It was an honour to be selected to work with 141. One of many rookies sent out for this particular mission. And what a treat to be strapping yourself into the aircraft and glancing up to see the Lieutenant Ghost Riley settling down directly across from you. Legs spread wide, bucking his hips upwards ever so slightly to get himself comfortable. God what a sight. He was even more stunning in person than you imagined.
Your gaze trailed up from his thick thighs to his stomach. Shirt pulled tight across the immense muscle and fat. You could feel an itch in your jaw. The urge to bite. Further up to where his arms were crossed over his broad chest. Pushing his pecs together. Biceps bulging. One man didn't deserve to be this attractive. It was wholly unfair.
Only when your eyes lifted further they met his. Cool brown staring right at you. Your ears burned hot as you looked away. Staring at a spot on the wall, even though you could still feel him looking.
"Mutt." He called. It felt like your throat was closing up.
"Yeah, Lt?" Johnny called from the other end of the aircraft. Causing a couple of confused looks from your fellow recruits. And an eye roll from Sergeant Garrick.
"Not you. I'm talking about the needy Private that won't look me in the eye. An' thinks it's a better idea to stare at me crown jewels instead."
Johnny's laugh echoed through the metal box. You felt trapped. Was it too late to back out of this op? Perhaps the military entirely.
"Ah cannae blame 'em, Sir."
You could see Ghost shift again in the corner of your eye. Adjusting his position in the same way you were drooling over only seconds ago. It was like he was trying to get your attention back.
"Private. C'mere."
Your heart was in your throat. Barely able to breathe as you stood from your seat and stepped closer to him. Head ducked low and eyes on your feet as you stood between his legs.
"I'm your superior officer, recruit. You think you get to stand over me? Kneel."
Without thinking you dropped. The hard metal floor making your knees ache. You knew if you tilted your head even slightly you would be at eye level with his cock.
invites her over as a friend to just sit on his porch, with heavy pours of cherry bounce and sweet wine. he assures her nothing funny will happen, cause they wont even go inside his home....
"im gonna keep asking you to be my baby 'til you say yes."
she buries her head into his shoulder with a bashful giggle, the alcohol starting to hit.
"my dad wants me to date boys my own age."
"you dont need a boy," his hand slips on to her thigh. "you need a man. "
"what's the difference?"
"man's gonna take care of you. bring home money, keep you happy, hold you at night-" in a bold move, he reaches up her skirt and pats the front of her pussy. her hands fly down to clasp at his wrists, but he doesnt move away. keeping his hand there, he thinks, will get her used to his touch. "a man makes this feel real good."
he curls a single finger, running over her clothed slit.
"a boy would just stick his cock in here," he hums. "but a man knows to play with his wife. make her feel real good. keep her full."
sylus wakes to the sound of chirping birds. which is strange. because it’s the dead of winter and the windows are closed to keep frigid blows of the snow storm out of his bedroom.
“sylus…” you groan, smacking his shoulder as if he were the source of the incessant alarm.
“it’s not me,” he grunts, sitting up. the room is still in the pits of darkness save for a pair of glowing gem eyes. the lamp flicks on with a telling click to reveal a little boy on the bedroom floor.
sylus squints. “kyros?”
“i lucian.” says the blurry blob of baby. in his pudgy little fingers he holds sweet, beloved watcher of the night, Mephisto. “morning, papa. good morning.”
“angel, get off the floor, it’s cold.” he says, shuffling out of bed and staggering over to lucian. he picks him up, and carries him back to bed.
you stir at the commotion, surprised to see a child on your bed at such a late hour. “you okay, sweetie?”
sylus frowns at him. “did you have a nightmare?”
lucian shakes his head. “no, i—i do tores.”
you fight against the weight in your lids, your limbs and your mind and cradle his face gently. “baby, it’s midnight. too early for chores.”
“nuh-uh!” he shakes his head, holding the poor mechanical bird up. so obedient in his little master’s iron death grip, not a single peep of the frustrated squawks you get when you at the very least even look at him.
mephisto opens his beak, and again the symphony of birds chirping escapes his sound-boxed throat. a gentle awakening. an alarm. a cry for help.
“gonna to walk mephie.” lucian then says, shaking the bird. again, it releases a string of bird harmonies. lucian coos at the sound, but you and sylus know better.
though made of metal, bolts and a chip, you’ve come to believe that mephisto has expanded his affinity for emotions (you call it sentience, sylus says its just good tech, you insult him for his lack of whimsy).
and with his growing advancements was child rearing, the basics. downloaded in his bird brain: babysitting for dummies, how not to scare your baby, 100 soothing ambient noises for baby, and more.
“did you wake up so early just for this?” you ask him, gently redirecting his fingers to intertwine with yours. releasing the vice grip around mephisto’s ruffled feathers. the bird chirps gratefully.
“yes, mama.” lucian nods. then glances at sylus. who, for weeks, lucian has caught coming into his and his brother’s room to summon mephisto for his morning walk. “like papa. wanna to help papa.”
an arrow shoots through sylus’s chest at that, and he pulls lucian in a tight embrace to soothe the loving ache. lucian giggles at the motion and hugs sylus back.
sylus catches your eye, just as in awe as he is at the heart your son possesses. and then you shrug, and curl up into your blanket— it’s way past his bedtime, and you have no idea how he got up at this time on his own, but you’ll let it slide just this once. “well, you heard him, my love. time for a walk.”
lucian beams at his father, who grins right back. all traces of sleep gone, he is happy to oblige lucian on his morning chore. because really, he’d do anything for his boy who would do anything for him (and their bird).
and so, he considers changing the ‘walk crow’ schedule to noon.
synopsis : gojo satoru has always been a little ridiculous when it comes to you. that’s what happens when you grow up with someone who once wrote “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in the second grade yearbook and never quite stopped deserving the crown. twenty years later, he’s still finding new ways to treat you like royalty—carrying your bags, buying you candy, pretending it’s all just friendly devotion. but the truth is, satoru’s been yours longer than he’s willing to admit… and it’s starting to get a little too hard to hide.
tags -> slice of life-ish, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, misunderstanding but it’s soft and stupid, first kiss, white rose symbolism, fluff, YEARNER SATORU, oblivious idiots in love, princess treatment, satoru-centric, lighthearted with feelings, emotional constipation, love confessions, happy ending, art not mine—will credit as soon as i find source!
wc — 10.3k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?
a/n: this was supposed to be a short, silly fic about satoru being down bad and giving you princess treatment because of something you wrote in a second grade yearbook. but then i blacked out and woke up 10.3k words later, emotionally compromised and surrounded by strawberry candy wrappers. so yeah. i hope you enjoy this soft, dumb, painfully slow-burning love story between two idiots who’ve clearly been married since they were seven. as always, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated and returned with a consensual kiss on the forehead 😽🌹
satoru's brain operates on a frequency that should probably concern medical professionals. right now, that frequency is completely hijacked by the sight of you sprawled across his couch, ankles crossed, unwrapping a piece of strawberry candy with the kind of focused concentration most people reserve for defusing bombs. you hum something tuneless under your breath, fingers working the wrapper with methodical precision, and he thinks this might be how people spontaneously combust.
the thing is, he's been in love with you since the second grade, which makes him both devoted and completely unhinged. it started with a yearbook—those flimsy little books where seven-year-olds write their life plans in crayon. you'd written “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in that careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration like it always does when you're thinking hard. when you asked what he wanted to be, he'd scribbled “astronaut” because it was the only job he could think of that might get him to the moon fast enough to bring you back a rock that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.
twenty years later, he's still trying to make good on that promise, just in different ways.
“satoru, you're staring,” you say without looking up from your candy wrapper, voice carrying that familiar note of fond exasperation. your lips curve into the smallest smile as you speak, and his pulse does something acrobatic against his ribs.
“i'm appreciating,” he corrects, settling into the opposite end of the couch with deliberately casual movements. his hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the window—those impossible pale strands that seem to drink in sunlight and reflect it back like spun moonbeams, never quite behaving despite his half-hearted attempts to tame them each morning. the light makes them appear almost translucent at the edges, ethereal in a way that's always made strangers do double-takes on the street. “there's a difference.”
you finally look at him properly, lifting your gaze from the candy wrapper, and he gets to see the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're trying not to smile. it's the same expression you've had since childhood—that particular combination of amusement and affection that you've never quite learned to hide. the sight of it makes his chest feel too small for his heart, like someone's trying to stuff an ocean into a teacup. “appreciating what, exactly?”
“your dedication to proper candy unwrapping technique.” he gestures toward your hands with exaggerated seriousness, watching the way you smooth out each wrinkle with your fingertips. “very thorough. very princess-like.”
there it is—that little snort-laugh that means he's being ridiculous but you're charmed anyway. your head tilts back slightly with the sound, exposing the graceful line of your throat, and you ball up the wrapper with unnecessary force before throwing it at his face. he catches it with reflexes that are definitely overkill for crumpled plastic, his hand moving faster than thought, fingers closing around the small projectile before it can make contact. “you're so weird.”
weird doesn't begin to cover it. he's the kind of weird that keeps mental notes about how you like your coffee (too much sugar, splash of vanilla creamer, stirred exactly twelve times counterclockwise), the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking hard about something, how you always steal his hoodies but pretend it's accidental even though you've been doing it for fifteen years. the kind of weird that's been carrying a torch so long he's surprised it hasn't burned his hands off.
“weird in a charming way though, right?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. his eyes—those unsettling ice-chip irises that seem to shift between arctic blue and pale silver depending on his mood—fix on your face with an intensity that would probably make anyone else uncomfortable. but you've been looking into those eyes for two decades, watching them go from bright and mischievous in childhood to something deeper, more complex now. something that holds secrets he's never quite brave enough to voice.
“weird in a… uniquely satoru way,” you concede, and the fondness in your voice makes his stomach flip. you've moved on to the next candy, and he watches the precise way you smooth out the wrapper again, fold it into a tiny perfect square like you're performing surgery. these are the moments that undo him completely—not the big gestures or dramatic declarations, just you existing in his space like you belong there. like maybe you always have.
his phone buzzes against the coffee table, vibrating insistently, but he ignores it. nothing's more important than this: you humming off-key under your breath, the late afternoon sun painting everything golden and soft, the way you've unconsciously tucked your feet under his thigh for warmth. your toes wiggle slightly against his leg, and he has to concentrate on not shivering at the casual contact. domestic bliss wrapped up in strawberry candy and the scent of your shampoo—something floral and sweet that he's never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere.
“remember when we used to do this in elementary school?” you ask suddenly, holding up the neatly folded wrapper between your thumb and forefinger. the paper catches the light, creating tiny rainbows at the creases. “you'd always try to make yours into origami cranes.”
“key word being ‘try,’” he says, but he's smiling at the memory, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself. his hair falls across his forehead as he tilts his head, those pale strands shifting like seafoam. you sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, patient as anything while he struggled with paper folds, your small hands guiding his through the steps over and over again. telling him it was okay that his cranes looked more like abstract art, that they were beautiful in their own way. you'd been doing that his whole life—making his failures feel like victories just by witnessing them with that soft, encouraging smile.
“i still have some of them,” you admit, ducking your head slightly as if embarrassed by the confession. your fingers twist the new wrapper, creating small accordion folds. “in my apartment.”
his heart does something complicated against his ribs, a stuttering rhythm that makes him wonder if cardiac episodes can be triggered by pure affection. “the terrible cranes?”
“the terrible cranes.” you pop the candy into your mouth, and he tracks the movement without meaning to, watches the way your lips close around the sweet treat, the slight movement of your throat as you swallow. when you catch him staring, a faint blush creeps up your neck. “they're in my memory box with all the other important stuff.”
important stuff. he files that away with all the other small revelations you drop without realizing their weight, adds it to the mental catalog he's been building for years. you keep his terrible origami. you think their childhood memories are important enough to preserve in a special box. you're sitting in his living room like it's yours too, feet tucked against his leg like the contact is natural, necessary even.
“what else is in there?” he asks, genuinely curious but also desperate to keep you talking, to hear more about the pieces of your shared history you've deemed worth saving.
you consider this, working the candy around in your mouth thoughtfully. “lots of things. movie ticket stubs from our first pg-13 movie—remember how we snuck into that theater in eighth grade? your mom's chocolate chip cookie recipe that you wrote out for me in high school because i wanted to learn how to bake. that polaroid from senior prom where you're making bunny ears behind my head.”
each item hits him like a small revelation. he remembers all of it—remembers the way you'd grabbed his hand in the dark theater during the scary parts, how you'd insisted on writing out the recipe even though you'd never shown any interest in baking before, the way you'd laughed so hard at his bunny ears that you'd snorted and immediately turned red with embarrassment.
“you kept the recipe?” his voice comes out softer than intended, almost wondering.
“of course i kept the recipe. your handwriting was so bad i could barely read it, but i kept it anyway.” you grin at him, that bright, uninhibited smile that makes his chest feel too tight. “still can't make cookies worth a damn, but i have the recipe.”
“i could teach you,” he offers without thinking, then immediately wants to take it back because it sounds too much like a date, too much like something more than friends would do together.
but you just nod enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on the couch. “yes! we should definitely do that. i've been wanting to learn forever, but every time i try on my own they come out like hockey pucks.”
the casual way you accept his offer, like spending an afternoon in the kitchen together is the most natural thing in the world, makes his pulse skip. he can already picture it—you in his kitchen, flour in your hair, probably getting more ingredients on yourself than in the bowl. him standing behind you, hands covering yours as he shows you how to fold in the chocolate chips, trying not to think about how perfectly you'd fit against his chest.
“satoru?” you're looking at him with that slightly concerned expression that means he's been quiet too long, lost in his own head again. your brow furrows in that particular way it does when you're trying to read his mood. “you okay?”
“yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended, scratchy around the edges. he clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that's become automatic over the years. “just thinking.”
“dangerous,” you tease, but there's something softer in your eyes now, something that makes him wonder if you can see right through him. if maybe you've always been able to see through him, and he's been the only one pretending otherwise.
the afternoon stretches out, lazy and warm, filled with the comfortable silence of two people who've known each other long enough that conversation isn't always necessary. you've finished your candy and are now absently braiding the hem of your shirt, fingers working the fabric with the same methodical precision you'd used on the wrapper. he thinks about how easy it would be to just say it. to tell you that he's been yours since before he knew what that meant, that every day feels like borrowed time because surely someone this good, this bright, this perfectly imperfect can't actually want to spend her free time with someone like him.
instead, he reaches for the tv remote and pretends his hands aren't shaking. pretends he doesn't notice the way you watch him move, doesn't see the little frown that crosses your face when he turns away from you to focus on the screen.
the opening credits of some mindless sitcom fill the silence, but he's not really watching. he's thinking about memory boxes and terrible origami cranes and the way you said “important stuff” like it meant something. like maybe he means something.
like maybe twenty years of almosts might finally be leading somewhere.
the farmer's market on saturday morning is your idea, which means satoru trails behind you like a devoted shadow, carrying your reusable bags and pretending he's not cataloguing every smile you give to the vendors. you're wearing that sundress he likes—the one with tiny cherries printed on cream-colored fabric that makes your skin look like it's been kissed by sunlight—and he's having what can only be described as a religious experience watching you examine peaches with scientific precision.
the dress hits just above your knees, swaying gently as you move from stall to stall, and he has to actively work to keep his eyes from following the movement. the morning sun catches in your hair, highlighting strands he's never noticed before, and when you lean over to smell a particularly promising piece of fruit, he has to look away before he does something stupid like stare at the graceful curve of your neck.
“these are perfect,” you announce, holding up a peach that's blushed pink and gold, soft to the touch but not too yielding. your fingers cradle it carefully, thumb brushing over the fuzzy skin with reverence. “smell.”
you thrust the peach toward his face with the enthusiasm of someone who's discovered buried treasure, and he dutifully inhales, though mostly what he's registering is your proximity and the way your hair smells like vanilla and something uniquely you. something he's never been able to identify but would recognize in a crowded room. “smells good,” he manages, and you beam like he's just solved world hunger.
your whole face lights up with the compliment, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he thinks distantly that he'd probably agree with anything you said if it meant seeing that expression again. you could tell him the peach smelled like old socks and he'd nod along just to keep you smiling.
“right? we're definitely making cobbler this week.” you're already moving toward the vendor, pulling crumpled bills from the small purse slung across your body, but the words stop him cold.
we. the casual assumption that he'll be there, that his kitchen is your kitchen, that making cobbler together is just what you do. his chest goes tight with affection so intense it borders on medical emergency. you don't even question whether he'll want to spend his sunday afternoon elbow-deep in flour and fruit—you just assume, with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to doubt their welcome in his space.
“whatever you want, your highness,” he says, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. it's been happening more frequently lately, that old childhood nickname finding its way into casual conversation. you've been ‘your highness’ in his head for so long that sometimes it escapes into real conversation, and every time it does, you get this look—half amused, half something else he can't quite read but desperately wants to understand.
“you and that nickname,” you mutter, but you're smiling as you hand the vendor your money, counting out bills with careful precision. your cheeks are slightly pink, though whether from the compliment or the morning sun, he can't tell. “i swear you're never gonna let me grow up.”
if only you knew. he's acutely aware of how grown up you are, how you've traded pigtails for soft waves that catch the light and crayon drawings for the kind of smile that could probably power a small city. he's noticed every single change, catalogued every new freckle and laugh line, the way your voice has gotten slightly deeper, more melodious. somehow he's fallen deeper with each transformation, like he's been in love with every version of you that's ever existed.
“excuse me,” the peach vendor says as she hands you your change, coins clinking softly in your palm, “you two are just the cutest couple. how long have you been together?”
satoru's brain short-circuits so completely he's surprised smoke doesn't start pouring from his ears. his mouth opens and closes without sound, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck, probably turning his face an unflattering shade of red. you laugh—that bright, surprised sound that makes his stomach flip—and shake your head quickly, hands fluttering in denial.
“oh, we're not—we're just friends,” you say, but there's something in your voice, a slight hesitation before the word ‘friends’ that makes his pulse stutter.
just friends. the words hit him somewhere behind his sternum, not quite pain but not quite relief either. the vendor looks embarrassed, starts apologizing profusely, but you wave her off with easy grace while satoru stands there wondering if his internal combustion is visible from the outside. his hands tighten on the straps of your bags, knuckles probably white with the effort of appearing normal.
“happens all the time,” you tell him as you walk away, weaving between other shoppers with practiced ease, and there's something in your voice he can't identify. something almost… wistful? “people always think we're dating.”
“yeah,” he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of strained. his throat feels tight, words coming out rougher than intended. “weird, right?”
you glance at him sideways, and for a second he thinks you might say something else. your lips part slightly, like you're considering it, but then you just shrug and move toward the flower stand, leaving him to follow and contemplate the particular torture of being mistaken for your boyfriend by strangers when he'd give anything for it to be true.
the flower stand is a riot of color and fragrance, buckets of blooms arranged in careful rows. the vendor is a tiny elderly woman with silver hair pinned back in a neat bun, and she takes one look at them approaching and immediately starts gushing about her roses, hands gesturing enthusiastically toward a display of pink blooms that smell like summer and promises.
“for your girlfriend?” she asks satoru with a conspiratorial wink, gesturing to the roses with the confidence of someone who's been in the matchmaking business for decades.
“just friends,” you say again, quicker this time, the words tumbling out before satoru can even process the question. he tries not to read too much into the way your smile falters slightly, the way your shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.
but the woman is persistent, pressing a single white rose into his palm with another wink that suggests she knows something they don't. the flower is perfect—petals like silk, stem thornless and smooth. “sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, young man. trust me, i've been selling flowers for forty years. i know these things.”
satoru stares down at the rose, its petals soft as silk between his fingers and impossibly white, like fresh snow or clean linen or every perfect thing he's ever tried to find words for. when he looks up, you're already walking toward the next stall, shoulders tense in a way that makes him want to chase after you and demand to know what you're thinking. what you're feeling. whether the flower vendor's words affected you the same way they affected him.
instead, he pays for the rose without arguing about the price, tucking it carefully into one of the bags where it won't get crushed, and follows because that's what he's always done. followed you, waited for you, hoped that someday you'd turn around and see him the way he sees you.
the way he's always seen you.
“satoru, come on,” you call over your shoulder, already three stalls ahead, and he realizes he's been standing there longer than he thought, lost in his own head again. you're holding up a small jar of honey, sunlight catching the golden liquid inside. “they have lavender honey. remember how much you liked it at that restaurant last month?”
you remember. of course you remember. you remember every small preference, every casual comment, every little thing that most people would forget within minutes. it's one of the things he loves most about you—the way you pay attention, the way you care enough to file away the smallest details about the people you love.
he jogs to catch up, bags bouncing against his side, and finds you already chatting with the honey vendor about different varieties and flavor profiles. you're animated when you talk about food, hands gesturing as you describe the restaurant where he'd first tried lavender honey, and he finds himself falling in love with you all over again just watching you exist in the world.
“we'll take two jars,” you're saying, already reaching for your wallet, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.
“i've got it,” he says, pulling out his own money before you can protest. your skin is warm under his fingers, and he has to resist the urge to let his thumb trace across your pulse point.
“you don't have to—”
“i want to.” and he does. wants to buy you honey and flowers and anything else that makes you smile like that. wants to be the reason for that soft, pleased expression that's currently gracing your features.
you let him pay, but not without rolling your eyes in fond exasperation. “you spoil me.”
“good,” he says simply, accepting the jars from the vendor and tucking them carefully into the bag with the rose. “you deserve to be spoiled.”
the words slip out before he can stop them, too honest, too revealing, and he watches your expression shift into something he can't quite read. you duck your head, hair falling forward to hide your face, but not before he catches the faint blush creeping across your cheeks.
“come on, your royal highness,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours, and the casual contact makes his heart stutter. “let's go home and make that cobbler.”
home. you said home, not his place or his apartment, but home. like it's yours too. like maybe it always has been.
maybe it always has been.
back at his apartment, you're quiet in a way that sets his nerves on edge. you've been friends long enough that he can read your moods like weather patterns—the slight tension in your shoulders that means you're thinking too hard about something, the way you're biting the inside of your cheek that suggests internal debate. right now there's definitely a storm brewing behind your eyes, thoughts churning in a way that makes him want to reach out and smooth the furrow between your brows.
you're sitting on his kitchen counter, legs swinging in a restless rhythm, heels occasionally bumping against the cabinet below. he's putting away the morning's purchases with probably unnecessary focus, arranging the peaches in a bowl like they're precious artifacts, trying to ignore the way your silence is making his skin feel too tight.
“satoru,” you say finally, and something in your tone makes him turn around immediately, abandoning his careful arrangement of fruit.
“yeah?”
you're fidgeting with the stem of the white rose he bought, twirling it between your fingers like you're trying to solve a particularly complex equation. the petals have opened slightly since this morning, revealing deeper layers of ivory and cream, and in the afternoon light streaming through his kitchen window, it looks almost ethereal in your hands.
“can i ask you something?” your voice is smaller than usual, uncertain in a way that makes his chest tighten with immediate concern.
his heart starts doing that thing where it forgets how to beat properly, rhythm stuttering against his ribs. “always.”
“do you ever think…” you pause, take a breath that seems to require effort, start again. “sometimes i wonder if i'm reading too much into things. like maybe i think someone likes me and it's all just in my head.”
the bottom drops out of his world.
someone. you think someone likes you, which means there's someone you're paying attention to, someone who's maybe been giving you signs that you're trying to interpret. his brain immediately starts cycling through every male friend you have, every coworker you've mentioned in passing, that guy from your yoga class who definitely stares at you too much and makes comments about your form that seem less than professional.
the rose trembles slightly in your hands, and he realizes you're nervous. actually nervous about asking him this, which means whoever it is matters to you. matters enough that you're seeking advice, validation, reassurance that you're not imagining things.
“like who?” he asks, and his voice comes out strangled, like he's being slowly crushed by invisible hands. like all the air has been sucked out of the room and replaced with something thinner, harder to breathe.
you look up at him, and there's something vulnerable in your expression that makes his chest ache. something raw and uncertain that he wants to protect, even as it's currently destroying him from the inside out. “never mind. it's stupid.”
“it's not stupid,” he says quickly, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn by the magnetic pull that's existed between you since childhood. “whoever it is would be crazy not to like you.”
wrong thing to say. he knows it immediately because your face does something complicated, cycling through disappointment and resignation before settling on a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. that careful, practiced smile you use when you're trying to hide how you really feel.
“you have to say that. you're my best friend.”
best friend. there it is again, that careful designation that feels more like a cage every time you say it. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that he's been crazy about you since before he knew what crazy about someone meant, that every day he doesn't tell you feels like a small betrayal of everything you've ever meant to each other.
instead, he says, “i don't have to say anything. i say it because it's true.”
and it is true. brutally, completely true. whoever this mystery person is, they'd have to be blind and stupid not to see how incredible you are. not to notice the way you light up a room just by entering it, the way you remember everyone's favorite coffee order and check in on people when they're having bad days and laugh so hard at terrible jokes that you snort a little, which only makes you more endearing.
you're quiet for a long moment, still twirling the rose, and he can practically see the thoughts churning behind your eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. when you finally speak, your voice is small in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and protect you from whatever's making you doubt yourself.
“sometimes i think i make up feelings where they don't exist,” you say, barely above a whisper. “like maybe i want something to be there so badly that i convince myself it is.”
and oh. oh, you're talking about him, aren't you? you're sitting here in his kitchen, talking about reading too much into things, about wanting feelings that might not exist, and he's too much of a coward to realize you're talking about him. the signs are all there—the way you've been looking at him lately, softer and more lingering than usual. the casual touches that seem to happen more frequently. the way you said “home” earlier like you meant it.
except what if you're not? what if there really is someone else, someone who's been giving you mixed signals while satoru's been pining from the sidelines like an idiot? what if he's the one reading too much into things, projecting his own desperate hopes onto innocent moments of friendship?
“you're not stupid,” he says finally, because it's the only safe thing he can think of, the only response that won't reveal everything. “if you think someone likes you, there's probably a good reason.”
you slide down from the counter, rose still in hand, and for a second you're standing close enough that he can count your eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of gold in your eyes that he's memorized over years of study. close enough that if he just leaned down a little, if he was brave enough to close the distance...
“maybe,” you say, but you sound doubtful. disappointed in a way that makes him want to take back everything he just said. “or maybe i'm just really good at lying to myself.”
you're moving toward the living room, and he follows because he always follows, brain spinning through every conversation you've had recently, every look, every moment that might have been a sign he was too scared to read properly. you settle onto the couch like you're planning to stay for a while, curling up in the corner with your legs tucked beneath you, and he takes his usual spot on the opposite end, careful to maintain the precise distance that says ‘best friend’ instead of ‘hopelessly in love with you.’
the white rose ends up in a glass of water on his coffee table, petals catching the light from his windows, and you're staring at it with an expression he can't quite read. contemplative, maybe. wistful.
“this person,” he starts carefully, hating himself for asking but needing to know, “how long have you been thinking about them?”
you give him a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated, head tilting in that way it does when you think he's being particularly dense. “are we really doing this?”
“doing what?”
“the thing where you help me analyze my pathetic love life like we're in high school.” you're picking at the throw pillow in your lap, fingers worrying at a loose thread. “sitting around dissecting every interaction and trying to figure out what it all means.”
pathetic love life. as if you could ever have anything pathetic about you. as if whoever this mysterious person is doesn't realize they're the luckiest person alive just to be on your radar. just to have you thinking about them, analyzing their behavior, wondering if they feel the same way.
“i'm being a good friend,” he protests, though the words taste bitter in his mouth. bitter like the coffee you drink when you're stressed, bitter like the medicine you have to swallow when something's wrong.
“you're being nosy.”
“can't i be both?”
you laugh despite yourself, and the sound goes straight to his chest like it always does, warming him from the inside out. “fine. but you can't make fun of me.”
“when have i ever made fun of you?”
“constantly. it's like your primary form of communication.” but you're smiling now, some of the tension leaving your shoulders, and he counts it as a victory.
you’re not wrong. teasing you has always been safer than the alternative, easier than letting you see how seriously, completely, utterly gone he is for you. easier than admitting that every joke is just a way of buying more time in your presence, every playful insult a cover for the compliments he really wants to give.
“i promise to be nice,” he says, crossing his heart with exaggerated solemnity, and you snort at the theatrical gesture.
“i'll believe it when i see it.”
you're quiet for a moment, picking at the throw pillow, and he can see you working up the courage to say whatever it is you're thinking. your teeth worry at your bottom lip in a gesture he recognizes from childhood—you used to do the same thing before spelling tests and soccer tryouts and the first day of school each year.
when you finally speak, your voice is so soft he has to strain to hear it, has to lean forward slightly to catch every word.
“it's been a long time,” you admit, not looking at him. “like, a really long time. since we were kids, maybe.”
since we were kids.
since. we. were. kids.
his heart stops beating entirely, just quits on him right there in his living room, because unless you had some secret elementary school boyfriend he doesn't know about, unless there's some childhood friend he's completely forgotten about...
you're talking about him.
you've been thinking about him.
since you were kids.
“oh,” he says, because his vocabulary has apparently shrunk to single syllables, because every word in the english language has suddenly abandoned him when he needs them most.
“see?” you say quickly, finally looking up at him with eyes that are bright with what might be tears. “i told you it was stupid. forget i said anything.”
“no,” he says, too loud, and you startle slightly at the volume. “no, it's not stupid. it's...”
it's everything. it's his every prayer answered, every birthday wish granted, every star he's ever wished on coming true all at once. it's twenty years of hoping and waiting and pretending to be content with friendship finally, finally meaning something.
“it's what?” you ask, and there's something hopeful in your voice that makes his chest feel like it might crack open, like his heart might actually burst from the sheer force of what he's feeling.
he opens his mouth to tell you, to finally, finally say what he's been carrying around for twenty years, and then he panics. because what if he's wrong? what if you're talking about someone else after all? what if he says everything and ruins the most important friendship of his life? what if you look at him with disgust or pity or worse, that careful politeness you use with people who make you uncomfortable?
“it's brave,” he says instead, taking the coward's way out, watching the light in your eyes dim slightly. “whoever it is would be lucky to have you thinking about them.”
your face falls so subtly he almost misses it, just a slight dimming of the light in your eyes, a barely perceptible tightening around the corners of your mouth. but he's been studying your expressions for twenty years, cataloguing every micro-expression, and he knows he's fucked up. knows he's missed something crucial, said the wrong thing, let fear win when courage was what the moment required.
“right,” you say, and your voice is carefully neutral, scrubbed clean of the hope that had been there moments before. “lucky them.”
you're pulling away from him, not physically but emotionally, retreating behind the walls that friendship has never required before. building barriers in real time, and he's sitting there like an idiot, watching it happen, knowing he caused it but not knowing how to fix it without potentially making everything worse.
the rose on the coffee table seems to mock him with its perfect white petals, a symbol of something he was too scared to claim when he had the chance. when you were sitting right there, telling him everything he's ever wanted to hear, and he was too much of a coward to hear it properly.
too much of a coward to take the leap that might have changed everything.
you leave not long after that, claiming an early morning tomorrow and some excuse about laundry that you both know is bullshit. the way you gather your things—phone sliding into your palm with deliberate precision, keys jingling once before being muffled in your grip, that little cross-body bag with its worn leather strap that you always adjust twice before leaving—feels like watching his entire future pack itself away in slow motion.
satoru's throat constricts as he tracks each movement, his vision tunneling on the careful way you avoid his gaze. there's something devastating about the ordinary nature of your departure, the way catastrophe can masquerade as routine. you're folding in on yourself, shoulders curved inward like you're protecting something fragile in your chest, and he knows with sickening clarity that he put that defensive hunch there.
“text me when you get home safe,” he says, one hand automatically reaching up to rake through his hair—those moonspun strands that never learned proper behavior, always catching and scattering light like captured starfall. the words scrape against his vocal cords like sandpaper. it's what he always says, has been saying since you got your first car at sixteen and his anxiety about your well-being became a living thing with teeth and claws.
“always do,” you reply, your fingers worrying at the delicate chain of your necklace—that thin silver thing that catches at your throat when you swallow nervously. your voice carries the hollow ring of obligation rather than affection. you still won't look at him directly, your gaze fixed somewhere around his left shoulder where his sweater pulls slightly across his collarbone, and the absence of eye contact feels like a physical ache behind his sternum.
the click of his door closing echoes through the apartment with the finality of a coffin lid. satoru stands there for a full minute, staring at the wood grain, before the magnitude of his cowardice hits him like a freight train carrying twenty years' worth of missed opportunities.
the apartment transforms in your absence, walls stretching impossibly wide, ceilings vaulting into cathedral heights that make him feel ant-small and infinitely alone. the couch still holds the impression of your body, cushions dented where you'd curled your legs beneath you, and he finds himself gravitating toward that spot like a moth to flame. when he sits down, the lingering warmth of your presence soaks through his jeans, and he has to press his palms against his eyes to keep from doing something pathetic like burying his face in the throw pillow you'd been hugging.
the white rose sits on his coffee table like an accusation, its petals pristine and mocking. sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and satoru had been too much of a fool to recognize the universe handing him a script.
his phone buzzes against the glass surface: home safe. thanks for today.
the message glows on his screen, twelve words that somehow contain multitudes of disappointment. he can picture you typing it, thumb hesitating over each letter, probably tucked into your favorite corner of your couch with that oversized cardigan pulled tight around your shoulders, rewriting it three times before settling on something safely neutral. you used to add heart emojis to these check-ins, little digital affirmations that he'd treasured more than he had any right to. their absence now feels like a door slamming shut.
he types: anytime. sleep well. his thumb hovers over the send button for thirty seconds, jaw working silently as he wars with himself.
then deletes it. tries: we should talk about what happened. his teeth catch his lower lip, worrying at the skin until it stings.
deletes that too. his fingers hover over the keyboard, shoulders hunched forward in defeat, cycling through seventeen different responses that range from desperate to devastated. i love you gets typed and erased four times, each deletion making his chest cavity feel emptier. please come back so i can fix this makes it halfway before he chickens out, his hand scrubbing down his face hard enough to leave red marks. i've been yours since we were seven and i'm sorry i'm too scared to be brave never even makes it past his mental rough draft.
finally, he settles on: anytime. sleep well.
the delivered notification appears, and then... nothing. no immediate response, no typing indicator, no late-night follow-up like you sometimes send when you can't sleep. just radio silence that stretches into the night like a chasm.
satoru spends the next six hours staring at his ceiling, replaying every microsecond of your conversation with the obsessive precision of a crime scene investigator. his hair fans across the pillow in ethereal wisps, those pale strands seeming to glow with their own inner light against the dark fabric, like captured lightning or the first frost of winter given form. the way your voice had gone soft and vulnerable when you said since we were kids. the hope that had flickered in your eyes—those beautiful eyes he'd never been brave enough to hold contact with for more than stolen moments—before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, your shoulders drawing inward and your hands clasping tightly in your lap until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.*. the hope that had flickered in your eyes before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.
since we were kids. the phrase loops in his mind like a broken record, each repetition driving the knife of realization deeper into his chest. unless you'd harbored some secret elementary school crush he'd never known about—which, given that you'd been attached at the hip since kindergarten, seemed unlikely—there was only one person you could have been referring to.
him.
you'd been talking about him.
and he'd been so paralyzed by the possibility of being wrong that he'd missed the moment entirely, let it slip through his fingers like water through a broken dam.
by the time dawn creeps through his blinds, painting everything in shades of regret and determination, he's made a decision that will either save his life or end it completely. the resolution sits in his chest like a live wire, sparking against his ribs every time he breathes. he's going to tell you everything. twenty years of accumulated feelings, every birthday wish spent on your happiness, every star he's wished on while thinking of your smile. all of it.
the thought terrifies him so completely that he has to grip the edge of his mattress to keep from floating away on a tide of panic.
sunday afternoon arrives with the punctuality of a church bell, and with it comes the familiar sound of your key in his lock. you'd exchanged spare keys sophomore year of college, a practical decision born of too many instances of locked-out roommates and forgotten textbooks. what had started as convenience had evolved into something more significant—the quiet intimacy of belonging in each other's spaces, of being trusted with unrestricted access to the small, private corners of each other's lives.
now, listening to that key turn, satoru's heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to break free and run away before his mouth can ruin everything permanently.
“hey,” you say as you appear in his doorway, and the single syllable carries the weight of exhaustion that makes his chest constrict with guilt. there are shadows under your eyes that weren't there yesterday, and your smile—when it finally appears—lacks its usual wattage.
“hey yourself,” he manages, his voice cracking slightly on the second word.
you move through his space with less than your usual confidence, the easy familiarity replaced by something more cautious. instead of immediately claiming your usual spot on the far end of the couch—the corner you'd long ago designated as yours, complete with the throw pillow you'd brought from your own apartment and the way you always tucked your feet up under you—you hover near the armchair, fingers worrying at the strap of your bag.
the careful distance you're maintaining might as well be measured in miles rather than feet. it's like watching you interact with a stranger's apartment, all politeness and uncertainty where there used to be ownership and ease. the sight of it breaks something fundamental in satoru's chest, some load-bearing beam of his emotional architecture crumbling under the weight of what his cowardice has cost them.
“about yesterday,” he starts, the words tumbling out before he can lose his nerve entirely.
“we don't have to talk about it,” you interrupt quickly, finally settling into the armchair but perched on its edge like you're ready to flee at the first sign of discomfort. your hands clasp in your lap, knuckles white with tension. “i was being weird, and awkward, and i made things uncomfortable. we can just pretend it never happened and go back to normal.”
but normal is what got them here in the first place—twenty years of careful boundaries and unspoken feelings and the kind of willful blindness that masquerades as friendship when it's really just elaborate emotional self-harm.
“you weren't being weird,” he says firmly, rising from the couch to face you properly. the movement is too quick, driven by urgency rather than grace, and you startle slightly at the sudden change in his position. “i was being an idiot.”
something flickers across your expression—surprise, maybe, or the faintest spark of hope quickly tampered down. “satoru—”
“just let me say this, okay?” the words come out rougher than intended, scraped raw by a sleepless night and the weight of everything he's been carrying. “before i lose my nerve completely and spend another twenty years being a coward.”
you go very still, and he can see the exact moment you decide to let him speak. your shoulders settle back against the chair, hands unclasping to grip the armrests instead, and you give him a small nod that somehow contains multitudes of permission and trepidation.
the silence that follows feels crystalline, fragile enough that the wrong word might shatter everything beyond repair. satoru runs his hand through his hair—those pale strands that never quite cooperate, that catch light like spun moonbeams even in the dim afternoon glow filtering through his blinds. the gesture is pure nervous energy, fingers combing through the silky mess as if he might find courage tangled somewhere in the roots.
“when you were talking yesterday,” he begins, then stops, takes a breath that tastes like terror and determination in equal measure. “about thinking someone liked you since you were kids...”
he watches your face carefully, cataloguing every micro-expression. the way your lips part slightly, the flutter of your eyelashes as you blink too fast, the barely perceptible forward lean of your body like you're drawn toward his words despite yourself.
“you were talking about me, weren't you?”
the question hangs in the air between them, loaded with twenty years of almosts and maybes and the kind of hope that feels dangerous to voice. your breath catches—a sharp, barely audible intake that he might have missed if he weren't paying attention with the focused intensity of a man whose entire future hangs in the balance.
“satoru—” you start, but he's already moving, dropping to his knees in front of your chair with the graceless desperation of someone who's finally found the courage to stop running from the thing that matters most.
his hands hover just above your knees, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating through the soft cotton of your sundress—a different one today, this one scattered with tiny daisies that make him think of childhood summers and innocence and all the ways you've been beautiful to him across the years.
“because if you were,” he continues, words spilling out in a rush now that the dam has finally burst, “then i need you to know that you weren't reading too much into anything. you weren't making up feelings that don't exist or convincing yourself of something that wasn't there.”
your eyes are wide, pupils dilated in a way that makes the familiar color seem deeper, more infinite. he can see his own reflection in them, distorted and desperate and more honest than he's ever been in his life.
“i've been crazy about you since the second grade,” he confesses, the words scraping against his throat like they're made of glass. “since you wrote that you wanted to be a princess in our yearbook and i decided right then and there that i was going to spend the rest of my life making sure you felt like one.”
the admission settles between them like a living thing, breathing and vital and impossible to take back. your hands tighten on the armrests, knuckles going white again, but this time it looks less like tension and more like anchoring—like you're holding on to keep from floating away on the enormity of what he's just revealed.
“every door i've ever opened for you,” he continues, momentum carrying him forward now that he's started, “every time i've carried your bags or bought you flowers or called you ‘your highness’—it wasn't just being a good friend. it was never just friendship.”
his voice cracks on the last word, twenty years of careful pretense finally crumbling under the weight of truth. “it's all been because you're my princess. you've always been my princess, and i've been too much of a coward to tell you.”
silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded with possibility. satoru can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, can feel the subtle tremor in his hands where they still hover near your knees. you're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, cycling through what looks like shock and disbelief and something that might be the beginning of joy before it gets tampered down by uncertainty.
he's never felt more exposed in his life, kneeling here in his own living room with his heart splayed open like a roadmap to twenty years of devotion. the vulnerability is excruciating, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, waiting for you to either pull him back from the brink or push him over the edge entirely.
“you,” you say finally, and your voice comes out barely above a whisper, thick with something that might be tears or laughter or both. “you complete and utter idiot.”
the words hit him like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp exhale. his heart, which had been hammering with nervous hope, stutters and nearly stops entirely. this is it, then. the moment where twenty years of friendship dies on the altar of his feelings, where he learns what it costs to love someone who can't love you back.
“look, if you don't feel the same way—” he starts, already beginning the retreat, already starting to build the walls that will let him survive the aftermath of this spectacular emotional implosion.
“of course i feel the same way!” you explode, suddenly on your feet, the force of your movement sending him rocking back on his heels. your hands are gesturing wildly now, cutting through the air with the sharp precision of someone who's been holding back way too much for way too long. “i've been in love with you since we were kids, you absolute disaster of a human being!”
the words slam into him with the force of a freight train, reorganizing his entire understanding of reality in the space between one heartbeat and the next. of course i feel the same way. the phrase echoes in his skull, bouncing off the walls of his mind like a pinball machine gone haywire.
“you have?” he asks, and his voice comes out small and wondering, like he's afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever spell has made this moment possible.
“yes!” you're pacing now, three quick steps to the window and back, your sundress swirling around your legs with each sharp turn. “why do you think i've been hanging around your apartment every weekend for the past fifteen years? why do you think i never date anyone seriously? because i've been waiting for you to figure it out!”
he's scrambling to his feet now, desperate to close the distance between you but afraid to move too fast, like you're some wild thing that might bolt if he makes the wrong move. “you've been waiting for me?”
“forever,” you say, and now you're definitely crying, tears streaming down your cheeks while you laugh with what sounds like relief and frustration and twenty years of pent-up emotion finally finding release. “i've been waiting forever, and you just—yesterday when i was trying to tell you, you just—”
“i panicked,” he admits, finally closing the space between you in two quick strides. his hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears with a gentleness that belies the tremor in his fingers. “i thought maybe you were talking about someone else, and i couldn't handle it if you were.”
your skin is soft under his palms, warm and real and perfect, and he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch you like this. that you're letting him catch your tears, that you're leaning into his touch instead of pulling away.
“someone else,” you repeat, shaking your head with enough force to send your hair flying. “as if there could ever be someone else. as if anyone else could even compare to you.”
the words hit him like salvation, like every prayer he's ever whispered to the dark finally being answered. “really?”
“really,” you confirm, and then you're rising up on your toes, hands fisting in the front of his shirt to pull him down toward you. “now stop being an idiot and kiss me before i lose my mind completely.”
he doesn't need to be told twice.
their lips meet in the middle of something that's been building for twenty years, soft and desperate and perfect in a way that makes his brain go completely offline. you taste like the strawberry lip balm you've been using since high school, sweet and familiar and right in a way that makes him wonder how he's survived this long without kissing you.
your mouth is warm and yielding under his, and when you sigh against his lips—this tiny, breathy sound of contentment—he thinks he might actually die from the sheer overwhelming rightness of it all. his hands slide from your face into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he deepens the kiss, pouring twenty years of accumulated longing into the connection between your mouths.
when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together like you can't bear to be more than an inch away from each other. your hands are still fisted in his shirt, holding him close, and he can feel the rapid flutter of your pulse where his thumbs rest against your throat.
“holy shit,” you breathe, and the profanity sounds like a prayer falling from your kiss-swollen lips.
“yeah,” he agrees, voice rough with emotion and the lingering effects of the best kiss of his entire life. “holy shit.”
you laugh, the sound bright and bubbling and infectious, and he finds himself grinning back at you with an expression that probably makes him look completely unhinged. he doesn't care. he's just kissed his best friend, his princess, the love of his entire life, and she kissed him back, and if that's not worth looking a little crazy over, then nothing is.
“so,” you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice even with his eyes closed, can feel it in the way your lips curve against his when you speak. “what now, your highness?”
the nickname—his own endearment turned back on him with teasing affection—makes him groan and drop his head to your shoulder in mock defeat. “you're never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“absolutely not,” you confirm cheerfully, arms winding around his neck to hold him close. “i've got twenty years of princess jokes stored up, and now that i know you meant them...”
“i meant every single one,” he says, pulling back to look at you properly. your hair is messed up from his hands, lipstick smudged in a way that probably matches his own mouth, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars just for you. like he's something precious and beloved and yours. “i meant all of it.”
“good,” you say, going up on your toes to kiss him again, soft and sweet and lingering. “because i've got twenty years of being your princess to catch up on.”
this time when you kiss, it's slower, more exploratory. a conversation conducted in the language of lips and tongues and shared breath, twenty years of friendship providing the foundation for something deeper and more complex. he maps the shape of your mouth with the dedication of a cartographer, memorizing every curve and hollow, the way you taste like strawberries and forever and every dream he's ever had.
your hands slide up into his hair, fingers combing through the pale strands that have been catching light and hearts since childhood, and he thinks distantly that he's never going to get tired of this. of touching you, of being allowed to touch you, of the way you melt against him like you were made to fit in his arms.
when you break apart this time, it's with the reluctant awareness that you still have things to talk about, logistics to work out, twenty years of carefully maintained boundaries to navigate in this brave new world where you're allowed to love each other out loud.
“we should probably talk about what this means,” you say, though you make no move to step out of his arms. if anything, you settle more firmly against him, like you're claiming your space in his embrace.
“it means i'm yours,” he says without hesitation, the words coming as easily as breathing now that he's allowed to say them. “if you'll have me. it means i've been yours since we were seven years old and you asked me to be your friend, and i'm never letting you go again.”
your eyes go soft and liquid at his declaration, and he watches you blink back fresh tears with the tender fascination of someone who's finally been given permission to witness your every emotion.
“i've been yours too,” you whisper, voice thick with feeling. “for so long that i can't remember what it felt like before.”
“then it's simple,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo and the new, intoxicating knowledge that he's allowed to do this now. “we stop pretending otherwise.”
you laugh, the sound muffled against his chest where you've pressed your face. “you make it sound so easy.”
“isn't it?” he asks, genuine curiosity coloring his voice. “we already do everything else together. we already know each other's worst habits and biggest fears and what makes each other laugh until we can't breathe. now we just get to add kissing to the list.”
“and other things,” you add, pulling back to look at him with an expression that's equal parts innocent and suggestive, and he feels heat pool low in his stomach at the implication.
“other things,” he agrees, voice dropping to something rougher, more intimate. “lots of other things. twenty years' worth of other things.”
you shiver slightly at the promise in his voice, and he files that reaction away for future reference, cataloguing it alongside every other response he plans to learn by heart.
“so what's first?” you ask, settling more comfortably in his arms like you're planning to stay there for the foreseeable future.
“first,” he says, pressing another kiss to your hair because he can, because you're his now and he's allowed, “we order way too much chinese food and eat it on the couch while we figure out how to tell people that we're finally together.”
“people are going to say they saw it coming,” you predict, tilting your head back to look at him. “we're going to get so many ‘about time’ comments.”
“let them,” he says, grinning down at you with unrepentant joy. “they can say whatever they want. i'm just happy i don't have to pretend anymore that i'm not completely gone for you.”
“completely gone,” you repeat, testing the phrase like you're tasting wine. “i like that. makes it sound properly dramatic and ridiculous.”
“it is dramatic and ridiculous,” he confirms. “twenty years of pining? that's shakespearean levels of absurd.”
“but worth it,” you say, and it's not a question.
“absolutely worth it,” he agrees, sealing the promise with another kiss that tastes like strawberries and new beginnings and happily ever after.
later, when you're curled up together on his couch—your couch now, he supposes, since everything that's his has always been yours anyway—sharing lo mein and sweet and sour chicken while some forgettable movie plays in the background, he thinks about that second-grade yearbook tucked away in his bedroom closet.
about seven-year-old you writing about being a princess in careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration. about seven-year-old him deciding that if you wanted to be a princess, then he'd find a way to make it happen, even if it meant becoming an astronaut just to bring you back moon rocks that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.
mission accomplished, he thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head where it rests against his shoulder. though the seven-year-old version of himself probably never imagined it would involve quite this much kissing.
not that he's complaining.
“satoru?” your voice is sleepy, muffled against his shirt where you've pressed your face into the curve of his neck.
“mm?”
“next time just tell me you love me from the start, okay? save us both some time.”
he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and making you smile against his skin. “deal, princess. though for the record, i do love you. have always loved you. will always love you.”
“i love you too,” you mumble, words slurring slightly with approaching sleep. “my ridiculous, dramatic, completely wonderful disaster of a man.”
“your disaster,” he corrects softly, fingers combing through your hair with reverent gentleness. “always yours.”
you hum contentedly, settling more firmly against him, and he thinks this might be what happily ever after feels like. strawberry lip balm and sunday afternoons and the girl of his dreams finally, finally in his arms where she belongs, where she's always belonged, where she'll stay for as long as he has breath in his body to keep her there.
yeah, he could definitely get used to this.
the white rose from yesterday's market sits on the coffee table beside their empty takeout containers, petals still pristine and perfect in their small glass of water. a symbol of new beginnings and answered prayers and the kind of love story that starts with friendship and ends with forever.
sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and as satoru drifts off to sleep with you warm and safe and his in his arms, he thinks she might have been the smartest person he's ever met.
satoru swears he’s doing this as a favour. you’re just too sensitive, he says, and no one else can handle you the way he can. best friend privileges, he reminds you, not that it makes the mess you’re about to become any less humiliating.
your hamstrings scream protest, cramping up because he hasn’t let up in god knows how long. mouth gasping for air like a fish flapping on the deck, you’ve already been fucked through three orgasms. but satoru? he’s beaming; practically radiant, eyes bright with that challenge you claim to hate but secretly crave.
“kinda crazy how good you feel right now,” he’s not even fucking you properly anymore, simply rocking in shallow thrusts while his long fingers entertained themselves by toying with your clit, circling and pinching that overstimulated bundle of nerves. “you’re not gonna tap out already, are you?”
wet squelching noises ricochet between your joined bodies, his heavy balls slapping against your perineum with a rhythmic staccato. and when you try (halfheartedly) to push at his chest, he catches your hands, lacing your fingers together. you wince at the contact of his slick-coated fingers, but satoru doesn’t seem to notice or care that much. “best friends help each other out.” he informs you solemnly. “i’m helping you cum again.”
Simon with herding instinct on that physio snippet.... God what I'd do to be Reader (I'm not sick but I'm KO by my period, so I think I also deserve herding instincts and a cup of tea made by someone who is not me)
I think you deserve a little treat for your body torturing you
Same reader as this (female reader)
"Fuck." You draw a deep breath through your nose and blow it out slowly, trying to push the pain away. You have a busy schedule today, and the 141 was expected to be back which meant you'd have the Lieutenant on your table at some point between now and twenty one hundred.
You do not have time for period pain.
Your appointments waltz in and out through the day, your focus turning from the stabbing, burning ache in your belly, quads and lower back, until the clock finally ticks down to nineteen hundred, and you slump over in your chair. A moment's reprieve, a second to get off your feet, exhaustion sinking into you, your longing for your bed and a heating pad stealing the whole of your attention. You can almost feel it, the hot shower, the comfort of your sheets, a cup of tea. Almost.
For now, you swallow more paracetamol and hope it lasts you through the rest of the day.
The door to the clinic swings open, and you don't need to peek outside the door of your office to know who it is.
No one has footsteps as heavy as his.
The Lieutenant.
The man you do not understand. The one who treated you like a small, fragile animal when you were sick, barging into your house and forcing you onto the couch, doling out medicine and hand feeding you warm broth. He pressed cold cloths to your forehead, held your hair and rubbed your back as you vomited.
The entire time you trembled with nerves, staring at the stitching of his balaclava, looking away each time his face turned towards yours. He hated you, why was he here?
Your fever broke, he disappeared. And the next time you saw him-
He went back to treating you just as he always did.
Coldly. Gruffly. Rudely.
Tonight would be no different.
So when you step outside and see him still in his full kit, arms folded across his chest, you wilt, already defeated, stomach tying itself in knots.
"Need m'back looked at." He barks and you fight the instinct to jump.
"Yeah, o-of course." The words are unsteady, you're unsteady, just like each time before, and he doesn't say anything else, just looks you up and down before brushing by you to get to the table.
He's the width of your workspace. Wingspan larger than should be humanly possible, width of his shoulders and back difficult to comprehend. He could tear you apart, if he wanted, so you've always treated him so carefully, staying focused, making sure you don't slip up and push his muscles too far or cause him pain. It's the same care you apply to all your patients, but with him, it's different. It's like diffusing a bomb.
His head is turned towards you as your fingers walk down the middle of his spine, working pressure points. Every time he twitches, or grunts, or even breathes deeply, you tense, but you keep your focus, kneading down to his sciatic nerve, pushing in deep, deep enough to make him groan, your heartbeat pulsing in your ears.
You don't even realize he's saying your name until he shifts on the table.
"S-sorry?" His eyes are locked the space between your legs, and you follow his sight line, gasping when you see what he sees.
Red.
Your standard issue khaki pants are stained dark red at your thighs.
"Oh my god. Oh my god, I'm sorry, I'm," you stumble backwards, hands flying to cover yourself, scrambling on how to get yourself out of the room and into the bathroom as quickly as possible. Your cheeks burn from humiliation. "I'm sorry, I uh- I'll be right back."
"Do you have another pair of pants?" He cocks his head.
I don't... I don't think so."
"Hmm." He continues to stare, and then, like he was having a conversation with himself, he swings off the table, reaching for the jacket he showed up in, before stalking towards you.
You stumble back, but you're too slow, and he catches you by your wrist, tugging you forward. You close your eyes. "Lieutenant-"
"Hush." The jacket goes around your waist, giant sleeves tied at your navel, the length of the hanging directly over where your pants are stained. You're not petite by any means, so the fact that this garment can even begin to cover you is a miracle in itself. But then again, he is massive. "Stay." He moves around the room, ducking into the other one with your desk, flicking the lights off, before grabbing the keys off the hook and shepherding you through the clinic to the front door.
"What... what're you doing?" There's a murderous look in his eye when he turns to you, and it freezes your blood.
"Takin' you home."
"I can get h-home myself." You hate the way your voice shakes.
"Covered in blood? You really want the entire base to see you like tha'?" The shame burns, and tears build on your waterline. "C'mon." His hand settles between your shoulder blades, essentially turning you into a ship with no sails, only a rudder at your back. Him.
He steers you into your house by your hips. You live directly off base, in civilian housing, luckiest of them all, if you're being honest, though in this moment, you're not sure you are so lucky.
"Leave your clothes in the sink." He orders when he lets you go, moving towards the kitchen.
"My clothes?"
"You know how to get bloodstains out of your clothes?"
"Oh, uh... n-no."
"Then..." he motions with his hands for your pants.
"Right now?" You squeak, and he nods.
"Now, pet." You fumble with the zipper and the button, hands trembling so bad you struggle with them. "Need help?"
"No! No... I got it." you get them down to your knees after a struggle, and then kick them off. Will he ask for your underwear too? He answers like he can ready your mind.
"Leave 'em on the bathroom floor. Shower, and then straight to bed."
"I'm not a child!" The protest is bold, boldest you've ever been with him, insecure, scared feelings coming forth in the outburst.
"Could've fooled me. Children need takin' care of, jus' like you." The words jam in your throat, stolen by the intensity of a cramp, and his eyes soften. "Go on up. I'll bring you somethin' for the pain, and some tea." There's no fight left in you, drained like the blood from your body, and your shoulders slump.
An hour later, in the dark, your door cracks. You're curled up in a ball, heating pad tucked against your pubic bone, buried beneath a mountain of blankets when the bed dips, the mass of the Lieutenant's weight settling next to your hip.
He sits you up, like a doll. Makes you take more paracetamol, finish a glass of water, and then pushes a hot tea in your hand.
By the time he's done, you slump back against the pillows, exhausted. Your eyelids go heavy, and he shifts you back to your side. You're too tired to argue with him, fight him, and when his fingers start applying counter pressure to your lower back, working through the tension, the tightness from your period, you let out a low moan. He chuckles. The man actually laughs.
"Why are you here?" You murmur in the dark, and he doesn't answer right away, sitting in the silence for too long.
And then-
"My mum always taught me to take care of my things."
Ok so imagine after dinner, you and Simon cleaning up your guys plates and reader casually says “can you finger me until I pass out” 🫠🫠
Thanks in advance!! 
I love this idea…so much.
MDNI!!
Simon Riley x Fem!reader
Warnings: fingering…a lot of it, Simon calls reader “good girl”, dom! Simon, overstim, multiple orgasms, squirting, smut smut smut
You and Simon had just finished dinner, you picking up the dishes and handing them to him so he could wash them.
His hands always caught your attention though.
His rough, calloused hands, veins running down the top of them. The way he’d wrap them around your neck while fucking you or how his fingers felt inside you.
Regardless of how long you’ve been married to Simon, you stared at him like you’d never seen this man in your life.
“You alright love?” He asks, shaking you out of your trance.
Face red, you shake your head yes and walk away to retrieve the other dishes, acting nervous like you’d gotten caught or something.
For christ’s sake you were married to the man.
So when you hand him the next few dishes, you just have to ask…
“Can you finger me until I pass out?”
He just stares at you.
He takes the dishes from your hands, drops it in the sink, turns off the water, and picks you up.
He carries you to your shared bedroom, setting you down gently(?)
“Pants off,”
You shimmy your pants down to your ankles and Simon yanks them from there, throwing them to the floor.
He takes your shirt off for you and shoves you down on the bed.
“Legs open”
You oblige happily, spreading them open for your husband as wide as you can, giving him a full display.
“You’re soaked, all I did was wash some dishes”
You hide your face out of embarrassment, but not before Simon takes your hands and holds them above your head, “Nuh uh, you asked for this don’t be all shy now,”
He kissed your forehead and held your wrists with one hand while the other slipped down your body to the wetness that was leaking all over your bed.
He teased your clit, rubbing ever so slightly, making you squirm.
He kept gently rubbing, pinching your clit a few times, but never doing enough to completely satisfy you.
You were whiny, so so whiny, needing more from your big husband.
He stopped touching for a moment to lick his fingers clean, putting them back on your cunt and kissing you before you could say a word.
As soon as his lips met yours, he shoved two fingers inside you.
You moaned into his lips, almost screaming.
He started off slow but his pace only got faster the more you whined, begging for something, you weren’t sure what…
“Please, please Simon!”
He smirked at you, fingers still moving, squelching sounds coming from your soaked pussy, “Please what doll?”
You didn’t have an answer, you had no idea what you were begging for.
Orgasm after orgasm, Simon wouldn’t let up, you were so sensitive, pussy aching but still wanting more.
Tears were falling down your cheeks and your moans were coming out as sobs, “I know sweetheart, just one more for me kay?”
You nodded, so fucked out just from Simon’s fingers.
He let go of your wrists, both hands now working on your cunt.
One hand still moving in and out of you, the other rubbing circles into your clit.
“Such a good girl, you’ve done so well for me love,”
You reach for him, gripping on to any part of him you can grab.
Broken moans falling from your lips.
“Take it baby, one more, I know you’re sensitive, just give me one more,”
“O-okay,” the first words you’ve spoken that weren’t “Fuck!” “Simon!” “Please!” “More!”
He was working gently, you felt yourself getting closer, this one feeling different than the 5 others before.
“Si, it feels weird,”
“Relax love, just let go,”
“A-Are you sure?
“I can handle it sweetheart,”
And without warning, Simon switched from gentle to rough, more broken moans falling from your mouth.
You gripped onto his shoulder as tight as you could, spraying all over the front of him.
“Good girl,” he kept fingering you, your release still gushing out in spurts, “such a good girl,”
He removed his fingers, licking them clean again, and hugged you close to him.
You shivered, cold, sensitive, and finger fucked out.
He kissed your forehead, whispering about how well you took him.
You fell asleep while he held you, getting exactly what you asked for…
A/n: back from vaca! Hope you enjoyed this!
Tag list: @raveszn @bistrocatxx @j3llyc4kes @h0lydrag0ns
loser! clark kent’s biggest weakness being mini skirts
cw: perverted clark, clark is in college, masturbation
he wasn’t trying to be a pervert, but his gaze would stray from the sight of your smooth thighs as your skirt rode up when you sat, majority of your legs exposed making his mind a little hazy as he tried and failed miserably at averting his gaze.
he was a deer caught in headlights.
his gaze would drift from your legs then to the ceiling, then back to your legs, and then to your face, hoping you didn’t notice the way his cheeks seemed to heat up, or the way he adjusted himself slightly.
he felt dirty, perverted, gross. the room felt a little hotter each time he saw you, his gaze instinctively dropping down to your legs before he could even see your face.
“get a grip,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his hand through his hair as he tried to distract himself, but the air in the room felt too hot, too suffocating.
his head was telling him to stop, but yet his other head—the one down there couldn’t.
he was heating up, and mentally blamed it on the jumper he was wearing, tugging the collar of it slightly, a poor attempt of relieving the tension.
“clarkie?” your soft voice breaking him out of his trance, making his neck almost snap with the speed he turned to face you. “are you okay?” your brows tugged, a small pout forming on your glossy lips.
“u-uh yeah, just a little tired,” he replied, giving you a dimpled smile, silently hoping you didn’t catch him in the act.
but regardless of how many times he mentally slapped himself for staring it was useless when he went back home, jerking off to the sight of you in the small skirt that hugged your hips and exposed your thighs.
his body jerking slightly as his large hand navigated his cock awkwardly, watching his cum spill out and coat his hand as he groaned.
the next day he went to class forgetting about the cum stain on his pants.
“You’re hurting me baby, you don’t know what it feels like.”
or: Simon is overly stressed from the everyday pressures of life and accidentally lets it out on you.
cw: 4.8k words, 18+ mdni, angst then fluff, no use of y/n, encounter with ex (not bad), fight with Simon, established relationship, miscommunication, cursing, reader! doubts themselves/ retreats into themselves, Simon being an asshole, meanie!simon, (if you squint) very lite dd/lg themes, inspo songs.
a/n: I’ve been working on this request since May, going back and forth on this. this is my final submission.
You are, in every singular way imaginable, the one person on this planet Simon cherishes the most.
And it’s not like you tried your hardest to get in his good graces. you just, fell from Heaven. You must have. A stray who looked up at him with such alluring eyes, the only option was to take you in. Learn to love just how a man should.
He hadn’t properly cared about anyone, not since his younger brother Tommy died. Of course, he cared for the other members in the 141, John was like a father to him, a proper mentor. And Johnny and Kyle were like having two twin brothers who got into mischief.
But there was something about you, something that made him want to take care of you, love you for exactly what you are— his lovely doll and his alone. His baby girl.
Couldnt get enough of you, had to have you in arms length if you went out, and the man knew you loved to dance. He wouldn’t stop you, just needed to feel you once, feel your tension roll away, melt in his arms. Even if he babied you in your tipsy state.
Or maybe when your talked about your favorite movie or artists, rambled on and on about the new winter/fall collections you liked, you’d stop mid conversation, see if he was there because you were used to people drowning you out when you got boring. But his hand would come to caress your nape, gently caressing it with his thumb, that look in low look in his brown eyes that made you feel like you could move mountains single handedly, “Keep goin,” he’d murmur, all but fixated on your pretty face, your eloquent voice, the little stutters from your heart pounding here and there.
And it always does the trick, knowing hes there for you. The little encouragement even when he didn’t talk as much as your past partners, that sweet look of admiration that swirled in his warm brown eyes as he looked at you, making you dinner, taking his large hand in yours and kissing it, using any excuse to see you on his lunch break. “I had a bit ‘f time ‘s all.”
Yeah, sure. Just to see that unconvinced beautiful smile, leaning against the wall of your work place and taking the lunch he ordered for you.
You weren’t a stressor, you were everything to Simon.
It’s just— life can be a pain in the ass. Maybe too much of a pain in the ass. So much so it created a tension under the Riley household.
A big mixture of everything— the stress of his job and the lower ranks lacking on missions, the leak in the roof he didn’t have time to get up there and fix, the floorboard that kept squeaking every time Simon would step into the dogs room on the base floor, he’d replaced it once before and yet it still squeaked. Then you, His loveable Angel, you. Through the mess of it all, he just wasn’t seeing eye to eye with you. Unable to see you through the fog of bullshit. And maybe the irritation of the things he couldn't control in the moment poured into the situation, into your loving home.
He wasn’t one for many words, always been that way. A nod is sufficient enough some days, clean cut direction is better on others, a dad joke on the easiest (or worst) days. And the blonde always made the biggest effort to be clear but gentle with you, even if the words came out more harsh than he meant to. You could understand the gist of it.
But lately, he doesn’t know what to say, or maybe he’s tired of all of the words he needs to be using. And you’re no mind reader, he knows that. Maybe it’d be clear to him if he started fucking acting like it.
It’s not like you or him meant for it to get to this point.
It’s just a quick storm passing through, just rain. But one slick comment lead to another, and a sarcastic reply to follow.
A yelling match.
It’s not just a breeze or drizzle, it’s the tornado, a whirlwind of anger and frustration. It’s annoyance and lack of communication.
Simon’s voice was loud, deep and yet, it’s the lightning. It strikes and pains even when it has no knowledge of it doing so, and hits every nook and cranny of the walls of the room. You are the thunder, furious and wild, willing to get loud if need me, raise your voice louder than you thought you could. Trying to understand where it went wrong, where it could be fixed. If it could be fixed. Pointing two fingers at him from where you sat at the kitchen table like a gun, saying some rebuttal you couldn’t even bother to remember, because it was stupid for him to yell at you like some- like some-
“If you want to bitch all night about the fucking laundry, go do that fucking else where! There are thousands of bitches that would give enough of a fuck about that, I’m so sure Simon!”
“It’s not just the fuckin laundry [+]-“
“—Then I should wait on you hand and foot to find out, on my knees and ask you word for word what you want-“
“— It’s like you’re ignorin the things I’m fucking sayin and purposely forgetting. ‘M asking you bare minimum. Don’t you realize I have my own shit to take care of?”
“So do I, but I’m not being so damn self centered about it! I’m trying to understand. But you don’t even wanna talk about it—“ You shake your head, sarcastic chuckle leaving your throat, “this fucking stupid, this is stupid.”
It only makes him more angry, bitter, “Me putting up with your shit is stupid. Me having to play your therapist when you can’t control yourself for once is stupid!”
You roll your eyes, “I’m not a fucking child Simon. I’m asking for you to be in a relationship with me! Care about the simple shit with me! Why can’t I get a little grace, just like I give you?!”
And he snaps, more than before, he yells, “So I have to look after you every second of the day? Are a fuckin needy bitch [+]?! Is that it!?” He stops for a beat, lightning striking, and it lands— “It’s never just one thing, it piles on to your bullshit. Fuck me, you can never do shit for yourself, can you?”
Maybe that’s what hurt, above all the other shit said tonight, that’s what takes you back. Makes you feel much smaller than you actually are, what you try to present yourself to be. Back to your ex’s, back to being the child who wanted to prove something to everyone in the family- to your siblings, to your mother— your deadbeat father.
It’s a late reaction but you flinch, shoulders slouching, defeated.
“It’s needy for me to want you to not ignore me?” Your voice is shaky, it’s practically a squeak. A question asked in disbelief.
“O-Or ask you for your opinion for the things that go on in my life? Or wanting to confide in you or wanting you to be able to confide in me?”
You want to laugh, but you don’t have the room for it, the strength for it. And you search in Simons eyes for something, anything. Maybe you’re too fast, looking away from him so fast that you can’t see the remorse as he stands where the tornado of your fight once was. In the broken pieces— Clarity. And that seeing the mess hes created pains him.
You nod, tears brimming your eyes, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that was me pushing it. I’ll watch myself from now on. Sure to not bother you.” And you walk around him, almost recoiling when he goes to grab your arm, A silent plea, that the words that fell from his lips he truly didn’t mean. But you dodge his touch, running up the steps, the dogs following quickly behind with the clanging of their collars.
But Simon’s throat is stuck even in stage painful quiet, it’s closed, the words never come out when he needs them to. He rubs his face, letting out a heavy sigh.
Leaving him alone in that quiet, dimly lit kitchen.
The faucet left dripping.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧
You didn’t remember your apartment feeling so- so barren.
When’s the last time you slept over here though? A month? No, 3 months ago? You didn’t have a need to be here. Where you could still hear cars honking and passing in the early morning and late nights. You always just grabbed a couple things and scurried back to the car so Simon could take you back to his house.
You’d turned it into a proper home, the two of you. Your CD’s and records were in the bookshelf alongside his plethora of dvd’s and vhs’. The living room decorated to your liking, kitchen more simple yet homey. Both the dogs with getting new adorable dog beds in the shape of an egg and the other green with white flowers on it. Pictures of the two of you hung on the newly painted walls, mostly of you but that’s how he wanted it, little knickknacks and artwork filling up different spaces, plants filling in corners.
Something told you, you’d need an escape plan one way or another. Just in case. You plopped down on your bed after a long day of work with a huff, the few stuffed animals left here plopping around to the side along your pillows. You wanted to drown in your comforters.
And maybe this was good for you, a snap back to reality. Right? This- break? break up?- was a good thing. That’s what you needed. You’d been clinging onto Simon too much already, you forgot the girl you once were.
Independent, fierce, unflinching.
Finding solace in your aloneness.
Or this was just bound to happen, what karma had laid out for you in a past life. People get tired of you quickly, it’s a simple fact. It’s something you’ve felt your whole life. Maybe you stress them out, or you’re too boring, or don’t talk enough, and you’ve changed and changed as much as you could and it always leads to nothing. Always leads to wanting to crawl into yourself and fix whatever switches are “wrong” with you. This is just another reminder to keep people at their distance. Even people you love.
It didn’t make it hurt any less.
You cried and cried yourself to sleep, puffy eyes in the morning, breakfast missed and in a dash to get to work. Had a headache by lunch, ate the frozen meal for dinner. Washed it down with a nice bowl of ice cream, stared at the two missed calls from Simon for an hour before passing out on the couch.
You wouldn’t call him back, what for?
You couldn’t rely on that man forever. Or maybe not be as needy. Time apart is necessary. Not like this. Perfect for a time like this. Right?
Simon didn’t think you’d answer the first time, maybe not even the forth. But he called, even though it wasn’t like him. Once just to see if you answered at the top of the day. Another at the end of the day just for his sanity, to hear your voice through your voicemail.
Everything felt empty without you.
Even the dogs kept circling the door waiting for you, an evening filled with whines from Fish, his favorite toy in his mouth while Slugger laid down in the entry way, just waiting.
But you weren’t coming home. Not anytime soon.
It hurt to see your keys not where they usually were, or how you shuffled around the house his shirt with tired eyes from the day. Or the sound of your voice as you took a call, peaking your head out the bathroom to give him a wave, mid skin care routine, the roll of your eyes and middle finger when he teased and said you looked messy. How you ran your fingers through his locks in the middle of the night when all he wanted to do was just be, but with you.
How was he gonna fix it? What more could he say to get through to you? The anger and frustration ceased to exist, even at work it showed, nothing was worse than silence. And the men under him thought the worst was bound to come to them. Maybe they did fuck up that bad. But it was the opposite.
“You alright mate?” Kyle asked as they sat in the mess hall for lunch, Simon was mid bite of his food. Barely hearing any of the prior conversation.
“ ‘M fine.” He grunted, swallowing his food.
Kyle and Johnny gave each other a knowing look, “Ye don’t look fine.” Johnny raised a brow. “Know yer a quiet lad but you’ve got the wee babies thinkin yer gonna kill ‘em. Just think- well I think—”
“—Fuck do you want me to say?” Simon bit, louder than he intended to, the table looked over tat them wondering what was going on. He tensed, eyes growing weary from his own actions.
Kyle gave a reassuring smile, “Just sayin we’re here for ya man, if you need to talk. That’s all. John too.”
“Yeah…” he nodded, standing from his seat and walking away. And he knew that, that people are there for him during the hard times— that you would be there for him during those hard times. It’s just sometimes, something in his brain would over react or just wouldn’t remember it.
Well, maybe it’s not his boys he needs to talk to.
It’s his therapist.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧
Five days, since your fight with Simon.
Five days of dreading getting off work and going home alone.
Five days of trying to pick up the pieces only to be left with cuts on your hands.
As long as you could make it to the weekend, is what you thought. You were practically flouting your way home as you walked through the streets of the city. It was busy with rush hour traffic, pedestrians just trying to get, home or to the pub.
Your hands shoved in your pockets mc trying to keep warm, you heard a yell from behind you and turned to see what was happening. You rocked on your heals as if you didn’t hear it, then you heard another yell over the music blaring from your headphones. You snatched them off, a confused look on your face till you met his gaze.
Issac, an ex who was probably the most ridiculous man you’ve been with. Ridiculously sweet yet too fucking silly, a cheater. But he was fun to be with. But truly he was not who you wanted to see right now. He’d be the exact person to flaunt their happiness in your misery stricken face without realizing it.
Not right now.
But you couldn’t slip away in time, giving him a tight lipped smile as he waltzed his was toward you in the crowd, gleefully saying your name as he wrapped you in a hug.
“Long time no fucking see. Damn, it’s been ages, hasn’t it?”
You shrug, “Perfect timing I think, you got on my last nerve the last time I saw you.”
“We had a little fight.” He muses, letting you lead the way, no problem with walking you to wherever you were going even if it was in the opposite direction. Catching up wouldn’t hurt.
“You picked up your shit with a gnarly attitude. I wasn’t the problem.” You scoff, pointing at yourself.
Issac shoo’s the idea away, “What’s in the past, is in the past,” he looks across the street your both about to cross and then towards you, your baggy eyes, “What’s up with you? How’s life? You look a little…”
“Tired?”
“Shit, actually.”
“Thanks for rubbing it in! That’s exactly what I needed to hear right now.” You said sarcastically.
“Sorry,” he gave you an apologetic look, “Just thought you were living it up since you looked so good on Instagram.”
“I always look good on Instagram,” you remind him.
“ ‘s that right?” He teases, pulling about a joint from his pocket to light. You can’t help but chuckle in annoyance, this little shit.
“Just- got in a fight with my boyfriend is all.” You finally confess. It’s no point in lying, at one point you two were close friends, before the relationship. But things change.
“Ahhh, tale as old as time.” He hums, “About?”
You sigh, brushing your braids out of your face, you decide with the simple answer, “The laundry.”
Issac bursts into laughter, almost dropping the lit joint in between his fingers. People around you give you questionable looks but continue walking.
“Oh fuck off! Never mind me, what about you? What are you up to?”
He thinks for a moment, gently bumping shoulder with you, “Modeling gigs, goofing off. Not much else, I’m living the single life.”
“For once.” You snicker.
“And only this once. I hate going home and the house is fucking empty, it’s boring all holed up even if it’s for a bit!” He groans but you wince. Did it really feel like that? So dreary?
No. Yes. Shut up.
“Sorry.” He mumbles, noticing the little silence, but your shrug, “You’re good.” You take the joint from his fingers, taking a drag, “It’s a tax.”
“My ass… but your boyfriend and you, fightin over something so simple…” he clicks his tongue, taking the joint back and smoking, “Damn, we’ve fought over less. The way I walk, was it, one time?”
And fuck did it make you feel like shit back then, but it makes you laugh now, how silly you two were, “We were young, we were trying.”
“Trying too hard. Least I was.” He shook his head, muttering that last bit. You cock an eyebrow but he doesn’t repeat himself. “But at least you’re thinking about it, making up. We used to fight and that would be it.”
And it’s true, maybe you two were too similar, you would fight, break up for a month and make up, especially he cheated. He wanted to make it work, something like his parents. Ignore the major flaw that shifted your entire relationship. But your gut would turn every time he went out. Acne flares, holing yourself in more than you were now.
Thank god you two broke up.
“I wouldn’t wanna break up with the guy I’m with anyway,” you glance over at Issac, trying to make up for the tiniest uncertainty in your own words, you smirk, “He’s taller than you.”
“Oh come on, I still got this gun show.” And he flexes his muscles, at least tries to, under his trench coat.
“And he’s definitely stronger than you, he’s in the military” you giggle, genuine this time. And the thought of Simon wrapping you up in his warm embrace swarms you, you bite your lip, but your words tumble out, nothing but love spilling out life water overfilling a glass. “But overall he’s just good for me. He understands me, or at least he tries his best to. And he takes care of everything when I’m in my head too much. And he has funnier jokes than you, a little rough around the edges but warm at his core. Makes me feel like I can do anything. He takes his time with me.”
You sigh, walking down the steps, to get to the station, “A-And I want to take my time with him. Just— shit, I don’t know. It’s one of those times we’re having a hard time listening to each other.”
“Well, all's settled right? You should be able to hear each other out now that you’re both not so angry.” He asks, tapping his pass.
You shake your head, tapping your pass and following behind him, “He’s probably just calling to see if I’m alive or not. Nothing serious.”
You’re so used to giving up, and maybe part of it is on you. You’re used to every game in this life being winner take all, and you being left with nothing, picking up the pieces. Hell, even Issac “won” at the end of your relationship. You would rather fold, with the little dignity you have left, go back to your ways. Free and searching for a new feeling.
But it’s never a new feeling, is it?
You just so desperately want to be wanted, the want to be needed. Even if it’s for a little while, it’s something you craved your whole life. Oh, you’d dance in the sunshine if you could get that feeling.
But it leads you to be so dependent and needy, right?
“—How will you know if you don’t try? You said you like him right? And if he’s trying to reach out, he must like you some kind’ve way.”
And it makes your heart leap up, a shiver rolling down your spine. It’s silly really, that thought of that brute having you on his mind makes you want to spin around and smell the Daisys. You bite the inside of your mouth, rocking on your heals as you stand in place. “And if it’s not worth it?” You mutter.
Issac bumps into your shoulder again, he clicks his tongue, “Fuck, you just said he was the man of your dreams didn’t you? Why would you run away from that? You gotta fight for what ya want!”
Fight for what you want? And what did you want more than anything right now? At this exact moment?
To see Simon.
And maybe the weight lifts off your shoulders, noticeably so. You shove your hands further into your pockets, you’d try. Just this one time, you’d try.
The ends of Isaac’s lip curves up, “I know, I know, I’m such an amazing guy for helping you out. It’s the reason the ladies love me”
“Yeah fuckin right.” The train begins the pull in, more people crowding around the entrances of the public transportation. The doors open, the train conductor calling out the station.
“You ever think we could get back together? Or made it work?” He calls out as you step onto the train. And it’s probably the most genuine he's been since you started this conversation.
You suck in a breath, but you can’t help the corners of your lips curving upward, heat rising on your cheeks, heart pounding faster, “Not a chance.” You take him in one last time, he’s completely changed since the last time you saw him. Long curly hair now short into a fade, looking refreshed and at ease, in business casual which he used to hate. You both had changed, and for the better.
And if that meant not seeing each other ever again, so be it.
“And honestly, I’ve probably fallin more in love with that guy just from talking about him with you.”
And with that, the doors to the train close. Issac takes a step back on the platform, gives you a waves with a solemn look on his face. Disappearing into the crowd as the train rolls away.
୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧
If Simon would’ve known you would reply to his one singular text before his calls he would’ve texted you sooner.
He built up the courage to talk to you, find the words he needed to apologize. And he didn’t know if they would come out right, as if they ever did, but he was more than willing to try.
He sat on the bench, inside of the park next to the train station closest to his place. The sun was peaking through the clouds, and the sound of children giggling a little bit aways. Simon’s knee bounced in anticipation, tired eyes moving around the open space till he found you, still beautiful as ever. In a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt that was almost wearing you. Braids in a claw clip, you made his heart jump.
He doesn’t say anything when you finally get in front of him, just stands, avoiding your deep mocha eyes, that shy but uncertain look that’s written on your face. He hands you the warm cup of tea that he ordered at the coffee shop before coming here. “Just how you like.” His voice is ragged. Taking a sip of his own tea to relax himself, 3 sugars, a drop of milk, but it’s just barely helping.
He nods for you two to walk down the path, but it’s awkward, both of you don’t know what to say or how to act. The birds are tweeting, there are people riding their bikes— it’s serene.
Simon clears his throat, deciding to push his nerves away, “[+], I’m sorry.”
And he feels silly, he doesn’t even remember the last time he apologized like this. Raw and scared, and unknowing what reaction he’d get. You can apologize to superiors with a ‘sorry sir’, let them berate you until they’ve got the anger out or just sigh and wave you off, you’d sort out the problem some way, somehow. But it’s the silence that comes from you that makes him worried. That makes the 6’4 brute want to sink and hide deep inside his shoes.
You rub at your neck, you can try too [+]. Try to make it work. If it meant to change— “It's okay. I could’ve listened and controlled myself but I didn’t and—“
You cut yourself off when you look over at Simon, he’s frowning— almost scowling, “No lovie, god no. I- shit.” He curses a couple times to himself, running his fingers through his short blonde hair, stops in his tracks to face you and gently takes your free hand in his. It’s warm compared to his, it’s enough to feel you, know that you’re really there in the moment.
“I shouldn’t’ve talked to you like that. Or made you feel like that. Ever. This isn’t your fault.” He shakes his head. “ ‘Nd ‘m not just saying things you want to hear, I thought about it properly, even wrote down what I wanted to say, talked about in my group.”
“Group?” You ask.
“Therapy.” He clarifies, swallowing his pride, “I went after too long, I’ve been needing to sort some things out.”
“And I want you to rely on me. ‘Nd talk to me about anything. You’re not too clingy or needy, and even if you were I’d still want you to be that way with me because- I love you. I love takin care of you ‘nd bein there for you when you need me.” He breaths out, searching your eyes, “I know it’s no excuse for me to be- to be stressed from work and take it out on you by being some daft dick head who suddenly gives a shit about when the laundry is done. Or calling you out your name just because you want to talk properly. Shit, I’m just not used to it, expressing myself to you, or anyone. And I’d just- fuckin hell- I’d hate for you to feel annoyed by my own shit.”
You take a second to take in everything he's said, and that he’s being more than sincere in his words, the somber look on his face. You bite your lip, hesitant, “But that’s what a relationship is. To lean on your partner when you need them most. And I’d hate to sound repetitive, but I’m here for you. Whenever. It’s not just you taking care of me.”
“I-I know, I learned that these past couple days. And I promise, I’m going work on talking it out with you, instead of talking at you.” And he takes a step closer, entering your space, kissing your hand, “I need you more than anything in this life, [+]. Home doesn’t even feel right when you're not there. And Fish just won’t stop crying for you.”
“Can you forgive me? Please come home kitten. Please?” He pleads, looking down at you with those pretty brown eyes.
Your cheeks heat up, heart swelling, you give him a slow nod. Relief fills his eyes, gently tugging you into his arms and holding you like you’re the last person on earth. And you hug him back too, your eyes closing just at the feel of him.
“I missed you baby, god, I fuckin missed you.” And he breaths you in, the sweet smell of your shampoo filling his nose and he kisses the top of your head. The weight of his shoulders finally falling off.
He grunts, lifting you off your feet making you squeal, “Gonna take you home,” he mutters, continuously kissing all over your face, kissing your lips a few times for good measure. “ ‘nd take a nap. I’m exhausted, can never sleep a wink without you kitten.”
You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck,
“Same here Si, same here.”
a/n: this post is all over the place with plot holes and has lore that literally won’t make any fucking sense to any one but me. I know. Trust me, I know. And I know it might sound drastic for Simon to go to therapy just over an argument, but my hc is that meanie!simon (specifically) has past anger issues and sometimes he forgets the steps to regulate/properly express himself and his emotions. I know this isn’t what ppl wanted out of me after so long, I just haven’t been confident in my writing as of late but I really gave it my all with this post (I’m really not used/good at writing angst but wanted to try). Sorry for this long authors note. Much love.
Crybaby girlfriend reader who is way too overstimulated as she tries her best to continue riding Clark only for him to wrap his arms around her and pull her down while he takes over and she just sobs in his neck clawing at his chest because he just feels sooo good😭😵💫😍
this has made me, quite literally, ill to think about. here’s a lil somethin’ for you honey <3
cw: nsfw, fem!reader, pet names (baby, mama), soft dom!ish clark, not proofread but i tried :)
“claaark!” you whine, eyes squeezed shut and thighs tensing, your skin sticking to the tops of his strong, hairy thighs as you chase a high that… frankly… clark’s already gotten you to twice…
“i know, i know, ‘s good, huh? hm? ‘s that good?” he coos back, chest heaving with your movement— sweat pooling in his collar bones, and hair gel falling loose
your deep cry, your immediate “yes yes yes” as you fight to try and keep that delicious friction between your cunt and his happy trail almost has clark’s eyes rolling back in complete ecstasy
except, of course, his sweet girl is shaking like a leaf; pouting like he’s about to pull away the sweetest honey in the world. eyes teary and fingers grabby for him
“baby.. baby w-wait hang on, c’mon, lemme take care’a you.. let clark fix it, huh?” in the sweetest, but simultaneously sluttiest tone ever as he adjusts you in his lap
your arms are pinned to your sides. as he bear hugs you, flexing his thighs to scoot you further up his body—never once pulling out of you
“i gotcha, mama. i gotcha…shhh, ‘s that good? huh? no more crying, ‘mg gonna give it to you, i promise” shushing you and pistoning his hips so deep inside of you that you swear he’s seated himself comfortably in your tummy— scaring away the butterflies that always seem to linger there when he’s with you
“my weepy baby, just needed me… needed your clarkie, right baby?” his teasing is met with more weeping, borderline sobbing hiccups from you as you claw at his chest
and clark wouldn’t have it any other way!
and on a day where’s he more tense… feeling mean (which is foreign to him, truthfully), he’d mock your “o” shaped mouth, smiling with full dimples as he taunts “ohhh, that’s nice huh? love my crybaby, just needed a good screw.. thas’ all… thas all….”
Mahiru, who can see red threads, realizes that his sister's red thread is not connected to his, so he cuts each other's red threads and forcibly reties them.
janainaart
jbbartram-illu
dededos
origamiaround
romaincrisis
ellievsbear
snowghoul
