eyes burned, but nothing fell, because there was nothing to fall anymore.

Katara moved nearby, kneeling beside the water skins, pouring and repouring like if she just kept doing something, anything, so she wouldn’t fall apart. Every so often, her gaze flicked to your empty bedroll.

Every time, her breath hitched and she had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying.

Toph sat with her arms crossed, unusually still. No smirk. No jab. Just silence. Her head tilted slightly toward your bedroll, like she was listening for something that wasn’t there anymore.

And Aang…

Aang stared into the fire, that he wished he could have done something, anything.

No one said it.

But you were everywhere in the silence.

Then, a distant whoosh cut through the air.

Aang’s head snapped up first. “Appa?”

Sokka froze. The whetstone slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud as his heart lurched violently in his chest. "Where has he been? He doesn't just go flying off!"

The sound grew louder.Wind rushed over the camp as a massive shadow passed overhead, and then Appa landed hard, the ground trembling beneath his weight and everyone was on their feet instantly.

Katara didn’t even think,she ran forward. “Appa! Where have you—”

She stopped, because you were there.

Sliding...no, falling off Appa’s saddle.

Your boots hit the ground unevenly, your body swaying like it barely remembered how to stand. You looked… wrecked. Clothes torn. Bruises painted your skin in deep, ugly shades as dried blood clung to your temple.Your lip was split. Your hands trembled at your sides, your hair was tangled, matted. There were marks...too many marks and for a second, no one moved.

No one breathed.

You blinked at them, dazed, lips splitting into a crooked, exhausted smile. “I am alive.”

You took two steps forward and promptly face-planted into the dirt.

For half a second, there was silence. Then Katara was shouting your name as she was the first to move, sprinting across the space and dropping to her knees beside you, hands already reading for water as she rolled you gently onto your back. Her fingers trembled as they hovered over your injuries, panic and relief colliding so hard it made her dizzy. “Oh my....oh my spirits, you’re here!! you’re actually here—” tears blurring her vision, lip trembling.

You groaned softly, blinking up at her, your smile weak but still there. Blood streaked your face, your lip split, but your eyes....your eyes were still you.

“It’s gonna take a lot more than that to kill me,” you rasped.

Katara let out a broken laugh that turned into something dangerously close to a sob as she leaned down, pressing her forehead briefly against yours. “Don’t....don’t you ever do that again, do you hear me?”

“I’ll… try,” you murmured.

Aang rushed in next, dropping beside you with wide, watery eyes. “You’re okay! you’re really okay—I thought—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed the rest.

Toph huffed from behind them, arms still crossed, but her voice came out quieter than usual. “Yeah, well… about time you showed back up. It was getting depressing.”

But her stance had shifted, closer than before.

And then there was Sokka.

He hadn’t moved.

Not at first.

He stood a few feet away, frozen like his body didn’t quite believe what his eyes were seeing. His chest rose and fell too fast, his fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You’re…” His voice came out hoarse. “You’re not—”

Your gaze found him, softened as you gave him a weak smile. “Sokka…”

That was all it took.

He crossed the distance in seconds, dropping hard to his knees beside you, hands hovering for just a moment, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he touched you too fast and then he grabbed you.

Carefully but firmly pulling you up just enough to press his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face like you were something fragile and breakable.

“You’re not dead,” he said, voice shaking. “You’re not dead!! you’re not dead—”

“I told you,” you whispered, your hand weakly gripping his sleeve. “Takes more than a cliff and some Fire Nation psychos to get rid of me.”

He let out a sound that was half laugh, half choke, his shoulders shaking as he pulled you closer, careful of Katara’s as she worked. “We thought—we thought you were gone. I thought I—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching hard.

Your thumb brushed clumsily against his wrist.“I’m here.”

That broke him.Sokka leaned forward, pressing his face into your shoulder, holding you like if he let go even for a second that you’d vanish again. His grip tightened just enough to say everything he couldn’t put into words.

Katara watched the two of you, her eyes soft and shining.

Toph smirked faintly, turning her head away like she hadn’t just been holding her breath this whole time.

And Aang let out a long, shaky exhale, a small smile finally breaking through.

Your arm lifted weakly from where you were half-curled against Sokka, your hand trembling as you pointed up toward Appa’s saddle.

“Oh!! also…” your voice rasped, dry and cracking, “I think I have someone… important… for you two…”

Katara blinked, confusion flickering across her face as she followed the direction of your hand.

Sokka frowned slightly, shifting just enough to look up and then everything stopped.

A figure moved.

Slowly, hesitantly, someone leaned forward from the saddle, fingers gripping the worn fur as if the world might fall out from under her if she let go. She looked… small, almost fragile in the oversized prison uniform hanging off her frame.

But her face, her face hadn’t changed.

Not from the stories. Not from the memories.Not from the day they lost her.

She swallowed, eyes wide and uncertain as they landed on the two of them below.

“…Katara?” her voice came out soft. Careful. Like she was afraid it wasn’t real.

Katara’s breath hitched so violently it hurt.

“No…” she whispered, shaking her head as tears instantly filled her eyes. “No!!!no, that’s not!!! that’s not—”

The woman slid down Appa’s tail slowly, unsteady when her feet hit the ground, but she didn’t look away.

“Sokka?” she tried again, voice trembling now.

Sokka went completely still, your name had broken him.

This?

This shattered him.

His grip on you loosened, not letting go, never letting go but enough that he could turn, enough that he could see her fully. His breath came fast, uneven, his chest rising like he couldn’t get enough air.

“…Mom?” it came out barely audible. Like if he said it too loud, she’d disappear.

Kya’s lips parted, a broken, disbelieving smile forming as tears slipped down her cheeks. “Oh, spirits…”

Katara moved first, she stumbled forward like her legs barely worked, hands shaking, eyes locked on her mother like she was afraid to blink.

“You’re not!!!” her voice cracked. “You’re not gone…”

Kya let out a soft, shattered laugh, opening her arms instinctively.

Katara crashed into her.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate.

Katara buried her face into her shoulder, sobbing instantly, her hands gripping the fabric of that prison uniform like she was anchoring herself to something real for the first time in years. “You’re here!! you’re here!!!you’re here—”

Kya held her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapping around her shoulders, her own tears falling freely now. “I’m here, sweetheart… I’m here…”

Sokka didn’t move, not right away. Instead he just stared.Like he was trying to memorize every detail before it could be taken from him again.

Then Kya looked at him, her gaze softening as she gave him a smile. "My lite boy…You got so big,” she whispered, voice breaking.

Sokka let out a sharp, strangled sound and surged forward, one arm still wrapped protectively around you as he reached her, pulling both you and himself into her embrace in a clumsy, desperate mess of limbs and shaking breaths.

“Don’t do that,” he choked out, voice cracking hard. “Don’t!!! don’t come back and leave again. I can’t—”

“I won’t,” she promised instantly, holding both of them, her voice firm despite the tears. “I won’t!! I’m here now. I’m here.”

Katara cried harder at that, clutching her tighter.

You, still half-held between Sokka’s arm and Katara’s frantic sobbs, let out a weak, tired huff.

“…you’re welcome,” you mumbled.

Toph snorted from somewhere behind, wiping quickly at her face like she hadn’t just been suspiciously quiet. “Yeah, no big deal. Just broke into the most secure prison in the Fire Nation, stole their dead mom back, and walked it off.”

“Got tortured,” you added faintly, eyes half-lidded.

“Yeah, that too.”

Aang stood off to the side, hands clasped together in front of his mouth, eyes wide and shining as he watched the reunion unfold, his chest visibly rising and falling with emotion.

And then a familiar voice cut in. “So that’s what all that noise was about.”

Everyone turned.

Standing just beyond the edge of the camp, arms crossed his, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant admiration.

Zuko.

You squinted at him from where you were still slumped in Sokka’s hold, your brain clearly lagging behind the moment. “…when the hell did you get here?”

Zuko exhaled slowly through his nose. “It’s a long story.”

He stepped forward slightly, his gaze flicking from you, to Kya, to the state of all of you and then back to you again, brow furrowing.

“You broke into the Boiling Rock,” he said flatly. “Freed a high-value prisoner. Azula found out.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You essentially committed treason.”

You blinked at him then gave a weak, unimpressed look. “…I get bored.”

Toph barked out a laugh.

Zuko stared at you for a long second then shook his head letting out a weak chuckle. “…you’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Sokka muttered hoarsely, still holding you like you might vanish again, his forehead pressing briefly against your temple. “She is.”

But his grip tightened just a little and he didn't let go.

Katara’s eyes ranked over your bruises and burns, her healing was able to knit together what it could, easing what it couldn’t. The worst of it had faded under her touch, but you still looked exhausted—completely drained, like your body had finally decided it was allowed to feel everything now that you were safe.

You were slumped against Sokka’s chest, half-limp, your head tucked beneath his chin, your breathing slow and uneven.

And he wasn’t letting go, not even a little.

Katara frowned, still studying you with a critical eye. “She’s stable,” she said softly, relief threading through her voice. “But she needs rest. Real rest.”

No response.

“Sokka,” Katara tried again.

Still nothing.

He just tightened his arms slightly around you, one hand splayed protectively across your back, the other cradling your head like if he adjusted even an inch, something terrible would happen.

“Sokka.”

“She’s fine right here,” he muttered, voice low and stubborn.

Katara’s eye twitched. “She is not fine,” she snapped, stepping closer. “She’s exhausted, she’s been tortured, she fell off Appa five minutes ago—she needs to lie down!”

“She is lying down,” he shot back, not moving an inch.

Toph snorted from where she sat. “Wow. Didn’t think I’d see the day Water Tribe Boy turns into a human vice grip.”

“I’m not letting go,” Sokka said immediately, jaw tightening. “Not happening.”

Katara threw her hands up. “Spirits!! Sokka!”

You made a small, tired noise between them, barely lifting your head before letting it drop back against his shoulder. “…I kinda like it here…”

Sokka’s grip softened just slightly at that, his cheek brushing the top of your head as if to anchor you there. “See?”

“That is not helping,” Katara snapped.

Aang winced slightly from the side. “Uh… maybe we could just...gently, move her?”

Sokka shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut stone. "No.”

Toph leaned back on her hands, grinning. “Yeah, good luck prying her out of that. You’d have better odds moving a mountain.”

“I can move a mountain,” Aang mumbled.

“Not this one,” Toph shot back.

Katara groaned, dragging a hand down her face before turning sharply. “Mom! Tell him to let her sleep!”

Kya, who had been watching quietly, taking everything in, still adjusting to the overwhelming reality of it all, blinked before stepping forward slowly, her expression soft but knowing. “Sokka…” she said gently.

He stiffened immediately, like a kid caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“…yeah?” his voice came out quieter now, but his arms didn’t loosen.

Kya’s gaze softened further as she looked at him—really looked at him. The fear. The relief. The way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. “She’s not going anywhere,” she said softly.

His jaw clenched. “I know,” he said, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.

Kya stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She's here,” she continued, her voice warm. “She’s here because of you and everyone else. You don’t have to hold on so tight.”

His breath hitched and for moment, it looked like he might argue again, to dig his heels in but then you shifted slightly in his arms, your hand weakly gripping the front of his tunic.

“Sokka…” you murmured, barely awake.

His shoulders dropped just a fraction, his grip loosening not letting go, never fully but enough to adjust you more carefully, easing you down toward your bedroll.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough. “I got you.”

Katara immediately moved in, helping guide you down gently, arranging blankets beneath your head.

Sokka hovered the entire time, hands still on you, not trusting the ground to keep you safe.

Once you were settled, you made a soft sound, curling slightly into the warmth, already slipping toward sleep but Sokka didn’t move away.

He sat right beside you, one hand still wrapped loosely around your wrist, his thumb brushing slow, repetitive circles against your skin like he needed the contact just as much as you did.

Katara opened her mouth to argue again but paused, her expression softened. “…fine,” she muttered under her breath, crossing her arms. “But if you wake her up—”

“I won’t,” Sokka said immediately.

And for once he didn’t argue, he just stayed.

Right here, by your side and never letting go.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

🔧Work Place Chaos or how Sokka fuck's you on his work Bench.

A/n: I told them I'd do it cause I got tagged in the comments and here it is @thisiswhereishitpostalot . I hope I did your post justice.

Warnings: P in V, table sex , cream pie, Semi-public sex / public sex, googles stay on, clothed sex, dom!reader ( reader is in charge ).

Scraps of metal, half-built weapons, charcoal smudges, everything smells like heat and effort and him.

Sokka doesn’t even notice you at first.

He’s bent over the table, goggles pulled down over his eyes, muttering to himself as he adjusts something delicate.

“…if this doesn’t work I swear—”

You step closer.

He still doesn’t look up. “…I’m talking to you, piece of junk...”

Your hand slides over his back, slow, deliberate and that's what makes him pause.

“…okay, that’s not the junk—”

You press closer, your chest against his back as your hand drags down his side. "Sokka.”

He goes still then exhales.

“…hey.”

But he doesn’t turn around, not yet. Not even when your fingers slide lower, across his back then towards his stomach then his belt.

“You’re busy?” you murmur.

“Was,” he says, voice already roughening. “Past tense.”

Your hand dips lower, he inhales sharply.

“…okay!! yeah, definitely not working anymore.”

You press closer, your lips brushing his shoulder, a smile on your lips.“Keep the goggles on.”

That makes him choke out a laugh. “…what?”

You nip lightly at his neck. “I said keep them on.”

“…okay.” His voice cracks as his hands go to his belt, fast, hands shaking.

“Don’t stop talking,” you murmur.

“Hard to talk when you...” he cuts off as you palm him through his pants, “...oh, okay, that’s!! wow—”

He pushes his pants down just enough, his cock already hard, already reacting to you.

You don’t hesitate, your hand wraps around him.

Firm.

Sokka’s head tips forward, goggles slightly askew but still on. "…yeah, no, I’m not fixing anything tonight.”

You smirk against his shoulder. “Good.”You guide him, turn him then pushed him back against the worktable as metal clinks softly behind him.

“Whoa!! hey—”

“You talk too much,” you mutter.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before—”

You kiss him and that is what shuts him up, for about three seconds.

Then, of course because he was Sokka. “Okay—okay!!! no! keep doing that—”

Your hand slides between your bodies, pushing your skirt aside, guiding his cock to your pussy.

Sokka freezes for half a second. “…wait! are we?!"

You sink down onto him, slow, warm, your breath catching as he fills you.

His head falls back. “—oh. OH. Yeah, we are.”

Your hands grip his shoulders as you settle fully, your body adjusting, your hips shifting slightly.

The goggles stay on, and something about that, the way he’s looking at you through them, wide-eyed, completely wrecked already makes your stomach tighten.

“You like that?” you ask softly.

He lets out a breathless laugh. “I like everything right now.”

You move, slow at first, rolling your hips, testing as Sokka's hands land on your thighs immediately.

“Spirits!! okay, yeah...don’t stop—”

You don’t.

You pick up the pace, your body moving more confidently, your pussy tightening around him as the rhythm builds.

The table creaks under you.

Metal rattles softly.

“Workshop’s not built for this,” he mutters, gripping you tighter. “Not complaining, just, scientific observation—”

You lean in and bite his neck.

He groans. "Okay!! less talking, got it—”

You move faster, your breath hitching as his grip tightens. The goggles slip slightly again but he doesn’t take them off.

Doesn’t even think about it.

“You’re—” he starts, voice breaking, “..you’re gonna...ruin...me—”

You smile faintly. “Good.”

Your hips snap down harder. He groans louder this time, his hands digging into your thighs as his control starts slipping.

“Okay!! no, now I’m not....thinking—”

“Then don’t.” Your hand presses to his chest, holding him back as you keep moving, your rhythm sharp, confident, your body chasing the pressure building fast. “Sokka—”

“Yeah! yeah, I’m here—”

His hips start moving with yours now, trying to match you, trying to take control but you don't let him.

“Stay,” you murmur.

He freezes for half a second then groans softly as his eyes close for a moment. “…that’s not fair.”

You tighten around him.

He loses it.

“....okay!! nope!! done! done, this is it—” His grip tightens as he thrusts up harder, meeting your pace, the rhythm breaking into something messy and intense.

Your breath catches, the pressure snaps as your orgasm hits, your body tightening around him as you gasp his name.

Sokka follows right after, groaning as he buries himself deep, his hands gripping your thighs as he comes.

For a moment everything stills, just heavy breaths echoing in the room until Sokka's voice breaks the silence. “…did we just—on my worktable?”

You laugh softly. “Yes."

He nods slowly. “…worth it.”

You glance at him. “…you kept the goggles on.”

He snorts. “You told me to."

You lean in, brushing your lips against his. “Good.”

He grins. “…we’re doing that again.”

[kill3ill]

size kink — 18+

zuko didn't really know he had a size kink until he became yours.

he also didn't think he'd have a borderline obsession with how his hands fit around your body when he holds you. how he engulfs your entire frame with his broader one during hugs, how your hand just fits perfectly into the palm of his, and if he covers yours, your little fingers are hardly visible anymore...

and so when he's holding you down underneath him while you're in his bed, his perverse fascination with your size compared to his just dominates his thoughts.

one hand is gripping your waist while the other pushes down between your shoulder blades to keep you arched perfectly for him while he tries to fit his cock inside you. it's a little difficult, because your pussy's proportionate with your size, and the same goes for him. he's just huge in every sense of the word. zuko slides his cock between your folds a few times, coating it in your slick and getting it nice and wet before eventually easing himself in.

you tense up as his cock fits within your plush walls, your pussy throbbing and spasming around his length when he slowly bottoms out. your pussy's swallowing him whole at this point, and he exhales a heaving sigh, throwing his head back to groan at the heavenly feeling of you wrapped up wround him.

it's just so big. it feels like the first thrust just has your mind spinning already because he's fully inside you, his hands hot and demanding on your body as he keeps you in place, unable to wiggle away to relieve yourself from the stretch and sheer fullness of him stuffing your pussy to the brink.

you only stop spacing when he starts to move, having determined that you're ready to take him and that your pussy's been so accomodating to his big dick inside you. now you're ready to take all his love.

he guides your body back onto his dick while moving inside you, hips rutting back then pushing forward rythmically so that he can stay deep inside you while offering you some relief of said fullness. his cock rubs perfectly against your puffy walls, and his pelvis is grinding right up against your folds... you just can't help the little pitchy moans that leave your parted lips when he thrusts into you.

"yeah, 's good," he pants, also lost in his own head. "just like that, my love. you're taking all of me so well."

your broken up panting and whining grows more incessant when he shifts you upwards, lifting you into a kneeling position and gently wrapping his huge arm around your throat to keep you steady while he fucks upwards into you, his cock reaching deeper now and poking out in your belly obscenely. you can feel every little movement inside you, the head of his cock nudging again and again inside you in a way that would usually have you whimpering and squirming, but when he reaches down and pushes his palm flat against that bulge, all you can do is moan and leak more sleak onto him. around his chubbed dick.

"its so big zu," you babble, tears of pleasure and overwhelm clouding your vision and make your moans sound more watery and needy since you can just feel you're getting close. he relishes in the way your voice sounds when you're whining his nickname like that, and he moves his free hand to place your hand on your belly, entwining his fingers with yours so both of you can feel his cock indenting your stomach, the same you would if it was a baby in you, not just his cock.

the thought had his mind swimming, and he picks up his pace, feeling your slippery pussy splatter juices on his thighs and balls each time he pushes his hips forward.

zuko can feel his balls tightening and throbbing as his release starts ti bubble up to the surface, and he squeezes you tighter, now moaning, not just grunting, your name, how good you feel, how he could live in this pussy. your pussy. his pussy to breed and fuck. he slips his hand out of yours just so he can play with your clit, squeezing it gently and rolling the nub between the pads of his fingers. that, his cock hitting your weak spot again and again, and the filth that spills past his lips and straight into your ear has you crying out for him as you start to cream around his cock, tightening around him and squirting pearlescent, watery liquid all over the bed.

he made you squirt.

"atta girl," he breathes, chasing his own release while helping you ride out your own. "oh fuck, love, you soaked me. made a mess everywhere and squeezed me like that... i'm gonna fill you up with my cum and make you a momma, you want that?"

he can't shut up, and he keeps rubbing your poor swollen clit as your pussy stays clamped around him, his cock dragging slow and sloppy against the the pudgy walls of your cunt that makes your pussy spasm around him, massaging his cock and milking the cum right out of him.

zuko pushes his cock into you a few more times, deep inside you, then pushes his body snug against yours, falling against your back and snuggling you tight as he spills his hot cum inside you, sticking to your walls thickly and pouring into you in masses. with his fat cock plugging you full, there's nowhere for it to leak out. he mouths at the nape of your neck and shudders as the last of his load spills straight into your womb.

you feel zuko cuddle you tightly for a minute before he lets his cock slip out of you, cum leaking down your thighs. he tuts at how you're so sleepy already, and carries you into his bath chambers so he can clean you up after fucking you so good.

see more in my misc masterlist

see more in my main masterlist

[bae-fong]

oh i know dada

adult fire lord zuko x wife!reader warnings: 18+ nsfw, fluff, breeding kink, baby fever, daddy kink summary: when fire lord zuko sees his wife holding babies, and with everyone constantly pestering for an heir, his mind can't help but reel to darker places.

“fire lord zuko! when can we expect an heir to the fire nation?”

“fire lord zuko! are you and the fire lady expecting?”

“who will take the throne as the prince now that you have been reigning for some time?”

the relentless questioning left zuko restless. he had hoped the weight on his shoulders would ease once he transitioned from prince to fire lord, but the pressure had only increased tenfold.

you, on the other hand, were as cool as a cucumber.

as the beloved fire lady, you were adored by the entire nation. while zuko was buried in council meetings and ledgers, you spent your free time at charities, local orphanages, and schools. to put it simply, you were constantly surrounded by families—more specifically, children.

zuko watched from afar as toddlers wrapped their chubby arms around your skirts, peering up at you with wide, hopeful eyes. parents took pride in seeing the fire lady cradle their infants, and even the fussiest babies seemed to settle the moment they were tucked into your arms.

“my! you would make such a wonderful mother,” one woman remarked.

“the fire lord is a lucky man indeed,” the citizens added. “a beautiful wife and a natural mother.”

while zuko often flushed with embarrassment, you took every remark as an opportunity to tease him.

“hear that, zuko? it means we’ve got work to do,” you joked, gently rocking a sleeping infant while the crowd erupted into laughter.

it wasn’t until you were talking to one of the elderly ladies from a distance that the conversation took a turn, her voice not-so-quiet as she described the struggles of pregnancy.

“pregnancy is a beautiful thing, but very, very tedious,” the elderly lady explained. “you’re constantly waddling around with a big, round belly. your feet are swollen and bare, and your…” she motioned to your chest, “always swollen and aching.”

your face flushed with embarrassment, but zuko, on the other hand, found his mind admiring the idea.

he wasn’t in a rush to have kids, but the image of you—his wife, waddling around the palace barefoot in nothing but a flowy dress. your belly, round from carrying his baby, and your breasts swollen with milk.

it was perfect.

and that was how you ended up here, sprawled across your shared bed with your legs hooked over zuko’s broad shoulders as he held you folded in a mating press.

his cock—thick and swollen—pounded into you relentlessly, the air filling with vulgar sounds that made your eyes roll back and your ears burn.

“zu—zuko!” you cried out in pleasure.

“gonna… get you…” zuko grunted, his hips drawing back as he drove into you deeper. “pregnant… gotta breed you—”

zuko was a mess of incoherent babbling, muttering about keeping you full of his seed and the image of you walking around barefoot. his heavy body completely enveloped yours, his hands tangling into your hair to pin you in place, keeping you trapped in that vulnerable position.

“gonna keep fucking you until it takes,” he promised darkly. “until our kids are running around the palace.”

you were a moaning mess beneath him, your legs dangling in the air as he pounded into you, forcing you to take every deliciously agonizing inch of your fire lord.

“how many do you think we’ll have? one? two?” zuko laughed raspily against your ear, the vibration making your body tingle. “or twins. that’d be nice—wouldn’t it?”

“so… so nice,” you managed to moan.

zuko laughed again, adjusting his angle so he could fuck even deeper into your warm, aching core.

“fuck. you gonna make me a daddy, baby?”

“yes, zuko!” you cried, nodding your head frantically against the pillows. “yes—i’ll make you a daddy—”

“shit,” he cursed, his body drawing tight as he felt himself ready to pump you full. “say it again.”

“daddy!”

daddy. daddy. daddy.

the sound of it was music to his ears. he tossed his head back, his long, dark hair damp with sweat against his bare skin as his cock pulsed deep inside you, pumping ropes of thick, hot cum into your aching pussy.

“god, that’s it,” he growled, peering down at you with lustful, golden eyes as his chest heaved.

“gonna make sure it takes. you’re going to give me an heir, aren’t you? my beautiful, perfect, sweet wife.”

[katsunoir-deactivated20260523]

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡

— fire lord!zuko x wife!reader

— a/n: i was writing something for shouto yesterday then this idea hit me and i had to try something. i want to gnaw on his biceps.

it's 3 a.m. Your eyes blink open to find the bed empty—your lover's side still pristinely made and unbearably cold. That just wouldn't do.

It doesn't take you long to figure out where he could possibly be at this hour, and despite your sleep-sluggish movements, you're off the massive four-poster bed and into your slippers in no time, grabbing your satin robe to slip on over your nightgown.

As you slip into the winding hall, the first guard you spot is quick to flick his eyes toward Zuko's whereabouts. His name is Luke, and he's been devoted to you both ever since Zuko decided to invite him to dinner instead of punishing him for stealing from the kitchen. Your chin dips in gratitude before you beckon him to your side, where he falls into step without hesitation.

“How long?” You keep your eyes trained ahead, tamping down a yawn as you're led to the throne room.

“He hasn't moved since the coastal meeting, m’lady,” Luke divulges. His voice is devoid of emotion, but his hazel eyes swim with worry for his lord-turned-close friend.

“I knew it was bothering him more than he let on.” You tut as you approach the double doors leading to the throne room.

“Zuko,” you call as you step further in, and his spine straightens, his haggard features smoothing into something blank and unbothered.

“Dearest.” He responds almost immediately, his gaze tracking you from the door until you're standing in front of him, his greedy hands pulling you to straddle him once you're in reach.

“You're still awake.”

“Yes, I noticed.” He blinks once before his ever-warm hands find their favorite spot on your hips.

You bump your forehead against his. “You think you're so funny.” Gripping his chin, you make him look up at you. “Sleep on it, Zuko. You've been at it for hours.”

He sighs, head falling to your chest. “Father made it look so easy. He made it seem like the entirety of the Fire Nation was aligned, but after today, I see it's much different.” He nuzzles your cleavage, pulling you even closer as your hands find his hair.

“How so?” You pet at the nape of his neck, fingers looping through thick brunette strands and tugging occasionally—a move that makes your husband sink even further into the chair.

“It seems as if they respected him more, and I'm just a joke.” He huffs, a dejected sound that unsettles you.

“You are anything but.” You kiss his cheek, then his other, and his body sags, face tilting to make sure he catches each pucker of your lips fluttering along his skin.

“You're supposed to say that—we're married,” Zuko grumbles, bottom lip jutting into a pout you can't resist nipping at.

You scooch even closer and he welcomes it, exhaling a ragged breath as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. “Point taken,” you quip, and he leaves his hiding place at the junction of your neck to level you with a withering look.

“Don't give me that look.” You laugh, a quiet sound befitting the late hour, and the rigid lines of tension in those powerful shoulders smooth out a tad. “It's stupid and, quite frankly, childish in my opinion—but I'd wager they're acting like this to see if you can manage the weight.”

“Even after all this time?” Zuko's look is incredulous. “Seems long-winded, and if I say anything, I fear it would make matters worse.”

You shrug. “Hey, I’m just speculating, dearest. My next guess is testosterone.”

Zuko chuckles—a tired little thing that makes your face pinch in sympathy.

“Do you feel disrespected? If so, off with their heads or something.”

“Legally, I can't do that.”

“And here I thought being Fire Lord came with some perks.” You kiss his nose before standing and pulling him up as well. His hand squeezes yours three times before you let it drift to slot into the crook of his left elbow. “Now then—bedtime. You do have an early morning.”

Zuko sighs, leading you from the throne and out the chamber doors. His head bumps yours in gratitude. “Thanks for coming to get me, though I'm not sure how you figured out where I was.” He gives Luke a stern look, but the mischief is easy to see in his tired amber eyes.

The guard keeps his head forward, face impassive except for the tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth. As per Zuko's rule, the Royal Procession on night watch need not wear a mask inside the palace. “I took measures I saw fit, m’lord.”

“Telling my wife?” Zuko scoffs primly as Luke falls into step behind you both.

“You leave him alone.” You snicker before sliding your hand down to hold Zuko’s, then stepping ahead to lead him the rest of the way to your bedroom.

Bidding Luke goodnight, the double doors close behind you, and that's when Zuko falls onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. His sigh is deep and weighted as he lifts his arms toward you in a wordless gesture.

Slipping your shoes off, you immediately press into his side, sliding a leg across his body where he drops a warm hand on your thigh. “I know we said no outside dress on the bed. I'll get up soon,” he murmurs into your hair, and you just kiss his shoulder.

“Twenty minutes won't hurt.”

© KATSUNOIR 2026 ! all rights reserved ! do not translate, repost, recommend or modify my work.

[veiue]

you get me so high

— established relationship, 🐱 eating, fíngerīng, lowkey rushed, MDNI 18+

from endless council meetings to nobles constantly bickering over some shit that needed just a single word answer to that one lousy advisor who couldn’t stop criticizing every decision zuko made. the whole day had just been nothing but chaos. it got to a point that zuko couldn’t stop tapping his foot against the floor while the last meeting dragged on. gosh it felt like forever.

zuko didn’t even wait for the meeting to wrap up. by the time everyone was coming to the final decision on the topic—he gave his own two cents and evacuated the place within seconds—okay maybe like 1 or 2 minutes—but still it was that fast. that’s what you’d expect when a man hasn’t seen his wife for like hours.

he finds you sitting on the bed in a robe, combing out your hair. “oh you’re back…. a little bit earlier?” you asked, setting down the comb by the side table to fully look at him. he doesn’t say anything and just walks over, sits next to you—his hands coming up to cup your face, both palms on either side of your cheeks and kisses you.

the kiss was slow at first—just him kissing you like he was reminiscing all the while he had been away from you. his tongue slid in, interwinding with yours—tasting every bit of you.

he finally pulls back after minutes of making out—grabbing one of your hands to place a kiss at the back of your palm. “i’ve missed you so much” he said after planting a soft kiss. you rolled your eyes—the kind of eye roll you give someone when they mention the obvious. “yeah it’s not very hard to tell”. he gives your lips a quick peck, a tiny groan coming out of his mouth “ughh stop talking, you’re having an effect on me”.

on his knees, he climbs onto the bed and his hands gently guide you backwards so you’re resting against the headboard—spreading your legs apart so he could crawl in between.

the robe you’re wearing parts off easily with just a tug of the knot. he couldn’t take his eyes off your bare body. from your tits to your stomach to your thighs to your clit—oh you were going to be the death of him “no talking, i need to eat you out so bad”.

he leans down to kiss the spot right below your belly button causing you to squirm a bit from how ticklish it felt—before he moved lower—his hands gripping firmly under your thighs, spreading you wider to have an easy access.

the first lick was slow and broad. dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit—a deep grumble forming out of his chest the moment he got to taste you “fuck, you taste so fucking good” he breaths against your folds like the taste was curing something inside him.

that was just the first lick, because now he really starts working.

his tongue moves in unhurried circles around your clit, just teasing, getting you wet and sensitive from every lick. you let out a soft moan, your hands finding its way to tangle into his hair, the other tightly gripping onto the sheets—his nose bumping into your clit while his tongue fucks you slow with purpose.

zuko hums of satisfaction, the sound making your hips jerk up that you subtly rode his face. he keeps one arm hooked under your thigh to hold you in place—the other sliding up to cup one of your tits, giving it a light squeeze, thumbs fiddling with your nipples.

he pulls back just enough to look up at you and murmurs “could stay here all night”. before you could open your mouth to let out a response, he’s back on you, sucking your clit into his mouth with perfect pressure—his tongue thrusting quick while two fingers slide inside you, curling steadily against that spot that makes your back arch off the bed “zuko- oh..” you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

he’s eating you out like he’s making up for the entire day—one moment he’s going slow and thorough, the next he’s faster and messier. his mouth stays focused on your clit, sucking and licking while his fingers pump deep—every time you moan his name he becomes extra committed, sucking harder, curling his fingers just right.

his free hand never leaves your tit—he’s too obsessed with it. squeezing it possessively, rolling your nipple between his fingers, pinching lightly when your moans get louder. when he feels your thighs start to shake around his head, he doesn’t pull back—in fact he sucks your clit harder, fingers moving faster.

you come hard, back arching, a broken moan of his name spilling out as pleasure crashes through you. even after then he doesn’t pull right away, still licking you like he can’t bear to stop tasting you—only when your hand weakly tugs at his hair does he finally lift his head up—his lips and chin shining the moment he lifts his head up.

he crawls up to lay beside you with a satisfied expression wrapping his arms around your waist. you smile, pulling him closer so his head rests on your chest—but his hand stays on your tit, thumb brushing lazy circles over your nipple.

[cumironi]

— horny and in love. what a time to be alive.

feat. yuuta okkotsu

summary. what did he get after coming back from Africa? a fucking huge ego and the nerve to make you fall in love more. which, isss so fucking unfair not that you have to make him ask you to be his girlfriend.

triggers/warnings. fluff, emotionally constipated yuuta, dumbass to lover pipeline, soft virgin $ex (implied), first time, mutual pining explosion, goofy flirting to full-on intimacy, extremely affectionate makeout session, long slow kiss descriptions, teasing turned sincere, gentle undressing, consent check (verbal), heavy petting, reader-on-top position, soft dom yuuta, praise kink (gentle), internal ejaculation (mentioned), implied aftercare, lots of “i love you” mid-thrust energy, dumb relationship talk, boyfriend reveal post-orgasm, soft but emotionally unhinged dialogue, swearing / explicit language.

it was that kind of twilight where the sky went lilac, like it couldn’t decide whether to die down or scream one last color into the day, and the courtyard between dorms hummed with the lazy static of summer insects drunk off heat. your legs stuck a little with every step, your thighs brushing as your too-short cotton strawberry-print sleep shorts rode up—not because you’d rolled them, but because they were honest-to-god tragic at staying down where they were supposed to. the white t-shirt hung shapeless and limp, just long enough to look like you weren’t trying to be indecent, just short enough to flash a whisper of lower belly if the breeze kicked up. your hair was a half-washed mess. no bra. no socks. this was war.

plastic bag of snacks swinging off your wrist, crinkling loud enough to announce you two corners away, you clutched it like a peace offering, or a bribe, or a confession. everything in it had a story: the milk soda gummies he’d once nearly cried over. that dumb pink shrimp chip brand you always fought over because the flavor was “emotionally damaging” (his words). a tiny green tea cake with icing you’d pressed your thumb into by accident. the whole bag smelled like saccharine surrender. you hadn’t seen him in months.

yuuta had been sent to africa—yes, the continent, not the band—because gojo had gotten it into his hollow skull that yuuta needed “recalibration,” like he was a satellite that went a little too sharp after the shibuya aftermath. the accident—those cursed children, that nightmarish tangle of residuals, the stupid thing with the shrine and the way his voice cracked saying “i didn’t mean to—” right before gojo shoved him on a plane—had left him looped up in his own head. not dangerous, not even spiraling. just… too tuned in. too raw. so gojo, in his infinite “big brother but worse” wisdom, had sent him away. not to punish, not to exile. just to breathe somewhere far enough that even his regrets would echo slower.

you had hated him for it. not yuuta. gojo. because you missed him. and because you didn’t know how to say it.

he had texted, of course. photos of monkeys stealing his food. long meandering voice notes about heatstroke and rogue cursed spirits in old mining towns. one audio message that was just six minutes of wind and then “...it smells like burnt cinnamon here, isn’t that weird?” and then more wind. you’d replayed that one until the file started glitching.

now he was back.

you walked up the stairs with knees that didn’t work right, heartbeat like a stray drumroll in your chest. the hallway smelled like that vaguely bleachy institution-funk, overlaid with someone cooking too much garlic too late. but his door was the one with the taped-up polaroid of a lizard on the peephole—he’d named it jerry and claimed it once saved his life in botswana by pointing at a cursed talisman with its tail (you didn’t believe a word but loved him for trying)—and it stood exactly as you remembered. slightly misaligned. always looked like it wanted to be a secret.

you stood there too long. shifted the snack bag from left to right. considered fleeing. considered kicking the door down. did neither.

instead, you knocked. once. twice. then a little impatient third one that said “hey, i’m still me.”

the hallway was quiet.

your hand still hovered, a little curl of fingers like maybe you'd knock again but also maybe you'd just rest it there and feel how solid the door was between you. it didn’t matter. the moment had already bent in that soft surreal way, like a movie scene that couldn’t decide if it was a comedy or a tragic romance. behind that door was him. your friend. the dumbass with the soft hands and the eyes like old moonlight and a voice that didn’t realize it made you ache.

you licked your lips, wiped your palm on your thigh. you told yourself you were ready.

the plastic bag rustled. it sounded like a heartbeat.

the door opened with a click that sounded way too loud for the sleepy summer hallway and maybe also a little like the climax of a drama scene about to spiral into something stupid and irreversible, and there he was—yuuta okkotsu, fucking alive, standing barefoot in the doorway like he’d just walked off a fever dream you had eight weeks ago, except realer and worse, because reality had done something to him that memory never could: it made him taller.

not metaphorically taller, not emotionally expanded, not some symbolic “he grew while he was away” bullshit—no. he was literally, absolutely taller, which was rude as hell because you were already tragically average and now standing in front of him, your face came up to his stupid newly-broadened neck and you had to tilt your head back to look at his face and that made your neck hurt and now everything was his fault. again.

“whoa,” he said, voice a little low and scratchy like he hadn’t talked much today, maybe a little sleepstill lingering at the edges, but then he smirked, and it was the kind of slow curling thing that should’ve come with a health warning. “what the hell are you wearing?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t, really. because your brain short-circuited the moment your eyes tracked the line of his collarbone visible through that worn white t-shirt—the one clinging just enough to expose the ghost of his abs underneath, because apparently he had those now, just a casual six-pack sculpted out of trauma and climate change and moral injury—and then lower, to where the hem of the shirt barely brushed the waistband of those indecently low athletic shorts. shorts that screamed “i don’t own dignity” but in a confident way. and legs. endless, lean, travel-worn legs like he’d gone on a side quest for new muscles.

his hair was parted to the side, a little messy but shaped like it meant to be, probably from running his fingers through it a hundred times, and his eyes were brighter than you remembered—not in that overworked, glassy way he used to have, but something steadier, like he’d seen some shit and come back joking about it. and his smile was sharp now. not mean. just sharper. more boyish menace than anxious darling.

“you okay?” he asked, still holding the door open, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’d taken a class in posing over there. “you’ve been standing there like i’m a ghost. is this the part where you tell me i’ve been dead the whole time?”

“no,” you blurted, then immediately hated how your voice cracked like a teenage boy about to confess his love to the back of a girl’s head in a shoujo anime. “no, you’re just—i didn’t realize you’d... grow vertically.”

he raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking down, dramatically, then back up. “you’re just short.”

“liar. you’re taller than before.”

“am i?” he tilted his head. “i thought you just shrank. maybe that’s what all the strawberry-print shorts are doing to your brain. estrogen shrinkage. is that a thing?”

“you look like a backup dancer for a washed-up j-pop group,” you fired back, finally stepping past him into the dorm, brushing his shoulder on the way, pretending it didn’t buzz like an electric fence when you touched him. “no right looking like that at home. i almost dropped the snacks.”

“the what now?” he snatched the bag from your wrist with a dramatic flourish and held it up like it was the holy grail, peering inside. “is this—are these shrimp chips? you do love me.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“your shorts said it for you.”

“fuck you.”

he shut the door behind you with a little too much smugness in the click, dropped the snack bag onto his desk like it was a reward for something he didn’t work for, and turned to look at you fully. “okay, but seriously. hi. you look... like you lost a fight with a dryer, and then won the war of being adorable.”

“you’ve been back for five minutes and i already regret everything.”

“but you missed me.” his voice dropped just half a note, not sultry, not teasing—just confident, and you hated that it made your stomach go soft and fluttery like a tragic anime side character about to say something embarrassing and get hit by a car. “you missed me so bad, didn’t you?”

“i missed you like a hole in the head.”

“that’s still a kind of love,” he grinned, stepping closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down so his forehead almost bumped yours. “cursed and irreversible.”

you tried to back up, hit his desk instead. fuck.

“you’re an idiot.”

“you look like you wanna cry.”

“i do. because of your face.”

“because you love my face.”

“yuuta.”

he laughed, that soft exhale kind of laugh, warm and real and too close. his fingers grazed the snack bag again. your heart forgot how to perform basic rhythm.

you hated him. you hated how he looked better than before. more whole. more like himself. and that he wasn’t scared anymore. and that now you didn’t know if you were allowed to want him without breaking something.

“so,” he said, turning to open the mini fridge, crouching slightly, letting his shirt ride up so you could see the shadow of his lower back and the waistband of his shorts pulling low, “what’s the plan, captain? movie night? tears? declaration of undying devotion? all of the above?”

you hated him. you hated that he knew. that he was waiting.

but you were here now. no takebacks. and your knees had already lost the ability to lock.

you said, “movie night.”

he grinned again, not looking back. “mmhm. coward.”

you stared at him for a second too long, a long dumb second where he was still bent over with the fridge door hanging open and the lamplight just so, highlighting the curve of his spine and the soft dip of muscle above his waistband, and he was rattling a soda can around like it owed him something, humming some godawful off-key jingle under his breath while absolutely oblivious to the fact that you were contemplating both murder and marriage at the same time. and that was dangerous. because the moment you started thinking thoughts like his back looks like a religious experience and i want to punch him in the throat, you were in too deep.

so you did the only thing your tragically flustered nervous system allowed: you walked up and kicked him square in the shin.

“ow—fuck, what the hell,” he yelped, straightening with the drama of a man shot in war, dropping the soda in the process which landed with a thud and rolled under the desk like it knew what was good for it. “was that necessary?”

“yes,” you said, stepping around him like he was debris, heading straight for the tiny kitchenette shoved into the corner of the dorm like an afterthought. the popcorn bag was already in your hand, pre-buttered and microwavable and honestly the only real symbol of stability in your life at the moment. you yanked open his one cabinet, found a bowl shaped like it had been purchased in a panic, and set it down with the finality of someone trying very hard not to scream. “i am asserting dominance.”

“by kicking me like a rabid toddler?” he called from behind you, and you heard the stupid amusement in his voice, the I’m-smiling-but-I’m-also-plotting kind of grin that made you want to wrap your legs around his head and drown him in it. “wow. you really did miss me.”

you ignored him, shoved the bag into the microwave and typed in numbers that weren’t the time but felt emotionally correct. then you heard it—that sound. the soft, quiet approach. sockless feet brushing linoleum. and then—

his fingers in your hair.

it started small. just a gentle flick, like he was testing the texture, maybe reminding himself what it felt like to touch you. and you told yourself you weren’t going to react. you were strong. you were composed. you had kicked him in the shin, for god’s sake.

then he twirled a strand, slow and deliberate, looping it once, twice around his index finger like he was braiding the concept of being insufferable. and he was close. not body-pressed-close, not oh-no-we’re-about-to-kiss close—worse. emotionally close. best-friend-who-knows-what-makes-you-crack close. and that was the real danger zone.

“i don’t remember giving you permission,” you mumbled, not looking back, hands busy pretending to rearrange popcorn bags that didn’t need rearranging.

“you didn’t,” he said, twirling harder, tugging it gently like he was testing how far he could go before you screamed. “but it’s not like you’re gonna stop me.”

“you’re violating the geneva convention right now.”

“it’s hair. not nuclear arms.”

“i will scalp you.”

“hot.”

you froze for a half-second, horrified by the small laugh that slipped out of your own throat, because how dare he be funny and disgusting and weirdly charming all at once. and the worst part? the actual worst part? his fingers were still in your hair. just resting there now, tangled lazy, like he belonged. like you were a thing he was allowed to touch. and your whole body was doing that thing again—heat in the gut, soft static under your skin, a flush crawling its way up your neck like shame dressed as desire.

“i hate you.”

“you keep saying that but you’re not convincing,” he said, voice close to your ear now, low and amused and awful and warm. “you didn’t even flinch.”

“i’m biding my time. waiting for the perfect moment to shiv you with a butter knife.”

“you are so bad at pretending you don’t love me,” he whispered, fingers giving your hair one last tug, then releasing like he hadn’t just incinerated every single one of your higher brain functions.

you whipped around, popcorn forgotten, bowl cradled in your hands like a weapon. “you’re the most annoying man i’ve ever met.”

“you’ve only met like four men.”

“and three of them were fictional.”

“and you still picked me.” he grinned, then leaned in so close you could count every unfair eyelash, all fluttery and boyish and violent. “tragic.”

you opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the microwave dinged, loud and shrill like an alarm you didn’t set, and both of you jumped. he stepped back, smirking like the devil in gym shorts.

you hated him.

you also loved him.

but that wasn’t the point.

you reached past him to yank open the microwave, your arm brushing his chest on the way, and you could feel the heat of him, the bare skin under that translucent white shirt, like he’d been designed in a lab to make you clinically insane.

he didn’t move.

you didn’t either.

not yet.

fast forward past the microwave war crimes and the traumatic realization that the strawberry-print shorts rode up every time you bent even slightly, past the part where he insisted on filling a second bowl “for tactical snack separation” and then immediately kept both within his reach like a possessive gremlin, past the flickering mental images of throttling him versus maybe gently kissing him just to shut him up—it was later now, and you were on his bed, which felt like a decision made under spiritual duress.

you were laying on your stomach like a lazy sea creature, arms folded under the ridiculous puff of one of his old pillows, probably the one he drooled on based on how aggressively it smelled like shampoo and existentialism. the tv on his desk across the room played soft flickers of color over your bare legs, the blue hue of a night scene washing over your skin like cinematic bathwater. the pillow squished your ribs uncomfortably but you refused to move because you were locked in a delicate standoff between comfort and pride. your shirt had ridden up, naturally. you ignored it. you were committed to the bit.

he was leaned back against the headboard beside you, long legs stretched out like a relaxed golden retriever who knew he owned the whole damn room, the popcorn bowl balanced delicately between the two of you, technically for sharing but realistically under his complete jurisdiction. every now and then, when you reached for some, he’d shift the bowl slightly like a petty little landlord, then smirk when you glared without heat.

“this is a hate crime,” you muttered, palm in the bowl fishing blindly for something that wasn’t just kernels and betrayal.

“this is a romantic crime,” yuuta corrected, chewing obnoxiously loud next to your ear. “we’re bonding. we’re creating memories. you’re gonna look back at this one day and cry.”

“i’m gonna look back and sue.”

“i’m gonna bring this up in my vows.”

“what vows—are you marrying my corpse?”

“god, you’re so dramatic,” he said, nudging the bowl toward your face just as you gave up. “here. have a sympathy handful, you absolute victim.”

you grumbled something incoherent but shoved your hand in before he changed his mind. your fingers touched his for a second and he didn’t flinch, just looked down at you with that dumb fondness in his eyes like he’d won a prize at the fair and couldn’t decide whether to eat it or keep it on his shelf forever.

on screen, ana steel was currently having her lip bitten by christian grey for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

“i can’t believe you made me watch this,” you groaned, mouth full of popcorn, turning your face into the pillow like it might drown out the secondhand embarrassment.

“excuse me?” he gasped, mock horror fully engaged. “i am blessing you with culture.”

“you made me watch a billionaire man-child stalk a woman into a bdsm contract.”

“and he bought her a car,” yuuta pointed out, as if that somehow absolved the war crimes happening on screen.

“he sold her car without asking.”

“okay, that part was unhinged,” he admitted, stuffing another handful into his mouth. “but also kind of hot, like in a ‘don’t do this but also do this if you’re rich and emotionally damaged’ way.”

you turned your head to look up at him, chin digging into the pillow, eyebrows furrowed. “so you identify with him?”

he didn’t miss a beat. “i identify with ana.”

you snorted so hard you nearly inhaled a kernel.

“what, like you want someone to rescue you with their trauma and a playroom full of sex toys?” you asked, half choking on laughter.

“no,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head with criminal smugness, “i want someone to look at me like that and let me sign a contract that outlines exactly how often i’m allowed to be annoying.”

you rolled your eyes so hard you almost left your body.

“god, you’re insufferable.”

“but lovable,” he added, nudging your shoulder with his knee. “admit it. you like watching horny garbage with me.”

you didn’t answer right away, just flopped your face sideways into the pillow again, watching the screen, because the thing was—this was maybe the dumbest and coziest version of hell you’d ever experienced. the soft weight of his blanket tangled over both your legs. the occasional crunch as he kept eating your popcorn with the rhythm of a man chewing through existential dread. the quiet hum of the fan above you both. his presence looming, always just close enough to lean into. or over. or on.

“you’re the garbage,” you finally said, voice muffled. “the movie is fine.”

“awww,” he cooed, leaning down, voice dripping with weaponized smugness. “is that your love language? bullying me into intimacy?”

“don’t flatter yourself, grey.”

he reached over and tugged at your shirt gently, pulling the hem down over the small of your back, only to immediately pull it back up again like he was testing how much he could get away with. you smacked his hand blindly, but it made you laugh anyway, because this was him—yuuta fucking okkotsu, sweet and mean and flirty and dumb as a brick in love’s stupidest architecture. and you hated how soft it made you feel, how completely unguarded and ridiculous and… happy.

“we should recreate the elevator scene,” he whispered suddenly, like a war criminal.

“i will push you down the stairs.”

“you’re no fun. i could be your emotionally stunted dom.”

“you literally cry at those dog rescue videos.”

“emotional depth isn’t a crime.”

“you own one pair of handcuffs and they’re for cosplay.”

he gasped like you’d just ruined his career. “you promised never to bring that up.”

“you wore them to the school halloween party and said you were ‘sexy rehabilitation.’”

“and it worked! i won second place! gojo voted for me!”

you couldn’t breathe. your face was buried in the pillow again but this time from hysterics, your body shaking against the mattress while the movie’s dramatic music swelled in the background, completely ignored. he reached down and started playing with your hair again, soft and absentminded, fingers running over strands and occasionally tugging just to make you twitch.

“you’re the worst,” you muttered into the fabric.

“i’m your worst,” he said, and it was so quiet, so offhand, so horribly gentle that you had to close your eyes for a second and hold your breath just to survive it.

the tv glowed soft and blue. the popcorn was half gone. and yuuta’s fingers were still tangled in your hair like they’d never stopped.

you don’t remember when the popcorn bowl was exiled to the floor like a fallen soldier, when his knees bent to cage your hips in place, one on either side like he wasn’t subtly climbing you like a tree, like he didn’t just decide that personal space was a capitalist lie invented to keep you from enjoying the sheer horror of his presence, but suddenly there he was—perched over you like a smug gargoyle with perfect posture and absolutely no sense of shame, one hand tangled in your hair again, the other casually draped over the small of your back like he was claiming territory or maybe measuring how far he could push you before you screamed into his pillow.

you were still lying on your stomach, still pinned to his stupid bed with your stupid dignity melting through the mattress like slow death, still pretending you were unaffected by the fact that he was now fully lounging on top of you like a sunbathing menace, his weight gentle but inevitable, like gravity got a personality disorder and started flirting.

“you know,” he drawled, voice sliding right beside your ear like a heat rash in audio form, “if i didn’t know better, i’d say you planned this.”

you tried to lift your head but his palm gently but very firmly pressed it back into the pillow with the same exact energy as someone telling a golden retriever to “stay.” your voice came out muffled, somewhere between indignation and a breakdown. “planned what? the fucking suffocation?”

“you brought snacks,” he said with a completely unserious shrug you could feel vibrate through your entire spine. “you wore the shorts. you’re lying on my bed like a sacrificial offering. i’m just connecting the dots.”

“you’re connecting shit. you’re a conspiracy theorist with a god complex.”

“mmm,” he hummed, tracing a lazy circle between your shoulder blades with one finger. “god’s out of office. i’m your problem now.”

you flailed halfheartedly, kicked one heel back into his thigh. “i’m filing a complaint.”

“please do,” he said brightly. “i love getting fan mail.”

“you’re so—so annoying.”

“you’re blushing,” he said.

“i’m overheating under your weird emotionally co-dependent weight.”

he bent low enough that his breath tickled the back of your neck and you wanted to slap him and kiss him and throw yourself out the window in equal measure. “you like it. just admit it. you like when i’m all clingy and dramatic and a little mean. you missed me. so bad. like it hurt.”

you choked on a noise that wasn’t a denial. it might’ve been a dying bird. maybe a baby crying. the tv was still playing in the background, some intense jazz instrumental under a scene where christian grey was earnestly making eye contact while unzipping something. you hated this. you loved this. you wanted to throw the remote at his head and then press your mouth to his collarbone like you could bite the word finally into his skin.

“you’re getting cocky,” you whispered, tilting your chin just enough to glance up at him, your face twisted in dramatic pain. “something happened to you out there. in africa. the mosquitoes gave you a superiority complex.”

he laughed, short and loud and delighted, collapsing just slightly more against you, his chest brushing your back in a way that felt like someone turning a page too slowly. “nah. you just forgot i was a menace before i left. it’s all coming back now, isn’t it?”

“i blocked it out for my mental health.”

“you missed me so much you forgot your own coping strategies.”

“you’re projecting.”

“you cried when i posted that video of the meerkat hugging the baby goat.”

“because i have empathy.”

“you sent it to me with ‘this is us.’”

“because you’re the goat and i’m the burdened soul holding on for dear life.”

he snorted, finally rolling just enough to the side so his weight settled against your hip instead of directly on your back, one leg still draped over yours like he was trying to win a game of human jenga. “you love me.”

you groaned, pulling the pillow over your face. “stop saying that.”

“say it back, coward.”

“no.”

“say it.”

“absolutely not.”

“say you love me or i’ll quote the contract scene verbatim.”

“i dare you.”

he took a deep breath.

you shrieked, flung the pillow directly into his face, which he caught with both hands while wheezing with laughter. “you fucking menace. you—how do you still know the words? do you memorize garbage?”

“yes. and you. same folder. same cherished label.”

you glared at him. he was laughing so hard his cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess again from rolling over too much, one curl sticking to his temple with sweat and popcorn grease, and the sight of him—real and here and loud and breathing all over bed space—hit you so hard you went still for a second, like your body realized before your brain did that this was the moment, the moment, the breath before you said something you couldn’t walk back.

his eyes caught yours. quiet for once. sincere. amused, yes, always, but... waiting.

“you are so fucking annoying,” you whispered.

“you’re stalling,” he whispered back.

“you smell like corn butter and laundry detergent.”

“say it.”

“you’re ugly.”

“say it.”

“you’re literally the worst person—”

he grabbed your jaw. not hard, not rough—just enough to tilt your chin up and look you in the eye, eyes glinting with something unbearable and infuriating and stupidly, ridiculously beautiful. “say it, or i’m gonna say it first and you’ll be mad about it for the next thirty years.”

your chest hurt.

your legs tingled.

your mouth was dry and also stupid.

“i love you,” you said, like it was a dare.

he blinked.

paused.

then, grinning like a man who just pulled off the greatest heist of his life, he leaned down, brushed your nose with his, and whispered—

“took you fucking long enough.”

you wanted to hit him. not with your fist. with a book, probably, or maybe a bag of frozen peas, or something heavy and full of metaphor like the complete works of shakespeare annotated by someone with too much time and a vendetta. because he was smiling now, but it wasn’t even a normal person’s smile—it was a stupid, slow, predatory, cat-that-ate-the-whole-zoo grin, the kind of smile that said “i’ve already won and now i’m just here to gloat about it while reclining dramatically on your grave.”

he was leaning in, still half-laughing, half-devastating, his forehead brushing yours again like he couldn’t quite resist the gravitational pull of your face and the disaster inside it. your breath hitched and your brain short-circuited and all your blood decided to throw a rave in your ears. you couldn’t look at him. so, obviously, you did.

“say it again,” he whispered, and the worst part was that he wasn’t even trying to be hot. he was just obnoxious and needy and chronically underloved in the most annoying way possible, which made it ten thousand times worse, because now he’d tasted victory and he wanted seconds.

“you didn’t even say it back,” you said, mouth dry, fingers curling into the pillow like it owed you emotional support. “why should i go again if you’re gonna keep holding your words hostage?”

“oh,” he said, tilting his head dramatically like a villain who just heard a plot twist. “do you think this is transactional?”

“everything’s transactional when your heart is on fire,” you snapped, voice high and stupid and a little wobbly.

“jesus christ,” he breathed, grinning wider, “you are in love with me.”

“no, i’m just suffering.”

“same thing.”

you made a sound. an actual sound, like a dying kettle or a kettle that’s just learned about taxes, and buried your face in the pillow again, except this time he didn’t let you escape. he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you back, just enough to keep you looking at him, just enough to make you feel every inch of him, the soft weight of his thigh over yours, the heat of his hand wrapped around your arm, his breath a lazy ghost near your cheek.

“okay,” he said, voice lower now, still soft but stupidly smug, “you ready?”

“for what,” you mumbled.

he raised a single, unnecessary eyebrow. “i’m gonna say it back. you better not cry. or kiss me. or cry while kissing me.”

“i am deeply unattracted to you right now.”

“shut up.”

you did.

he took a breath. unnecessarily long. dramatic as hell. he looked like he was about to deliver a monologue on a stage with a spotlight, except instead it was just you and him and the flickering tv in the background showing a guy tying a tie around someone’s wrists, and the half-empty popcorn bowl on the floor like the saddest metaphor for your relationship.

“i love you,” he said, finally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it wasn’t news, like he hadn’t already been living it out loud every day since you met.

you blinked.

he blinked back.

then: “there. now we’re even. now it’s not weird anymore.”

“it’s still weird.”

“you’re weird.”

“you love someone who’s weird.”

“you’re right,” he said. “i’ve got horrible taste.”

you tried to shove him off the bed. he caught you by the waist and laughed so loud you swore someone in the next room probably heard, and you didn’t even care anymore because it was so easy now—laughing with him, being angry with him, being alive with him—it all made the same kind of impossible sense.

you fell back against the mattress, still tangled in him, still dumbfounded by how something so long-simmering could feel so sudden, so now. and he was staring at you again with that specific kind of expression that should be illegal—soft and knowing and just a little too satisfied with himself, like he’d cracked the code to life and it was just your name on repeat.

“you’re gonna marry me one day,” he said casually, like he was mentioning the weather.

“oh my god,” you groaned. “please shut the fuck up.”

“you are,” he insisted, lying flat beside you now, one arm under his head, the other tracing the hem of your shirt with a pinky like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. “we’re gonna fight over dishes and have a weird little dog named knife and every time we argue i’ll remind you that you confessed first.”

“you’re a walking restraining order.”

“and you fell in love with me. tragic.”

you turned your head to glare at him. he was so close his breath hit your cheek every time he exhaled. his eyes were stars and graveyards. his mouth was curled in that same stupid smile that made your stomach try to escape out your knees.

“yuuta.”

“yes, my beloved nemesis.”

“if you don’t shut up in the next five seconds i’m going to kiss you so hard it’ll reset your nervous system.”

“that’s the opposite of a threat.”

you lunged.

and he caught you.

and he kissed you like he’d already been kissing you for years. not perfect. not polished. just yours. messy, crooked, smiling into your mouth kind of kissing, hands in your hair, your fingers twisting in his shirt, legs tangled and breathless and stupid. kissing like a fight and a promise and an inside joke all at once.

when you pulled back, he was already laughing.

“told you you’d cry while kissing me,” he said, wiping under your eye with his thumb like the smug idiot he was.

you slapped his hand away.

and then you kissed him again.

it was deranged, truly, how fast the air changed—one second you were sprawled like a corpse of sarcasm and poor life choices on your stomach, cheeks warm, laughing against his mouth, his fingers still in your hair like they’d grown roots there, like they were meant to stay, the whole room vibrating with that ridiculous bubble of mutual idiocy and love and “did that really just happen?”—and the next thing you knew, he was shifting, moving with that new, awful confidence like he’d been holding back for years and the dam finally cracked. your brain barely registered the shift in weight before he sat up fully, legs folding beneath him, his hands sliding down your sides with terrifying purpose, and you were the one who ended up on his lap, straddling him like you’d been doing it since the dawn of time and the world just hadn’t caught on yet.

the tv was off. when had the tv turned off? it didn’t matter. the screen was black now, and you could see your own reflection in it behind his shoulder—wide eyes, wild hair, expression like someone who’d just been told the apocalypse was romantic—and the room was dim, barely lit by the single desk lamp glowing soft yellow, its bulb on its last legs, everything cloaked in that kind of warmth that made skin look flushed and intentions look softer than they really were.

you didn’t remember putting your hands on his shoulders. you didn’t remember him pulling you closer. but there you were, knees pressed against the outsides of his thighs, his palms anchored at your waist like you were something solid, something worth holding onto even now, especially now, and his thumbs were rubbing gentle circles through the hem of your stupid strawberry-print shorts and you could feel the electricity behind his breathing, tight and shallow and not teasing anymore.

no more games. no more sharp-edged banter. just this.

“you’re quiet,” he whispered, voice the softest it had been all night, reverent almost, like he was afraid if he said it too loud the moment would fold in on itself.

“i’m overwhelmed,” you answered, honestly, stupidly, because you couldn’t lie to him anymore, not now, not when his mouth was this close and his hands felt like home. “you’re being—serious.”

he blinked, slow and soft, then smiled—not the usual grin, not the toothy, boyish mischief. this one was small. sad in the corners. sweet in a way that hurt.

“i’m always serious with you,” he said, brushing his nose against yours like punctuation.

“no, you’re not,” you laughed, even as your voice trembled. “you’re a menace.”

“a menace who’s in love with you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the edge of your jaw, a soft thing that made your entire ribcage vibrate. “deeply. irrevocably. stupidly.”

“you forgot ‘violently’,” you whispered.

he kissed the corner of your mouth. “violently,” he echoed.

then he kissed you. properly. finally. again.

but this time it was different—no more smirking into the press of lips, no more tongue-in-cheek or cocky little nips meant to drive you crazy. this was slower. deeper. like something he’d been holding in his lungs for a decade and now he could finally let it out. he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every reaction, every shift in breath, every way your hands trembled slightly against the curve of his neck when he tilted his head just right and exhaled into you like a confession he couldn’t quite say out loud yet.

his mouth moved against yours with that awful sweetness that made your knees weak even though you weren’t standing, the kind of kiss that said stay. the kind of kiss that didn’t have to ask.

your hands slid into his hair before you even thought about it, fingers tangling in those soft strands, pulling him closer like it wasn’t enough, like it would never be enough. and he let you, of course he did, tilting into your grip, mouth parting just enough for your teeth to catch his bottom lip and make him sigh—a sound so soft and desperate it knocked every thought straight out of your head.

his arms wrapped around you tighter, one slipping under your shirt like he needed proof you were really there, fingertips ghosting up your spine, warm and shaking and tender. he kissed you again, and again, in between breaths like he was scared the distance might kill him.

“fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, his voice breaking around the edges now, none of that performative sass left, just raw affection and nerves and that unbearable sincerity that always lived under the mess. “i missed you so much it made me fucking sick.”

you closed your eyes. rested your forehead against his. let your nose bump his cheek. let your entire body lean into him like the safest place in the world.

“i thought about you every day,” you whispered. “like a freak. like some pathetic little lovesick idiot.”

he kissed your cheek. your temple. your chin. “yeah,” he said, “same. we’re freaks together.”

“soulmates in idiocy.”

“co-presidents of the tragic dumbass society.”

“yuuta.”

he looked up at you again, eyes wide and stupid and full of too much feeling.

“yeah?”

“don’t stop,” you whispered.

so he didn’t. he kissed you again. again. again. slower now. messier. the kind of kiss you fell into and never came back from. the kind that changed your blood type.

you didn’t know where this was going. you didn’t care. all you knew was this—his hands on you, his voice in your ear, his mouth against yours like he was trying to rewrite your entire existence one breath at a time.

and god, it worked.

he kissed you like he was running out of time and breath and restraint, like every press of his mouth against yours was both apology and reward, thank you and finally, and it didn’t feel like escalation, didn’t feel like foreplay or some slippery slope into the inevitable—it felt like something older than either of you, something pulled up from under your skin and cracked open between your teeth. you could barely think. you were breathing through him, your whole world tilted on its axis and centered now around the place where your hips were pressed against his, knees bracketing his thighs, your hands still tight in his hair because if you let go you might float straight out of your body and never come back.

his palms splayed across your back like he was trying to memorize the exact pressure needed to keep you tethered, moving in soft little circles that made you shiver even though the room was hot, and his tongue flicked against your lower lip again and again, coaxing little sighs out of your throat that made him groan like he was the one unraveling. and maybe he was. maybe you both were. maybe this was the only way either of you knew how to be real—half-laughing, half-crying, wrapped around each other like idiots in love and out of options.

you dragged your mouth away long enough to gasp, “we’re so dumb.”

and he, breathless and flushed and grinning like the devil had just offered him a promotion, replied, “yeah, but we’re hot.”

you snorted, chest heaving, and dipped your head into the crook of his neck, lips brushing against the column of his throat as you laughed directly against his pulse. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re hesitating,” he shot back, and it took you a second to realize what he meant, to follow the trail of thought through the haze of heat and affection and general hormonal disaster. your hands had shifted, were now fisted lightly in the hem of his shirt, that worn, thin white thing clinging to his chest in soft folds, semi-transparent under the lamplight. you’d tugged it up just a little—just high enough to expose the first dangerous inch of his stomach—but then stopped. froze. like a coward.

“i’m not hesitating,” you muttered, because lying was easier than having a panic attack mid-makeout.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and amused and way too full of affection for someone being slandered. “you’re totally hesitating. you’re scared of my abs.”

“i’m not scared of your abs.”

“you’re scared of my hot, missionary-sent-me abs. you’re intimidated.”

“you’re literally the most annoying man alive.”

“you love my annoying abs.”

“yuuta,” you said, trying to be serious, trying to slow the momentum of the joke before it took over everything again. “i just—i don’t know.”

he went quiet. not in a bad way. not in a oh no now he’s overthinking way. just soft. aware. like he’d felt the shift in your hands, your posture, the way you were still touching him but also thinking too much.

he brought his hand up to your cheek, tilted your face back toward his with two fingers under your chin, and whispered, “hey. look at me.”

you did. of course you did.

his eyes were stupidly gentle, like a blanket you didn’t ask for but needed anyway.

“we don’t have to do anything. we don’t have to do anything,” he said, clear and calm and slow like he wanted to make sure every word landed in the right place. “i just wanna kiss you. i could kiss you for, like, seven years. we can pause for snacks. maybe a nap.”

you blinked, suddenly a little breathless again but for a different reason.

“you’re so dumb,” you whispered, but it cracked halfway out.

“and you’re still holding my shirt like it personally offended you.”

you looked down at your hands, still clenched in the hem like it owed you rent. the skin under your fingers was warm, soft, the faintest hint of tremble under his calm like he wasn’t nearly as unaffected as he pretended to be.

slowly, carefully, you moved your fingers again. just a bit. tugged the fabric higher.

yuuta didn’t move. didn’t help. just watched you. patient. still.

you pushed it up over his stomach, revealing more—soft skin, lean lines, that ridiculous little dip under his ribs that was definitely not helping your composure, and finally, the undeniable definition of his abs. stupid. taut. completely unnecessary. like someone designed him with the express purpose of making you go into cardiac arrest.

“jesus,” you mumbled. “i thought this was just the lighting earlier.”

he smirked, tilting his head. “you can say it. you’re turned on.”

“i’m not gonna feed your ego.”

“baby, you’re literally in my lap.”

“on accident.”

“sure.”

your hands slid higher, just a little more, and he leaned back slightly to help you, finally, tugging the shirt off the rest of the way and over his head, tossing it to the side with a casual flick that really shouldn’t have been so hot but unfortunately was. his chest was bare now, lit golden in the low light, the shadows making every line look sharper than necessary. he sat there, proud and obnoxious and gorgeous, arms resting loosely around your waist, eyes half-lidded and waiting.

“so?” he said. “what’s the verdict?”

you stared for a beat too long, then shook your head. “i hate you so much.”

he leaned forward, mouth brushing yours, and whispered, “you’re drooling.”

you kissed him before he could finish laughing, kissed him hard and hungry and full of frustration and gratitude and longing that had nowhere else to go. his hands slid back up your spine again, then down, slow and warm and steady, and you pressed your chest against his, skin to skin now, breath tangled and mouths moving in sync like it was muscle memory.

this was different now. not just soft. not just playful. it was still dumb, still full of laughter and half-whispers and too many feelings, but it was honest. real. the kind of closeness you only earned after months of pretending not to want it.

his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve until you shivered, his hands holding you like you were fragile and indestructible at the same time.

“okay,” you breathed, fingers threading through his hair again. “okay. maybe i am turned on.”

he laughed against your skin, a low hum that made your whole body vibrate.

“yeah,” he said, voice low and satisfied. “me too.”

you felt it before you saw it—his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, slow and reverent, like he was approaching a religious artifact and not your tragically old white cotton tee that probably still had mystery stains from dorm laundry hell and smelled vaguely like microwaved snacks and anxiety. his hands were warm, thumbs dragging along your ribs, and your breath caught halfway out of your throat because he wasn’t being cocky now, wasn’t making jokes or weird noises or doing that thing where he said something infuriating just to watch your face implode—no, he was focused. soft. maddeningly gentle. like he was scared of spooking you. like he was trying to do this right.

he looked at you the entire time, didn’t glance down once, even as the shirt bunched under your arms, his fingers pushing it up your back and then over your head in one smooth motion that felt too intimate to be legal, too slow to be real, and the way his eyes locked on yours as the fabric peeled away? criminal. unhinged. deeply dangerous. you could feel your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest cavity and throw itself out the window.

and then, like an idiot, like a grinning stupid horrible soft idiot, he said:

“whoa.”

“if you make a single joke,” you warned, voice threatening but also fragile, the kind of tone that cracked around the edges like old ceramic.

“no jokes,” he said immediately, holding up both hands like he was surrendering to the law but still resting them dangerously close to your spine. “i swear on gojo’s dumb designer sunglasses. you’re—shit. you’re so pretty. it’s actually rude.”

you didn’t know what to do with that. so you stared at him, blinking like someone who just got told they won a sweepstakes they didn’t enter, and tried not to melt into a puddle of hormonal regret.

you were still in your bra, obviously. thin-strapped, slightly crooked from his earlier manhandling, one cup sitting a little askew like you’d been in a romantic fender-bender. you felt like a hot mess. he looked like he wanted to write poetry about it.

“yuuta,” you murmured, unsure of what you were even trying to say.

he leaned in, kissed your collarbone with a soft press of lips that made your head tilt back instinctively, then trailed down—slow, slow, like a river taking its time to flood. and then his hands moved again, sliding up your back, thumbs brushing your shoulder blades, one finger hooking under the band of your bra in that way that made your stomach absolutely plummet.

his mouth was still on your skin when he said, half-muffled and far too casual:

“can i?”

the bastard had already found the clasp. one hand resting over it like it was a button to a secret door. your entire body was stiff and molten at once.

you breathed. shallow. shaky. said, “you’re asking now?”

he had the decency to chuckle into your shoulder, the vibration making your skin break out in chills.

“consent is hot,” he whispered, “even if i’m already halfway there.”

“yuuta,” you said again, but softer this time, more like a prayer than a warning.

he pulled back to look at you, and fuck—his face. flushed. open. stupidly beautiful. eyes wide and waiting, not pushing. not assuming. just there.

you nodded. slow. a little dizzy.

“yeah,” you whispered. “you can.”

his fingers moved without hesitation now—not rough, not rushed—just sure. the clasp gave way with a quiet click, the tension in the band loosening, and he slid his hands under the straps as if to say, i got you, even though he didn’t say anything at all. the fabric slipped down your arms like surrender. you let it. let him.

his eyes dropped, finally, but the look wasn’t hungry. it wasn’t some cliché moment of ogling. it was worse. it was tender. reverent. like you were something to be memorized, not devoured. like he was seeing you for the first time and the only thing in his brain was thank you.

his voice cracked a little when he said, “holy shit.”

you wanted to laugh. or cry. or combust. maybe all three.

so you did the only thing you could: you grabbed his face, held it in both hands like you were trying to mold it into something you could survive, and kissed him again. desperate. grateful. a little shaky. and he kissed you back like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

he didn’t touch your chest—not yet, not even a hint of suggestion. he just wrapped his arms around you, full body, buried his face in your neck and whispered, “you’re gonna ruin me.”

and you whispered back, “good.”

and meant every word.

the air in the room shifted like it had caught on fire, not the loud kind, not the dramatic blaze that engulfed buildings and screamed for attention—no, this was the slow, creeping kind, the burn that started in your chest and worked its way outward, cell by cell, inch by inch, until even the dim, flickering lamplight felt like it was watching you both a little too closely. and there you were, bare from the waist up now, still straddling his lap like a disaster waiting to happen, like a headline, like a statistic in a very affectionate cautionary tale, his arms around your ribs so gently it felt like gravity was being polite about it, and his face buried in the crook of your neck like he was hiding from his own goddamn feelings.

he hadn’t moved since you said it—good—hadn’t laughed or made some snarky little comeback, which was alarming in itself because that was his whole brand, wasn’t it? being a menace in the shape of a boy you stupidly trusted with your life and now your shirt. but instead, he just exhaled. slow. hot. reverent. like that single word did something to him he wasn’t ready to admit.

and then, of course, because he couldn’t help himself—because silence was a threat to his personality—he whispered, voice muffled into your throat, “you’re evil.”

“you’re clingy,” you muttered, even as your arms looped around his shoulders like anchors, like reflex.

“you just said you wanted to ruin me. do you hear yourself?”

“i said good, which was not a threat.”

“oh no, it was,” he said, finally pulling back to look at you, and he looked wrecked already, hair a mess, lips bitten pink, cheeks flushed, pupils blown out like he’d seen some divine truth in the curve of your collarbone. “you’re saying things like that while sitting on my lap and half-naked and then acting surprised when i combust.”

“you haven’t combusted yet,” you said, tilting your head, “do i need to try harder?”

his jaw dropped. his hands—those goddamn hands, all heat and reverence and menace—gripped your hips a little tighter, not rough but anchoring, like he needed to confirm you were real and also possibly prevent you from flying off the rails, which was ironic because you were the one currently holding yourself together with a thread and a half.

“okay,” he said, nodding slowly, eyes narrowing like he was processing a new kind of threat. “okay. so this is what we’re doing.”

“what are we doing?”

“you’re playing innocent while literally breaking me.”

“i’m not innocent,” you said, inching forward just slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch in a way that made you feel like you’d grown wings, like maybe you could ruin him if you tried. “i’m just not doing anything.”

“that’s the problem,” he said, and then, like he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in again, lips brushing against your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, soft kisses dropped like punctuation marks in a letter he hadn’t finished writing. “you’re not doing anything and i’m still losing my fucking mind.”

you reached up, brushed his hair back from his forehead, your fingers sliding into the mess like they belonged there, like they’d always been there. he looked up at you from under his lashes, and it hit you all over again—how stupidly pretty he was, how unfair his face was in this lighting, how every expression on him looked like a confession.

“yuuta,” you whispered, and it wasn’t a warning this time. it wasn’t even a question. it was just his name, soft and unsteady and full of every terrible, wonderful thing you hadn’t had the guts to say before.

“yeah?” he breathed, hands still on your waist, fingers twitching like he was trying so hard not to move.

you kissed him again. because what else could you do? his mouth opened under yours like it had been waiting, like it knew how to respond to your rhythm, your breath, your hunger before you even gave it a name. this kiss was slower, but not gentler. it was deep, exploratory, a little unhinged, teeth catching his lip, your hips shifting against his thighs without permission, and he groaned into your mouth like it surprised him, like the noise escaped before he could trap it.

“fuck,” he gasped when you finally pulled back for air, forehead pressed to yours. “you kiss like you’re trying to make me pass out.”

“good,” you said again, and he made a sound, something between a growl and a laugh and a strangled plea.

“you keep saying that,” he muttered, hands sliding up your sides now, not pushing, not groping, just holding, like he needed the contact, needed the skin-on-skin like it was a lifeline. “and it keeps getting hotter.”

you shivered, not because of the cold—there was none, not here, not with him breathing like that, not with your skin pressed against his, not with your heart trying to climb out of your mouth and build a shrine to his name in the back of your throat—but because of the weight of it. all of it. everything you’d kept hidden between laughter and fake arguments and eye-rolls. it was all out now. and he was still looking at you like you were the best decision he’d ever made.

“what happens now?” you asked, not quite trusting your voice.

he smiled, slow and devastating, one thumb rubbing a line across your waist like he was signing something unspoken.

“whatever you want,” he said. “this—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “—is yours.” he kissed your jaw, “you call the shots.” kissed the dip under your ear, “you tell me when to stop.”

you leaned into him, breathing fast, laughing a little even though it felt like you were about to cry.

“god, you’re such a dumbass romantic.”

“only for you,” he whispered, and meant it so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

and you believed him. like a fool. like someone ready to fall and call it flying.

you kissed him again. and this time, you didn’t hesitate.

the words slipped out like a crime, like you hadn’t meant to say them but also had meant to say them every second since you walked through his door with that bag of snacks swinging from your wrist like a peace offering and a loaded weapon—your lips grazed his, your mouth half-open from breathless kissing, brain so loud and full of him it almost cracked, and then there it was, out in the air between you, all soft and stupid and sharp at the edges:

“i want to do it.”

it wasn’t seductive. it wasn’t breathy or pornographic or dripping with confidence. it was shy and shaken and maybe even a little too high-pitched, like your body knew what it wanted before your voice had a chance to rehearse. but the second you said it, you felt it click. like the moment when you find a light switch in the dark and flip it without knowing what room you’re in.

he stilled. for once, yuuta didn’t grin. didn’t make a joke. didn’t even blink for a second. his hands were still on your waist, bare skin under his fingers, and his forehead was still against yours, but something in his eyes shifted—some soft, wide-eyed mix of holy-shit and are-you-sure and oh-god-oh-god-oh-fuck.

he swallowed. slow. shallow. said, barely above a whisper, “are you sure?”

you nodded. once. twice. then whispered it too, because it was true now, every part of you humming like a live wire, “yeah. i’m sure.”

and then he kissed you like it was his last chance to memorize the shape of your mouth, slow and deep and gentle in a way that was almost reverent, like you’d said something sacred instead of something horny. his hands moved with the kind of patience that should’ve been illegal, every touch featherlight but confident, and when he finally laid you back onto the bed, his fingers never left your skin—not once. it was less like he was trying to get you naked and more like he was trying to hold you steady while the world spun off its axis.

he made you laugh in the middle of it, too. of course he did. you’d accidentally kneed him in the thigh while trying to scoot back and he made a whole dramatic performance out of it—groaning, falling onto the bed beside you like you’d mortally wounded him, then catching you with one arm and dragging you down with him, both of you breathless and flushed and laughing like the dumbass soulmates you were. he kissed you through it, kissed your laughter, kissed the corners of your mouth like they were the most important coordinates he’d ever mapped.

and when the laughing stopped—when the air got heavy and quiet and full of warmth instead of nerves—it was slow. careful. so gentle you almost cried. hands and mouths and breath, the soft sounds of skin finding skin and hearts beating too fast. nothing about it was polished or poetic. it was awkward and intimate and full of stupid sweetness, little whispered “is this okay?” and “does that feel good?” and “i think i’m dying but in a good way,” and god, it was so real. when it finally happened—when he was inside you, when his breath hitched in your ear and his hand squeezed yours like a lifeline—you realized it wasn’t about perfect. it was about him. about you. about finally getting to say i love you in a language you didn’t know you spoke.

and then, silence.

warm, golden, soft-edged silence, the kind that only came when everything was said and nothing had to be explained.

the room was still. the sheets a little twisted. your legs tangled with his under the blanket he must’ve pulled over you at some point, and your head resting on his chest like it had always meant to live there. you were both still naked, but the air didn’t feel cold—it felt right. safe. like you were inside a bubble that nothing outside the dorm could touch.

his hand was on your back. slow circles. absentminded. your name humming under his breath like a song he didn’t want to forget. you could hear his heart, steady now. solid.

“you’re weirdly quiet,” he murmured eventually, voice low and raspy like he’d been yelling all day when really he’d only been falling in love out loud.

you nuzzled into his collarbone, lips brushing warm skin. “i’m trying to preserve brain cells.”

“did i ruin you that bad?”

“yuuta.”

“don’t lie. i felt your soul leave your body halfway through.”

“i tripped over the blanket and headbutted your chin.”

“exactly. transcendent.”

you laughed. he kissed your temple.

and in the quiet that followed, he whispered, softer this time, “i love you.”

you smiled, eyes closed, body sore in the best way possible.

“i know,” you whispered back. “i felt it.”

and you did.

everywhere. still do.

you laid there in that post-apocalyptic emotional soup of skin-on-skin warmth and sex-brain fog, limbs tangled like a pair of cats that fell asleep mid-fight, the blanket half slipping off one side of the bed like even gravity was too blissed out to care anymore. yuuta’s arm was still looped around your back like a seatbelt he refused to unbuckle, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy, reverent little lines up and down your spine like he was trying to learn braille from your vertebrae. your face was tucked into the crook of his neck, because of course it was—because it was safe there, stupidly comfortable there, smelled like him there: warm skin and detergent and sweat and something sweet, like caramelized embarrassment. and for a while you just laid there, breathing slow, matching each other’s exhales, letting your pulse learn how to stop breakdancing.

and then your dumbass brain did what it always did in quiet moments.

it started thinking.

you didn’t mean to speak. not really. it started as a thought, then became a hypothetical, then suddenly it was a sound pushing its way out of your mouth without warning, wobbling on the edge of hesitation and a laugh and full-on dread.

“so, um,” you mumbled against his collarbone, lips barely moving, “does this mean you’re, like… my boyfriend?”

he stilled. dramatically. completely. like a lizard who sensed danger. you felt every muscle in his chest lock up under your cheek like you’d just asked him if he believed in god and monogamy in the same breath.

and then: “wait,” he said slowly, blinking up at the ceiling like he’d been personally betrayed by the sudden emergence of consequences. “we didn’t define the relationship before having sex? we’re heathens. we’re criminals. we’re going to moral jail.”

you groaned immediately. “never mind. cancel the question. take it off the table.”

“no, no, you brought the table out. now we’re gonna eat off it. we’re gonna have a whole discourse. with sides.”

“shut up—”

“you shut up,” he shot back, turning to face you properly now, rolling you a little so your leg slid higher over his hip, his hand gripping your thigh like punctuation. “you asked. so let’s unpack. do you want me to be your boyfriend? is this an exclusive, high-stakes, one-man show?”

“you literally said you loved me like five minutes ago.”

“people say crazy things during sex,” he said, eyes wide, clearly holding back a laugh. “i once said ‘let’s go’ in the middle of sex in my dream like i was about to ascend. anything’s possible.”

you slapped his chest. “yuuta. focus.”

he caught your hand before it retreated, laced his fingers through yours, and looked at you with that annoying mix of mockery and affection that made your heart feel like it was doing cartwheels in a minefield.

“you want me to be your boyfriend?” he asked again, quieter now, like maybe he wasn’t entirely joking anymore. “is that what this is?”

you swallowed, suddenly shy again, the post-sex high replaced with an equally stupid rush of panic and oh fuck this is real. “i mean… if you want to. if you don’t already have, like, a girl in every jujutsu region.”

“first of all,” he said, gently squeezing your hand, “you are the only dumbass i’ve ever stripped for. and second, of course i want to. i already am. i’ve been your boyfriend in spirit since the moment you called me a ‘walking restraining order’ and then gave me your last shrimp chip.”

you blinked. “you really consider that the turning point?”

“i fell in love right then,” he said seriously. “i knew you were the one.”

“you’re so full of shit.”

“your boyfriend is full of shit,” he corrected smugly. “say it. call me your boyfriend. do it. you started this, coward.”

you groaned again, burying your face in his neck, which was a mistake because now he was laughing and smug and warm and his stupid heartbeat was right under your ear, reminding you that yes, you loved this idiot. and yes, apparently, he was yours now.

“yuuta,” you muttered.

“say it.”

“you’re my boyfriend,” you grumbled, barely audible.

“louder, babe.”

“you’re my fucking boyfriend,” you said, half-snarling, half-laughing.

he grinned so hard you thought his face might crack. “fuck yeah i am. lock me in. relationship status: unhinged and fully committed.”

“i hate you.”

“you love me.”

“shut up.”

he rolled you both over until he was on top again, elbows on either side of your head, his hair flopping down into your face, and he kissed you quick and messy and happy, like he couldn’t help it, like he didn’t care about breath or rules or what happened next.

when he pulled back, his eyes were shining.

“girlfriend,” he said.

you rolled your eyes. “boyfriend.”

he smirked. “horny and in love. what a time to be alive.”

and then he kissed you again, just to seal the deal, because apparently, that’s what boyfriends do.